SIX
Finally, after a luncheon that lasted a thousand years, Clara was able to get away, and the first thing she wanted to do was go on the hunt for the Gamaches.
“I think Mother would prefer us to stay here.” Peter hovered on the stone terrasse.
“Come on.” She gave him a conspiratorial look and held out her hand. “Be daring.”
“But it’s a family reunion.” Peter longed to go with her. To take her hand and race across the perfect lawn, and find their friends. Over lunch, while the rest of the family either ate in silence or discussed the stock market, Peter and Clara had whispered urgently and excitedly about the Gamaches. “You should’ve seen your face,” said Peter, trying to keep his voice down. “You looked like Dorothy meeting the Great and Powerful Oz. All stunned and excited.”
“I think you’re spending way too much time with Olivier and Gabri,” said Clara, smiling. She’d never actually smiled at a family reunion before. It felt odd. “Besides, you looked like the Tin Man, all stunned. Can you believe the Gamaches are here? Can we sneak away and spend some time with them this afternoon?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Peter, hiding behind a warm bun. The prospect of killing a few hours with their friends instead of enduring the family was a great relief.
Clara had looked at her watch. Two p.m. Twenty-one more hours. If she went to bed at eleven and woke up at nine tomorrow morning that would leave just—she tried to work it out in her head—eleven more waking hours with Peter’s family. She could just about make it. And two hours with the Gamaches, that left just nine hours. Dear Lord, she could almost see the end coming. Then they could return to their little village of Three Pines, until another invitation arrived, next year.
Don’t think about that.
But now Peter hesitated on the terrasse, as she secretly knew he would. Even over lunch she’d known he couldn’t do it. Still, it had been fun to pretend. Like playing emotional dress-up. Pretending to be the brave one this time.
But in the end, of course, he couldn’t do it. And Clara couldn’t leave him. And so she walked slowly back inside.
“Why’d you tell your family about my solo show?” she asked Peter, and wondered if she was trying to pick a fight with him. To punish him for making them stay.
“I thought they should know. They’re always so dismissive of your work.”
“And you’re not?” She was pissed off.
“How can you say that?” He looked hurt, and she knew she’d said it to wound. She waited for him to point out that he’d supported her all these years. He’d put a roof over their heads and bought the food. But he stayed silent, which annoyed her even more.
As he turned to face her she noticed a small dot of whipped cream, like a whitehead, on his cheek. It might as well have been an airplane, so odd was it to see anything unplanned attached to her husband. He was always so splendid, so beautifully turned out. His clothes never wrinkled, the creases crisp, never a stain nor a fault. What was that thing on Star Trek? The tractor beam? No, not that. The shields. Peter went through life with his shields raised, repulsing attack by food or beverage, or people. Clara wondered whether there was a tiny Scottish voice in his head right now screaming, “Cap’n, the shields are down. I canna git them up.”
But Peter, dear Peter, was oblivious of the small, fluffy, white alien attached to his face.
She knew she should say something, or at least wipe it off, but she was fed up.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, looking both concerned and a little afraid. Confrontation petrified him.
“You told your family about the Fortin gallery to annoy them. Especially Thomas. It had nothing to do with me. You used my art as a weapon.”
Cap’n, she’s breakin’ up.
“How can you say that?”
But he sounded unsure, something else she rarely heard.
“Please don’t talk about my art with them again. In fact, don’t mention anything personal at all. They don’t care and it just hurts me. Probably shouldn’t, but it does. Can you do that?”
She noticed his trouser pocket was still inside out. It was one of the most disconcerting things she’d ever seen.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “But it wasn’t Thomas, you know. Not any more. I think I’ve grown used to him. It was Julia. Seeing her again has thrown me.”
“She seems nice enough.”
“We all do.”
“Twenty more hours,” said Clara, looking at her watch, then reaching up and rubbing the whipped cream off his face.