Blackbird Fly

by Lise McClendon

  “Do I — do I get to watch?”

  He smiled. “Do you want to watch?”

  She took several shallow breaths, so close to him they exchanged oxygen. “Are we still talking about dinner?”

  The shower helped clear her head. Everything was manageable. It was just a moment there when things looked bleak. Her list ran through her head the way it always did but fuzzy with the wine effect. Annie needed a bed, didn’t she? She wanted the extra bedroom finished. What about Tristan — was camp going well? She hadn’t an email since he first got there. Pascal’s lips seemed more, well, pressing. She turned to the mirror, rubbing it clear of fog.

  “Be logical,” she whispered to herself. She rubbed the coarse towel over her body. Thin, with protruding bones, chapped skin, calluses, age spots — plus a damp cast on her wrist — this sack of bones sagged in all the right places. She looked in the mirror. From any angle she looked, well, not that bad, but certainly not young.

  She leaned close to the mirror. “But he likes you, old woman.”

  The restaurant she chose was the one with the truffle omelet she had been dreaming about, Les Saveurs. Everything else was expensive as well, rack of lamb, trout, beef. She leaned over the large menu toward Pascal and whispered, “It’s tres cher.”

  He shook his head. “Order whatever you want.”

  He ordered a small pitcher of house red wine and poured a thimble-full into her glass. Service was quick and friendly, by a young woman who Pascal said was the daughter of the owner. The chef’s Cordon Bleu diploma hung proudly on the wall. The restaurant was paneled in dark wood, with a cornucopia of fake fruit and vegetables on the sideboard, unlike expensive French restaurants in New York with their fancy tablecloths and elegant flourishes. In a room off the entry she could see the regulars, laughing and eating at a small table.

  “Did you eat lunch here?” she asked, sipping slowly on her wine as they made their way through elegant appetizers of shrimp and asparagus. “With le flic?”

  “I didn’t see him today.”

  So he wasn’t as obsessed with Justine LaBelle and her sad death as she was. Why would he be? That would just be the inspector and herself. Cutting up the shrimp was difficult. It almost squirted off the table. Finally she stabbed it and bit off a piece. Pascal was sipping his wine.

  She swirled hers, safer than drinking it. “Do wineries generally buy from other wineries for resale?”

  Pascal chewed his bread. “I wouldn’t know. Did you see some?”

  “In the chai. Gerard won’t let us take tours through there but I sneaked in.”

  He shook his head. “Keep out of there. I told you he is —”

  “What?” She leaned over her plate toward him and whispered. “Tell me what he’s up to. Something — fishy?”

  “Stay out of it. No sneaking around.” He looked past her to the back of the restaurant. “Isn’t that your friend from the tour?”

  She glanced over her shoulder just as Anthony Simms looked up. He was sitting alone, stuck in a back corner.

  “He’s not a friend,” she said. “Don’t look at him. I don’t want him to think I talk about him.”

  “But you do.”

  “He’s a creep.”

  “He wants to be your boyfriend?”

  She rolled her eyes. Just the word was ridiculous.

  Pascal pouted and said mockingly, “He looks so very sad. A plate for one. So terribly lonely.”

  Merle smiled. “Not my problem.” Their appetizers were taken away. Pascal reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a small piece of paper.

  “For you,” he said, sliding it across the table. On the paper was written two names: ‘Justine Labelle — Dominique Redier.’

  She stared at the writing. “The same person?” she whispered. She was Harry’s mother — ??!. That tired, crazy old whore? Oh, God. What can of worms had she opened?

  He sipped wine, enjoying her surprise.

  “But — but you said you didn’t talk to the gendarme.” He hiked his shoulders. “Someone else gave you the name? Who?”

  He held up a hand. “I gave them immunity.”

  “I knew these people knew her.” She stared at the paper. “This is the name of —” she lowered her voice “—the mayor.” Pascal’s eyes flashed. “So, he knew her?”

  “Usually you know people with your name in a village this size. There are others as well.”

