Blackbird Fly

by Lise McClendon

  Blackbird Fly

  Lise McClendon

  Copyright ©2009 Lise McClendon

  Published by Thalia Press publishing at Smashwords

  Also by Lise McClendon

  Sweet and Lowdown

  One O'clock Jump

  Blue Wolf

  Nordic Nights

  Painted Truth

  The Bluejay Shaman

  Blackbird Fly. Copyright Lise McClendon, 2009.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written consent of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and attributed to this work. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real individuals, situations, or settings is coincidental.

  First published in the United States by Thalia Press, 2009.

  Cataloguing Data

  McClendon, Lise.

  Blackbird Fly/ Lise McClendon — 1st U.S. Edition

  1. Americans in France— Fiction, 2. Women — Fiction, 3. France — fiction, 4. Female Attorney — Fiction, 5. Title.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the wonderful people who helped me with this book, including my American friends in France, Sharon Tompkins, Tom Jones, Valerie Trevino, Carol Curtis, Robert Cabrerra, and Katalina Cabrerra. A special thanks and bisous to Patricia Zirotti who corrected and never laughed at my French, and Laurent Zirotti who helped me plan many trips to his home country and explained the French way effortlessly and elegantly. And to Arjan and Marije Capelle at the Hotel Edward 1er in Monpazier who wined and dined and helped fold those humongous maps. A big thank you to my contacts at the Legal Aid Society in New York City, Alan Gordon and Marie Mombrun. To Robin Taylor who helped me hash things out, and to Sherri Cornett, traveler extraordinaire — when do we leave? To Katy Munger, who thinks big and just gets me. To Kipp who always has my back and lets me daydream. Thanks for all the travel, wine tasting, and brainstorming, honey, you're the best. To Evan, Nick, Abby, Annie, Susie, Natalie, Barbara, Dean, and my darling mother, Betty.

  I appreciate all of you so much. Merci beaucoup.

  Dedicated to my father. Miss you, pops.

  John Haddaway McClendon

  1921 - 2004

  BOOK ONE

  The Death

  He who binds to himself a joy,

  Does the winged life destroy;

  But he who kisses the joy as it flies

  Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

  William Blake

  Chapter 1

  On the day Harold Strachie died New York City struggled to slough off the lingering chill of winter and he struggled with his spare tire. Twenty pounds had crept up on him, without his consent. He gulped down the usual double-double espresso to get the juices flowing. The early morning was dark and echoing, his only company garbage trucks and young people jogging, their feet slapping the sidewalk, oblivious to middle age.

  Getting fit was a bitch. Walking from the train or subway was the extent of his exercise up until now. The extra pounds made Harry feel old at 54, someone who had lost control of his own fate. He refused to let his champagne belly keep him down. He would be muscular, strong, a master of his universe. Confidence was everything.

  He’d spent the night in the City as he often did when his deals were soft. For several hours before the markets opened he would work while the office was quiet, researching trends and companies, so he was ready to pounce. But he didn’t feel too cat-like climbing the seven flights of stairs to his office, his new daily workout. He stopped on each landing to catch his breath.

  In the empty lobby, he fumbled for the light switch and swayed on his feet, woozy. Cold sweat ran into his collar. He blinked, hung up his coat, and sat down. If he’d had a picture of his family on his desk, which he didn’t, he would have picked it up. His boy — so smart and tough and, yes, awkward at 15, but he’d grow out of that and be better for it. And his darling girl who looked so much like him with dark curls and mournful eyes. He wished he’d stolen into her bedroom this morning and ruffled her sweet hair.

  A horrible squeeze of his chest made him grab his shirt. He gasped, waiting. As the tightness eased, he saw his daughter again, ten years from now, in makeup and mini-skirts and all her innocence lost, and he felt the pain again, harder.

  Black spots floated before his eyes. He sat back in his chair, trying to relax. Christ, this wasn’t good. He shouldn’t have had that espresso. If this was heartburn he’d be buying antacids.

  The squeezing lessened. He’d get an appointment with his doctor for later in the week. He could already see the smirk on the doctor’s face when he told him to stop being such a nervous nelly. A moment of calm. The office quiet was soothing. He took a light breath and blew it out.

  Harry clicked on his computer. As the reports streamed in he clicked through prices, checking analysis. The sweat on his forehead began to dry. Just another day, he thought. Then, the last, the worst — the pain seized him again, and the black spots grew and merged into one.

  Chapter 2

  When something shatters, when whatever you’re attached to ends, definitely, the moment rises up like it’s been hanging there for years, a lead balloon waiting to drop with a heavy thud into your life. All that living leading to this exact moment in time. Where has fate been hiding? Doesn’t matter. Here it is. Here it is, by God.

  Merle stared at the phone, heavy, institutional beige. She’d arrived at the Legal Aid offices in Harlem a few minutes before. She was still wearing her boots. She hadn’t touched her coffee.

  He was dead. Harry. Husband. Deceased.

