“I feel good. And you’ve lost weight. My God, Sandra, you have to tell me how you did it. I’d love to lose ten pounds.”
“You?” exclaimed Sandra. “Never.”
The two women walked arm in arm out of the Gamaches’ hearing.
“Peter,” said Thomas.
“Thomas,” said Peter.
They nodded brusquely to each other.
“Life good?”
“Never better.”
They spoke in semaphore, all punctuation unnecessary.
“You?”
“Great.”
They’d trimmed the language to its essentials. Before long it would just be consonants. Then silence.
From the dappled shade Armand Gamache watched. He knew he should be delighted to see their old friends, and he was. But looking down he noticed the hairs on his forearms sticking up, and felt a whispered cold breath.
On this shimmering hot summer day, in this pristine and tranquil setting, things were not as they seemed.
Clara made for the stone wall of the terrasse, carrying a beer and a tomato sandwich which dripped seeds, unseen, onto her new cotton blouse. She tried to fade into the shade, which wasn’t difficult since Peter’s family paid little attention to her anyway. She was the daughter-in-law, the sister-in-law, nothing more. At first it had been annoying, but now she found it a great advantage.
She looked out into the perennial garden and noticed if she squinted just so she could believe herself back home in their little village of Three Pines. It wasn’t actually all that far away. Just over the mountain range. But it seemed very distant indeed just now.
Each summer morning at home she’d pour a cup of coffee then walk barefoot down to the Rivière Bella Bella behind their house, sniffing roses and phlox and lilies as she passed. Sitting on a bench in the soft sun she’d sip her coffee and stare into the gently flowing river, mesmerized by the water, glowing gold and silver in the sunshine. Then she’d go into her studio and paint until mid-afternoon. Then she and Peter would get a beer and walk the garden, or join friends at the bistro for a glass of wine. It was a quiet, uneventful life. It suited them.
But one morning a few weeks earlier she’d gone as usual to check their mailbox. And there she’d found the dreaded invitation. The rusty door had shrieked as she’d opened it, and sticking her hand inside she’d known even before she’d seen it what was there. She could feel the heavy vellum of the envelope. She’d been tempted to just throw it away, toss it in the blue recycling box so it could be turned into something useful, like toilet paper. But she hadn’t. Instead she’d stared at the spider writing, the ominous scrawl that made her skin feel as if ants were crawling all over her, until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She’d ripped it open, and inside was the invitation to the family reunion at the Manoir Bellechasse at the end of June. A month ahead of normal and just when Three Pines was taking down the Saint-Jean-Baptiste flags and preparing the annual July first Canada Day celebrations on the village green. It was the worst possible timing and she was about to try to get out of it when she remembered she was supposed to organize the children’s games this year. Clara, who got along with children by pretending they were puppies, was suddenly conflicted and decided she’d leave it up to Peter. But there was something else included in the invitation. Something else would happen while they were all there. When Peter came out of his studio that afternoon she’d handed him the envelope and watched his handsome face. This face she loved, this man she longed to protect. And could, against most things. But not his family. They attacked from within, and she couldn’t help him there. She saw his face, uncomprehending at first, and then he understood.
It was going to be bad. And yet, to her surprise, he’d picked up the phone and called his mother, and accepted the wretched invitation.
That was a few weeks ago, and now, suddenly, it was upon them.
Clara sat alone on the wall and watched as the rest of them sipped gin and tonics in the blinding sun. None wore sun hats, preferring sunstroke and skin cancer to spectacle. Peter stood talking to his mother, his hand to his brow to block out the sun, as though in a permanent salute.
Thomas looked regal and elegant while Sandra looked alert. Her eyes darted here and there, assessing portions, watching the weaving waiters, monitoring who got what when and how it compared to hers.
On the other side of the terrasse, also in the shade, Clara could just see Bert Finney. He seemed to be watching his wife, though it was hard to tell. She looked away just as his pilgrim eye caught hers.
Sipping her cool drink she grabbed a handful of thick hair, wet with perspiration, and peeled it off her neck. Then she flapped it up and down, to air out the area. Only then did she notice Peter’s mother watching, her faded pink and white face crinkled and lovely, her Wedgwood eyes thoughtful and kind. A beautiful English rose inviting you to approach, to bend closer. Too late you’d realize there was a wasp buried deep, waiting to do what wasps do best.
