A Trick of the Light

“I know you are, Peter. But we need time apart. We both have to figure out what’s important. I know I do. Maybe this’ll make us appreciate what we have.”

“But I already do,” Peter pleaded. He looked around in panic. The thought of leaving terrified him. Leaving this room, this home. Their friends. The village. Clara.

Going up that road and over that hill. Out of Three Pines.

Where to? What place could be better than this?

“Oh, no no no,” he moaned.

But he knew if Clara wanted this, then he had to go. Had to leave.

“Just for a year,” said Clara.

“Promise?” he said, his eyes bright and holding hers. Afraid to blink in case she broke contact.

“Next year, on exactly this date,” Clara said.

“I’ll come home,” said Peter.

“And I’ll be waiting for you. We’ll have a barbeque, just the two of us. Steaks. And young asparagus. And baguettes from Sarah’s boulangerie.”

“I’ll bring a bottle of red wine,” he said. “And we won’t invite Ruth.”

“We won’t invite anyone,” agreed Clara.

“Just us.”

“Just us,” she said.

Then Peter Morrow dressed, and packed a single suitcase.

*   *   *

From his bedroom window Jean Guy Beauvoir could see the Chief walking slowly to their car. He knew he should hurry, shouldn’t keep the man waiting, but there was something he needed to do first.

Something he knew he could finally do.

After getting up, and taking a pill, and having breakfast Jean Guy Beauvoir knew this was the day.

*   *   *

Peter tossed the suitcase into their car. Clara was standing beside him.

Peter could feel himself teetering on the verge of the truth. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Haven’t we said enough?” she asked, exhausted. She hadn’t slept all night. The power had finally come back on at two thirty, and she’d still been awake. After shutting off the lights and going to the bathroom she’d crawled back to bed.

And watched Peter sleep. Watched him breathe, his cheek smushed into the pillow. His long lashes resting together. His hands relaxed.

She studied that face. That lovely body, beautiful into its fifties.

And now the moment had come to let it go.

“No, I need to tell you something,” he said.

She looked at him, and waited.

“I’m sorry that Lillian wrote that terrible review back at school.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Clara asked, puzzled.

“It’s just that I was standing close to her when they were looking at your work and I think I—”

“Yes?” Clara asked, guarded.

“I should have told her how great I thought it was. I mean, I told her I loved your art, but I think I could have been clearer.”

Clara smiled. “Lillian was Lillian. You couldn’t have changed her mind. Don’t worry about it.”

She took Peter’s hands and rubbed them softly, then she kissed him on his lips.

And left. Walking through their gate, down their path, and through her door.

Just before it closed Peter remembered something else. “Arisen,” he called. “Hope takes its place among the modern masters.” He stared at the closed door, sure he’d called out in time. Sure she’d heard. “I memorized the reviews, Clara. All the good ones. I know them by heart.”

But Clara was inside her home. Leaning against her door.

Her eyes closed, she fished in her pocket and brought out the coin. The beginner’s chip.

She grasped it so tightly a prayer became printed on her palm.

*   *   *

Jean Guy picked up the phone, and began dialing. Two, three, four numbers. Further than he’d ever been before hanging up. Six, seven numbers.

Sweat sprung to his palms and he felt light-headed.