The Things We Said Today

by Lise McClendon

  “It’s not like you’re robbing the cradle. He’s past forty.”

  “I mean, so much younger than me,” Annie said quietly.

  “I thought you were past this. We talked about it last fall.”

  “I know. But I keep picturing him planning some grand adventure, to hike the Inca Trail or chase penguins in Antarctica while I’m wondering if they sell Depends in Patagonia. My old age is just going to be one humiliation after another.”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s a banker, Annie. He has office hands.”

  “You know what I mean. There will come a time when I have my hip replaced and he wants to go snowboarding or sky-diving or something.”

  “Honey. That happens to all of us, if we’re lucky enough to get old. Look at me. Harry never wanted to do any of that stuff, no mountain climbing or even a family vacation. There are worse things than letting your buff young lad go sky-diving by himself.”

  Annie winced. “I could be his mother!”

  “Stop this.” Merle stared at her sister. “What’s going on?”

  Annie took a deep breath and watched the rain on the hillside. She closed her eyes for a second. “I don’t know if I can do it. Make vows. Till death and all that.” She sighed. “I never wanted to get married.”

  “You just hadn’t met Callum.”

  “No, that’s not it. Remember Ben?” Merle shook her head. Annie gazed out the window. “Ben Walthers. I almost married him in law school. You don’t remember?”

  “No.” They must have kept it all hush-hush.

  “You must have been off at college.” She sighed again. “Ben was beautiful, probably still is. Tall, dark, and gorgeous. He was in love with me and I guess I loved him too. I told him I would marry him. We set a date.”

  “You set a date? You never told me this,” Merle said, incensed. “No one ever did. How could that be?”

  “We kept it quiet. I brought him home a couple times but we didn’t tell our parents about the engagement. I didn’t want a ring or anything. I don’t remember why exactly; it seemed more exciting to have this big secret, I guess. God, he was a romantic. Anyway, I broke it off. It wasn’t anything he did, really, he was a lovely man. The sex was great. He was crushed, I guess. He never spoke to me again. But I just couldn’t stomach being somebody’s wife. It just wasn’t me. After that I decided I would never get married. I’d have lots of boyfriends, and I did,” she said, grinning.

  “Lots,” Merle concurred.

  “Stay single, stay happy: that was my motto. It worked for me. That was who I was. Who I am.”

  “People change. You get older, you see the companionship you get from married life,” Merle said.

  Annie eyed her sharply. “Did you have that? Companionship? With Harry.”

  “There were good times.” A few. But she had a point.

  The conversation, Merle thought now in the library, had come to no conclusion. Annie had confessed her doubts and remained ambivalent. Had she talked to Callum? About the age difference thing but only that. He had reassured her that they would work all that out, that it would be fine.

  Merle thought it would be. But this whole “don’t see myself as a wife” line of thinking was worrisome. Not that the sisters would disagree. They’d all been shocked when carefree, wild-thing Annie got engaged. They were equally amazed to attend a weeklong ritual of exotic events in the vein of a destination wedding. Hideous dresses be damned.

  It shocked Merle that Annie had never told her about this beau, this Ben. She’d met lots of Annie’s boyfriends over the years but didn’t know she’d ever been engaged. Isn’t that something you would share with your sister? Did the others know? What other secrets were her sisters keeping from her?

  Pascal caught her eye. Merle smiled up at him. He was wearing new clothes he’d purchased in the village and had combed his hair straight back. He looked different. Refined almost, which was strange because she liked his roughness, his anti-establishment uniform of black t-shirt and jeans, hair wild, three-day beard. He stepped over to her and took her hand, pulling her to her feet.

  “Come. You must help me show these heathens the proper way to make a toast.”

  Francie, Rick, Oliver, and Willow were gathered in a circle. Willow, Stasia’s oldest, was tall and blond with a sheet of hair that fell to her waist. She was wearing something expensive, Merle thought, and looked lovely as always. Francie looked better now, looser and rosy after two cocktail parties. She snagged a couple glasses off the bar as Merle joined them, handing one glass to Pascal and keeping the other for herself. How much had Francie had to drink tonight? God only knew. At least she was smiling.

