Chapters (43)
- A Fatal Grace
- ALSO BY LOUISE PENNY
- A Fatal Grace
- CONTENTS
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
And there it would be. Clara would rush up to the window but stop just short, just out of eyeshot. She’d close her eyes and gather herself, then she’d step forward and open her eyes. And there it was. Clara’s village. The place she’d go when disappointments and dawning cruelty would overwhelm the sensitive little girl. Summer or winter, all she had to do was close her eyes and she was there. With the dancing bears and skating ducks and frogs in Victorian costume fishing from the bridge. At night, when the ghoul huffed and snorted and clawed beneath her bedroom floor, she would squeeze her tiny blue eyes shut and will herself into the magical window and the village the ghoul could never find because kindness guarded the entry.
Later in her life the most wonderful thing happened. She fell in love with Peter Morrow and agreed to put off taking New York by storm. Instead she agreed to move to the tiny village he loved south of Montreal. It was a region Clara was unfamiliar with, being a city girl, but such was her love for Peter that she didn’t even hesitate.
And so it was, twenty-six years ago as a clever and cynical art college grad Clara stepped out of their rattle-trap Volkswagen, and started to weep.
Peter had brought her to the enchanted village of her childhood. The village she had forgotten in the attitude and importance of adulthood. Ogilvy’s Christmas window had been real after all and was called Three Pines. They’d bought a little home by the village green and settled into a life more magical then even Clara had dared dream.
A few minutes later Clara unzipped her parka in the warm car and watched the snowy countryside drift by. This was a special Christmas, for reasons both devastating and wonderful. Her dear friend and neighbor Jane Neal had been murdered slightly over a year before, leaving all her money to Clara. The previous Christmas she’d felt too guilty to spend any. Felt she was profiting by Jane’s death.
Myrna glanced over at her friend, her thoughts traveling along the same lines, remembering dear, dead Jane Neal and the advice she’d given Clara after Jane’s murder. Myrna was used to giving advice. She’d been a psychologist in Montreal, until she’d realized most of her clients didn’t really want to get better. They wanted a pill and reassurance that whatever was wrong wasn’t their fault.
So Myrna had chucked it all. She’d loaded her little red car with books and clothes and headed over the bridge, off the island of Montreal, south toward the US border. She’d sit on a beach in Florida and figure it out.