Perhaps Julia was sincere.

“Warrior Uteruses, wasn’t it?” asked Julia. Clara searched her face for ridicule but found none.

Clara nodded. True, by economic measurements the series couldn’t be considered a success, but emotionally it had been a triumph. She’d considered giving a Warrior Uterus to Peter’s mother as a Christmas gift, but decided that might be a step too far.

“Didn’t we tell you?” Peter walked over, smiling. Never a good sign at a family reunion. The more devious they got the more they smiled. Clara tried to catch his eye.

“Tell us what?” Sandra asked, sensing something unpleasant approaching.

“About Clara’s art.”

“I’d like another beer,” said Clara. No one paid any attention.

“What about it?” asked Thomas.

“Nothing,” said Clara. “Just lots of crap. You know me. Always experimenting.”

“She’s been approached by a gallery.”

“Peter,” Clara snapped. “I don’t think we need to talk about it.”

“But I’m sure they’d like to hear,” said Peter. He took his hand out of his slacks pocket and it turned inside out, marring his otherwise perfect appearance.

“Clara’s modest. The Galerie Fortin in Montreal wants to do a one-woman show. Denis Fortin himself came to Three Pines to see her work.”

Silence.

Clara’s nails dug into her palms. A deerfly found the tender pale skin behind her ear, and bit.

“Marvellous,” said Peter’s mother to Clara. “I’m absolutely delighted.”

Clara, surprised, turned to her mother-in-law. She could barely believe her ears. Had she been too harsh all this time? Judged Peter’s mother unfairly?

“So often they’re too thick.”

Clara’s smile faltered. Too thick?

“And not made with real mayonnaise. But Chef Véronique has outdone herself again. Have you tried the cucumber sandwiches, Claire? They’re really very good.”

“They are good,” agreed Clara with maniacal enthusiasm.

“Congratulations, Clara. What good news.” The voice was masculine, jovial and vaguely familiar. “Félicitations.”

Across the lawn a powerfully built middle-aged man in a funny hat took easy strides toward them. Beside him was a small, elegant woman wearing the same floppy sun hat.

“Reine-Marie?” Clara peered, hardly believing her eyes. “Peter, is that Reine-Marie?”

Peter was staring almost slack-jawed as the couple hurried up the steps.

“Oh, Clara, what wonderful news,” said Reine-Marie, taking her friend in her arms. Clara smelled Joy, the fragrance by Jean Patou, and felt the same way. It was like being saved from torture at the last moment. She pulled back from the embrace and stared at Reine-Marie Gamache, to make certain. Sure enough, the smiling woman was there. Clara could still feel the glares behind her, but it didn’t matter as much. Not now.

Then Armand kissed her on both cheeks and squeezed her arm affectionately. “We’re thrilled for you. And Denis Fortin.” He looked into the fieldstone faces on the terrasse. “He’s the top art dealer in Montreal, as you probably know. A real coup.”

“Really?” Peter’s mother managed to sound both dismissive and disapproving. As though Clara’s coup was unseemly. And certainly this display of emotion, of elation, was unseemly. This was a rude interruption of a private family affair. And, perhaps worst of all, unmistakable evidence that Peter socialized with the people from the broom closet. It was one thing to play bridge when stuck in a remote lodge with them. That was simply being well bred. But it was quite another thing to choose their company.

Gamache walked over to Peter and shook his hand. “Hello, old son.”

Gamache was smiling and Peter stared as though at something extraordinary.

“Armand? But how in the world did you come to be here?”

“Well, it is an inn after all.” Gamache laughed. “We’re here celebrating our anniversary.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Clara and stepped toward Reine-Marie. Peter also made to move toward them but the clearing of a small throat behind him stopped his progress.

“Perhaps we can talk later,” suggested Reine-Marie. “You need time with your charming family.” She gave Clara another quick hug. Clara was reluctant to let go, but did, and watched as the Gamaches strolled across the lawn toward the lake. She felt a trickle down her neck. Reaching up to wipe the sweat away she was surprised to see blood on her fingers.