  “All right, are you ready?” Pascal asked. The teenagers — Willow was 20 now, in college — held out their glasses. Merle raised her eyebrows at Rick. Did Stasia know the children were drinking? Especially Oliver, he was only sixteen. Where was their mother? By the door, Stasia was putting on her coat. She was going back to the hotel with Jack and Bernie. Rick smiled at Merle, unconcerned about anything. Apparently everyone was grooving on the mellow tonight.

  They all raised their wine glasses, clinking.

  “Now, this is where it gets tricky,” Pascal instructed. “Make a toast, Merle. No, wait. While Merle is speaking, at the end of her toast, the glasses come together.” They clinked prematurely. “No, no, wait until the end. While you meet in the center look into the eyes of each person in the circle before you sip. Very important. Every person. Then only a small sip to seal the toast. No gulping, Oliver.”

  Pascal looked at her. “Now, Merle.”

  Elise pushed into the circle then, wearing a sleeveless black dress and stilettos, and pulling Bruno with her. “Hey, wait for us.” She giggled, cuddling close to her new favorite Frenchman. “You know what to do, don’t you, Bruno?”

  “Bien sûr, chérie,” he murmured, kissing her right in front of them, a short smooch but on the lips, no European air kiss.

  Pascal squinted menacingly at Bruno, then nodded at Merle to begin.

  “All right. Um. A toast to the end of rain and a sunny start with much love and luck for Annie and Callum and their life together.”

  “To Annie and Callum,” Pascal said, staring pointedly at each of them, holding Merle’s eye the longest, arm outstretched.

  With a long pause they each repeated bits of the toast, glasses chiming, eyes moving purposefully around the circle. Oliver blurted: “To the end of this weather bomb! Enough rain already!”

  Francie chuckled. “Rain, splain. Down the hatch!”

  10

  So you found a secret passage?” Bruno whispered. They were seated at the long table, candles glowing, sterling a-glitter. So many people, so many strangers.

  “In a sense. What is your foot doing? Settle down, you. My sisters are watching,” Elise whispered back, setting down her fork.

  “What did your sisters do to you today, chérie? Was it fun?”

  “Compared to what you did to me last night? It was work. Just trying to hold my tongue is excruciating. You wouldn’t believe how catty they are.”

  “All of them? Even Mademoiselle Annie, how do you say— the blushing bride?”

  “She barked at us about the dresses. They are absolutely disgusting. We will all look ridiculous.”

  “I’m sure you will look formidable.”

  “Not as formidable as I look naked.”

  “Hmmm. Do not speak of the naked while I am trying to eat. What is that d’Onscon character up to? He gives me evil glances.”

  “Pascal? He’s probably jealous. He’s used to being the only Frenchman in the room.”

  “Let’s start a story about him. A gossip. What shall we say? He is married and running around on his poor little French wife? That would be amusing.”

  “Uh, okay. Merle might not like it though.”

  “But it could be true. She should know.”

  “I think she does know. He’s divorced.”

  “Are you positive? The French
do not divorce. Maybe he has her secreted away in a petit château. She is under lock and key, given stale croissants and brown water. Let’s tell the servants. That maid who smells of drink in the morning. What is her name?”

  “Miss Petrie? She strikes me as a gossip.”

  “Perfect. I will tell her tonight. Right before I ravish you in the secret passage.”

  “But all I found was the wine cellar. It is brimming with bottles. Will that work?”

  “Oh, chérie. Ooh la la. It will be perfect.”

  11

  Late Wednesday

  Merle was in bed, listening to the thunder rumble and crash, when the storm front finally hit the Highlands with its full punch. The drenching rain they had been experiencing all day turned out to be just the opening act. She lay next to Pascal in the cramped bed, his body heat making her throw off the duvet, as the shutters began to flap against the stone walls. A burst of wind rattled the windowpanes and whistled through the latch.

