of experimentationââ
âBut itâs cold,â Belle murmured.
Pamela looked at her quizzically.
âWeâve been discussing the âwinter in Canadaâ weather phenomenon,â Rosco chortled.
ââPhenomenonâ?â was Pamelaâs perplexed response.
âThe fact that itâs colder up here than down near Boston, or Newcastle, which is where we live.â
Pamela stared at Rosco and then at Belle. A frown of confusion crossed her brow; and Rosco realized how similar these two women were in their complete concentration on a single topic. âUnusual atmospheric conditions would be balmy breezes coming off the Saint Lawrence ⦠but then the ice-skaters down at the pavilion, the Pavillon , would sink.â
Belle shivered; Pamela Gravers laughed, then reached for another chocolate-chunk cookie. âIf youâre worried about being chilly, you wonât be. There are bonfires to stand near, food stalls either within tents or under the stars, en plein air , as they say ⦠and jugglers, mimes, stilt walkers ⦠marshmallows to roastââ
âMarshmallows?â Belle said, perking up.
âYou think summer picnics in the States can lay exclusive claim to marshmallows? Anyway, Iâd really like you to see my installation ⦠As a person whose career involves lettersââ
âYou havenât created a crossword puzzle in the snow, have you?â Belle asked.
Pamelaâs expression was difficult to interpret. For a moment, it seemed as though she were trying to invent a lie in response to Belleâs innocent query. Then the worried behavior vanished, and her hands began moving the air as though recreating her artwork in space. âIâve buried battery-powered theatre-type lamps in the snow ⦠well, not completely buried, but enough so that only the round lamp face shows. And theyâre designed to burn cool, or else the snow would melt too quickly ⦠Anyway, each face reveals the mark of a letter: a black âAâ formed by the white light around it, and so forth ⦠With the help of my wizard techno-advisor and aide, Jean-Claude, Iâm able to change letters continually, so my âmessage,â if you will, is constantly being altered and amendedââ
âIlluminated words,â Belle interjected as Helene marched with customary alacrity into the room.
âWhat are you three talking about?â Her brow was creased in a peculiarly cross and anxious line.
âMy installation piece. Thatâs the only thing we were discussing.â In a defensive gesture, Pamela Gravers slumped slightly in her chair.
âAh, I see ⦠I thought ⦠Never mind.â
A silence ensued. Belle could sense tension between the cousins. It was brokenâor rather, avoidedâwhen Pamela gulped an apologetic:
âIâm afraid I dropped some cookie crumbs ⦠If youâve got a whisk broomââ
âWhat are a few crumbs here and there?â Heleneâs tone was harsh. In an atypical gesture, the hostess of Wordsworth House sighed while her shoulders sagged. âLet the mice eat them.â
âHelene! Youâd have a fit if a mouse even ventured inside this establishment.â
Helene shrugged. âNâimport.â
âIâll clean upââ
âItâs not important, I tell you!â
The phone rang at that moment, interrupting the awkward exchange. As their hostess hurried away, Belle and Rosco glanced at each other while Pamela stared glumly at the floor. âItâs not easy, this hotelier business,â she said. âAs financially risky as being an artist. Maybe more so. At least, I donât have the kind of mortgage Helene hasâor her overhead.â
âBut if this was your grandfatherâs home, didnât Helene inherit it?â Belle began.
âIs that what she told you?â Pamelaâs wary frown now