Clara walked away from the church.

— You’ve been really kind, she said. I wish we could have met in different circumstances.

— Aren’t you going to the cemetery?

— No. I’ve done enough. My husband thought it’d be good to make peace with my father, but I shouldn’t have come.

At the door to the bed and breakfast, Mrs. Andrews turned and said,

— Thanks again.

Her face was expressionless, and she did not wait for Bernard’s response. As if she were embarrassed about something, she climbed the stairs and left him in the entrance hall. It was a moment before he came back to himself, and then, bewildered, he returned to the outside world. The sunlight was only occasionally impeded by clouds, shadows moving briskly over the face of the earth, and it was warm enough to leave his overcoat unbuttoned.

Bernard walked without a destination, trying to tire himself out. As he came to the centre of town for the third time, he recognized Clara’s mother. She was beside a lemon yellow car. She wore the same clothes she’d worn to the funeral: all dark. Seeing him, she stood up straight. Her face was heavily made up, pinkish, powder scored, and, as the sun was behind her, in shadow. Her eyes reminded Bernard of her daughter’s. Her lips were flat and fire red.

— My husband was a good man, she said. I don’t know what Clara told you, but her head’s been filled with nonsense since she went to Toronto. Everything’s memory this and memory that. Clara’s always going on about it. But the way I see it, the past is for people who don’t have better things to worry about. That’s just the way I see it.

Bernard said,

— Well, yes . . .

But Mrs. Johnson turned, locked the door to her car, and walked away. She did not wait for him to finish speaking.

Decidedly, there were people who lived on shifting ground.

That evening, Bernard and Mrs. Vetiver were alone in the dining room. The bed and breakfast was almost empty. Mrs. Vetiver had prepared pork hocks in a cranberry reduction, sweet potatoes mashed with a rosemary-infused olive oil, and drunken chocolate cake for dessert.

— Did you like it? she asked when they had finished.

Though it had been an unexpected confluence of flavours, he said,

— Yes.

— Why don’t you stay another night, then? I’ll make coquilles St. Jacques.

— I wish I could, but I’ve got to be at the hotel with my crew. We start work tomorrow.

Bernard helped her with the dishes and wished her good night.