The morning Albert drove Tristan to the train she felt lost, as if she’d never see him again, that he was still that baby tearing away from her breast to live on his own, without her. He stood hunched at the front window, frowning out at the cobblestone street. He was off to camp in four days. She finally had screwed up her courage to tell him that she couldn’t fly home with him because of the murder. Who was she, he asked. What happened? She gave him the short version: a woman fell from the cliff, she lived in this house, their house, and she didn’t want to move. He groaned when Merle made him promise not to tell his aunts, uncles, cousins, or grandparents. A hard secret to keep: your mother under the steely eye of the French police.
She made him a list, of course, all the instructions, the tickets, the directions. He had to find the train, find the right terminal at the airport, go through security alone, go through immigration, find his gate, his seat, fly the wide Atlantic, do customs on the other end. All by himself. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was almost a man. Her little boy. He waved to her from the car, then he was gone.
Tristan the child had been gone for a long time. He had gone where children go, slipped away into manhood as if he’d never fit into her arms, never cried on her shoulder, never run to her with a skinned knee. He was his own person now, not a child but independent, free to make his own choices — or would be very soon. Even though her heart hurt it was everything she wanted for him.
She’d burst into the tiny, upstairs beauty salon on a side street over a florist, holding a magazine photograph of a woman in a short page-boy, bangs, dark-haired, no gray. Audrey Hepburn, without the swan neck. And that was how she walked out. She had been a little breathless the rest of the day. What would the workmen say? Would Albert notice? Would Pascal exclaim about her new look? But the roofer, her roofer, never came, not that day or the next or the next. Albert didn’t know where he was.
Now she pressed her lips together. A strange feeling, lipstick and new hair, way too grown-up. She smiled, praying for the lipstick to stay on lips, not teeth. There were a few flecks of paint on her thumb, remnants of the last three days of high-speed decorating. It had seemed important to kick things up a notch, cross items off the list. She painted her bedroom that hopeful sunrise yellow, sweet, innocent color before tainted with the harsh banalities of noonday, counted the wine bottles again ( two-hundred-and-one), caught six more mice. She mixed up a batch of cement and rocked up the plumbing trenches across the bathroom. Her back had a sore spot.
And now she was a tour guide, a job which apparently required only the decent mastery of the King’s English and the ability to pour lightly. The fact that Odile and Gerard, the owners of the winery, would never know what she told the tourists took some pressure off. Still she wanted to do well, it was her nature.
She straightened her back and rubbed the soreness out. The group included ten or eleven wine lovers, Americans — two couples traveling together — and three groups of Brits. The Americans she could spot for miles, the women with gold jewelry and faces frozen with botox. The Brits were less dressed and smiled more.
Tristan had called her from Stasia’s, through Albert, when he got back, tired but happy, and packing for camp. Stasia said they’d been over to the house to get his sleeping bag and backpack and everything was fine. Elise was keeping the pool clean. As if that had been a major worry.
It all seemed so far away. She’d been in France almost a month. The rat-race of the suburbs, of Manhattan, was another world. Here the grass grew tall in the ditches along the road. Two fat ducks flew up from the pond. Roses bloomed in a riot. She had a new haircut, and she was on her own, making her own decisions. Was she the same person she had been in April — full of pain and confusion, kicked out of her job, at sea without her not-so-loyal husband, the woman who dreamed of magic pearls to save her from despair, and wrinkles?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” She waited for them to stop talking and pay attention, just like jurors in court. That’s the way to think of them. Speak just loud enough that they had to be quiet to hear. Impress and persuade. The only thing they were likely to be persuaded was that wine was cheap and plentiful. She smiled again and felt her teeth go dry.
“My name is Merle and I’ll be your guide today for the tour of the cellars and vineyards of Château Gagillac. We’ll start our tour in the state-of-the-art fermenting facility built two years ago for over four million euros.”
As they filed inside the dim cavernous building one of the Brits, a gray-complected man with amazingly bad hair and small, intense eyes, asked her how the alcohol content in the wine changed from the beginning to end of the fermentation process.