  Their room faced north, the direction of the storm according to the housekeeper, Miss Petrie. “Call me Vanora,” she’d said last night as she exclaimed about the weather. The storm seemed to energize her. “This old place? We’ll be fine. These stone walls are rock solid,” she cackled at her own joke. The caretaker reminded Vanora she’d only worked here for a month. “How would you know?” Jinty asked.

  Merle went to the window. It was too dark to see much, with the rain pelting down. A puddle had formed on the sill as the wind forced drops through the frame. She could feel chill air on her face, a wet, briny mist. Was that the North Sea she was smelling?

  She crossed the room for a towel. As she mopped up the rainwater a crack of thunder sounded directly above the house simultaneous to a lightning strike near the outbuildings. A yellow flare shot up, popping and sparking three times then simmering out. An electrical line had been hit. Merle turned the knob on the bedside lamp: still working. She snapped it off again.

  Pascal snored on musically, oblivious, full of a delicious dinner and much drink. Merle tried to remember how much wine she’d had. She needed to keep an eye on Francie. One out-of-control drinker was enough in the family. And what about Elise? She and Bruno were awfully cozy, whispering to each other during dinner then slipping off for whatever. Stasia had left early, back to the Hydro with Jack and Bernadette, foregoing haddock. She was so good. Her children got giggly and Rick was in another world, floating somewhere. Had the dipping atmospheric pressure caused everyone’s cogs to loosen?

  Annie went to bed early, kissing Callum as he left to drive Rick and the kids back to the village in Bruno’s rental car. Were the bride and groom all right? Had they talked? Merle felt a disturbing thread of worry for her sister. This should be a wonderful, joyful week but it wasn’t turning out that way.

  The long dinner table seemed like a dream, the candelabra with white tapers, the bowls of bluebells, the sparkling crystal and gleaming silver. Mrs. Logan sat proudly at one end. She’d obviously pulled out all the stops for her younger son. Callum sat opposite her at the other end of the table, with Annie on his right. There were even place markers to show you where to sit. It had been awhile— or ever— since Merle had been to such a formal affair.

  Callum’s brother Hugh and his wife Davina sat in the center. No seat of honor for the married couple apparently. There appeared to be some clenching of jaws and hard glances when the brothers spoke at the cocktails before dinner. Maybe they didn’t have a close relationship. They lived so far apart. Merle knew she was lucky to live near her sisters and her parents and to have good relationships with all of them. Well, most of them. Families could be so awkward, so hard on each other.

  Had Hugh and Davina gone back to the hotel? She wondered why they weren’t staying here at Kincardie House. Surely Bruno could have stayed elsewhere, should have stayed somewhere else. It was awkward to be displacing all the owners. She remembered now, the chauffeur had driven Mrs. Logan, Hugh, and Davina back to the village.

  The wind raged on, battering the house with debris and lashing it with rain. Merle pulled on her robe and peeked out into the hallway. Annie’s room was dark and quiet. A light shone under Francie’s door. Merle knocked lightly. “Francie?” she whispered.

  No answer. Merle poked her head inside. Francie lay on her back, spread-eagle on top of the covers, fully dressed, mouth hanging open, eyes closed.

  Merle eased off her sister’s shoes, rearranged her legs, and pulled the covers over her. A bottle of whisky and a small glass, half full, sat on her bedside table along with reading glasses. Since when did Francie need reading glasses? Poor girl, she looked like a wreck. Her window rattled like gunfire. Merle stuck tissues in the crack until it quieted, pulled the curtains tight and turned out the light.

  In the hall light also shone from under Elise’s door. Again no answer. Elise’s room was empty— no big surprise. She must be with Bruno. Pascal suspected him of some sort of bad behavior. Seducing women at the very least. Poor Andrew. The lawyer had such cow eyes for the youngest Bennett sister. She would break his heart.

  In the dim hallway again, lamps high on the walls illuminating musty animal heads and photos of hunting parties, Merle considered her options. It was three a.m. She could wake up Annie and talk, but that hadn’t gone well. She needed her sleep. Merle could go back to bed, but the storm made her edgy. She could go make a cup of cocoa in the kitchen, if she dared.

