The Things We Said Today

by Lise McClendon

  13

  Stasia left the kids with Rick in the café, eating breakfast and moaning about the weather. A rainstorm had to be the worst case scenario when traveling with teenagers. A rainstorm and underage drinking. Rick had confessed that Oliver and Willow had been allowed wine with dinner. One glass? Two, three? She had demanded, incensed that her husband could be so stupid. This would open the door to all sorts of problems back home. She didn’t worry so much about Willow. She was in college and made her own decisions. But from the look of Oliver this morning, dry mouth hanging open, bloodshot eyes, he’d had more than “a glass with dinner.”

  She would get into that with Rick later. Now she had to round up everyone she was responsible for: her parents, Mrs. Logan, even Hugh and Davina. She’d made a promise to Annie and Callum to keep an eye on the gang over here at the Hydro. Somebody had to be a grownup this week.

  The evening had been fun for exactly five minutes. Just getting Jack and Bernie into the car, the tense ride in the mud and rain, the color of Jack’s usually rosy, smiling face, the worried look in Bernie’s eye. They were so tired from the overseas flight. Unusually so, Stasia thought, but what did she know about the effects of jet lag on a 78-year-old body? Bernie said Jack was up in the night, sleepless, his rhythms out of whack. Well, join the party, Stasia thought, rubbing her eyes as she climbed the stairs to their room.

  Her mother answered the door, still in her robe. She waved Stasia in, face grave. “How are you this morning?” Stasia asked. Then she turned to her father.

  Jack Bennett sat propped in bed on pillows, head bent. He glanced up but said nothing.

  “He still feels bad,” Bernie said. “I think we have to see a doctor today.”

  A shot of alarm went through Stasia. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  Jack looked up again. “I’m just tired. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing,” Bernie said. “You had pain, you said.”

  “Where? Where did you have pain?” Stasia asked.

  He was noncommittal, or just stubborn. “It went away. No ambulance. I can walk for godssake.”

  “That’s not the point,” Stasia said. “We can get you to a doctor’s office here in a flash. I’ll find out who to call. I’ll go talk to the front desk people, they’re very nice.” She sat on the bed by her father. His hand was chilly. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, annoyed.

  “We’ll get dressed and come down,” Bernie said.

  Tripping down the carpeted stairs Stasia felt the shock again. Her father was ill, she could tell. And in a foreign country of all the luck. Was it something bad? Or just fatigue, weird food, and old age? Don’t sugarcoat it, Stace. It’s bad. You know it is.

  Catching her breath she entered the lobby at full speed and crashed into Callum, exiting the café. “Ooof, sorry.”

  He took her arm. “Good morning. Everything all right?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. My father isn’t doing well. We need to find a doctor.”

  He flinched. “This way. My mother will know who to call.”

  Back in the garden room café with its tall windows streaked with rain they wove through the tables. Fiona Logan sat with her pinched face and straight back, sipping tea with Hugh and Davina. Stasia gave her family a wave and kept moving toward the Logans.

  Quickly apprised of the situation, Mrs. Logan gave them the name of her local doctor, a generalist named Fergus. Stasia turned on her heel. Barking at the desk clerk that it was an emergency she demanded to be connected to Dr. Fergus. Within minutes she had an address, and an appointment. Such were her skills.

  The clerk called a taxi. Callum offered to drive them but Stasia reassured him there was no immediate urgency. Keeping the troops from overexcitement was one of her talents. It was amazing how calm she could be on the outside. By the time it arrived her parents would be downstairs, dressed, and ready.

  “Thank you, Callum,” she said, as he waited with her in the lobby. “Why are you here so early?”

  “I drove your family home last night in Bruno’s rental.” Callum smiled. “He doesn’t like driving on the ‘wrong’ side, he said. More likely he had other plans including staying dry. I didn’t blame him. So I volunteered.”

  “And you stayed over?”

  “The roads are a mess, especially out in the vale. Limbs down and so on. It was late so I slept on the sofa in my mother’s suite.” He glanced at the weather, still horrid. “I’m just about to head out and try to get back to Kincardie.”

