The Things We Said Today

by Lise McClendon

  Lord, they’d brought enough for a summer. The pile of luggage was impressive for just one week in the bonny hills. One week to get an over-ripe sister married off to a son of the clan. One week to sort out family disputes which anyone could see were brewing.

  One week to drink too much, be too cozy, and drive each other mad. Word was one more sister lurked about with wee ones and old folks, staying at the old Hydro in the village. At least the ceremony was there, not here at Kincardie House. We’ll have drama enough, Jinty predicted.

  As if on cue Mrs. Logan arrived in the ancient Rolls, driven by the chauffeur, Killian. Jinty had developed a fondness for Killian with his broad shoulders and floppy brown hair. She tore her eyes away from him. Must be professional in front of the lady.

  Lord, she’d dyed her hair a wicked shade of — scarlet? Fire engine red? Mrs. Logan blew into the house like a hurricane, scattering servants and throwing well-laid plans to the winds. Her son was getting married! Saints preserve us! She’d given up hope! Everything must be top drawer. Here are the lists for tomorrow. Here are the menus. Here is the list of the lists.

  Jinty pushed back her shoulders and took a deep breath.

  Just one week.

  4

  Merle tapped on Annie’s door, the one next to her in the dim second-floor hallway complete with furry heads and glass eyes staring down. Kincardie House, this amazing, gorgeous old country estate, had been in Callum’s mother’s family for generations, she’d been told, so be sure to praise it whenever possible. Merle shivered and pulled her jacket tighter. She just hoped there was heat in the old pile.

  Annie threw the door open with a smile. “Get in here,” she said, pulling Merle into a nearly identical room as hers and Pascal’s, with dusty flocked green wallpaper, wood paneling, and sporting prints. But Annie, it appeared, wouldn’t be sharing a bed officially until after the wedding.

  “So it’s true?” Merle asked, peering around at luggage. “Separate rooms?”

  Annie laughed. “Mother has some old-fashioned ideas.”

  Merle’s eyes widened. “You call her ‘Mother’?”

  “Only for giggles. I want to call her Fiona but Callum says, not yet.” She sat on the high, four-poster bed that creaked loudly. “She moved into the Hydro Hotel for the week which was very generous. Did you see it as we went through the village? Those big iron gates? Looks like a Victorian mental institution. Might be more helpful if it was.” She looked around the room. “Can you dig all this? Callum told me not to expect much, that it was dark and dreary but it’s just, you know, so Scottish.”

  Merle frowned. “But he described it. He must have. You knew he was rich, right? But a hunting lodge — like the Queen? Is that what this is?”

  Annie shrugged. “There’s a bear skin rug in Callum’s room.”

  “I suppose his great-grandfather was some titan of industry.”

  “Made a fortune selling weapons to the British government. A real Lord McWarbucks.”

  That was an appalling legacy. But Callum had left it behind. Investment banking wasn’t the most moral of professions but it was a step above gun-running. He seemed normal and modern. He’d fixed Merle’s cellphone on the train and discussed wine with Pascal and Bruno. Bruno, now there was a mystery. Elise seemed ready for the challenge, flirting with him mercilessly. What happened to her boyfriend Andrew, the pudgy classmate that they all thought was going to pop the question? He hadn’t come over. Maybe like Tristan he had work to do. Merle’s son was in the middle of finals.

  “Can you imagine actually living like this?” Merle mused. “It’s like one of those gothic romances we used to devour. Remember ‘Mists of Shadow Island?’ I read it again this winter.”

  “Faintly. Did it live up to your memory?”

  Merle walked to the window. “For characters, hmmm. So-so. For atmosphere, definitely.” She had actually deconstructed the old paperback, filling in a spreadsheet on her computer one weekend with all the chapters outlined, characters described, tropes identified. Just for fun, and to fill the dead hours of the weekend. There were so many dead hours these days, with Tristan busy at school and Pascal so far away. Pascal, she mused happily. They were together for at least a few days.

  “It’s all atmosphere in the Highlands,” Annie was saying. “Fog, rain, sheep, and heather.”

