Olivier and Gabri were walking over from the B and B, and met them on the road.
“It’s a gay blizzard,” said Ruth.
“I used to be as pure as the driven snow,” Gabri confided in Constance. “Then I drifted.”
Olivier and Constance laughed.
“Channeling Mae West?” said Ruth. “Won’t Ethel Merman be jealous?”
“Plenty of room in there for everyone,” said Olivier, eyeing his large partner.
Constance had had no dealings with homosexuals before this, at least not that she knew of. All she knew about them was that they were “they.” Not “us.” And “they” were unnatural. At her most charitable, she’d considered homosexuals defective. Diseased.
But mostly, if she thought of them at all, it was with disapproval. Even disgust.
Until four days ago. Until the snow began to fall, and the little village in the valley was cut off. Until she’d discovered that Olivier, the man she’d been cool to, had dug her car out. Unasked. Without comment.
Until she’d seen, from her bedroom window in Myrna’s loft above the bookstore, Gabri trudging, head bent against the blowing snow, carrying coffee and warm croissants for villagers who couldn’t make it to the bistro for breakfast.
As she watched, he delivered the food, then shoveled their porches and stairs and front walks.
And then left. And went to the next home.
Constance felt Olivier’s strong hand on her arm, holding her secure. If a stranger came into the village at this moment, what would he think? That Gabri and Olivier were her sons?
She hoped so.
Constance stepped through the door and smelled the now familiar scent of the bistro. The dark wood beams and wide-plank pine floors were permeated with more than a century of maple-wood fires and strong coffee.
“Over here.”
Constance followed the voice. The mullioned windows were letting in whatever daylight was available, but it was still dim. Her eyes went to the large stone hearths at either end of the bistro, lit with cheery fires and surrounded by comfortable sofas and armchairs. In the center of the room, between the fires and sitting areas, antique pine tables were set with silverware and mismatched bone china. A large, bushy Christmas tree stood in a corner, its red, blue, and green lights on, a haphazard array of baubles and beads and icicles hung from the branches.
A few patrons sat in armchairs nursing cafés au lait or hot chocolates, and read day-old newspapers in French and English.
The shout had come from the far end of the room, and while Constance couldn’t yet clearly see the woman, she knew perfectly well who had spoken.
“I got you a tea.” Myrna was standing, waiting for them by one of the fireplaces.
“You’d better be talking to her,” said Ruth, taking the best seat by the fire and putting her feet on the hassock.
Constance hugged Myrna and felt the soft flesh under the thick sweater. Though Myrna was a large black woman at least twenty years her junior, she felt, and smelt, like Constance’s mother. It had given Constance a turn at first, as though someone had shoved her slightly off balance. But then she’d come to look forward to these embraces.
Constance sipped her tea, watched the flames flicker, and half listened as Myrna and Ruth talked about the latest shipment of books, delayed by the snow.
She felt herself nodding off in the warmth.
Four days. And she had two gay sons, a large black mother, a demented poet for a friend and was considering getting a duck.
It was not what she’d expected from this visit.
She became pensive, mesmerized by the fire. She wasn’t at all sure Myrna understood why she’d come. Why she’d contacted her after so many years. It was vital that Myrna understand, but now time was running out.
“Snow’s letting up,” said Clara Morrow. She ran her hands through her hair, trying to tame her hat head, but she only made it worse.
Constance roused and realized she’d missed Clara’s arrival.
She’d met Clara her very first night in Three Pines. She and Myrna had been invited over for dinner, and while Constance yearned for a quiet dinner alone with Myrna, she didn’t know how to politely decline. So they’d put on their coats and boots and trudged over.
It was supposed to be just the three of them, which was bad enough, but then Ruth Zardo and her duck had arrived and the evening went from bad to a fiasco. Rosa, the duck, had muttered what sounded like “Fuck, fuck, fuck” the whole night, while Ruth had spent the evening drinking, swearing, insulting and interrupting.
Constance had heard of her, of course. The Governor General’s Award–winning poet was as close as Canada came to having a demented, embittered poet laureate.
Who hurt you once so far beyond repair that you would greet each overture / with curling lip?