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Masterpieces, each and every one

In her quiet garden thatClara had closed her eyes and tilted her face to the young sun, and s on her every word Soht even take notes Ask advice They’d listen, rapt, as she talked about her vision, her philosophy, her insights into the art world Where it was going, where it had been

She’d be adored and respected Sht her outfit She would start a movement A trend

Instead, she felt like a nored her, concentrating instead on the food and drink Where no one wanted to catch her bouquet or walk her down the aisle Or dance with her And she looked like a Maoist accountant

She scratched her hip, and smoothed pâté into her hair Then looked at her watch

Dear God, another hour to go

Oh, no no no, thought Clara Now she was si to survive To keep her head above water To not faint, or throw up, or pee To reoal

"At least you’re not on fire"

"I’e black wo beside her It was her friend and neighbor, Myrna Landers A retired psychologist from Montréal, she noned the new and used bookstore in Three Pines

"Right now," said Myrna "You’re not on fire"

"Very true And perceptive Nor as I’s you are"

"Are you going to be rude now?" asked Clara

Myrna paused and considered Clara for a moment Almost every day Clara came across to Myrna’s bookstore to have a cup of tea and talk Or Myrna would join Peter and Clara for dinner

But today was like no other No other day in Clara’s life had ever been like this, and it was possible none would ever be again Myrna knew Clara’s fears, her failures, her disappointments As Clara knew hers

And they knew each other’s dreams too

"I know this is difficult for you," said Myrna She stood right in front of Clara, her bulk blotting out the room, so that what had been a crowd scene was suddenly very intihts and sounds They were in their oorld