Clara ripped away at the paper, making Peter wince. As tiny pieces flew off the orb he picked them up and smoothed them out.
Inside was a ball. No surprise there. What was surprising was that it was beautiful. It seemed to shine in her hands. On it was painted a very simple image. Three pine trees, covered in snow. Below was the single word, No?l. While the image was simple it wasn’t primitive or naive. It had a style like nothing Clara had ever seen. An easy elegance. A confident beauty.
Clara held it up to the light. How could a painted ball be so luminous? But then she looked closer. And smiled. She looked up at Peter, his anxious face leaning in to hers. ‘There’s no paint on the outside. It’s all glass. The paint is on the inside. Imagine that.’
‘Do you like it?’ he asked softly.
‘I love it. And I love you. Thank you, Peter.’ She hugged him, still holding the sphere. ‘It must be a Christmas decoration. Do you think it’s a picture of Three Pines? I mean, of course it’s three pine trees but they actually look like our pines on the village green. But I guess any three evergreens together are going to look alike. I adore it, Peter. It’s the best gift ever. And I won’t even ask where you found it.’
He was very grateful for that.
By mid-morning the chestnut stuffing was in the turkey and the turkey was in the oven, filling the house with more wonderful Christmas smells. Peter and Clara decided to wander over to the bistro, passing villagers as they went. Most took a moment to recognize since they’d almost all received brand new tuques in their Christmas stockings, the old ones being both familiar and well eaten by dogs and kittens. All winter long the family pet would worry the pompoms until most of the villagers ended up looking like candles, with wicks on the tops of their heads instead of the woolly balls.
At the bistro Clara found Myrna by the fire sipping mulled wine. They struggled out of their coats, which didn’t seem to want to let them go, and put their tuques and mitts on the radiator to keep warm. Cherry-faced villagers and children kept arriving, in from cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing, tobogganing down the hill above the mill or skating on the pond. Some were just heading off for half a day’s downhill skiing at Mont St-Rémy.
‘Who’s that?’ Myrna pointed to a man sitting by himself.
‘Monsieur Molson Canadian. Always orders the same beer. Good tipper,’ said Olivier, placing two Irish coffees on the table for Peter and Clara along with a couple of licorice pipes. ‘Merry Christmas.’ He kissed them both then nodded to the stranger. ‘He showed up a couple of days ago.’
‘Probably a renter,’ said Myrna. It was unusual to find strangers in Three Pines, only because it was hard to find and people rarely stumbled on it by accident.
Saul Petrov sipped his beer and took a bite of his roast beef sandwich on a baguette with melting Stilton cheese and arugula. Beside it on his plate was a diminishing pile of shoestring fries, lightly seasoned.
It was perfect.
For the first time in years Saul felt human. He wasn’t quite up to approaching these friendly people but he knew when he did they’d ask him to join them. They just seemed that sort. Already a few had smiled in his direction and lifted their drinks, mouthing ‘Santé’ and ‘Joyeux No?l’.
They seemed kind.
No wonder CC loathed them.
Saul dipped a fry into his small saucer of mayonnaise and wondered which of the people here was the artist. The one who’d done that amazing melting tree. He didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman.
He wondered if he should ask someone. Three Pines was so small he was sure someone would be able to tell him. He’d like to congratulate the artist, buy him or her a beer, talk about their shared art and craft. Talk about things creative instead of the dark places he went with CC. First, though, he had business in Three Pines. But once that was done he’d find the artist.
‘Excuse me.’ He looked up and a huge black woman was smiling down at him. ‘I’m Myrna. I own the bookstore next door. I just wanted to tell you there’s a community breakfast and curling match tomorrow in Williamsburg. We all go. It’s a fundraiser for the local hospital. You may not know about it, but you’re welcome to attend.’
‘Really?’ He hoped he didn’t sound as thick as he felt. Why was he suddenly afraid? Not of this woman, surely. Was he afraid, perhaps, of her kindness? Afraid she’d mistaken him for someone else? Someone interesting and talented and kind.
‘The breakfast’s at the legion at eight and the curling starts at ten on Lac Brume. Hope you can make it.’
‘Merci.’
‘De rien. Joyeux No?l,’ she said in accented but beautiful French. He paid for his lunch, leaving an even larger tip than usual, and left, getting in his car for the short drive up the hill to the old Hadley house.
He’d tell CC about the event. It was perfect. Just what he was looking for.
And when the event was over he’d have finished what he’d come to do, and then, perhaps, he could sit at the same table as these people.