‘It’s possible.’ Mad smiled. She knew Hazel and Gabri were good friends and had worked on the Anglican Church Women together for years. ‘Still, no ghosts to be had. So we’re going to the old Hadley house.’
She watched Hazel over the rim of her teacup. Hazel’s eyes widened. After a moment she spoke.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘Have you been in here?’ Clara called from her studio.
Peter froze in the act of giving Lucy her goodnight dog biscuit. Lucy’s tail swished back and forth with increasing energy, her head tilted to the side, her eyes glued to the magical cookie as though desire alone could move objects. If that was the case the fridge door would be permanently open.
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.