‘What?’
‘I get the feeling she’s trying so hard. Like a rock climber, you know? But not a very good one. Just clinging on for dear life and trying not to show how scared she is.’
‘Clinging on to what?’
‘To Gilles. She only started writing poetry when they got together. I think she wants to be part of his world. The creative world.’
‘What world does she belong in?’
‘I think she belongs in the rational world. With facts and figures. She’s wonderful at running the store. Turned it around for him. But she won’t hear a compliment about that. She only wants to hear that she’s a great poet.’
‘It’s interesting she’d choose poetry when one of the greatest poets in Canada is a neighbor,’ said Gamache, watching as Ruth walked down the steps of her veranda. She paused, turned back, bent down, then straightened up.
‘I married one of the greatest artists in Canada,’ said Clara.
‘Do you see yourself in Odile?’ he asked, astonished.
Clara was silent.
‘Clara, I’ve seen your work.’ He stopped and looked at her directly and for an instant the snake retreated, her heart expanded, her head cleared, as she looked into his deep brown eyes. ‘It’s brilliant. Passionate, exposed. Full of hope, belief, doubt. And fear.’
‘I’ve got plenty of that for sale. Want some?’
‘I’m rather flush right now myself, thank you. But you know what?’ He smiled. ‘All will be as it should, if we just do our best.’
Ruth was standing on her front lawn, staring down. As they approached they saw the two baby birds.
‘Morning.’ Clara waved. Ruth looked up and grunted.
‘How’re the babies?’ Clara asked then she saw. Little Rosa was squawking around preening and parading herself. Lilium was standing still, staring ahead. She looked afraid, like that tiny bird in the old Hadley house. Gamache wondered whether maybe she’d been born with a caul.
‘They’re perfect,’ snapped Ruth, daring them to contradict her.
‘We’re having people over for dinner. Want to come?’
‘I was planning to anyway. I’m out of Scotch. You be there?’ she asked Gamache, who nodded.