Free Cezanne's Quarry by Barbara Pope

the pitcher of water, the fumbling through the cupboards for a glass, the scrape of the chairs.
    Hortense grabbed her robe and pushed back her hair. Because of the heat, the early morning hours were the only good ones for sleeping. She was very tired. She glanced at her thirteen-year-old son snoring in the bed next to hers before entering the other room in the house.
    “Paul? Paul, dear, you’re early.” The endearment was meant to soothe, but she could see that Paul, already in one of his moods, was beyond appeasement. “Is something wrong?”
    He shook his head, staring into space. His face belied his denial. He had taken off his cap and settled into the old sofa in the large rectangular living room that opened onto the kitchen. His kept his paint supplies and canvases there, tucked in the corner behind an armchair. Cézanne had chosen this house, halfway up the low hill that was all there was to Gardanne, for the light. She hated it, and everything else about the town.
    “Would you like some coffee?”
    A nod. He got up and took one of the three wooden chairs at the kitchen table.
    Hortense lit the fire under the pot and reached into the cupboard for the sugar and milk. She stopped and looked for the hundredth time at the sorry assortment of cups and dishes they had gathered in Paris, in Marseilles, in Aix, in l’Estaque. They lived like nomads, like fugitives.
    “Paul, did your father find out?”
    “No, no, no.” He pounded the table. “Nothing like that.”
    “Quiet, you’ll wake the boy.” It came out more like a hiss than a whisper.
    “Then stop with this father nonsense. He’s not to know. He wouldn’t approve. And then—”
    Then Paul would lose his inheritance. That was always the threat hanging over her head. If Paul lost his inheritance, they would never be able to marry. All the years of waiting would be wasted.
    “Tell me what happened,” Hortense said, joining Cézanne at the table. “You must have walked all this way in the dark. That can be dangerous.” She reached for him, but his hand stayed clenched, resolutely refusing to meet hers.
    “Don’t worry, I waited for the sun to start. I even had time to post a note to Zola.”
    “About?”
    “Nothing. At least this month we don’t have to ask him for money.”
    “Then what? What is it?” She was used to his dark moods, his fierce, frowning eyes. This was different.
    “The Englishman.”
    “Westerbury?”
    “Yes.” He looked at her. “Your famous professor Westerbury,” he said.
    Hortense ignored his sarcasm. She had borne enough of Paul’s disdain when she told him she’d attended one of the geological lectures while they were still living in Aix. “I don’t understand. You told me you stopped seeing them months ago.”
    “I didn’t go to see them. He came to the Jas. Late last night. Shouting. Crazy. Tried to break the windows with stones. He even disturbed Papa.”
    Precious, never-to-be-disturbed Papa. Rich, stingy Papa. Sometimes Hortense dreamed of throttling “Papa”with her own hands to get it over with. But why had the Englishman come looking for Paul at his parents’ home? Had Paul taken up with Solange Vernet again? Hortense got up and stirred the coffee into the boiling water. It always smelled burnt and stale here in this hovel. Not like in the cafés of Paris, where they had met. Hortense slapped the lid on the pot and poured the coffee into two chipped cups. When she turned again, Paul had his head in his hands. His bald forehead looked so vulnerable that she almost reached over to pat him, but stopped herself in time. If only they could be tender with each other again, everything would be more endurable. She sat down across from him and took a sip of the hot, dark liquid. She needed to know what had happened, even if they argued again. Anything was better than his silences.
    “Tell me, before our son wakes up. What is this all about?”
    “Westerbury says that I killed Solange. That I was the real