With that Ruth whacked Monsieur Beliveau in the back of his head. Fortunately the village grocer was wearing a cloth cap. It was also fortunate he had great affection for the white-haired ramrod on the bench. Ruth chose her victims well. They were almost always people who cared for her.
Normally being pelted by a chocolate Easter egg wouldn’t be a big deal, but these weren’t chocolate. They’d made that mistake only once.
A few years earlier, when the village of Three Pines first decided to have an egg hunt on Easter Sunday, there’d been great excitement. The villagers met at Olivier’s Bistro and over drinks and Brie they divvied up bags of chocolate eggs to be hidden the next day. ‘Ooohs’ and ‘Aaaaahs’ tinged with envy filled the air. Would that they were children again. But their pleasure would surely come from seeing the faces of the village children. Besides, the kids might not find them all, especially those hidden behind Olivier’s bar.
‘They’re gorgeous.’ Gabri picked up a tiny marzipan goose, delicately sculpted, then bit its head off.
‘Gabri.’ His partner Olivier yanked what was left of the goose from Gabri’s massive hand. ‘They’re for the kids.’
‘You just want it for yourself.’ Gabri turned to Myrna and muttered so that everyone could hear, ‘Great idea. Gay men offering chocolates to children. Let’s alert the Moral Majority.’
Blond and bashful, Olivier blushed furiously.
Myrna smiled. She looked like a massive Easter egg herself, black and oval and wrapped in a brilliant purple and red caftan.
Most of the tiny village was at the bistro, crowded around the long bar of polished wood, though some had flopped down in the comfortable old armchairs scattered about. All for sale. Olivier’s was also an antique shop. Discreet tags dangled from everything, including Gabri when he felt under-appreciated and under-applauded.
It was early April and fires crackled cheerily in the open grates, throwing warm light on the wide-plank pine floors, stained amber by time and sunlight. Waiters moved effortlessly through the beamed room, offering drinks and soft, runny Brie from Monsieur Page’s farm. The bistro was at the heart of the old Quebec village, sitting as it did on the edge of the green. On either side of it and attached by connecting doors were the rest of the shops, hugging the village in an aged brick embrace. Monsieur Beliveau’s general store, Sarah’s Boulangerie, then the bistro and finally, just off that, Myrna’s Livres, Neufs et Usages. Three craggy pine trees had stood at the far end of the green for as long as anyone remembered, like wise men who’d found what they were looking for. Outward from the village, dirt roads radiated and meandered into the mountains and forests.
But Three Pines itself was a village forgotten. Time eddied and swirled and sometimes bumped into it, but never stayed long and never left much of an impression. For hundreds of years the village had nestled in the palm of the rugged Canadian mountains, protected and hidden and rarely found except by accident. Sometimes, a weary traveler crested the hill and looking down saw, like Shangri-La, the welcoming circle of old homes. Some were weathered fieldstone built by settlers clearing the land of deeply rooted trees and back-breaking stones. Others were red brick and built by United Empire Loyalists desperate for sanctuary. And some had the swooping metal roofs of the Quebecois home with their intimate gables and broad verandas. And at the far end was Olivier’s Bistro, offering
Myrna looked over at her friend Clara Morrow, who was sticking out her tongue. Myrna stuck hers out too. Clara rolled her eyes. Myrna rolled hers, taking a seat beside Clara on the soft sofa facing the fireplace.
‘You weren’t smoking garden mulch again while I was in Montreal, were you?’
‘Not this time,’ Clara laughed. ‘You have something on your nose.’
Myrna felt around, found something and examined it. ‘Mmm, it’s either chocolate, or skin. Only one way to find out.’
She popped it in her mouth.
‘God.’ Clara winced. ‘And you wonder why you’re single.’
‘I don’t wonder.’ Myrna smiled. ‘I don’t need a man to complete me.’
‘Oh really? What about Raoul?’
‘Ah, Raoul,’ said Myrna dreamily. ‘He was a sweet.’
‘He was a gummy bear,’ agreed Clara.
‘He completed me,’ said Myrna. ‘And then some.’ She patted her middle, large and generous, like the woman herself.
‘Look at this.’ A razor voice cut through conversation.
Ruth Zardo stood in the center of the bistro holding aloft a chocolate rabbit as though it were a grenade. It was made of rich dark chocolate, its long ears perky and alert, its face so real Clara half expected it to twitch its delicate candy whiskers. In its paws it held a basket woven from white and milk chocolate, and in that basket sat a dozen candy eggs, beautifully decorated. It was lovely and Clara prayed Ruth wasn’t about to toss it at someone.
‘It’s a bunny rabbit,’ snarled the elderly poet.
‘I eat them too,’ said Gabri to Myrna. ‘It’s a habit. A rabbit habit.’
Myrna laughed and immediately wished she hadn’t. Ruth turned her glare on her.
‘Ruth.’ Clara stood up and approached cautiously, holding her husband Peter’s Scotch as enticement. ‘Let the bunny go.’
It was a sentence she’d never said before.
‘It’s a rabbit,’ Ruth repeated as though to slow children. ‘So what’s it doing with these?’
She pointed to the eggs.
‘Since when do rabbits have eggs?’ Ruth persisted, looking at the bewildered villagers. ‘Never thought of that, eh? Where did it get them? Presumably from chocolate chickens. The bunny must have stolen the eggs from candy