“I’m sorry, this is my first week here,” she explained. “I’m still learning. I could ask —”
“Quite all right,” he said, smiling. “Anthony Simms.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Merle. You’re doing a good job.”
“I have a lot to learn.”
“If you — ” He waved a hand apologetically.
Despite her first impression he seemed dull but nice, with warm brown eyes and an upper crust accent. It was nice to have a conversation with a true English-speaker. A tour guide had to find good qualities in everyone, she told herself. She turned to him and said, “Are you offering lessons?”
The other tourists wandered off, poking their heads into the empty vats and running their hands over the stainless steel.
“I shouldn’t presume.” He stopped, looking pained. “I’m on a prescribed holiday. My friends made me come.”
“Oh.” He did look sad. Pathetic really.
“I’m keeping you. Please.”
The group filed through the dim, cool space. Merle showed off the huge stainless steel vats, explaining the controlled mix of various grape types, the computerized control room. She was brisk and efficient, and didn’t ask if they had questions because, well, factoids were thin on the ground. She felt a little embarrassed not knowing the answer to Mr. Simms’s question and vowed to study more about winemaking. She showed them where the grapes were dumped, how they were crushed and separated, where the liquid was strained off.
Leading them outside she pointed out the intricately pruned vines and the grapes hanging under their leaves. She explained about the concept of terroir, one of the things she’d read up on and found most interesting about winemaking, the way everything worked together to make wine. She scooped up a handful of reddish soil for the tourists. Earth, sun, rain, clouds, hills — just like Annie’s prayer flags, this terroir business. Very karmic, grapes. The day was cooler than it had been, with clouds, but still the soil felt warm to the touch, its rocky base holding heat through the evening to release it in the cool night air, keeping the vines toasty and coddled.
She showed them the barn-like chai where the oak barrels aged the wine. They were happy as she filled their glasses in the tasting room. She was exhausted; she hadn’t spoken this much or this loudly in months. She had sweated through her blouse and underwear, feeling the slick rubbing of her thighs.
Odile split the cash and thanked her with a nod. The tourists had bought several jugs of wine. The money couldn’t have made a big difference to the winery. A hundred euros was nothing for a big operation like this.
Anthony Simms leaned against a small white Peugeot in the parking lot, his arms crossed on his chest, trying to look nonchalant. His brown-going-gray hair was parted too far to one side and his shirt collar was frayed. The tour hadn’t improved his looks but he did, after all, have a car. When he saw her he smoothed his shirtfront like an anxious suitor.
“I want to apologize,” he began. “For taking time away from your tour. Occupational hazard when you vacation alone. Latching on to attractive women for company.”
“That can be dangerous.”
“Very.” He smiled guiltily. Or maybe he thought sexily. “If you would let me take you to coffee to make it right? Unless your husband would object.”
Thinn
er than she’d first thought, he was not as old either. That hair had to be a rug. So he was bald. Maybe he was ill, on chemo? Was that why he was on a prescribed holiday? She chided herself for being so judgmental.
“He might if he was still alive. He died this spring.” Still strange to say, but better. Getting better all the time, as John and Paul would say. She had been playing the Beatles full blast while she painted, singing whenever the mood hit her, which was surprisingly often. So smart of Annie to think of sending the CDs with her. Those old songs made her feel young again.
Anthony winced as if she’d punched him in the guts. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I do know how it is. My mother passed away only a month ago. I don’t know why it hit me so hard.”
“I’m sorry. Was she elderly?”
“Quite. A blessing, I guess. But still.” He looked off, biting his lip. A little dramatic, she thought. “Can we commiserate over dinner then? It would be so pleasant to have your company. And I might — I don’t know, help in some way?”
Assessing her frame of mind, she thought not. She wasn’t in the mood for moping, or sharing death stories with this odd person, this stranger. But the sun had come out. The afternoon was hot and sticky and her feet hurt. “I could use a ride back into town.”