  “Jean-Pierre,” she whispered. Pascal stared at her, agreeing with his eyes. His lamb with roast potatoes dotted with rosemary arrived. He picked up his knife and fork.

  “You must know what this means. Someone, perhaps many people, knew her, knew who she was and what she was.”

  “She had relatives in this village. Yes.” He looked at the people sitting next to them, American tourists deep in conversation about their meal. “Your special omelet gets cold.”

  It was big enough to feed her for a week. She cut off a piece and hummed with the taste of truffles, woodsy and delicate and unique among mushrooms, dug from the roots of ancient oak trees. The village’s mayor and only policeman were in the family of the murder victim. No one talked about the murder. Was that because they knew more about the victim, and perhaps the perpetrator, than they let on?

  “How is your dinner, Merle?”

  Anthony Simms stood by the table, smiling down at them. “I’ve had the truffle omelet myself, and also, yours,” he nodded to Pascal. “If that’s the lamb. Delicious.”

  Pascal leaned back in his chair. “How was your dinner?”

  “Excellent, thanks. The duck tonight.” He patted his stomach and looked abashed suddenly. “Nice to see you then. Have a good evening.”

  He backed away, bumping into the waitress who spilled water from a pitcher onto the floor. He mumbled apologies and ran from the restaurant.

  Pascal winced. “Poor guy. What do you call them, a spaz?”

  A laugh escaped her, unbidden. “Another naughty word, Pascal.” She tried to pull her focus back, to enjoy the rest of her meal. She tried not to think about Dominique/Justine, or the fact that she was Harry’s mother. It didn’t change who he was, the man he had been. “You didn’t learn all your English from MTV.”

  “I’ve been to the United States. A couple times.”

  “Where?”

  “New York City, of course. And Washington, the capital.”

  “There’s a lot of territory besides that.”

  “Where have you been? To Texas and Montana and Chicago?”

  “To France, twice,” she said, smiling. “But I haven’t been to most of the states either.”

  “I have a confession. I have never been to Normandy or Brittany.”

  “And so close. Shame on you.”

  “When you go to heaven you get check marks next to your name for every new place you visit. The more check marks, the bigger your wings.”

  “A lovely thought. If you believed in heaven.”

  Pascal reached over and took her hand. “What if — ”

  “What?”

  “Just in case there is a heaven we go on a trip tomorrow. We drive to Provence or Biarritz, or somewhere you’ve never been.”

  This was progressing pretty quickly. One drunken kiss and they were off on a trip together. She smiled, a little wary even as she felt — or because of — a rush of desire for him.

  “I can’t.”

  “You work too hard. Do you take a day off and enjoy yourself?”

  “I’m confined to the village, remember? Besides there’s too much to do.” Time off made her anxious. She needed progress. It didn’t escape her that having true free time made her more nervous than a romp with a fine, young Frenchman. She told her family this was a vacation but it definitely was not. It was work, getting the old place in shape. She needed to check things off her list.

  “I have company coming, Tristan and my sister. Tuesday evening.”

  “This is Friday. That’s three, almost four days.”

  And
she knew that. Was her calendar back? It was depressing to think so. “Where would we go? I mean, if the inspector let me go.”

  “Anywhere. But I see a problem. Between us we have no car.”

  In her mind she saw the shutters closed, the house empty. Vulnerable. No. The wine. She couldn’t leave it. Strange how attached she had gotten to her basement treasure. Two or three days with the house unattended? It gave her chills.

  “What if —” She put her hand on his now. He turned his palm up and grasped her fingers. “We decide in the morning.”

  She woke in the night, wrapped in the sheets. He had grunted when her cast rubbed his ribs. Rolling toward him, she propped herself on pillows and stared at his profile against moonlight, the pointed chin, the straight nose, the muscular shoulders. Her body didn’t feel old anymore. He made her feel the way Harry had twenty years before, a feeling she’d forgotten, of hunger and contentment.