  She felt the air move around her, solemnly, gently, as if she was a pile of ash a strong breath might blow away. Outside her office voices filtered in, the chatting of colleagues, the insistent tone of an angry client evicted from her apartment. The sounds grounded her, the endless litany of troubles to be untangled, emotions to be soothed, hands to be held. Just the name Legal Aid — aid was so basic, so important in this hard world — made her warm.

  Here she was necessary. Here she did good in the world.

  Her little world, so ordered and sane. Her nest, every twig in place. The selfless lawyer, fighting for the homeless and disenfranchised. The charity work on her days off, boring or annoying at times but always fulfilling in the end. Tomorrow there was another luncheon, a benefit for African orphans organized by her sister. Francie was so excited about the celebrities, a baseball player, a talk show host, that she had lined up.

  No luncheon now. Merle knew she should make a list of what tomorrow would look like but the murmur of the office captivated her, the buzzing like a hive, as if she’d never really listened before, never felt the ordinary blessing of her colleagues and their routine.

  “Merle?” One of the law fellows stood in front of her with a quizzical look on her face.

  The receiver was still in Merle’s hand, making a noise. Laura took the phone and replaced it on the cradle. Merle swallowed, frowned, and stood up.

  “I have to go.”

  “Oh,” Laura said, fluttering the way young people did. When had she started thinking of new graduates that way? “Your appointments? Mrs. Elliot is waiting, then — ” She stopped, seeing Merle’s face. “Sorry. I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “I’m sure you can handle them, ” Merle said, putting her coat back on. It was still damp with morning rain. “I have an emergency. I must go.”

  “Oh,” Laura said again. “Can I help?”

  Not unless you can bring a man back from the dead.

  Of her four sisters, the one she wanted at the hospital was Annie. It was sad, really, that Stasia was her second choice because she was so strong and capable. A magazine editor these days — not the lawyer she’d traine
d to be but no one blamed her for that — and damn good at it. An organizer, a do-everything gal. She and Merle lived close together in Connecticut but they were so different. Merle and Annie, her oldest sister, shared an intangible something. In this emergency Merle never thought of Francie or Elise; they were younger and if she had to say so, a bit shallow, despite going to Whitman Law like their older sisters. Someday they would lean on Merle, the middle child. They would need her like she needed Annie. But Annie lived too far, in western Pennsylvania. You had to be practical.

  Stasia came, promptly, and held Merle until she didn’t want to be held. Dried her tears, called everyone. She made the lists that stubbornly jumbled up in Merle’s head. She was so efficient.

  In the end Stasia arranged the funeral, wrote the obituary, talked to everyone for Merle. Arranged flowers, watered flowers, threw away flowers. Arranged meals, heated up meals, threw away meals. And so, when it was time, two weeks later, for the visit to Harry’s lawyers to hear his will, there was no question which sister went with Merle.

  Deep rugs, old oak, leather-bound tales of mishaps and bad decisions and the appalling nature of life: The Law Office. With eyes closed Merle caught the smell of the time crumbling, the fruitlessness of human endeavor, of — mortality. Well, it was on her mind.

  In the law you could change lives, you could make a difference. You learned the rules then you bent them. But justice was a slippery devil. Hard to quantify, impossible to hang on to. She concentrated on the endless rows of dusty books, not justice, searching the shelves for the earliest court records. New York District Court, 1878. Harry’s lawyers, and his father’s before him, were a very old, very white-shoe firm, not unlike Byrne & Loveless, firm of her misguided youth.

  Harry. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, now that he was gone. Trying to remember little things, it was hard. She hadn’t really noticed him recently, besides his dry-cleaning and a cocktail party or two. She stared at his suits in his closet, lined up the oxfords he would never wear. He wasn’t in the best of shape, never had been, with that paunch and double chin. He hadn’t told her but apparently he had a plan to get healthy by exercising, or at least climbing stairs.

  Genius, that Harry.

  She gripped the arms of the chair, trying hard to picture him the first time they met — the day she made partner at Byrne & Loveless, at the bar after the party after the celebration. She tried to remember the feeling of being valued, loved, feted. All she could remember was barfing in the women’s room. And Harry taking her home.

  When he told the story he was the gallant knight, swinging the limp princess over his shoulder. She may have knocked into him coming out of the restroom. Yes, that was it. Almost fell down and he saved her from cracking her head.

  Out of the blue, the question boomed inside her head: What-what. What? What?! It was back, like a disease never quite cured. She hadn’t heard it for weeks, that little voice that plagued her. These last weeks everybody knew what was what: Harry’s dead, that’s what. Shut up. She looked out the window and silenced it.

  Stasia sighed and looked at her watch. The lawyers were keeping them waiting. At the funeral Stasia had surprised everyone by sobbing, loudly. Strange, since she never cared that much for Harry. She thought he didn’t love Merle enough, and told her so one famous Christmas in front of a roaring fire before she knew about the baby on the way. Maybe that’s why she cried at the funeral.

  Merle’s cell phone vibrated in her slacks pocket. Tristan’s school calling. She went into the hallway. Trouble. The Headmaster (unbelievably they still called him that) would put the boy on the bus, if she agreed. She sighed, closed the phone. Back in the office she shook her head at Stasia: not now.

