The Cruelest Month

Clara poked her head out of her studio and looked at Peter. Though her face showed simple curiosity he felt accused. His mind raced but he knew he couldn’t lie to her. Not about this, anyway.



‘I went in while you were at the séance. Do you mind?’



‘Mind? I’m thrilled. Did you need something?’



Should he say he needed some Cadmium Yellow? A number four brush? A ruler?



‘Yes.’ He went over and put his long arm round her waist. ‘I needed to see your painting. I’m sorry. I should have waited until you were here and I should have asked.’



He waited to see her reaction. His heart sank. She was looking up at him, smiling.



‘You really wanted to see it? Peter, that’s wonderful.’



He shriveled.



‘Come back in.’ She took his hand and led him back to that thing in the center of the room. ‘Tell me what you think.’



She whisked the sheet off the easel and there it was again.



The most beautiful painting he’d ever seen.



It was so beautiful it hurt. Yes. That was it. The pain he felt came from outside himself. Not inside. No.



‘It’s astonishing, Clara.’ He took her hand and looked into her clear, blue eyes. ‘It’s the best thing you’ve done. I’m so proud of you.’



Clara’s mouth opened but no words came out. She’d waited all her artistic life for Peter to understand, to ‘get’, one of her works. To see more than paint on a canvas. To actually feel it. She knew she shouldn’t care so much. Knew it was a weakness. Knew her artist friends, including Peter, said you must create for yourself and not care what anyone thinks.



And she didn’t care about any one, just this one. She wanted the man who shared her soul to also share her vision. At least once. Just once. And here it was. And, blessing of blessings, it was the one painting that mattered more than any other. The one she would be showing to the most important gallery owner in Quebec in just a few days now. The one she’d poured everything into.



‘But are the colors quite right?’ Peter leaned into the easel then stepped back, not looking at her. ‘Well, I’m sure they are. You know what you’re doing.’



He kissed her and whispered, ‘Congratulations,’ into her ear. Then he left.



Clara stepped back and stared at the canvas. Peter was one of the most respected and successful artists in Canada. Maybe he was right. The painting looked fine to her, but still…



‘What’re you doing?’ Olivier asked Gabri. It was the middle of the night and they were standing in their living room at the B. & B. Olivier had reached over and felt Gabri’s side of the bed cold. Now Olivier pulled the belt of his silk dressing gown tighter and through bleary eyes watched his partner.



Gabri, in rumpled pajama bottoms and slippers, was holding a croissant in his hand and seemed to be taking it for a walk round their living room.



‘I’m getting rid of any evil spirits that might have followed me home from the séance.’



‘With baked goods?’



‘Well, we didn’t have any hot cross buns, so this was the next best thing. Isn’t the crescent the symbol of Islam?’



Olivier was constantly surprised by Gabri. His unexpected depth and his profound silliness. Olivier shook his head and went back to bed, trusting that in the morning all the evil spirits and the croissants would be gone.



SEVEN



Easter Sunday dawned gray, but there were hopes the rain would hold off until after the Easter egg hunt. All through the church service parents ignored the minister and instead listened for drumming on the roof of St Thomas’s church.



The church smelled of lily of the valley. Bunches of the tiny white bells and their vivid green leaves were placed in every pew. It was lovely.



Until little Paulette Legault launched a bouquet at Timmy Benson. Then all hell broke loose. The minister, of course, ignored it.



Kids ran up and down the short aisle, parents either trying to stop them or ignoring them. Either way the outcome was the same. The minister gave a little reading from the rite of exorcism. The congregation said Amen and everyone raced from the chapel.



A lunch was organized by the Anglican Church Women, led by Gabri, in the basement and picnic tables with red check tablecloths had been set up around the green.



‘Happy hunting,’ the minister shouted and waved as his car mounted du Moulin, heading for the next chapel in his next parish. He was pretty certain his little service had saved no one. But then, no one had been lost either and that was good enough.



Ruth stood on the top step of the church, balancing a plate of thick maple-cured ham sandwiches on Sarah’s bread still steaming from the boulangerie, home-made potato salad with eggs and mayo, and a huge slice of sugar pie. Myrna came up beside her wearing a plank on her head scattered with books and flowers and chocolate. Villagers wandered around the green or sat at picnic tables, women in massive exuberant Easter bonnets and men trying to pretend they weren’t.