‘But this doesn’t make sense,’ Clara said, flipping through the book and puzzling over a particular passage.

‘And that other stuff did?’ asked Myrna.

‘Well, no, but here she says she got her philosophy of life in India. But didn’t she just say Li Bien was Chinese?’

‘You’re actually looking for sense in there?’ Myrna asked. Clara had buried her face back in the book and slowly her shoulders started heaving, then her back, and finally she raised her face to the circle of concerned friends.

‘What is it?’ Myrna reached out to Clara, who was crying.

‘The names of her gurus,’ said Clara between sobs. Myrna was no longer sure whether she was crying or laughing.

‘Krishnamurti Das, Ravi Shankar Das, Gandhi Das. Ramen Das. Khalil Das. Gibran Das. They even call her CC Das.’ By now Clara was roaring with laughter as were most of the others.

Most. But not all.

‘I see nothing wrong with that,’ said Olivier, wiping his eyes. ‘Gabri and I follow the way of Häagen Das. It’s occasionally a rocky road.’

‘And one of your favorite movies is Das Boot,’ Clara said to Peter, ‘so you must be enlightened.’

‘True, though that’s Das backward.’

Clara fell laughing against Peter and Henri came over to leap on them both. When she’d regained herself and calmed Henri Clara was surprised to see that Mother had left.

‘Is she all right?’ she asked Kaye, who was watching her friend walk toward the dining room and Em. ‘Did we say something wrong?’

‘No.’

‘We didn’t mean to insult her,’ said Clara, taking Mother’s place beside Kaye.

‘But you didn’t. You weren’t even talking about her.’

‘We were laughing at things Mother takes seriously.’

‘You were laughing at CC, not Mother. She knows the difference.’

But Clara wondered. CC and Mother had both named their businesses Be Calm. They both now lived in Three Pines, and they both followed a similar spiritual path. Clara wondered whether the women were hiding more than their emotions.

Calls of ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Joyeux Noël’ faded into the cheerful night as the réveillon broke up. Émilie waved to the last of her guests and closed the door.

It was two thirty on Christmas morning and she was exhausted. Putting a hand against a table to steady herself she walked slowly into the living room. Clara, Myrna and the others had cleaned up, quietly doing the dishes while she’d sat with a small glass of Scotch and spoken to Ruth on the sofa.