  Harry’s ancient lawyer, who he’d called The Geezer, was shouting in the hallway. The door opened and he shuffled in with a younger man who introduced himself as Troy Lester, a partner. The old man, eighty-five minimum, Landon McGuinness the Third wore neatly-pressed gray flannel almost as ancient as he was.

  His thick glasses perched on a beak no doubt less prominent when his cheeks had flesh. The younger partner, Lester, was close to their age but bald on top like the geezer. He was obviously the old man’s right-hand everything.

  McGuinness peered at them, his eyes magnified behind his glasses. “Which one of you is Mrs. Strachie?”

  “That’s me, sir. Merle Bennett. Strachie,” she added, though she didn’t use Harry’s name. “And this is my sister, Stasia Bennett.”

  McGuinness cleared his throat noisily and began in a sonorous voice to outline her future. Stasia was taking notes, thank god. The house is mine. Paid off thanks to mortgage insurance. Harry only rented his apartment in the city so nothing there but some junky furniture. Life insurance. Good. How could she not know about life insurance? Do you get that in one lump sum? Do you pay income tax on it? She would ask when he finished.

  Silence. The geezer sat back in his chair and folded his hands.

  “But —?” Had she blacked out and missed a section? Harry was an investment manager. He set up a trust fund for Tristan, he had stock funds, pension plans, all sorts of retirement plans.

  She couldn’t speak.

  Stasia could. “That’s it? Where's the pension fund? And the trust fund for the boy?” Landon McGuinness III blinked at her, mouth agape. Stasia leaned in and shouted: “Where is the boy’s trust fund?!”

  Troy Lester, standing at the old man's shoulder, squirmed then tried to hide it with a smile. “The good news is that Mr. Strachie set this up so it won’t have to go through probate. You’ll have the proceeds of the insurance within thirty days and the deeds will be changed quickly. The joint accounts stay the same, of course— ”

  Merle sat forward. “But he told me he set one up for Tristan years ago. A trust account.”

  “Not at this law firm,” McGuinness said, smacking his lips.

  “Could it be with someone else?” Stasia asked. “At a bank?”

  “Harry did all his legal work here. His father too. ”

  Troy Lester cleared his throat. “The addendum,” he muttered.

  McGuinness blinked. “Oh, yes. A special addendum.” He shuffled papers on his desk and batted off Lester’s help.

  He found the paperwork and held it at arm's length. “I bequeath to my wife, Merle, because of her love of old houses, the property in Malcouziac, France, a house and real estate surrounding.”

  The sisters sat in stunned silence. Stasia looked at her. “Do you know about this?” Merle felt float-y, disconnected from the room. Her ears buzzed. Who were these people? I’m watching an old Perry Mason re-run. Harry will be alive at home when I get there. We’ll squabble about dinner. We’ll listen to each other snore.

  She pinched her arm. Nothing changed.

  The old man was saying in his clear and not-very-aged voice, “Harry inherited this house from his parents when they died. You knew his mother was French?” Merle nodded, unable to speak. A house in France?

  “It’s in the Dordogne,” Lester added brightly. “Southwest France. A small town. Very picturesque, I hear.”

  “A villa? Could it be worth something?” Stasia asked.

  “No acreage, I understand. No vineyard. Sorry.”

  “Is there a photo or map or something?”

  Troy Lester looked at the old man. “We’ll see what we can find. Maybe Harry kept something in his own files. You could check.”

  He called in the secretary and asked for the file on Harry’s father, Weston Strachie. They waited in awkward silence. Merle worked over her cuticles. She didn’t feel like she would float away anymore, now that she had both ankles wrapped around a chair leg. Be practical. He’s dead. This is what happens when people die. She was nothing if not practical. Life would go on. Sometimes you just had to remind yourself. Merle felt the hard rock in her chest press against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

  The secretary returned and handed a slim brown file to Lester. He leafed through the papers before hand
ing it to Merle. “I don’t think we’ll need this anymore. There’s some old paperwork, work Mr. McGuinness did for the elder Mr. Strachie years ago, as well as the obituary. Your husband’s parents died together, in a car accident in —” He glanced again inside — “1954.”

  Harry was four. That was all Merle knew about his parents. He never talked about them, probably didn’t even remember them. She glanced at the faded newspaper clipping, then at the letters behind them: a description of the property in French, and correspondence about Harry’s father’s wine and spirits importing business.

  She thanked the lawyers. She felt a powerful need to get on with things, to make lists, to organize. To silence the what-what?! in her head. At the café down the block she sat with her hands wrapped around a coffee cup. Her mind began to put things in columns. But Stasia looked furious, her color up. “I knew it. I knew it. Where is his pension fund?”

  “He liked to play the markets.”

  “You think he lost it all? No way. He had something stashed away, he must have. Away from the hawk-like eyes of Landon McGuinness the Turd.” They smiled. “You need to go to his office. Maybe that’s where Tristan’s fund is.”

  Merle knew nothing about that part of Harry's life. She’d never wanted to. It reminded her of corporate law, the open greed, the phoniness, the back-stabbing partners. But obviously a little more attention to the financial aspects of their lives would have been, well, practical. Maybe she wasn’t as practical as she thought.