“Oh, Olivier.” She handed him a napkin and he covered his face in the white linen. He rubbed his eyes and blew his nose and for a moment after he lowered the napkin he looked just fine. But then another drop made its way down his cheek. Then another. He seemed unaware it was happening.

And perhaps, thought Clara, he was. Maybe this was now normal for Olivier. Maybe every now and then he simply wept. Not in pain or sadness. The tears were just overwhelming memories, rendered into water, seeping out. Clara could almost see the images inside the tears. It was winter. A bitterly cold night. And Olivier stood outside the bistro. Through the frosted panes he saw the logs in the hearth. He saw the drinks and festive food. He saw his friends, he saw Gabri. Not just moving on, but apparently happy. Without him.

It no longer really hurt, but neither could it be forgotten.

“You know he missed you so much it almost killed him,” said Clara. “I’ve never seen anyone so sad.”

“I know that now,” said Olivier. “And I knew it then. But seeing—”

Words failed. He fluttered the napkin and Clara knew what he meant, and how he’d felt. And in his tears she saw all Olivier’s fears and insecurities and doubts.

She saw all he had, and all he stood to lose.

“I know,” she said.

Olivier looked at her with annoyance, as though she was laying claim to his territory. But his irritation disappeared when he saw her expression.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Peter sent some paintings to Bean in Toronto.”

“Oui,” he said. “Gabri told me.”

“Did he tell you what they looked like?”

“A little.” Olivier grimaced. “On the bright side, since looking at them he’s cleaned out the drains in the B and B and is now scraping guck off the oven.” Olivier jerked his head toward the swinging doors into the bistro kitchen. “I’m thinking of hanging some of Peter’s paintings at home.”

Despite herself, Clara grinned. “Ten dollars and they’re yours.”

“You’ll have to pay him more than that, I’m afraid,” said Gabri.

He’d come out of the kitchen wearing bright yellow rubber gloves, holding them up as though emerging from surgery.

“They’re not that bad,” said Clara.

Gabri stared at her in disbelief. The patient was clearly beyond help.

“Okay, they’re not great,” Clara admitted. “But when was the last time Peter’s painting made you feel anything, never mind drove you to actually do something?”

“I don’t think running away is what most artists want,” said Gabri, peeling off the gloves.

“Actually, some do. They want to provoke. Push and shove your preconceptions. Challenge.”

“Peter?” asked Olivier, and Clara had to remember he hadn’t yet seen the latest paintings.

“What did you feel, when you looked at them?” Clara asked Gabri.

“Revolted.”