Masterpieces, each and every one.
In her quiet garden that morning Clara had closed her eyes and tilted her face to the young sun, and smiled.
The dream come true.
Perfect strangers would hang on her every word. Some might even take notes. Ask advice. They’d listen, rapt, as she talked about her vision, her philosophy, her insights into the art world. Where it was going, where it had been.
She’d be adored and respected. Smart and beautiful. Elegant women would ask where she’d bought her outfit. She would start a movement. A trend.
Instead, she felt like a messy bride at a wedding gone bad. Where the guests ignored her, concentrating instead on the food and drink. Where no one wanted to catch her bouquet or walk her down the aisle. Or dance with her. And she looked like a Maoist accountant.
She scratched her hip, and smoothed pâté into her hair. Then looked at her watch.
Dear God, another hour to go.
Oh, no no no, thought Clara. Now she was simply trying to survive. To keep her head above water. To not faint, or throw up, or pee. To remain conscious and continent was her new goal.
“At least you’re not on fire.”
“I’m sorry?” Clara turned to the very large black woman in the bright green caftan standing beside her. It was her friend and neighbor, Myrna Landers. A retired psychologist from Montréal, she now owned the new and used bookstore in Three Pines.
“Right now,” said Myrna. “You’re not on fire.”
“Very true. And perceptive. Nor am I flying. There’s quite a long list of things I’m not.”
“And a long list,” laughed Myrna, “of things you are.”
“Are you going to be rude now?” asked Clara.
Myrna paused and considered Clara for a moment. Almost every day Clara came across to Myrna’s bookstore to have a cup of tea and talk. Or Myrna would join Peter and Clara for dinner.
But today was like no other. No other day in Clara’s life had ever been like this, and it was possible none would ever be again. Myrna knew Clara’s fears, her failures, her disappointments. As Clara knew hers.
And they knew each other’s dreams too.
“I know this is difficult for you,” said Myrna. She stood right in front of Clara, her bulk blotting out the room, so that what had been a crowd scene was suddenly very intimate. Her body was a perfect green orb, blocking out the sights and sounds. They were in their own world.
“I wanted it to be perfect,” said Clara in a whisper, hoping she wasn’t about to cry. Where other little girls fantasized about their wedding day, Clara had dreamed of a solo art show. At the Musée. Here. She just hadn’t seen it in quite this way.
“And who gets to decide? What would make it perfect?”
Clara thought about that for a moment. “If I wasn’t so afraid.”
“And what’s the worst thing that can happen?” asked Myrna quietly.
“They’ll hate my art, decide I’m talentless, ridiculous. Laughable. That a terrible mistake was made. The show’ll be a failure and I’ll be a laughingstock.”
“Exactly,” said Myrna, with a smile. “All survivable. And then what’ll you do?”
Clara thought for a moment. “I’ll get into the car with Peter and drive back to Three Pines.”
“And?”
“Have the party there, with friends tonight.”
“And?”
“I’ll get up tomorrow morning…” Clara’s voice petered out as she saw her life post-apocalypse. She’d wake up tomorrow to her quiet life in the tiny village. A return to a life of walking the dog, and drinks on the terrasse, of café au lait and croissants in front of the fireplace at the bistro. Of intimate dinners with friends. Of sitting in her garden. Reading, thinking.
Painting.
Nothing that happened here would ever change that.
“At least I’m not on fire,” she said, and grinned.
Myrna took both of Clara’s hands in hers and held them for a moment. “Most people would kill for this day. Don’t let it go by without enjoying it. Your works are masterpieces, Clara.”
Clara squeezed her friend’s hand. All those years, those months, those quiet days when no one else noticed or cared what Clara did in her studio, Myrna had been there. And into that silence she’d whispered.
“Your works are masterpieces.”
And Clara had dared to believe her. And dared to keep moving forward. Urged on by her dreams, and that gentle, reassuring voice.
Myrna stepped aside then, revealing a whole new room. One filled with people, not threats. People having fun, enjoying themselves. There to celebrate Clara Morrow’s first solo show at the Musée.
