The dirt road was covered in slush and mud. While perhaps not totally healing, it was at least comforting in its familiarity.
If the phone was an assault, the window was the balm. On the screen, for the world to see, was the quickly cooling body of Clara’s artistic career.Īs Myrna read, Clara wrapped her large, paint-stained hands around her mug of hot chocolate, a specialité de la maison, and shifted her eyes from her friend to the mullioned window and the tiny Québec village beyond.
Or maybe not-so-mock.Ĭlara gave Myrna her phone, though the bookstore owner already knew what she’d find.īefore meeting Clara for breakfast, she’d checked her Twitter feed. “Is Ruth coming?” Myrna looked around the bistro in mock panic. “Merde?” Myrna Landers looked over her bowl of café au lait at her friend. #MorrowSucksĪre you kidding me? They let him back into the Sûreté? #SûretéSux What’s happened to Clara Morrow? She used to be a great artist.
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