The Madness of Crowds

It was a menace. The villagers held a meeting, and it was decided that they should tear it down. But then one lone voice made another suggestion.

They’d turned in their seats in St. Thomas’s church and stared in astonishment as Ruth Zardo suggested maybe it could be saved.

A vote was taken and the decision reached to give the place another chance. And so, it was rebuilt, refurbed, repainted by the villagers. Cleaned and even cleansed in a ritual led by Myrna, using sage and sweetgrass and holy water.

Then, when they’d done all they could, the Old Hadley House was sold at cost to the young couple and became the Inn and Spa.

Now, when they looked at it, the villagers saw not a horror but a second chance.

And yet Clara could never step into the place without feeling the cold breath of dread. Without seeing it as it had been. And still was, she suspected. Beneath the coat of fresh paint.

Even now the scent of rot seemed to ooze from the walls. The artist in Clara knew that paint didn’t change anything. It just covered what was, and always would be, there.

And she could see that Armand felt exactly the same way. Felt the same thing.

It was unfair, Armand knew, as he ladled punch into glasses. But he still saw, beneath the new plaster, the bones of the place. The snakes in the basement, the rat skeletons curled in corners. The thick spiderwebs waiting to catch and consume some living creature.

He could smell the decomposition beneath the fresh pine and ginger and cinnamon of the season.

“Drink?” he said, handing Clara one of the glasses of spiked punch.

“Merci.”

He gave the other to Reine-Marie.

“What about me?” demanded Ruth.

He looked at the vat of scotch the old poet was gripping. He recognized it. It was actually a flower vase. From their home.

Kids came in from outside and grabbed treats off the long table filled with tourtières and boeuf bourguignon. Assorted cheeses and sliced baguettes. A whole poached and decorated salmon had been provided by Gabri and Olivier, while a separate table was filled with mince tarts and butter tarts, with cookies and cakes, jars of licorice allsorts and jelly beans and chocolate-covered cherries.

A huge gingerbread house, a replica of the Inn and Spa, sat in the middle of the table.

Clara bent down and looked through the gumdrop-encrusted door.

“What’re you looking for?” asked Ruth.

“Your lost youth,” said Clara, straightening up.

“You won’t find it there.” Ruth raised her vat.

Outside, Daniel was comforting Florence, who was staring dejected at the charred and smoldering marshmallow sagging off her stick.

Honoré, following the lead of the older boys, plunged his stick, marshmallow and all, into the heart of the fire, as though slaying a dragon. Embers burst forth and drifted into the night sky.

Zora stood way back. Neither she nor her marshmallow was in danger of getting singed. But neither would they get toasty warm. As Armand watched, Daniel moved over to his youngest daughter and knelt beside her in the snow, whispering, reassuring, coaxing, but not pushing her forward.

Zora took one tentative step. Then a second.

Brave girl, her grandfather thought. Armand knew the terror of that first step. He also knew that the key to a full life was taking it. The trick wasn’t necessarily having less fear, it was finding more courage. Zora had that. She also had a father who knew the difference between carrying and supporting.