Glass Houses Page 3

  “Join us for lunch, Armand?” asked Clara. The scent of soup filled the kitchen. “I picked up a baguette from the boulangerie.”

  “Non, merci. I’m heading over to the bistro.” He lifted the book in his hand. His Saturday afternoon ritual. Lunch, a beer, and a book, in front of the fireplace at the bistro.

  “Not one of Jacqueline’s,” said Reine-Marie, pointing to the baguette.

  “No. Sarah’s. I made sure of that. Though I did get some of Jacqueline’s brownies. How important is it?” asked Clara, cutting the crispy baguette. “That a baker knows how to make a baguette?”

  “Here?” asked Reine-Marie. “Vital.”

  “Yeah,” said Clara. “I think so too. Poor Sarah. She wants to pass the bakery on to Jacqueline, but I don’t know…”

  “Well, maybe brownies are enough,” said Armand. “I think I could learn to spread brie on a brownie.”

  Clara winced, and then thought about it. Maybe …

  “Jacqueline’s only been here a few months,” Reine-Marie pointed out. “Maybe she’ll catch on.”

  “Sarah says with baguette you either have it or you don’t,” said Clara. “Something to do with touch, but also the temperature of your hands.”

  “Hot or cold?” asked Armand.

  “I don’t know,” said Clara. “It was already too much information. I want to believe baguettes are magic, not some accident of birth.” She put down the bread knife. “Soup’s almost ready. While it warms up, would you like to see my latest work?”

  It was unlike Clara to offer to show her work, especially those in progress. At least, as Armand and Reine-Marie reluctantly walked across the kitchen to her studio, they hoped there’d been progress.

  Normally they’d have leapt at the rare chance to see Clara’s work, as she painted her astonishing portraits. But just recently it had become clear that her idea of “finished” and everyone else’s was very different.

  Armand wondered what she saw that they did not.

  The studio was in darkness, the windows only letting in the north light, and on a cloudy November day there was precious little of that.

  “Those are done,” she said, waving into the gloom at the canvases leaning against one wall. She switched on the light.

  It was all Reine-Marie could do not to ask, “Are you sure?”

  Some of the portraits looked close, but the hair was just a pencil outline. Or the hands were blotches, blobs.

  The portraits, for the most part, were recognizable. Myrna. Olivier.

  Armand went up to Sarah, the baker, lounging against the wall.

  She was the most complete. Her lined face filled with that desire to help that Armand recognized. A dignity, almost standoffish. And yet Clara had managed to capture the baker’s vulnerability. As though she feared the viewer would ask for something she didn’t have.

  Yes, her face, her hands, her attitude, all so finely realized. And yet. Her smock was dashed on, missing all detail. It was as though Clara had lost interest.

  Gracie and her littermate, Leo, were wrestling on the concrete floor, and Reine-Marie stooped to pet them.

  “What is that?” Everyone spasmed a little on hearing the querulous voice.

  Ruth stood there, holding Rosa and pointing into the studio.

  “Jesus, it’s awful,” said the old poet. “What a mess. Ugly doesn’t begin to describe it.”

  “Ruth,” said Reine-Marie. “You of all people should know that creation is a process.”

  “And not always a successful one. I’m serious. What is it?”

  “It’s called art,” said Armand. “And you don’t have to like it.”

  “Art?” Ruth looked dubious. “Really?” She bent down and said, “Come here, Art. Come here.”

  They looked at each other. Even for demented old Ruth, this was odd.

  And then Clara began to laugh. “She means Gracie.”

  She pointed to the little thing, rolling on the floor with Leo.

  Though they’d been found together, in the garbage, Clara’s Leo was growing into a very handsome dog. Golden, with short hair on his lean body, and slightly longer hair around his neck. Leo was tall and gangly right now, but already regal.

  Gracie was not. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, the runt of the litter. Literally. And perhaps not even a dog.

  No one had been quite sure when Reine-Marie had brought her home months earlier. And time had not proven helpful.

