The Long Way Home(50)

It no longer really hurt, but neither could it be forgotten.

“You know he missed you so much it almost killed him,” said Clara. “I’ve never seen anyone so sad.”

“I know that now,” said Olivier. “And I knew it then. But seeing—”

Words failed. He fluttered the napkin and Clara knew what he meant, and how he’d felt. And in his tears she saw all Olivier’s fears and insecurities and doubts.

She saw all he had, and all he stood to lose.

“I know,” she said.

Olivier looked at her with annoyance, as though she was laying claim to his territory. But his irritation disappeared when he saw her expression.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Peter sent some paintings to Bean in Toronto.”

“Oui,” he said. “Gabri told me.”

“Did he tell you what they looked like?”

“A little.” Olivier grimaced. “On the bright side, since looking at them he’s cleaned out the drains in the B and B and is now scraping guck off the oven.” Olivier jerked his head toward the swinging doors into the bistro kitchen. “I’m thinking of hanging some of Peter’s paintings at home.”

Despite herself, Clara grinned. “Ten dollars and they’re yours.”

“You’ll have to pay him more than that, I’m afraid,” said Gabri.

He’d come out of the kitchen wearing bright yellow rubber gloves, holding them up as though emerging from surgery.

“They’re not that bad,” said Clara.

Gabri stared at her in disbelief. The patient was clearly beyond help.

“Okay, they’re not great,” Clara admitted. “But when was the last time Peter’s painting made you feel anything, never mind drove you to actually do something?”

“I don’t think running away is what most artists want,” said Gabri, peeling off the gloves.

“Actually, some do. They want to provoke. Push and shove your preconceptions. Challenge.”

“Peter?” asked Olivier, and Clara had to remember he hadn’t yet seen the latest paintings.

“What did you feel, when you looked at them?” Clara asked Gabri.

“Revolted.”

But Clara waited, and she could see Gabri considering.

“They were awful,” he said finally, “but they were also kind of fun. So ridiculously inept they were sort of silly. Almost endearing.”

“Peter?” asked Olivier again.

“I think what upset me were all those colors mashed together—”

“Peter?” Olivier demanded. “Colors? Come on.”

“And you didn’t even see the lips,” said Clara.

“What lips?” they asked together.

“Peter put smiles in one of his paintings. It was sort of genius.”

As she said it, she felt light-headed, off balance. Gabri was yacking away about the likelihood of what he saw being anything other than soft and smelly. But Olivier was watching her.

“What’s happened?” he asked again, quietly.

Clara knew then that those paintings, and especially the one with the lips, were her mullioned windows. Frames through which she could see into Peter’s life. Like Olivier watching Gabri on that cold winter night.

And like Olivier, what she clearly saw was that Peter was happy. That was the message of the paintings. He was experimenting, he was searching. He’d left all that was artistically safe behind. He’d broken the ropes, the rules, and sailed off, leaving the known world behind. Exploring. And he was having the time of his life.

The works were messy. But emotions were.

Clara had looked through the window of those works and seen that Peter was happy.

Finally.

Without her.

Olivier looked around the bistro for a napkin to give Clara. Only then did he notice that she’d twisted the linen into all sorts of shapes. Intentionally or not, the napkins looked like creatures of the deep. Washed ashore in Three Pines. Landing on the bistro tables.

Olivier offered a napkin to Clara, who took it with surprise. She didn’t realize she’d made them. And she didn’t realize she’d been crying. She dabbed a sea creature to her cheeks and wondered what Olivier saw in her tears.

* * *

Gamache tossed the ball and watched Henri bound after it, through the deep grass and wildflowers.

He and Henri had walked up the hill and out of the village to the meadow behind the old mill. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.

Gamache knew that what Ruth had said about the creative process was significant. Important. And he felt on the verge of the answer. Almost there.

Toss, retrieve. Toss, retrieve.

A sense of wrong. A homesickness. A lovesickness. The words of Robert Frost surrounded him.

A lump in the throat. Every act of creation came from the same place, Ruth had said. And every act of creation was first an act of destruction.

Peter was dismantling his life. Picking it apart. And replacing it with something new. Rebuilding.

Toss, retrieve.

And the paintings were snapshots of the process.

That’s why he wanted to keep them. As a testament. A travelogue. A diary.

Gamache’s arm stopped. Henri, tail wagging his entire backside, stared as the hand and the ball slowly lowered.