A Fatal Grace
The day moved along at a leisurely pace. Peter and Clara opened their stockings full of puzzles and magazines and candy and oranges. Cashews spilled out of Peter’s stocking and Gummy Bears didn’t last long from Clara’s. Over coffee and pancakes they opened their larger gifts. Peter loved his Armani watch, putting it on immediately and shoving the sleeve of his terrycloth robe up over his elbow so it would be visible.
He rummaged beneath the tree with great drama, pretending to have misplaced her gift, and finally emerged, face flushed from bending over.
He handed her an orb wrapped in reindeer paper.
‘Before you open it I want to say something.’ He flushed some more. ‘I know how hurt you were by that whole Fortin thing and CC.’ He held up his hand to stop her protests. ‘I know about God too.’ He felt unbelievably stupid saying that. ‘What I mean is, you told me about meeting God on the street even though you knew I wouldn’t believe it. I just want you to know that I appreciate that you told me and trusted I wouldn’t laugh at you.’
‘But you did.’
‘Well, but not much. Anyway, I wanted to say I’ve been thinking about it and you’re right, I don’t believe God’s a vagrant—’
‘What do you believe God is?’
He was just trying to give her a gift and here she was asking him about God.
‘You know what I believe, Clara. I believe in people.’
She was silent. She knew he didn’t believe in God and that was all right. He certainly didn’t have to. But she also knew he didn’t really believe in people. At least, he didn’t think they were good and kind and brilliant. Perhaps once he might have, but not after what happened to Jane.
Jane had been killed, but something inside Peter had died as well.
‘You’re wrong, you know,’ he said, sitting down beside her on the sofa. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. I believe in you.’
‘CC and Fortin are idiots. You know I don’t understand your work, probably never will, but I do know you’re a great artist. I know it here.’
He touched his own breast, and Clara believed him. Maybe she was getting through to him. Or maybe he was getting better at telling her what she wanted to hear. She’d take either.
‘Open your gift.’
Clara ripped away at the paper, making Peter wince. As tiny pieces flew off the orb he picked them up and smoothed them out.
Inside was a ball. No surprise there. What was surprising was that it was beautiful. It seemed to shine in her hands. On it was painted a very simple image. Three pine trees, covered in snow. Below was the single word, Noël. While the image was simple it wasn’t primitive or naive. It had a style like nothing Clara had ever seen. An easy elegance. A confident beauty.
Clara held it up to the light. How could a painted ball be so luminous? But then she looked closer. And smiled. She looked up at Peter, his anxious face leaning in to hers. ‘There’s no paint on the outside. It’s all glass. The paint is on the inside. Imagine that.’
‘Do you like it?’ he asked softly.
‘I love it. And I love you. Thank you, Peter.’ She hugged him, still holding the sphere. ‘It must be a Christmas decoration. Do you think it’s a picture of Three Pines? I mean, of course it’s three pine trees but they actually look like our pines on the village green. But I guess any three evergreens together are going to look alike. I adore it, Peter. It’s the best gift ever. And I won’t even ask where you found it.’
He was very grateful for that.
By mid-morning the chestnut stuffing was in the turkey and the turkey was in the oven, filling the house with more wonderful Christmas smells. Peter and Clara decided to wander over to the bistro, passing villagers as they went. Most took a moment to recognize since they’d almost all received brand new tuques in their Christmas stockings, the old ones being both familiar and well eaten by dogs and kittens. All winter long the family pet would worry the pompoms until most of the villagers ended up looking like candles, with wicks on the tops of their heads instead of the woolly balls.
At the bistro Clara found Myrna by the fire sipping mulled wine. They struggled out of their coats, which didn’t seem to want to let them go, and put their tuques and mitts on the radiator to keep warm. Cherry-faced villagers and children kept arriving, in from cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing, tobogganing down the hill above the mill or skating on the pond. Some were just heading off for half a day’s downhill skiing at Mont St-Rémy.