In his bed, in the dark, he waited for the painkiller to kick in. He could feel the day slip away. The worries, the anxieties, the images receded. As he hugged his stuffed lion and drifted toward oblivion one image drifted along with him. Not of himself being shot. Not even of seeing the Chief hit, and fall.
All that had faded, gobbled up by the OxyContin.
But one thought remained. Followed him to the edge.
Restaurant Milos. The phone number, now hidden in the desk drawer. Every week for the past three months he’d called the Restaurant Milos and made a reservation. For two. For Saturday night. The table at the back, by the whitewashed wall.
And every Saturday afternoon he canceled it. He wondered if they even bothered to take down his name anymore. Maybe they just pretended. As he did.
But tomorrow, he felt certain, would be different.
He’d definitely call her then. And she’d say yes. And he’d take Annie Gamache to Milos, with its crystal and white linen. She’d have the Dover sole, he’d have the lobster.
And she’d listen to him, and look at him with those intense eyes. He’d ask her all about her day, her life, her likes, her feelings. Everything. He wanted to know everything.
Every night he drifted off to sleep with the same image. Annie looking at him across the table. And then, he’d reach out and place his hand on hers. And she’d let him.
As he sank into sleep he placed one hand over the other. That was how it would feel.
And then, the OxyContin took everything. And Jean Guy Beauvoir had no more feelings.
FIFTEEN
Clara came down to breakfast. The place smelled of coffee and toasted English muffins.
When Clara had woken up, surprised she’d even fallen asleep, the bed was empty. It had taken her a moment to remember what had happened the night before.
Their fight.
How close she’d come to getting dressed and leaving him. Taking the car, driving to Montreal. Checking into a cheap hotel.
And then?
And then, something. The rest of her life, she supposed. She hadn’t cared.
But then Peter had finally told her the truth.
They’d talked into the night, and fallen asleep. Not touching, not yet. They were both too bruised for that. It was as though they’d been skinned and dissected. Deboned. Their innards brought out. Examined. And found to be rotten.
They didn’t have a marriage, they had a parody of a partnership.
But they’d also found that maybe, maybe, they could put themselves together again.
It would be different. Would it be better?
Clara didn’t know.
“Morning,” said Peter when she appeared, her hair sticking up on one side, a crust of sleep on her face.
“Morning,” she said.
He poured her a mug of coffee.
Once Clara had fallen asleep, and he’d heard the heavy breathing and a snort, he’d gone down to the living room. He found the newspaper. He found the glossy catalog for her show.
And he’d sat there all night. Memorizing the
So that he too would have a choice of what to believe.
And then he’d stared at the reproductions of her paintings in the catalog.
They were brilliant. But then he already knew that. In the past, though, he’d looked at her portraits and seen flaws. Real or imagined. A brush stroke slightly off. The hands that could have been better. He’d deliberately concentrated on the minutiae so that he wouldn’t have to see the whole.
Now he looked at the whole.
To say he was happy about it would be a lie, and Peter Morrow was determined not to lie anymore. Not to himself. Not to Clara.
The truth was, it still hurt to see such talent. But for the first time since he’d met Clara he was no longer looking for the flaws.
But there was something else he’d struggled with all night. He’d told her everything. Every stinking thing he’d done and thought. So she’d know it all. So there was nothing hidden, to surprise either of them.
Except one thing.
Lillian. And what he’d said to her at the student art show so many years ago. The number of words he could count on his fingers. But each had been a bullet. And each had hit its target. Clara.
“Thanks,” said Clara, accepting the mug of rich, strong coffee. “Smells good.”
