Still Life

‘I was wrong,’ said Ruth, ‘it’s just a couple of old bags.’



‘Bitch,’ said Gabri.



‘Slut,’ snarled Ruth. ‘What’s in them?’



‘For you, my little Brillo pad ...’ Gabri grabbed the bags and, like a maniacal magician, turned them upside down with a flourish. Out spilled bags of potato chips, cans of salted cashew nuts, handmade chocolates from Maison du Chocolat Marielle, in St Rémy. There were licorice Allsorts, St André’s cheese, jelly beans and Joe Louis cakes. Lune Moons tumbled to the ground, and bounced.



‘Gold!’ cried Clara, kneeling down and scooping up the ridiculous, fabulous yellow cream-filled cakes. ‘Mine, all mine.’



‘I thought you were a chocoholic,’ said Myrna, grabbing up the perfect, delectable cream-filled sweets lovingly made by Madame Marielle.



‘Any port in a storm.’ Clara ripped open the cellophane around the Lune Moons and gobbled one down, miraculously getting at least half of it in her mouth. The rest nestled on her face and in her hair. ‘Haven’t had one of these in years. Decades.’



‘And yet they’re so becoming,’ said Gabri, surveying Clara who looked as though the POM bakery had exploded in her face.



‘I brought my own paper bags,’ said Ruth, pointing to the counter. Peter was there, his back turned to his guests and rigid, even for him. His mother would have finally been proud, of both his physical and emotional posture.



‘Who wants what?’ He spoke the clipped words to the shelving. Unseen behind him his guests exchanged glances. Gabri brushed the cake from Clara’s hair and cocked his head in Peter’s direction. Clara shrugged and immediately knew her betrayal of Peter. In one easy movement she’d distanced herself from his bad behavior, even though she herself was responsible for it. Just before everyone had arrived she’d told Peter about her adventure with Gamache. Animated and excited she’d gabbled on about her box and the woods and the exhilarating climb up the ladder to the blind. But her wall of words hid from her a growing quietude. She failed to notice his silence, his distance, until it was too late and he’d retreated all the way to his icy island. She hated that place. From it he stood and stared, judged and lobbed shards of sarcasm.



‘You and your hero solve Jane’s death?’



‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ she half lied. She actually hadn’t thought at all, and if she had, she probably could have predicted his reaction. But since he was comfortably on his Inuk island, she’d retreat to hers, equipped with righteous indignation and warmed by moral certitude. She threw great logs of ‘I’m right, you’re an unfeeling bastard’ on to the fire and felt secure and comforted.



‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you ask me along?’



And there it was. The simple question. Peter always did have the ability to cut through the crap. Unfortunately, today, it was her crap. He’d asked the one question she was even afraid to ask herself. Why hadn’t she? Suddenly her refuge, her island, whose terrain was unremitting higher ground, was sinking.



On that note the guests had arrived. And now Ruth had made the astonishing announcement that she too had brought something to share. Jane’s death must have shaken her to the marrow, thought Clara. On the counter stood her grief. Tanqueray gin, Martini & Rossi vermouth and Glenfiddich Scotch. It was a fortune in booze, and Ruth did not run to fortunes. Great poetry doesn’t pay the bills. In fact, Clara couldn’t remember the last time Ruth had bought her own drink. And today the elderly woman had gone all the way to the Societé des Alcools in Williamsburg and bought these bottles, then lugged them across the green to their home.



‘Stop,’ snapped Ruth, waving her cane at Peter who was about to unscrew the Tanqueray cap. ‘That’s mine. Don’t touch it. Don’t you have booze to offer your guests?’ she demanded, elbowing Peter aside and shoving the bottles back into their paper sleeves. Cradling them she hobbled to the mudroom and laid them on the floor below her cloth coat as a mother might lay a particularly precious child.



‘Pour me a Scotch,’ she called from there.



Strangely, Clara felt more comfortable with this Ruth than the momentarily generous one. It was the devil she knew.



‘You said there were books you wanted to sell?’ said Myrna, drifting into the living room, a red wine in one hand and a bunch of Allsorts in the other.



Clara followed, grateful to be away from Peter’s eloquent back. ‘The murder mysteries. I want to buy some more but I need to get rid of the old ones first.’ The two women inched along the floor-to-ceiling bookcases across from the fireplace, Myrna every now and then selecting one. Clara had very specific tastes. Most of them were British and all were of the village cozy variety. Myrna could spend happy hours browsing bookcases. She felt if she could just get a good look at a person’s bookcase and their grocery cart, she’d pretty much know who they were.