  “No ghosts, I hope. There were some ridiculous ghosts in ‘Shadow Island,’ all clanking chains.” She would cut out the ghosts. If — what? Focus, Merle.

  Annie laughed. “Maybe this will be the week Brigadoon comes back, just in time for the wedding of the Scottish laird! Let’s hear it for bagpipes, kilts, and whisky.”

  “I can deal with bagpipes. I hope.” Merle peered out the leaded window. “Look at that hillside. The colors. Oh, Annie, it’s breathtaking.”

  The hill opposite the manicured grounds of Kincardie House rose up and faced them in all its spring glory, covered with flowers and verdant green. To the right, past the outbuildings, the dirt drive stretched away toward the village, across the wooden bridge sheltered by a graceful old oak.

  What a setting. It was picture postcard idyllic.

  Annie joined her at the window. “We timed the wedding for the bluebells. Callum insisted. He’s sentimental about bluebells.”

  Merle glanced at her sister, eyebrows raised. Annie wasn’t sentimental about anything, much less flowers or weddings. How had she managed to find a man like Callum? They were so different, and not just the age difference. Annie was fourteen years older. The rumor was that ‘Mother’ wasn’t too happy about the union. But she was throwing this week-long party so she must have come around. You didn’t give your elegant country estate over to a bunch of crude Americans if you were against the wedding.

  Merle turned back to the view, unable to think clearly when presented with such an impossibly beautiful sight. At the bottom of the hillside, near the fenced pasture, sweeps of brilliant bluebells merged into something green then light purple before melting into scraggly trees hugging the ridge line. Dots of white clustered on the hills beyond. “Are those sheep?”

  “The finest Highland breeds. Black-faced, shaggy, some exotic ones. That’s what the estate does now. It’s famous for its sheep.”

  Ah, sheep. Much more civilized than tanks and ammo. “The wool must make some cozy sweaters,” Merle said, shivering again. “I thought it would be summer.”

  “I think this is as warm as it gets in Scotland,” Annie said. “Tomorrow, after the fitting for the dresses. We’ll all buy sweaters.”

  The sisters had been both dreading and anticipating the first look at their bridesmaids dresses for the wedding. The entire flight over was full of carping about them. Francie in particular. The secrecy which Callum’s mother had kept the design drove her crazy.

  “Are we going to hate the dresses? You can tell me.”

  Annie smiled mysteriously. “Hold your water, lassie.”

  * * *

  Francie flopped back on the satiny down comforter and squinted at the elaborate plaster cornices around the old ceiling. Her room, as far as she could tell, was no better or worse than her sisters’. So there was no point ruminating on that injustice. God knew she had plenty of others. The plane ride had been a nightmare of screaming babies and smelly old man feet. The train from Edinburgh to Aberdeen was all right but she was so tired she slept through it. Then smashed into that rental with Merle and Pascal as they spoke their honeyed French lovey things to each other.

  She was the perpetual third wheel in coupledom.

  She sat up and rummaged in her carry-on. Was it too early for Scotch? She’d bought a nice bottle of Highland Park at the airport and was dying to break it open.

  Just a wee dram. It was smoky and burned on the way down but it made her feel a bit better. This trip, this wedding, it was all too much. She had to attend solo, the first blow. She wasn’t dating anyone she could ask to spend several thousand dollars to fly to Scotland for a week. And she couldn’t afford to bu
y anyone a ticket. Her finances were another source of worry. But she would not go there. This week she would HAVE FUN.

  How though? She opened the bottle again and poured out another dram. What was there to do here in the countryside but pick wildflowers? She sank into a hard rocking chair.

  Annie marrying Callum was so unfair. He was much too good-looking for a person who didn’t even care about things like that. And much too young.

  He’s nearly my age. Francie wondered idly if she had a little crush on Callum. Probably not. He wasn’t her type. She liked ethereal poets, greasy-haired dreamers, hopeless romantics who needed her firm hand. Not bankers. Ugh. Almost as bad as a lawyer. Imagine being married to a money man, even a hottie like Callum. How dry would that be, talking about stocks and bonds at dinnertime? No, she’d take someone deep and philosophical, an intellectual, a songwriter or painter, someone who needed her, someone she could help become a better man.