Simms brightened, springing into action, opening the door of his little rental car. The air conditioning felt luscious and her feet cooled. He babbled about his vacation, some caves nearby with prehistoric drawings of bison, his brave old mum, his friends who urged him to get away from England after he had spent a week sifting through eighty years of belongings.
“That week almost killed me,” he said. “What do you do with your mother’s girdles, for godssake?”
Ick. A musty bachelor, devoted to old mumsy and her undergarments. So why was he interested in women? She glanced at him. Harder to tell with Europeans. “Where do you live, Anthony?”
“In London, rather north. Do you know London?”
“Um, no. Turn right here.” She pointed at her street.
“Can I make a reservation for dinner then? There’s a delightful bistro a block the other side of the plaza.”
Someone was sitting on her step. “At the end on the left. You can turn around.” He pulled the car into a U-turn at the crumbling wall and stopped. Pascal looked up.
“I’m sorry. I appreciate the ride. But I have a workman here.”
He squinted at Pascal, annoyed. “Well, I know where you live. Maybe another time? You’re all right then?”
She stepped out. Anthony waited a few beats before driving away, as if he might have to jump out and defend her honor.
But Pascal only stood up and stretched. “Bonjour, Merle.”
She moved around him to unlock the door’s shutters, then the door. France was like Fort Knox, or Brooklyn. She arched an eyebrow at him. He wore clean jeans and another black t-shirt, his usual attire. His nose was sunburned. “Are you here to finish the roof?”
“I got called away to another job — ”
“You don’t have to explain. No one else does.”
The air in the front room rushed out, cool and soothing. She threw her bag on the oak table and kicked off her shoes. She wasn’t used to wearing dress shoes, or walking a mile on poor roads. This morning she’d had to jump into the ditch when a truck carrying chickens passed so close his side mirror might have knocked her flat.
“You look different.” Pascal was standing at the door, looking out.
She touched the back of her hair, feeling foolish now. She was still the same person, cut or dye or not. She had wondered if he’d notice, and he had. Stop the presses.
“You’ve missed Tristan. He went to camp, back in the States.”
Why hadn’t Pascal called Albert to tell her he wouldn’t be working? Was that so difficult? She realized she was angry at his neglect of her house — or his rudeness— and tried to take a deep breath and relax. She didn’t want to be angry any more, at herself or anyone.
“Will he be back?” He sat down across the table from her.
“In a couple weeks, with my sister.”
“One of the Charlie’s Angels?”
“The oldest. Annie.”
He worked his nails, more solemn than she remembered. She felt the slats of the chair on her damp back. The little clock on the mantle ticked off the minutes. She stared at him, at his dark curls. He didn’t look up, just sitting there in silence as if waiting for her to do something, to say something. But what? What did she want from him? She got up and got herself a glass of cold water from the refrigerator.
“Have you heard any more about the murder?” she asked.
“I’ve been — out of town.”
“I was wondering. Do you think Justine Labelle was her real name?”
He frowned as if he’d been thinking about something important and she’d barged into his thoughts. “Why do you say that?”
“I got three numbers for a Justine LaBelle in Bordeaux. At all three she was the same child, now four years old, and no relation to the sixty-something prostitute. So who was the squatter? The Inspector said she was from Bordeaux, but not recently. Did she have a connection here? She thought she knew Harry’s mother.”
He was listening hard, but tipped his head up. “Harry?”
“My husband. He was born in this house.” She looked up at the water-stained ceiling and said, for no reason she could think of later, “He died in the spring.” She was saying it today, over and over. He died. He was dead. If you said it enough, it sunk in. In the spring: as if that was ironic, to die at a time of rebirth.
He caught her eye until she looked away, embarrassed. “I did not know about your husband. I’m sorry for your loss.” His eyes flicked down to her shirt sticking to her chest.