  Tightening the robe’s sash Merle padded down the red carpet to the stairs. A lamp on the landing was off. She tried to turn it on but nothing happened. Was the power out in this part of the house? How was she going to heat her cocoa? Then she remembered the kitchen had a huge old Aga range, six or eight metal plates on the top that lifted up to reveal burners. Gas burners. She’d seen one in a fancy showroom in Connecticut. She hurried along, trailing a hand on the wall for reassurance in the dark.

  In the main entrance hall now, the thrill of adventure hit Merle. This was so like the book she was— not writing exactly— what was she doing? Outlining? Sketching? She’d spent a handful of happy weekends ruminating on it, reading old gothic novels, finding the bits she liked, deconstructing the plots. There was something so satisfying about a gothic novel, with its romantic elements not over-baked, its scary parts not too terrifying.

  Pausing to drink in the delicious atmosphere of thrashing weather so she could describe it later, Merle stood in the high-ceilinged entry, listening to the rain.

  Dearly beloved, it did rain in Scotland. No fooling around.

  The richness of the bluestone floor suggested dark secrets: she was writing in her head! Must stop. Then, as if to bring her back to reality, a flash lit the windows followed by a boom rattling the house. She popped into the library to look out the front windows and was horrified for a second. The electrical line was still live, arcing and dancing like a mechanical cobra in the empty gravel park. By its light she could see a large dark thing lying across the drive. A branch? Or something even bigger.

  This— what did Rick call it?— this weather bomb, it was crazy weather, whatever you called it. A black shutter pinwheeled by, then a roof tile, and another. She stepped back, pulling the heavy brocade curtains over the tall window. What if a slate tile came crashing through the glass? Someone should have latched the shutters. She ran back to the hallway leading to the kitchen.

  The big, greasy room had one window which let in no light, just crashing sounds. She felt on the wall for the light switch: nothing. The power was definitely out. Merle’s eyes had adjusted to the dark but she was unfamiliar with the layout. There was a big table in the center, she knew that. She stepped in, reaching for the edge of the worktable, inching her way around it by feel.

  Maybe she didn’t need cocoa. Maybe she could find the bar instead and drink whisky until morning. Her heart thudded with anxiety instead of excitement now. This storm was too real, a force of nature unlike anything she’d seen. She’d been in blizzards and thunderstorms but no hurricanes or tornados. Wind
was terrifying. What would happen? Would the roof be torn off? Would there be floods?

  She could sense the presence of the range, big and comforting like a mother, waiting in a corner. Touching it, she felt for knobs. The Aga radiated constant warmth but how did you turn the burners on? Where were the pans? Where was the refrigerator? Should she open it if the power was out?

  Oh, hell. This was ridiculous. There was no way she was going to find cocoa, let alone fill a pan with milk or find a cup in the dark.

  No cocoa for you, Merle Bennett. What a childish idea.

  Back in the entrance hall she stopped again on the big Oriental carpet to listen to the storm battering the house. A door slammed somewhere, letting in a whoosh of sound then silence again. Footsteps on stone floors.

  “Hello?” she called. “Who’s there?”

  A figured approached. “It’s Jinty. Who’s that?”

  “Merle Bennett. Are you all right? There’s no power. Do you have flashlights?”

  The caretaker wore a long green raincoat and her short brown hair was stringy, dripping onto her shoulders. “I left them here. Like a fool,” she muttered, shaking rain off her hands. “I am drookit.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Drookit. That’s the word for drenched around here. I barely got through the rain upright. The wind is fierce.”

  “Where is your room?” Of course the staff had rooms on the property. They were too far from town, and needed at odd hours. It was all so nineteenth century.

  “The women are in the converted chicken house in the back garden. It’s quite nice, better than it sounds. Killian and Gunni are above the old coach house. The coachmen’s space.”

  What a silly conversation to be having as Jinty left puddles on the carpet. “Is the power out over there? It was still on upstairs a minute ago.”

  “Nah. Gone. But dinna worry, we have a generator. It’s not the first time we lost power.”