SIX
Monsieur Béliveau opened the car door for Madeleine. ‘Are you sure I can’t drive you home?’
‘Oh, no, I’ll be fine. My nerves are calming down,’ she lied. Her heart was still racing and she was exhausted. ‘You’ve brought me safe and sound to my car. No bears.’
He took her hand. His felt like rice paper, dry and fragile, and yet his hold was firm. ‘They won’t hurt you. They’re only dangerous if you come between mother and cub. Be careful of that.’
‘I’ll mark it down. “Mustn’t anger bears.” Now you’re sure of that?’
Monsieur Béliveau laughed. Madeleine liked the sound. She liked the man. She wondered whether she should tell him her secret. It would be a relief. She opened her mouth but closed it again. There was still such sadness in him. Such kindness. She couldn’t take it away. Not yet.
‘Would you come in for a coffee? I’ll make sure it’s decaf.’
She released her hand from his light grip.
‘I must go, but I’ve had a lovely day,’ she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
‘Though no ghosts.’ He sounded almost regretful. And he was.
He watched her red tail lights head up du Moulin, past the old Hadley house and out of sight, then turned and walked to his front door. There was a small, almost imperceptible, bounce in his step. Some tiny thing had come alive in him. Something he was sure he’d buried with his wife.
Myrna shoved a few logs into her woodstove and shut the cast-iron door. Then she walked wearily across the loft, her slippered feet shuffling on the old wooden floors, instinctively moving from one throw rug to another, as a swimmer might travel between islands, shutting lights as she went. The beamed and old brick loft slowly subsided into darkness, except the one light beside her large and welcoming bed. Myrna placed her mug of hot chocolate and plate of chocolate chip cookies on the old pine table and picked up her book. Ngaio Marsh. Myrna was re-reading the classics. Fortunately her used bookstore had no end of them. She was her own best customer. Well, she and Clara, who brought in most of the old mysteries. The hot water bottle warmed her feet and pulling the comforter up she started to read. Sipping on her chocolate and nibbling cookies she realized she’d been reading the same page for ten minutes.
Her mind was elsewhere. It was stuck in the darkness between the lights of Three Pines and the stars.
Odile placed the CD in the machine and slipped the headphones on.
She’d waited for this moment. For six days she longed for it, with increasing anxiety as the week wore on. Not that she didn’t enjoy her everyday life. In fact, she was amazed by how lucky she was. That Gilles should turn to her when his marriage soured still amazed her. She’d had a crush on him through high school. Had finally found the courage to invite him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, only to be turned down. But he hadn’t been cruel. Some boys were cruel, especially to girls like Odile. But not Gilles. He’d always been kind. Always smiled and said bonjour in the hallways, even when his friends could see.
Odile had adored him then and she adored him now.
But still, every week she longed for this moment. Every Friday night Gilles went to bed early and she went into their modest living room in St-Rémy.
She could hear the first notes of the first song and felt her shoulders sag, letting go of the tension. She could also feel her vigilance slip. The need to watch every word, every action. She closed her eyes and took a massive gulp of red wine as a drowning man might gulp air. The bottle was half empty already and Odile worried she’d run out before the magic happened. The transformation.
After a few minutes Odile was on her feet, her eyes closed, walking across a flower-festooned stage. In Oslo. It was Oslo, wasn’t it? Didn’t matter.
The distinguished audience, in tie and tails and evening gowns, was on its feet. Applauding. No. Weeping.
Odile stopped part way to acknowledge their cries. She placed her hand on her breast and curtsied slightly in a gesture of immense modesty and dignity.
And then the king was presenting her with the silk sash. Tears in his eyes too.
‘It gives me great pleasure, Madame Montmagny, to present you with the Nobel Prize for Poetry.’
But tonight the wild applause didn’t move her, didn’t wash over her and protect her from the suspicion she’d been found out for the pathetic little thing she knew herself to be. From trying to fit into a world where everyone knew the code, except her.
But Odile knew one thing no one else did. Her little secret. All those people at the séance had been afraid of evil spirits, but she knew the monster was from not the next world, but this. And Odile Montmagny knew who it was.
Hazel seemed distracted when Madeleine arrived back.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Hazel, pouring them a cup of tea. ‘Expect I’m excited about Sophie coming home.’
Madeleine stirred her tea and nodded. Hazel was always a little nervous when Sophie was coming home. It disrupted the quietude of their lives. Not that Sophie was a party animal, or even loud. No, it was something else. Some tension that suddenly appeared in their comfortable home.
‘I took poor Mrs Bellows a dinner.’
‘How’s she doing?’ Mad asked.
‘Better, but her back still aches.’
‘You know her husband and children should be doing that for her.’
‘But they don’t,’ said Hazel. She was sometimes surprised by a hard edge that appeared in Madeleine. It was almost as though she didn’t care about people.
‘You’re a good soul, Hazel. I hope she thanked you.’
‘I’ll get my reward in Heaven,’ Hazel said, bringing a dramatic arm to her brow. Madeleine laughed, as did Hazel. It was one of the many things Mad loved about Hazel. Not just her kindness, but her refusal to take herself too seriously.
‘We’re having another séance.’ Mad dipped her biscuit into the tea and got the soggy and sagging cookie into her mouth just in time. ‘Sunday night.’
‘Too many ghosts to deal with in one go? They had to take shifts?’
‘Too few. The psychic says the bistro’s too happy.’
‘Sure she didn’t say gay?’