‘No, it was actually quite sweet. When we arrived the eggs were sitting on a soft flannel blanket in a basket. She’d put the whole lot in her oven on low.’
‘Good idea,’ said Peter. Like the rest, he’d have expected Ruth to devour, not save, them.
‘I don’t think she’s had that oven on in years. Keeps saying it takes too much energy,’ said Myrna.
‘Well, she has it on now,’ said Clara. ‘Trying to hatch the ducks. Those poor parents.’ She picked up her Scotch and glanced out the window to the darkness of the village green and imagined the parents sitting by the pond, at the spot where their young family had been, where their babies had sat in their little shells, trusting that Mom and Dad would keep them safe and warm. Ducks mate for life, Clara knew. That’s why duck hunting season was particularly cruel. Every now and then in the fall you’d see a lone duck, quacking. Calling. Waiting for its spouse. And for the rest of its life it would wait.
Were the duck parents waiting now? Waiting for their babies to return? Did ducks believe in miracles?
‘Still, it must have scared the crap out of all of you,’ Olivier laughed, imagining Ruth at the window.
‘Fortunately Clara here was on top of the spiritual crisis, repeating an ancient blessing,’ said Gabri.
‘More drinks, anyone?’ Clara asked.
‘Bless O Lord,’ Gabri began and the others joined in, ‘this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service.’
Peter sputtered with laughter and felt Scotch dribble down his chin.
‘Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others.’ Peter looked her directly in her amused blue eyes.
‘Amen,’ they all said together, including Clara, who was herself laughing.
‘You said grace?’ Peter asked.
‘Well, I thought I might be seeing my dinner again.’
By now everyone was laughing and even staid and proper Monsieur Béliveau was letting out a rolling, deep guffaw and wiping his eyes.
‘Ruth’s appearance sure put paid to the séance,’ said Clara after she’d regained herself.
‘I don’t think we’d have been successful anyway,’ said Jeanne.