  “That dirt road,” Stasia muttered, remembering crashing through muddy holes. “You have a Range Rover or something?”

  “Just the rental. But don’t worry, I’m Scottish. We’re not afraid of a little rain.” He pulled on his brown slicker and flipped up the hood. “Should I wait until the cab arrives? Oh, there it is. Good luck then. I hope your father feels better soon.”

  It was a few minutes before Jack and Bernie shuffled into the lobby. They were as slow as snails, Stasia thought, alarmed again. Her father looked so frail suddenly. Should she call Annie? She decided to wait until she knew something. Jack could just have food poisoning or the flu. She never thought she’d wish food poisoning on anyone. But the day had arrived.

  The valet held a large umbrella for them as they bundled into the cab. Stasia ran around to the far side, getting drenched. She didn’t even have her raincoat with her.

  * * *

  Annie sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her cell phone. She’d called Callum six times this morning with no luck. Now she wondered if she was actually getting service out here. Was it the storm? Or the roaming thing? She hated cell phones. But the telephone wires had also succumbed to the storm and without cell phones they had no contact at all.

  She found the stairwell to the third floor, a disused servant level now dusty and piled with mattresses, trunks, and moth-eaten rugs, and made her way over to the north side of the house. She stood in a cramped gable, next a small window.

  Maintenance was a little lax up here. A slab of plywood covered the lower half of the panes and rainwater dripped down the wall underneath it. A large puddle had formed on the floor, seeping into cracks in the floorboards.

  She called Callum again. By some miracle he answered.

  “Thank god, where are you?”

  “On the road to the house,” he said. “I’ve had to stop three times to move limbs off the road. What a disaster. So many trees will need to be cut down.” His voice was scratchy and full of static.

  “I’ll be quick: the bridge is out. The big oak tree fell across the drive and we don’t have power. The water is up over the banks, flooding the entire yard.”

  “What? Our Piney Burn?”

  “You’ll see it if you get that far. Maybe you should turn back to the Hydro. We have no power here anyway.”

  He swore then grunted as if he was lifting heavy objects. Then the car door slammed. “I’m coming. You stay dry and— ”

  The line went dead. “Callum?” Annie stared at her phone as it went black. She tried to turn it back on but it didn’t respond, sapped of all power.

  Great. She leaned into the cold window, watching her breath fog the old glass. The signs were all in place, if you believed in them. Water separated her from Callum. The two families were split: the suave Logans on one side, the yeoman lawyer Bennetts on the other. Her sisters were no comfort this week, full of their own worries, boyfriends, and shenanigans. Why had she thought this trip would be like last year’s, when they learned to help each other, to love harder, to see the good in one another? She felt like a fool.

  But it wasn’t her sisters’ fault. She was a fool. She’d agreed to a wedding in another country, frog-marched by her future mother-in-law who had clearly missed her calling in the military high command. Those bridesmaids dresses were really the last straw. How did she expect her sisters to wear those atrocities? She’d even picked out a dress for Bernie, Annie’s own mother, as if no one’s taste compa
red to hers. All week the woman had harangued Annie with “suggestions,” as if every tiny detail in the wedding was the most important thing in the entire world, even as a unseasonal storm of unprecedented proportions threatened to wipe out the North coast of Scotland.

  If only she liked Fiona Logan a bit more. Or, sadly, at all. They had nothing in common except Callum. Fiona was very upper-crusty, having inherited this estate and a stick up her ass from someone. Callum said from her father, a notorious snob. Fiona made her disapproval of Annie and her age only too clear even while smiling at everyone, giving over her lovely house, and spending lavishly. She was bossy and pretentious, full of unsolicited advice and executive decisions. Annie felt her only consolation was living on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. She had no doubt why Callum had emigrated.

  She closed her eyes against Fiona and the weather. She just wanted it all to be done and go home. They would be okay at home, wouldn’t they? The idea of being a wife, of ‘obeying’ and honoring and all, still rankled her. Would she ever feel comfortable in that role?

