Clara took her morning toast and coffee into Peter’s studio. Crumbs fell to the concrete floor as she ate her breakfast while sitting on the stool in front of his unfinished painting.

She knew Peter would have howled, as though the crumbs were acid and the floor his skin.

Clara was perhaps not as careful as she should have been. As she could have been. Perhaps it was a mostly unconscious desire to wound Peter in his most private of parts. To hurt him, as he was hurting her. This was the only private part she still had access to. Peter should really have considered himself lucky.

Or maybe her messiness meant nothing. Though, as a blob of strawberry jam hit the floor, she doubted it.

Outside it was cloudy, muggy. Rain threatened, and would likely pour down before lunch. Even with its windows looking onto the Rivière Bella Bella, the studio was close and gloomy.

But she sat there, taking in the canvas on the easel. It was very Peter. Very detailed, precise, controlled. Technically brilliant. It made the best of all the rules.

This was no dog’s breakfast.

Unlike Bean’s creations. With a smile Clara remembered the wild splashes of conflicting, of contrasting, of clashing colors. Vivid colors from a vivid, unrestrained imagination.

The last bite of toast stopped partway to her mouth. Another glob of jam slid closer and closer to the crumbly edge and the great leap downward.

But Clara didn’t notice. She was staring, openmouthed, at Peter’s painting.

And then the jam dropped.

*   *   *

Myrna Landers stood at the window of her loft, looking between the panes. The glass was so old it had imperfections, distortions, but she’d gotten used to seeing the world that way, and made allowances.

This morning she stood in her pajamas with a mug of coffee and watched the village wake up. It was a common sight. Unremarkable. Except to someone coming from a certain chaos and turmoil. Then it was remarkable.

She watched her neighbors walk their dogs on the village green. She watched them chatting, exchanging pleasantries.

Then her gaze traveled up the dirt road out of Three Pines and stopped at the boundary, at the bench overlooking the village. There she saw Armand sitting, as he did every morning, holding the book in his hands. Even from this distance, she could see it was a very small book. Every morning he sat there with it, and read. Then closed it, and just stared.

Myrna Landers wondered what he was reading. She wondered what he was thinking.

He came to her once a week for therapy, but had never once mentioned this book. And she hadn’t asked, preferring him to offer. And he would. When the time was right.