“We went on to art college together and shared an apartment. But by then I’d learned to downplay any compliments I got about my work. And spent a lot of time telling Lillian how terrific her work was. And it was. Of course, like all of our stuff, it was evolving. We were experimenting. At least, I was. I sort of figured that was the point of art college. Not to get it right, but to see what was possible. To really be out there.”
Clara paused and looked down at her hands, fingers entwined.
“Lillian didn’t like it. My stuff was too weird for her. She felt it reflected on her, and said people thought that if she was my muse then my paintings must be about her. And since my paintings and other pieces were so strange, then she must be strange.” Clara hesitated. “She asked me to stop.”
For the first time she saw a reaction from Gamache. His eyes narrowed just a bit. And then his face and demeanor returned to normal. Neutral. Without judgment.
Apparently.
He said nothing. Just listened.
“And I did,” said Clara, her voice low, her head down. Speaking into her lap.
She took a ragged breath and exhaled, feeling her body deflate.
That was how it had felt back then too. As though there was a small tear and she was deflating.
“I told her time and again that some of the works were inspired by her, some were even a tribute to our friendship, but they weren’t her. She said it didn’t matter. If others thought they were that’s all that mattered. If I cared about her, if I was her friend I’d stop making my art so strange. And make it attractive.
“So I did. I destroyed all the other stuff and started making things that people liked.”
Clara rushed ahead, not daring to look at the people listening.
“I actually got better grades too. And I convinced myself it was the right choice. That it would be wrong to trade a career for a friend.”
She looked up then, directly into Chief Inspector Gamache’s eyes. And noted, again, the deep scar by his temple. And the steady, thoughtful gaze.
“It seemed a small sacrifice. Then came the student show. I had a few works in it, but Lillian didn’t. Instead she decided to write a piece for credit in the art criticism course she was taking. She wrote a review for the campus paper. In it she praised a few of the student pieces but savaged my works. Said they were vacuous, empty of all feeling. Safe.”
Clara could still feel the quaking, the rumbling, volcanic fury.
Their friendship had been blown to smithereens. No piece large enough to even examine. Impossible to mend.
But what did rise from the rubble was a deep, deep enmity. A hatred. Mutual, it seemed.
Clara came to a stop, trembling even now. Peter reached out and unfastening her hand from its tight grip, he held it and smoothed it.
The sun continued to beat down and Gamache got up, indicating they should move the chairs into the shade. Clara rose, and flashing a quick smile at Peter she took her hand back. They each picked up their chair and walked to the edge of the river where it was cooler and shady.
“I think we should take a little break,” said Gamache. “Would you like something to drink?”
Clara nodded, unable to speak just yet.
Peter led the Chief toward the kitchen door while Beauvoir walked to the bistro and Clara wandered along the riverbank, alone with her thoughts.
“Did you know Lillian?” Gamache asked, once he and Peter were in the kitchen.
“I did.” Peter got out a couple of large pitchers and some glasses while Gamache took the bright pink lemonade from the freezer and slid the frozen concentrate into the pitchers. “We all met at art college.”
“What did you think of her?”
Peter pursed his lips in concentration. “She was very attractive, vivacious I think is the word. A strong personality.”
“Were you attracted to her?”
The two men were side-by-side at the kitchen counter, staring out the window. To the right they could see the homicide team scouring the scene and straight ahead they could see Clara skipping stones into the Riviere Bella Bella.
“There’s something Clara doesn’t know,” said Peter, turning away from looking at his wife, and meeting Gamache’s eyes.
The Chief waited. He could see the struggle in Peter and Gamache let the silence stretch on. Better to wait a few minutes for the full truth than push him and risk getting only half.
Eventually Peter dropped his gaze to the sink and started filling the lemonade containers with water. He mumbled into the running water.
“I beg your pardon?” said Gamache, his voice calm and reasonable.
“I was the one who told Lillian that Clara’s works were silly,” said Peter, raising his head and his voice. Angry now, at himself for doing it and Gamache for making him admit it. “I said Clara’s work was banal, superficial. Lillian’s review was my fault.”