  Almost completely hairless, except for tufts of different colors here and there. One ear stood boldly up, the other flopped. Her head seemed to be evolving daily and she had grown very little. Some days, to Reine-Marie’s eyes, Gracie seemed to have shrunk.

  But her eyes were bright. And she seemed to know she’d been saved. Her adoration of Reine-Marie knew no bounds.

  “Come here, Art,” Ruth tried again, then stood up. “Not only ugly but stupid. Doesn’t know its name.”

  “Gracie,” said Armand. “Her name’s Gracie.”

  “For Christ’s sake, why did you say it was Art?” She looked at him as though he were the demented one.

  They returned to the kitchen, where Clara stirred the soup and Armand kissed Reine-Marie and walked to the door.

  “Not so fast, Tintin,” said Ruth. “You haven’t told us about that thing in the middle of the village. I saw you speaking to him. What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  Clearly for Ruth the concept of keeping the mouth shut was completely foreign.

  “But why’s he still here?” asked Clara, all pretense of not caring gone. “What does he want? Did he stand there all night? Can’t you do something?”

  “Why’s the sky blue?” asked Ruth. “Is pizza really Italian? Have you ever eaten a crayon?”

  They looked at her.

  “Aren’t we tossing out stupid questions? For what it’s worth, the answers to your questions are, don’t know, don’t know, and Edmonton.”

  “The guy’s wearing a mask,” Clara said to Armand, ignoring Ruth. “That can’t be right. He can’t be right. In the head.”

  She spun her finger at her temple.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “It’s not against the law in Québec to cover your face.”

  “That isn’t a burka,” said Clara.

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Ruth. “What’s the big deal? Haven’t you seen Phantom of the Opera? He might burst into song at any moment and we have front row seats.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously,” said Clara.

  “But I am. I’m just not afraid. Though ignorance scares me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Clara.

  “Ignorance,” Ruth repeated, either missing or pretending to miss the warning in Clara’s voice. “Anything different, anything you don’t understand, you immediately believe is threatening.”

  “And you’re the poster child for tolerance?” asked Clara.

  “Come on,” said Ruth. “There’s a difference between scary and threatening. He might be frightening, I’ll give you that. But he hasn’t actually done anything. If he was going to, he probably would’ve by now.”

  Ruth turned to Gamache to back her up, but he didn’t respond.

  “Someone puts on a Halloween costume as a joke,” she continued. “In broad daylight, and you get all scared. Puh. You’d have done well in Salem.”

  “You got closer than any of us,” Reine-Marie said to her husband. “What do you think it is?”

  He looked down at the dogs, intertwined on the floor, sprawled against Henri, who snored and muttered. More than once Armand had envied Henri. Until Henri’s kibble was lowered next to his water bowl. There the envy ended.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be gone soon.”

  “Don’t patronize us,” said Clara, her smile only slightly softening the annoyance in her tone. “I showed you mine”—she pointed toward her studio—“now you sh
ow me yours.”

  “It’s just an impression,” he said. “Meaningless. I have no real idea who or what he is.”

  “Armand,” Clara warned.

  And he relented.

  “Death,” he said, and looked over at Reine-Marie. “That’s what I thought.”

  “The Grim Reaper?” asked Ruth with a hoot. “Did he point a crooked finger?”

  She lifted her own bony finger and pointed it at Armand.

  “I’m not saying it’s actually, literally Death,” he said. “But I do think whoever’s in that costume wants us to make the connection. He wants us to be afraid.”

  “Guess what,” said Clara.

  “Well, you’re all wrong,” said Ruth. “Death doesn’t look at all like that.”

  “How would you know?” asked Clara.

  “Because we’re old friends. He visits most nights. We sit in the kitchen and talk. His name’s Michael.”

  “The archangel?” asked Reine-Marie.

  “Yes. Everyone thinks Death is this horrible creature, but in the Bible it’s Michael who visits the dying and helps them in their last hour. He’s beautiful, with wings he folds tight to his back so he doesn’t knock over the furniture.”