  She put her head in her hands. Who was she kidding? She’d take anyone who’d have her. She had become rather. . . indiscriminate. She’d had six boyfriends in the last year, if boyfriend was an old-fashioned word for sex partner. She dumped most after two or three dates. They put her to sleep with profit-and-loss margins, or laughed like horses, or had very small penises.

  Francie sighed dramatically. Then she made herself smile. She’d heard a smile will make you actually feel better from the outside in. She stretched it wider, waiting for the effect.

  “It will be a great week,” she whispered, licking out the shot glass. “Absolutely super.”

  5

  Help you, miss?”

  Elise spun around from her awkward position, peering sideways around the doorway into the kitchen. It was a large, utilitarian, heavily tiled space with a huge wooden table in the center. It smelled of baking bread at the moment which was heavenly. It made her so hungry, that smell. She’d been starving herself for months to fit into the size 4 dress she’d told Annie she wore but hadn’t actually fit into since college.

  That rigid young woman, the caretaker with the blunt-cut bangs, granny glasses, and imperious air, stood close behind her, having snuck up silently. She held a stack of folded linens and tipped her head to one side, eyeing her curiously.

  “Just exploring,” Elise said. She’d worked out that ahead, not half because that was exactly what she was doing. The other half was looking for the yummy Frenchie, Bruno. She pulled up all five-foot-two of herself and gave the caretaker full eye contact. “Jean, is it?”

  “Jinty,” the young woman said. “You can call me Miss Arbuckle if you prefer.”

  Elise punched her playfully on the shoulder, causing the caretaker to jump. “We’re pretty informal in America. Jinty then. That’s cute. Is it short for something?”

  “Janet. But don’t call me that.” She paused, frowning. “Is there something I can get for you?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes.” Elise smiled sweetly at the sourpuss. “Is it possible to get a glass of red wine? Nothing fancy. A claret perhaps?” She’d heard them order claret on public television.

  “There will be drinks before dinner.” Jinty checked the large grandfather clock ticking away in the hall. “In one hour. In the library.”

  “How formal,” Elise purred.

  “Mrs. Logan respects tradition.”

  The woman strode away in her sensible oxfords and dark dress, back ramrod straight, one hand on top of the pile of cloths. Elise almost laughed. Had she stumbled into a costume drama? Well, she decided right then to mix things up, make a little mischief, break a few rules. Mrs. Logan and her stupid schedule. Who was Mrs. Logan to her? She hadn’t signed any ‘Good Behavior’ paperwork. Mrs. Logan wasn’t her mother. The Bennett parents were staying in the big brick hotel, the Hydro, in the village. Out of sight, out of mind. Besides she was a grown woman, over 40, single, and free.

  Traveling overseas was a bit like going to an out-of-state convention. All bets were off. Out the window go those uptight constraints of the female lawyer: be polite, think before speaking, wear no mini, don’t speak too loudly, be subtle, join the right clubs, blah blah blah. She hated the lawyer lifestyle. It felt like a straight jacket, a carefully tailored and conservative Brooks Brothers one.

  Her sisters wouldn’t care if she caused a little mayhem. They never noticed anything she did.

  She felt the first charge of adventure when she’d met Bruno at the railway station in Edinburgh. He’d just flown in from Paris. They were the same height, that helped, and they peered a bit too long into each others’ eyes. After the train ride he offered to drive her up here and along the way he spoke in that delicious accent, much nicer than Pascal’s, and kept glancing lecherously at her legs. She was glad she’d worn the short skirt after all, even though it was so tight it kept riding up to her crotch.

  Andrew, whom she’d left behind in the US, rose up in her mind. He’d be knee deep in briefs by now, the work that she’d left behind. She hadn’t invited him to the wedding and it was obvious he expected to be invited. He’d get over it.

  They’d been dating for nearly a year; she liked him. It might be serious, it might not. She just didn’t want him to come. She wanted to be free, of everything, including good, stolid Andrew, who had already made partner in the firm while she had not. She would punish him a little for that. No, she would not think about Andrew all week. She’d earned her liberty, and a bit of naughtiness, after all that excruciating dieting.