The quiet of the house surrounded her, a deep, intimate sound, like the breathing of a child in sleep. Pascal filled the house spaces, just being here made it seem like a real house, not a idiotic remodeling project. He sat, forearms on the table like she would serve him food, like he wanted to stay. The moment was soft, almost languid. She watched him breathe with the house, his chest rising and falling under the black t-shirt. Breathing for the house, keeping it alive.
“Are you back then to work on the roof? From visiting your wife or wherever?”
He smiled. “I have not seen my wife for many years.”
Christ. She felt her color rise in her neck. Why had she said that? “I’m sorry, I had no right to —”
“Divorced, we are. She lives in Paris now. And yes, I am back to work on the roof. Bien sûr.”
Of course he was. He wasn’t there to give her a sponge bath. Stupid widow. She picked up her shoes. “I need that roof finished so I can get the big bedroom done. It’s the only room that’s not been painted.”
He stood up and stepped in front of her, blocking her way to the stairs, looking over her shoulder into the kitchen as if admiring the leafy green she’d painted there. “You’ve been busy.”
He stood close enough that she could feel the heat rise off him, smell garlic, sweat, olive oil. Sweat was running down her back again. She wanted to touch his hair, his shoulder, his hip.
“You — um, you know where the ladder is?”
In her bedroom she sunk back onto the bed and looked at the ceiling. The shutters were closed against the sun but she could hear the ladder’s rattle as he raised it.
She took five deep breaths, holding them for five beats as Annie had taught her. She used to do this before court or whenever she had to make a presentation. It calmed her. How old was he — thirty-five, forty? Maybe he was only thirty, but she doubted it. He had a few small wrinkles around his eyes, and a face weathered by summer sun.
She tried to picture herself cockeyed and reckless, seducing him. It didn’t work, just like Harry’s forgiving words didn’t work. Seduction: that was someone else, someone younger, someone who understood the world a whole lot better than Merle Bennett did. Someone who lived in the moment
and didn’t give a shit about the future.
She took off her skirt and blouse, underpants and bra, and changed into shorts and a t-shirt. Outside she ran warm water into the tub from the cistern, squirted in some liquid soap, and washed the clothes. With a quick rinse and a squeeze they were ready for the line. What would her mother say if she saw her washing clothes in a metal tub and hanging laundry on the line, her panties blowing in the breeze while a Frenchman stared down from the roof? Dear stiff-necked Bernie, who’d passed on most of her straight-laced qualities to her middle daughter.
She’d worn black lace underwear today, purchased in the back of the only clothing store in town. Now the little panties — very small in fact — swung happily, frisky things, on the line. On the roof Pascal was putting the last tiles in place. She went inside and took a shower in the new stall and let the hot water run on her back.
By the time she was dressed she was in possession of her mind again. She was under village-arrest, her passport confiscated. She was just trying to hang on for the ride, as Harry always advised. Don’t get nervous, hold onto the reins and stay the course. Why she still listened to that chubby, philandering squanderer of fortunes was an issue she couldn’t get into right now. She had a house to finish and a life to put back together.
With a salad with goat cheese and bread and olives she ate in front of the cold fireplace, making lists in her mind. She wanted to go back to the parish records for another look. She had missed something there. She wanted to talk to the inspector again, get Justine and Sister Evangeline’s real names, track them down wherever they’d been. She wanted to find out if he’d learned anything himself, since he was supposed to be investigating. She wanted to know who the bones belonged to.
She could hear Paul McCartney with his sweet, teenage voice: “Your day breaks, your mind aches.”
Every – bite – thing – chew – will – swallow – be – sip – all – bite – right.
As the nighthawks circled high on the thermals, she went outside to take down her clothes. On the back doorstep was a note under a rock. Ignoring it she locked the gate and took the clothes off the line. She folded the underclothes carefully, put the skirt and blouse on hangers, and hung them over the doorframe. Before she read the note she poured herself a glass of wine, Gagillac’s red table wine from the gallon jug. She took a long drink of it (the hell with swish and swirl) and compared it — unfavorably — with the magical Pétrus.
Blackbird Fly Page 18
