lively company.
Clara suddenly had a perfect view.
There at the back stood CC de Poitiers wearing a fluffy white sweater made of either cashmere or kittens. Beside her was her husband, florid and mute. And beside him an enormous child was wearing a sleeveless sundress of the brightest pink. Her underarms bulged and flopped and the rolls of her waist made the skintight dress look like a melting strawberry ice cream. It was grotesque.
But her face was beautiful. Clara had seen this child before, but only from a distance and only with a sullen unhappy face. But now that face was tilted toward the glowing rafters and held a look Clara knew to be bliss.
‘All is bright.’ Crie’s exquisite voice played in the rafters with the lights then slipped under the door of the old chapel and danced with the gently falling snowflakes and parked cars and bare maples. The words of the old carol glided across the frozen pond and nested in the Christmas trees and seeped into every happy home in Three Pines.
After the service the minister hurried out, late for Christmas Eve celebrations in nearby Cleghorn Halt.
‘ Joyeux Noël ,’ said Peter to Gabri as they gathered on the steps outside the church for the short stroll across the village to Émilie’s house. ‘What a beautiful night.’
‘And what a beautiful service,’ said Clara, coming up beside Peter. ‘Can you believe that child’s voice?’
‘Not bad,’ admitted Gabri.
‘Not bad?’ Mother Bea oscillated up to them, Kaye on her arm like a muff and Émilie on her other side. ‘She was unbelievable. I’ve never heard such a voice, have you?’
‘I need a drink,’ said Kaye. ‘When’re we leaving?’
‘Right now,’ Em assured her.
‘Olivier’s getting the food from the bistro,’ said Gabri. ‘We made a poached salmon.’
‘Will you marry me?’ asked Myrna.
‘I bet you ask all the girls,’ said Gabri.
‘You’re the first,’ admitted Myrna and laughed. But her laughter was cut short.
‘You’re a stupid, stupid girl,’ a voice hissed from the other side of the church. Everyone froze, surprised to stillness by the words that cut through the crisp night air. ‘Everyone was staring at you. You humiliated me.’
It was CC’s voice. There was a side door to the church and a path that was a short cut to de Moulin and the old Hadley house. CC must be there, they realized, standing in the shadow of the church.
‘They were laughing at you, you know. Deep and crisp and even,’ CC sang in a mocking voice, off key and childish. ‘And your clothes. Are you sick? I think you’re mentally unstable.’
‘Now CC,’ came a man’s voice so meek and weak it barely penetrated the flurries.
‘She’s your daughter. Look at her. Fat and ugly and lazy. Like you. Are you crazy, Crie? Is that it? Is it? Is it?’
The crowd was frozen in place as though hiding from a monster, silently pleading, please, please, someone stop her. Someone else.
‘And you’ve opened your Christmas gift, you selfish child.’
‘But you told me I—’ came the tiny response.
‘Me, me, me. That’s all I hear from you. And have you even thanked me?’
‘Thank you for the chocolates, Mommy.’ The voice and the girl were so diminished as to be almost non-existent.
‘Too late. It doesn’t count if I have to beg.’ The end of the sentence was barely audible as CC clicked down the path as though walking on claws.
The congregation stood speechless. Beside Clara Gabri started humming, low and slow, then, barely audible, came the words to the old carol: ‘Sorr’wing, sighing, bleeding, dying. Sealed in the stone-cold tomb.’
They’d evaded the monster. Instead, it had devoured a frightened child.
SEVEN
‘Joyeux Noël, tout le monde ,’ Em beamed, opening the door to greet her guests a few minutes later. Her year-old shepherd Henri raced out the door and leaped on everyone before being bribed back with a piece of Christmas cake. The chaos and happy turmoil helped
Clara suddenly had a perfect view.
There at the back stood CC de Poitiers wearing a fluffy white sweater made of either cashmere or kittens. Beside her was her husband, florid and mute. And beside him an enormous child was wearing a sleeveless sundress of the brightest pink. Her underarms bulged and flopped and the rolls of her waist made the skintight dress look like a melting strawberry ice cream. It was grotesque.
But her face was beautiful. Clara had seen this child before, but only from a distance and only with a sullen unhappy face. But now that face was tilted toward the glowing rafters and held a look Clara knew to be bliss.
‘All is bright.’ Crie’s exquisite voice played in the rafters with the lights then slipped under the door of the old chapel and danced with the gently falling snowflakes and parked cars and bare maples. The words of the old carol glided across the frozen pond and nested in the Christmas trees and seeped into every happy home in Three Pines.
After the service the minister hurried out, late for Christmas Eve celebrations in nearby Cleghorn Halt.
‘ Joyeux Noël ,’ said Peter to Gabri as they gathered on the steps outside the church for the short stroll across the village to Émilie’s house. ‘What a beautiful night.’
‘And what a beautiful service,’ said Clara, coming up beside Peter. ‘Can you believe that child’s voice?’
‘Not bad,’ admitted Gabri.
‘Not bad?’ Mother Bea oscillated up to them, Kaye on her arm like a muff and Émilie on her other side. ‘She was unbelievable. I’ve never heard such a voice, have you?’
‘I need a drink,’ said Kaye. ‘When’re we leaving?’
‘Right now,’ Em assured her.
‘Olivier’s getting the food from the bistro,’ said Gabri. ‘We made a poached salmon.’
‘Will you marry me?’ asked Myrna.
‘I bet you ask all the girls,’ said Gabri.
‘You’re the first,’ admitted Myrna and laughed. But her laughter was cut short.
‘You’re a stupid, stupid girl,’ a voice hissed from the other side of the church. Everyone froze, surprised to stillness by the words that cut through the crisp night air. ‘Everyone was staring at you. You humiliated me.’
It was CC’s voice. There was a side door to the church and a path that was a short cut to de Moulin and the old Hadley house. CC must be there, they realized, standing in the shadow of the church.
‘They were laughing at you, you know. Deep and crisp and even,’ CC sang in a mocking voice, off key and childish. ‘And your clothes. Are you sick? I think you’re mentally unstable.’
‘Now CC,’ came a man’s voice so meek and weak it barely penetrated the flurries.
‘She’s your daughter. Look at her. Fat and ugly and lazy. Like you. Are you crazy, Crie? Is that it? Is it? Is it?’
The crowd was frozen in place as though hiding from a monster, silently pleading, please, please, someone stop her. Someone else.
‘And you’ve opened your Christmas gift, you selfish child.’
‘But you told me I—’ came the tiny response.
‘Me, me, me. That’s all I hear from you. And have you even thanked me?’
‘Thank you for the chocolates, Mommy.’ The voice and the girl were so diminished as to be almost non-existent.
‘Too late. It doesn’t count if I have to beg.’ The end of the sentence was barely audible as CC clicked down the path as though walking on claws.
The congregation stood speechless. Beside Clara Gabri started humming, low and slow, then, barely audible, came the words to the old carol: ‘Sorr’wing, sighing, bleeding, dying. Sealed in the stone-cold tomb.’
They’d evaded the monster. Instead, it had devoured a frightened child.
SEVEN
‘Joyeux Noël, tout le monde ,’ Em beamed, opening the door to greet her guests a few minutes later. Her year-old shepherd Henri raced out the door and leaped on everyone before being bribed back with a piece of Christmas cake. The chaos and happy turmoil helped
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