  How was the wedding to go on now? The rain showed no sign of letting up. The wind was down to a dull roar but the water was rising, coming through the old windows, wreaking havoc outside. Callum was stuck on the other side of the stream. She was stuck on this side.

  Should she do something about this puddle on the floor? Would it go through to the room below? She looked around for something to soak it up. She found an old tartan blanket with more holes than fabric and threw it over the wet spot. Good luck there, she thought morosely.

  We’ll need it.

  14

  Merle and Pascal left the warm comfort of the kitchen with their mugs of hot chocolate, slurping like children to keep from spilling on the journey to the library. The cook had kicked them out. She was making a lunch as best she could, she said, with no electricity: a soup and sandwich affair that she hadn’t planned on. She fretted about the extra mouths to feed. No one had told her about Bruno, it appeared.

  The caretaker, Jinty, hovered nearby, soothing nerves. But when Cook complained about Bruno she bristled. “One more bowl of soup, Mrs. MacKeegan. It’s not like an army. He won’t upset your menu plan.”

  “Menu plan? Ha.” Cook waved a ladle at Jinty. “There was no plan for lunch or dinner today. What am I to do? Perhaps you’d like to do the menus, girlie.”

  Jinty stiffened. “Do not call me that, Mrs. MacKeegan. You may call me Jinty or Miss Arbuckle. But not ‘girlie,’” she hissed.

  “Aren’t you the giddy limit?” Cook replied. “Maybe you’re not cut out for the job.”

  The housekeeper, Vanora, appeared with a tray of breakfast dishes, dropping them with a clatter into the sink. Mrs. MacKeegan and Jinty both started in on her, ragging about the noise and the breakage and her lack of a gentle touch. Vanora turned to them, spying Merle and Pascal as well, and put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, then, do the wash-up yourselves,” she said and left the kitchen.

  “That’s just perfect,” Jinty said. “I have to find petrol.”

  Mrs. MacKeegan turned back to her soup pot. “Go find that bloody sheep-shagger. We need help more than the sheep do.”

  Pascal piped up. “You need gasoline for the generator? You found it then?”

  “Aye, I found it. But no petrol. Gunni says they had a tank for it, for the farm equipment but it’s empty. Things aren’t quite —” She turned back to Cook. “He’s no good at housework. He’d break all the dishes.”

  Merle and Pascal left them arguing about who was to wash dishes as Mrs. MacKeegan gave them a glare and a wave of the hand. They escaped to the library, mugs in hand. They sat in soft leather chairs and stared out the big front window at the rain.

  “Seems to be slowing,” Merle observed. She got up again and peered at the sky. “I think I see a clear patch of blue.”

  “If only one of the autos was still here,” Pascal said. “We could siphon gasoline.”

  “I should go do the stupid dishes,” Merle said.

  “After lunch,” he said, “we will do them together.”

  “The staff doesn’t seem too friendly with each other.”

  “The storm has put a wrinkle into everyone’s week.” He peered at her over his mug. “Did you see the little Napoleon when you were upstairs?”

  She shook her head. “Did you find out anything about him?”

  He motioned for her to sit next to him. “He has a record of crime, at least one félonie. Fraud, unspecified, and named in a scandal with a married woman.”

  “What a surprise. Anything else?”

  “Results are slow on my petit blackberry. Is your mobile faster?”

  “I doubt it. I only have one bar.”

  Pascal frowned at his phone. “Ah. I have an email now from one of my colleagues. Bruno Nordvilles-Moura was convicted of fraud four years ago. He conspired with a winery to sell mislabelled bottles. Spent two months in jail.”

  “So that’s where he got his money.”

  “Perhaps. But he is as he appears, an elite. He is said to be descended from an illegitimate son of the duc d’Orleans in the time of le Roi-Soleil, the Sun King. Louis Quatorze.”

  “That’s going back a ways.”

  “It is no doubt just a tale. Who is going to bother with that investigation? But he has money, and important friends. My colleague said he is often in the Paris newspapers with young women and old, at film premieres and the opera.”