  They had almost run home in the starlight. Whatever had made her cautious in the restaurant had evaporated with the twilight by the time they reached rue de Poitiers. He had kissed her neck as she climbed the stairs, and moved on quickly as they reached the bedroom.

  He smelled of garlic, and wine, and sex. She ran her fingers through the thicket of hair on his chest and his eyes opened. She had wanted to touch him, and now she couldn’t stop. She felt grateful more than anything. She wasn’t the cold-hearted bitch she imagined she was, no — had been with Harry. Whatever she’d been, that was in the past, the other Merle who forgot how to feel, how to love. Pascal had found, then revived, something in her that had withered, hardened, and almost died. Always, always she would be grateful to him for that.

  He pulled her on top of him, warm and strong. With her face in his capable hands he whispered, “What are you doing, my little blackbird?”

  Chapter 32

  The night was dark and full of stars when Hugh Rogers tapped on the door. The smell of sweet florals scented the air. The house served its purpose, imposing with a blue mansard roof, the sort of grandiosity you would expect from a village mayor. The glow of window light spilling onto the carefully raked gravel path. The wisteria, past its prime, hung limp on the wrought iron fence while the clematis crept over the arched gate. The walk was lined with rows of small flowers in white and orange, militaristic in their precision.

  A servant answered, an elderly man in a pinching navy uniform. Rogers gave his name and was admitted to the salon. A squat brass lamp illuminated a circle of light near a threadbare needlepoint chair. He preferred to stand.

  Redier entered the room wearing a blue cotton dressing gown over his trousers and undershirt. He looked annoyed. Rogers shook his hand politely. The mayor stuck both hands in the pockets of the thin gown, fists balled. Like his house he was tall and pompous, his gray hair in place and a pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose.

  “We need to discuss payment,” Redier said. Hugh had expected as much. It always came down to money. “I am taking all the risks. My office, the gendarmerie, all will be scrutinized when this is over. You will disappear but I will stay to face the music, as you say.”

  “You said you could handle the scrutiny.”

  “Of course. But —” The mayor walked to the cold fireplace and placed a hand on the mantel. An ornate clock whirled behind its glass case. “I have both keys. One to the house, one to the gate. What will you pay for them?”

  “She changed the locks, you said.”

  “The new key, that is the one I have. The locksmith gave it to me in exchange for help with his taxes. There is always a way a mayor can help his populace.”

  “Bloody patriotic of you. But this concerns me how?”

  “You need the keys. You —”

  “But there you’re laboring under a falsehood. I can get into that house any time I want, without your keys.”

  The mayor glared at him under bushy white eyebrows, as if the force of his will could move mountains. “You cannot.”

  “Oh yes. In fact I don’t need your help at all.”

  “We have a deal, Mr. Rogers. On your honor, you will change nothing.” The mayor reddened, angry. “You know how we got the gate key? From her, from Justine! One of the men — he was rough, he frightened her but it had to be done. Now we are complicit.”

  “Ah, the merry band of frog bunglers. Very subtle, tossing her off the cliff. And so now we have the inspector to deal with, complicating matters. If only you people had showed a little finesse.”

  The mayor stomped over to him and stared down his nose. “Do not lecture me on finesse, Mr. Rogers. The French invented it. ”

  Hugh couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Yes, I see. And tact as well.”

  “You were to be done a week ago. You must finish and go,” the mayor sputtered.

  “Right. So the deal is 80/20, take it or leave it. I don’t need your filthy key. All I need is for you to keep the inspector out of the way. It’s taking a bit longer since you allowed the American to move in. I can’t very well barge in, now can I?”

  “The inspector thought it was a fine idea. I had no choice.”

  “Then give the inspector the name of your man who did the deed. That will clear the American and she will go home. Then we wouldn’t even need my little diversion, although God knows it’ll be a doozy.”

  The mayor shook his head. “I cannot do that.”