  “Let me get this straight. The Archangel Michael visits you?” asked Reine-Marie.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Clara. “You read the Bible?”

  “I read everything,” Ruth said to Clara, then turned to Reine-Marie. “And he does. But he doesn’t stay long. He’s very busy. But he pops in for a drink and gossips about the other angels. That Raphael is a piece of work, I tell you. Nasty, embittered old thing.”

  A hmmm escaped one of them.

  “And what do you say to him?” asked Armand.

  “Armand,” said Reine-Marie, warning him not to goad the old woman. But that wasn’t his intention. He was genuinely curious.

  “I tell him about all of you. Point out your homes and make some suggestions. Sometimes I read him a poem. From the public school to the private hell / of the family masquerade,” she quoted, tipping her face to the ceiling in an effort to remember, “Where could a boy on a bicycle go / when the straight road splayed?”

  They stared for a moment, taking in the words that had taken their breaths away.

  “One of yours?” asked Clara.

  Ruth nodded and smiled. “I do know it’s a process. To be honest, Michael’s not very helpful. He prefers limericks.”

  There was an involuntary guffaw from Armand.

  “And then, before dawn, he leaves,” said Ruth.

  “And leaves you behind?” asked Clara. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Think about it,” murmured Reine-Marie.

  “It’s not my time. Not even close. He likes my company because I’m not afraid.”

  “We’re all afraid of something,” said Armand.

  “I meant I’m not afraid of Death,” said Ruth.

  “I wonder if Death’s afraid of her,” said Clara.

  * * *

  “I’ll take two of those, please,” said Katie Evans, pointing to the chocolate brownies. With melted marshmallows on top.

  The sort she remembered from years ago.

  “And you, madame?”

  Jacqueline turned to the other woman. Lea Roux.

  She recognized her, but then, most would. She was a member of the National Assembly, and in the news often. Interviewed on French and English talk shows, across the province, for her opinions on politics. She was articulate without being pompous. Funny without being sarcastic. Warm without being cloying. She was the new darling of the media.

  And now here she was. In the bakery. Large as life.

  In fact, both women were large. Really, more tall than big. But they certainly were a presence. Easily overshadowing the tiny baker. But while the women might have presence, Jacqueline had baked goods. And, she suspected, at that moment that made her the more powerful.

  “I think,” said Lea, surveying the bank of patisserie behind the glass, “I’ll take a lemon tart and a mille-feuille.”

  “Pretty strange,” said Katie, going up to Sarah, who owned the boulangerie and was restocking the shelves with biscotti.

  There was no need to ask what Katie meant.

  Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and nodded, glancing out the window.

  “I wish it would go away,” said the baker.

  “Anyone know what it is?” Lea asked, first Sarah, who shook her head, then Jacqueline, who shook her head and looked away.

  “It’s very upsetting,” said Sarah. “I don’t know why someone doesn’t do something. Armand should do something.”

  “I doubt there’s much that can be done. Even by Monsieur Gamache.”

  Lea Roux had sat on the committee that had confirmed Gamache as head of the Sûreté. She’d disclosed that she knew him, casually. They’d met a few times.

  But then, almost everyone on the bipartisan committee knew Armand Gamache. He’d been a high-profile officer in the Sûreté for years and was involved in uncovering all that corruption.

  There had been very little discussion, and less debate.

  And two months ago, Armand Gamache had been sworn in as Chief Superintendent of the most powerful police force in Québec. Perhaps the most powerful in Canada.

  But even with all that power, Lea Roux knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about the creature on the village green.

  “You know you can order those in the bistro,” said Sarah as they left, pointing to the small boxes in their hands. “We supply Olivier and Gabri.”

  “Merci,” said Katie. “We’re taking these to the bookstore, to share with Myrna.”

  “She does like brownies,” said Sarah. “They’ve been a big hit since Jacqueline arrived.”

