Interesting, thought Gamache. She was heading in one direction but looking in the other. Behind her. From her he had an overwhelming feeling of yearning. He realized all he wanted to do was draw an armchair up to that portrait, pour a cup of coffee and stare at it for the rest of the evening. For the rest of his life. It was seductive. And dangerous.
With an effort he pulled his eyes away and found Clara standing in the darkness, watching her friends as they looked at her creations.
Peter was also watching. With a look of unmarred pride.
“Bon Dieu,” said Gabri. “C’est extraordinaire.”
“Félicitations, Clara,” said Olivier. “My God, they’re brilliant. Do you have more?”
“Do you mean, have I done you?” she asked with a laugh. “Non, mon beau. Only Ruth and Peter’s mother.”
“Who’s this one?” Lacoste pointed to the painting Gamache had been staring at.
Clara smiled. “I’m not telling. You have to guess.”
“Is it me?” asked Gabri.
“Yes, Gabri, it’s you,” said Clara.
“Really?” Too late he saw her smiling.
The funny thing was, thought Gamache, it almost could have been Gabri. He looked again at the portrait in the soft candlelight. Not physically, but emotionally. There was happiness there. But there was also something else. Something that didn’t quite fit with Gabri.
“So which one’s me?” asked Ruth, limping closer to the paintings.
“You old drunk,” said Gabri. “It’s this one.”
Ruth peered at her exact double. “I don’t see it. Looks more like you.”
“Hag,” muttered Gabri.
“Fag,” she mumbled back.
“Clara’s painted you as the Virgin Mary,” Olivier explained.
Ruth leaned closer and shook her head.
“Virgin?” Gabri whispered to Myrna. “Obviously the mind fucks don’t count.”
“Speaking of which,” Ruth looked over at Beauvoir, “Peter, do you have a piece of paper? I feel a poem coming on. Now, do you think it’s too much to put the words ‘asshole’ and ‘shithead’ in the same sentence?”
Beauvoir winced.
“Just close your eyes and think of England,” Ruth advised Beauvoir, who had actually been thinking of her English.
Gamache walked over to Peter, who continued to stare at his wife’s works.
“How are you?”
“You mean, do I want to take a razor to those and slash them to bits, then burn them?”
“Something like that.”
It was a conversation they’d had before, as it became clear that Peter might soon have to cede his place as the best artist in the family, in the village, in the province, to his wife. Peter had struggled with it, not always successfully.
“I couldn’t hold her back even if I tried,” said Peter. “And I don’t want to try.”
“There’s a difference between holding back and actively supporting.”
“These are so good even I can’t deny it anymore,” admitted Peter. “She amazes me.”
Both men looked over at the plump little woman looking anxiously at her friends, apparently unaware of the masterpieces she’d created.
“Are you working on something?” Gamache nodded toward the closed door to Peter’s studio.
“Always am. It’s a log.”
“A log?” It was hard to make that sound brilliant. Peter Morrow was one of the most successful artists in the country and he’d gotten there by taking mundane, everyday objects and painting them in excruciating detail. So that they were no longer even recognizable as the object they were. He zoomed in close, then magnified a section, and painted that.
His works looked abstract. It gave Peter huge satisfaction to know they weren’t. They were reality in the extreme. So real no one recognized them. And now it was the log’s turn. He’d picked it up off the pile beside their fireplace and it was waiting for him in his studio.
The desserts were served, coffee and cognac poured; people wandered about, Gabri played the piano, Gamache kept being drawn to the paintings. Particularly the one of the unknown woman. Looking back. Clara joined him.
“My God, Clara, they’re the best works of art ever produced by anyone, anywhere.”
“Do you mean it?” she asked in mock earnestness.
He smiled. “They are brilliant, you know. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
“If that was true I’d have no art.”