  “So we see where your loyalties lie. No doubt it’s your idiot nephew you’re shielding. Well, you’ve made your choice. Just don’t get in my way, old boy.” Rogers brushed imaginary lint from the mayor’s dressing gown, causing Redier to bat his hand away, horrified. Hugh stuck his finger at the man’s chest. “Do your part. Stay out of my way.”

  Chapter 33

  In the morning over espresso in the kitchen Pascal turned to Merle. “North, south, east, west. Where shall we go?”

  He had told her he would rent a car, a convertible, so they could feel the world go by. But she couldn’t. “I have to stay in the village.”

  “Let me talk to the inspector. He will make an exception if you are with a Frenchman.” He put his arms around her. “I can very persuasive.”

  She wanted to tell him about the wine. She hated that she had lost her trust in people since Harry died. As if his betrayal had soured her belief in goodness. She wanted to think Pascal was good, that he was who he said he was, that he wasn’t after that wine he liked so much. She could see goodness in his eyes, in his touch. But she was raw, needy, and that made her wary again.

  “What if — we make our own little resort here. Less expensive, and very private.”

  She kissed him and the regret of the decision balanced with the relief. It was too much responsibility. She couldn’t burden him with it.

  They set to work transforming the garden. Pascal rallied, finding an umbrella and two fold-up lounge chairs somewhere. A keg from the basement was topped with a piece of wood for a table. She shopped for a special dinner and he shopped for wine and champagne. By noon they had locked the shutters to the house and declared a holiday. He gave her a foot massage. She gave him a one-handed shoulder massage and they filled the big washtub with warm water and bubble bath and soaked their feet and laughed at themselves.

  “You have no swimsuit? No problem,” he said grinning. So she sunned herself in her black lace underpants and nothing else, after aligning the umbrella to shield the view from Yves and Suzette’s upstairs window. He wore a swimsuit the size of a slingshot. She liked it very much.

  Several times she felt herself getting up to do “something.” This relaxation state, especially in her home environment where the tasks glared at her — FIX ME! — was difficult. Pascal began to massage her palm, which was not only incredibly sensual but made her forget everything practical, all her lists. He made her close her eyes so he could describe where they might be. Biarritz, he said, with miles of white sand and blue ocean, waves breaking against the beach. Fish frying at little shops, the coconut of suntan oil, hairy Spaniards fle
xing their muscles, buxom Frenchwomen bouncing along and little naked children playing in the surf. The fresh tang of salt and seaweed. The sea wind, raw and wild. Sailboats off the coast, fresh mussels.

  “Are we drinking wine?” she asked drowsily.

  “White wine. So much we can barely stand up. But we don’t need to — we aren’t going anywhere. This is where we want to be.”

  As the sun lowered they made love in the afternoon heat, his hands warm against her body. Making love again, as good as it was, made her feel suddenly sad. For Harry, for all the nights they — or at least she — had spent alone, for the nights she didn’t care that he spent in the city, for the relief she’d often felt at his absence. For the time — there it was again, that dirty word — for the time they’d wasted.

  After dinner Pascal lay naked beside her on the bed as the sky turned purple. “What was he like, your husband?” He rolled over on his side. “If it is okay to talk about him. Harry?”

  “Harry. He was older than me, by five years. Short, in a French way. His mother was French. He lost his parents when he was four. I think it made it hard for him to love. Or maybe I just — ” Was it her fault? Was she to blame? She couldn’t shake it.

  “What?”

  “He was a good father, a good enough husband. But something was missing. ”

  “He had lovers?”

  She glanced at him. “At least one. He had a child with her.”

  “It happens,” he said.

  “Not so much in the U.S. I didn’t find out about it until he was gone. His little girl, the one we never had — I couldn’t have any more children — I don’t know if it was that or I wasn’t — oh, shit.” She wiped the tears angrily with the back of her hand. Pascal rubbed her cheek with his thumb and waited for her to speak again. She loved that, just the patience of a man.

  She looked away from the ceiling, into his eyes. “You know what? I didn’t love him either. Oh, at first, but not for a long time. I made myself believe that I did. All those years. I didn’t even realize it until he was gone.”