  Her oldest sister getting married. Annie, who vowed she’d sooner burn another bra than writhe under a man’s legal thumb, had thrown all that out for a cute man in a kilt. She appeared to be serious. Big frigging destination wedding, with all her sisters as bridesmaids, country dancing, and bagpipes.

  Annie had always been more a mother to Elise than a sister. Elise was two when Annie left for college. Their relationship was not terribly close, not like Francie. But the five Bennett sisters were like their literary namesakes apparently, all looking for husbands. Except for Stasia who lived the Sadie-Sadie-Married-Lady dream. Husband, kids, a job at a fashion magazine, and a perfection streak: it was enough to make you puke sometimes.

  Stasia and her kids were probably swimming and hiking and horseback-riding, sneaking away from the family in the glorious anonymity of a big hotel. Elise was furious when the arrangements were announced. She’d be stuck in the countryside with her single sisters when she could be pub-crawling and kilt-lifting. But now she wondered if she hadn’t gotten the better deal: a fabulously creepy, isolated country estate with a million rooms, gloomy servants, and sheep. One big Victorian hide-and-seek. Finding out Bruno was staying here might have improved her outlook.

  Elise let out a giddy chuckle. She’d already snooped around one end of the house. She’d found one whole wing closed off, stripped of furniture, plus the vacant third floor servants’ quarters. Things might not be as grand as old lady Logan made out. At least the public areas were keeping up appearances, all gleaming wood and shiny crystal chandeliers.

  Now where was Bruno?

  She sniffed the kitchen air. That bread. Was it possible to gain weight between now and the wedding? She vowed to at least try to behave on that front.

  So many other possibilities for bad behavior awaited, many of them calorie-free.

  Jinty disappeared around the corner. Elise started opening doors off the main hall, poking her nose where it did not belong, picking up objets d’art, running her fingers over bookshelves, searching for dungeons and secret passages.

  Oh, this would be fun.

  * * *

  Pascal and Merle arrived a few minutes late to the cocktail hour in the library. A plump, disheveled woman who identified herself as the housekeeper had knocked on everyone’s door a half hour earlier. ‘The summoning,’ Merle called it. The ways of upper class British were a mystery to Pascal. He changed his shirt to be safe. In any case he was already undressed.

  Being with Merle again was like coming home. No matter where they met— France,
New York, or Scotland— their bodies remembered, relaxed, and rejoiced. Yes, he could say his body rejoiced at her touch. He wasn’t ashamed of the need he felt. It had been nearly six months since they’d been together. Six very dry months.

  Busy months at work. That was a blessing. He’d worked on a big investigation of grape importers who were selling their South American fruit to French wineries who then labelled it as a product of France. This time the grapes came through Italy. The mafioso were thick into it again. It was an old trick, not particularly cagey, but a big case. Lots of paperwork, plenty of court appearances. You had to keep a thumb on these gangsters who threatened the AOC system, the appellation d'origine contrôlée that made French products pure and original.

  He’d even been loaned out to the fromage task force for six weeks this winter. Cheese had the same problem as wine: fraudulent ingredients cheapening the distinction and the taste. They had brought down a ring of milk importers, cow’s milk labelled sheep and not from France at all but from Holland. A success. But he disliked the fromage people. They smelled.

  As they lay in the canopy bed, too small but douillet — cozy — he had held Merle close, stroking her hair. The thought came to him that he couldn’t keep doing this, spending months apart. She lived so far away, an ocean away. And yet, what could they do? Was he to give her up? Would she find a new beau, someone fat and ridiculous like her last man? He couldn’t bear the thought. But he also couldn’t afford to fly across the Atlantic to see her on a whim. Not on a policeman’s salary.

  A new job. Was that the solution? Could he work in America? Surely they had enough policemen. He couldn’t imagine starting over. He wasn’t a rookie, un bleu. He kissed the top of her head. He would think of something. He felt adrift. An unusual and uncomfortable state.