  Merle turned on her phone and googled his name. Several links to newspaper articles came up. One had a photograph of Bruno in a tuxedo, with a shiny, scantily clad woman. “Who is this?” She held up her phone for Pascal.

  “Sophie somebody. Film star.” He worked his phone as well. “This thing is so slow. Ah, there. I will translate for you.” He began to read from the small screen. “When authorities shut down the operation in la Vallée de la Loire no documents or financial records were found. The National Police believe the bogus winemaking system brought in millions of Euros but as of yet they have not found the money. The winemakers, brothers Pierre and Antoine Cheval-Royal, deny they made money and have filed for protection under bankruptcy statutes. They remain in prison. The investigation into the ill-gotten gains continues.”

  “What was Bruno’s role?”

  He scanned the article. “He acted as agent, like a distributor, placing the wines in restaurants and shops. He took a portion of each sale. The bottles held wine from South American grapes. I remember this case now. Bruno went to university with them, I believe. The brothers didn’t look like con men. But you never know.”

  “Do you think Bruno has the money?”

  “They have looked through his accounts and found nothing they could trace to the operation. But he may be hiding it somewhere.”

  A noise at the door made them both look up. Bruno and Elise stood in the doorway, arm-in-arm, smiling menacingly.

  “We are all wondering,” Bruno said with a sneer as only the French could master. “What is it about me that you find so fascinating, d’Onscon? Not that I blame you. It often happens as if by magic spell when confronted with such elegance of person, the grace of the well-born, the highly educated. You admire me, naturally. Perhaps you are in love with me? It has happened to many a poor young lad. But sadly for you that paradise you seek is not to be.” He threaded his arm through Elise’s and squeezed her hand, completely smug.

  Merle froze, feeling the adrenaline in her veins. She wanted to slap the insolent dwarf. She wanted to tear his hand off her sister.

  But Elise, calm and seemingly delighted, gave Bruno a congratulatory smirk. How could she like this jerk? Nasty little perv.

  Pascal glared at the short man, gripping his phone so tightly his fingers turned white. Redness crept up his neck and muscles pulsed in his jaw. Merle was fascinated even as she felt the charge to action herself, the hate in the attack. She’d never seen Pascal really angry. It would be amusing to watch him pound the little man into
foie gras. Satisfying even. But not very polite guest behavior. Annie would give them hell. What would Callum say? Or that uptight Mrs. Logan? Maybe outside in the mud? No, not today if she could help it. There were enough problems.

  She cleared her throat and stood up. “Lunch will be ready soon.” Food would make them all feel better. She glanced down at Pascal, still fuming, elbows on his knees as if ready to lunge, turning his phone over in his big hands.

  “Is it true?” Elise asked brightly, as if insults hadn’t been flying. “The bridge is out and we’re cut off from civilization?”

  “And stuck with each other for the duration,” Merle said. “So maybe we should try to get along?”

  Pascal jumped to his feet. Merle flinched but he didn’t move forward. He wore his usual black jeans and t-shirt, biceps on full display. Little Bruno took a step backwards, his bravado crumbling. He wore a wool jacket with patches, gray flannel trousers, and shiny little oxfords. He looked very twee, as the Brits say, fragile and childlike next to the Gallic hot-head.

  “When hell freezes over,” Pascal growled.

  15

  Thursday afternoon

  Stasia sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s tiny office, three chairs and some ancient magazines. The place smelled rank, of mildew and pickles and rubbing alcohol. Her parents had been in with the doctor for forty-five minutes. Was this a good sign or bad? She had no idea.

  She was going a little stir crazy in this tiny room with its ancient rose-patterned wallpaper and dirty carpet. She pulled out her cell phone and called Annie. Even without medical news she wanted to talk to her sister. She seemed strange yesterday. Her speech at the seamstress shop about the dresses and how they shouldn’t ruin the week for her had sounded a little off-key. She looked lovely in her wedding dress, all the sisters said so, but she seemed to take little pleasure from it. Stasia had never met a bride who wasn’t a bit giddy about the dress.