Most of the tiny village was at the bistro, crowded around the long bar of polished wood, though some had flopped down inthe comfortable old armchairs scattered about.

She looked like a massive Easter egg herself, black and oval and wrapped in a brilliant purple and red caftan. Let's alert the Moral Majority.'īlond and bashful, Olivier blushed furiously. 'You just want it for yourself.' Gabri turned to Myrna and muttered so that everyone could hear, 'Great idea. 'Gabri.' His partner Olivier yanked what was left of the goose from Gabri's massive hand. 'They're gorgeous.' Gabri picked up a tiny marzipan goose, delicately sculpted, then bit its head off.

Besides, the kidsmight not find them all, especially those hidden behind Olivier's bar. But their pleasure would surely come from seeing the faces of the village children. 'Ooohs' and 'Aaaaahs' tinged with envy filled the air. The villagers met at Olivier's Bistro and over drinks and Brie they divvied up bags of chocolate eggs to be hidden the next day. They'd made that mistakeonly once.Ī few years earlier, when the village of Three Pines first decided to have an egg hunt on Easter Sunday, there'd been greatexcitement. Normally being pelted by a chocolate Easter egg wouldn't be a big deal, but these weren't chocolate. They werealmost always people who cared for her. Fortunately the village grocer was wearing a cloth cap.It was also fortunate he had great affection for the white-haired ramrod on the bench. With that Ruth whacked Monsieur Béliveau in the back of his head. 'Are you kidding? Live people are bad enough why would I want to bring one back from the dead?' 'You going tonight?' Clara asked, trying to distract the old poet from taking aim at Monsieur Béliveau. She had disconcertinglygood aim for someone so old and so nuts, thought Clara.

Ruth Zardo sat on the bench in the middle of the green tossingthe eggs at random, though occasionally she'd haul off and peg someone in the back of the head or on the bottom. All around, villagers wandered with their basketsof brightly colored eggs, looking for the perfect hiding places. Wiping a strand of hair from her face, she smeared bits of grass, mudand some other brown stuff that might not be mud into her tangled hair. Kneeling in the fragrant moist grass of the village green Clara Morrow carefully hid the Easter egg and thought about raisingthe dead, which she planned to do right after supper.

The cruelest miles book