Ruth needn’t have bothered coming all the way to Montreal for the launch. The only people who showed up were from Three Pines.

‘This’s a waste of time,’ she said, her short-cropped white head bending over Clara’s book. ‘No one from Montreal came, not a goddamned person. Just you lot. What a bore.’

‘Well, thank you very much, you old hack,’ said Gabri, holding a couple of books in his large hands.

‘Great.’ Ruth looked up. ‘This is a bookstore,’ she said, very slowly and loudly. ‘It’s for people who can read. It’s not a public bath.’

‘Too bad, really.’ Gabri looked at Clara.

‘It’s Myrna,’ she said, but since Myrna was across the way chatting with Émilie Longpré her credibility was lost.

‘At least you drown out the stink of Ruth’s poetry,’ said Gabri, holding I’m FINE away from him.

‘Fag,’ snapped Ruth.

‘Hag,’ snapped Gabri, winking at Clara. ‘Salut, ma chère.’

‘Salut, mon amour. What’s that other book you have?’ Clara asked.

‘CC de Poitiers’s. Did you know our new neighbor’s written a book?’

‘God, that means she’s written more books than she’s read,’ said Ruth.

‘I got it over there.’ He pointed to a pile of white books in the remainder bin. Ruth snorted then stopped herself, realizing it was probably just a matter of days before her small collection of exquisitely crafted poems joined CC’s shit in that literary coffin.

A few people were standing there including the Three Graces from Three Pines: Émilie Longpré, tiny and elegant in a slim skirt, shirt and silk scarf; Kaye Thompson, at over ninety years of age the oldest of the three friends, wizened and shriveled, smelling of Vapo-rub and looking like a potato; and Beatrice Mayer, her hair red and wild, her body soft and plump, and ill-concealed beneath a voluminous amber caftan with chunky jewelry about the neck. Mother Bea, as she was known, held a copy of CC’s book. She turned and glanced in Clara’s direction, only for a moment. But it was enough.

Mother Bea looked overtaken by some emotion Clara couldn’t quite identify. Fury? Fear? Extreme concern of some sort, that much Clara was sure of. And then it was gone, replaced by Mother’s peaceful, cheery face, all pink and wrinkled and open.

‘Come on, let’s go over.’ Ruth struggled to her feet and took Gabri’s offered arm. ‘There’s nothing much happening here. When the inevitable hordes arrive, desperate for great poetry, I’ll race back to the table.’