  She looked at the much younger woman, as a proud mother might a daughter.

  Except for the baguette thing, Jacqueline’s arrival was pretty much the answer to Sarah’s prayers. She was in her late sixties now, and getting up at five every morning to make bread, then on her feet all day, was getting too much.

  Closing the boulangerie wasn’t an option. And she didn’t want to retire completely. But she did want to hand over the day-to-day operations to someone.

  And then Jacqueline had arrived three months ago.

  If she could only just learn how to make baguette.

  * * *

  “Oh, that looks good,” said Myrna, as she poured the tea and Lea put out the pastries.

  Then the three of them sat around the woodstove in Myrna’s bookstore, on the sofa and armchairs in the bay window. Where they could see the robed figure.

  After discussing it for a few minutes and getting nowhere, they turned to Katie’s latest project. A glass house on the Magdalen Islands.

  “Really?” said Myrna, though her surprise was muffled by the mouthful of brownie. “The Maggies?”

  “Yes, there seems quite a bit of money there now. Lobster business must be good.”

  Lea raised her brow but didn’t say anything.

  There was a whole other commodity that was creating wealth where once there had been hardworking poverty.

  “A glass house on the islands must be a challenge,” said Myrna.

  And for the next half hour they discussed weather, geography, design, and homes. The issue of home, rather than house, fascinated Myrna and she listened with admiration to these younger women.

  She was interested in Katie. Liked her. But it was Lea she felt a bond with, having been her babysitter all those years ago.

  Myrna had been twenty-six, just finishing her degree and scraping together whatever money she could to pay off student debt. Lea had been six. Tiny, like a gerbil. Her parents were divorcing, and Lea, an only child, had become almost housebound with terror. Uncertainty.

  Myrna had become her big sister, her mother, her friend. Her protector and mentor. And Lea had become her little sister, daughter, friend.

  “You should meet Anton,” sa
id Myrna, watching with pleasure as Lea gobbled the pastries.

  “Anton?”

  “He’s Olivier’s new dishwasher.”

  “He names his dishwashers?” said Katie with a smile. “I call mine Bosch.”

  “Really?” said Lea. “Mine’s Gustav. He’s a dirty, dirty boy.”

  “Har har,” said Myrna. “Anton’s a person, as you know very well. Wants to be a chef. He’s particularly interested in developing a cuisine based solely on things native to this area.”

  “Trees,” said Katie. “Grass.”

  “Anglos,” said Lea. “Yum. I’d like to meet him. I think there’re some programs that might be able to help.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Myrna. “You must be asked that all the time.”

  “I like to help,” said Lea. “And if it means a free meal, even better.”

  “Great. How about tonight?”

  “I can’t tonight. We’re going in to Knowlton for dinner. But we’ll work something out before we leave.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Couple of days,” said Katie.

  It was, thought Myrna, oddly vague for people who surely had rigid schedules.

  * * *

  When the bakery was finally empty, and the cookies were in the oven, Jacqueline set the timer.

  “Do you mind if I—”

  “No, go,” said Sarah.

  Jacqueline didn’t have to say where she was going. Sarah knew. And wished her well. If she and the dishwasher got married, and he became the chef, then Jacqueline would also stay.

  Sarah wasn’t proud of these selfish thoughts, but at least she wasn’t wishing Jacqueline harm. There would be far worse things, Sarah knew, than marrying Anton.

  If only Anton felt the same way about Jacqueline. Maybe if she could bake baguettes, thought Sarah, scrubbing down the counters. Yes. That might do it.

  In Sarah’s world, a good baguette was a magic wand that solved all problems.

  Jacqueline scooted next door to the bistro kitchen. It was midafternoon. They’d be preparing for the dinner service, but it was a fairly quiet time of day for a dishwasher.

  “I was just going to come over to see you,” said Anton. “Did you see it?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  She kissed him on both cheeks, and he returned the kiss, but the way he might kiss Sarah.