Divine Evil

with that lamp.”
    “Yes. I will.” He'd been the first boy to kiss her, she remembered, and smiled at him. “Tell Bonny Sue I said hello.”
    “I will.” Satisfied with what he'd learned, he nodded and hitched at his belt. “I sure will.” He turned. His eyes narrowed, then widened. “Christ in a handcart, look at that car.”
    Clare glanced over and spotted the Jaguar pulling up to the curb. Even as Jean-Paul jumped out, she was running down the slope of the drive to spring into his arms for a hard, exaggerated kiss.
    “Mmmm.” He kissed her again. “Licorice.”
    Laughing, she turned to hug Angie. “I can't believe you're here.”
    “Neither can I.” Angie pushed her hair back as she took a long, slow scan of the street. Her idea of country wear included nile green linen pants and matching jacket with a rose-colored silk blouse. She had worn flats-Bruno Magli. “So, this is Emmitsboro.”
    “It is indeed.” Clare kissed her. “How was the drive down?”
    “We only got one ticket.”
    “Jean-Paul must be mellowing.” She watched him haul two suitcases and a leather tote from the car. “We'll go in and have some wine,” she told him, and took the tote. Shestarted up the drive, pausing beside Bob's truck to make introductions. “Bob Meese, Angie and Jean-Paul LeBeau, friends and art dealers from New York. Bob owns the best antique store in town.”
    “Ah.” Jean-Paul set down a suitcase to offer a hand. “We must be sure to see your shop before we leave.”
    “Open ten to six, six days a week, twelve to five on Sunday.” Bob took note of Jean Paul's alligator shoes and gold link bracelet. Imagine, a guy wearing a bracelet-even if he was a foreigner. Bob also noted his exotic-looking wife. His black wife. These were the little details he would dispense over the counter until closing time. “Well, got to get back.”
    “Thanks for bringing the lamp by.”
    “No problemo.” With a quick salute, he climbed into his truck and backed out of the drive.
    “Did someone say wine?” Angie wanted to know.
    “Absolutely.” Clare hooked an arm through Angie's and started to steer her around to the walk leading to the front of the house. “In your honor, I went all the way into Frederick and stocked up on pouilly-fuisse$$.”
    “Wait.” Jean-Paul headed in the opposite direction. “You're working here, in the garage?”
    “Yes, but why don't we go in and get settled? How about these petunias? I just-”
    Angie was already following her husband, pulling Clare with her. Clare blew a little breath between her teeth, closed her mouth, and waited. She'd wanted to put this moment off-foolishly, she supposed. Both Jean-Paul's and Angie's opinions meant a great deal. They loved her, she knew. And because they did they would be honest, even brutal if necessary. The pieces she had done here at home were vitally important to her. More than anythingelse she'd done, these had been ripped cleanly from her heart.
    In silence she stood back, watching them study and circle. She could hear the gentle tap tap of Angie's foot on the concrete as she examined the wood carving from every angle. They didn't exchange a word, hardly a look. Jean-Paul pulled on his lower lip, a nervous habit Clare recognized, as he studied the metal sculpture Bob Meese had recently frowned over.
    Where Bob had seen a tangle of metal, Jean-Paul saw a pit of fire, the flames boiling and streaking. It was a hungry and dangerous fire, he thought. It made his skin prickle. It made him wonder what had been consumed by it.
    Saying nothing, he turned to the clay arm Clare had fired only the day before. Young, defiant, he mused. With the potential for brutality or heroics. He pulled on his lip again and continued on to the next piece.
    Clare shifted from foot to foot, stuck her hands in her pockets, then pulled them out again. Why did she put herself through this? she wondered. Each time, every time, it felt as though she had ripped out her feelings, her fantasies and fears and put them on public display. And it never got better, never got easier, she thought, rubbing her damp palms against the thighs of her jeans. If she had any brains, she'd be selling appliances.
    The LeBeaus huddled over the metal sculpture that had sprung from Clare's nightmare. They had yet to exchange a word. Whatever silent communication they shared was potent but was lost on Clare. She was holding her breath when Jean-Paul turned. His face was solemn when he put his