The Things We Said Today

by Lise McClendon

  In this dream she no longer had to wear heels or power suits or leave her son on his own in the evenings while she picked at exotic food with people she despised, all in the name of ‘development’ of relationships with high-powered lawyers who were as phony and two-faced as that famous lawyer joke, the one everyone was always telling her: “How do you know if a lawyer is lying? His lips are moving.”

  A couple weeks before the trip to Scotland for the Wedding That Would Not Behave, Merle and her boss at Legal Aid, Lillian Wachowski, took five male partners of a hyper-competitive, all-Harvard firm out to dinner at Per Se. Lillian said it had to be a top restaurant or they wouldn’t bother. They needed these high-powered types to give money to Legal Aid, to donate their time for pro bono work. They had to be as nice and as generous as they hoped the law partners would be.

  Somehow Lillian got a reservation. She knew people. Merle usually tried to get a female partner to attend as well, but it hadn’t worked out tonight.

  The men ordered lavishly— champagne, four bottles of wine, seven courses over four hours. Lillian, who was ten years older than Merle but sharp and relentless in every way, began to fade around the fifth course. She told them to have a great time and that Merle would pick up the tab, then slipped away to her nice warm bed on the Upper East side. (Lillian’s husband had made a fortune in the ‘80s on Wall Street and hadn’t worked a day since, unless watching your stocks was a job.)

  Despite having to cab to Grand Central, catch the last train, and drive home to catch a few winks before making the reverse trip before dawn, Merle had to stay. She clenched her teeth and told herself she’d done it before. She’d paced herself with the alcohol but the partner sitting next to her hadn’t. He kept throwing his arm around her shoulders and grinning down her dress. She would wriggle away and he would do it again. She made a point of checking her watch every ten minutes but nobody got the hint.

  Finally the restaurant had cleared out except for the six of them. She kept her cool, found the maître d’ to pay for the meal, not daring to look at the bottom line. Please add the appropriate service charge and call me a cab, she told the discreet young man. Then she found her coat and returned to the table.

  The partners were stretched back in their chairs, legs splayed, ties loosened, faces rosy, sated on fine wine and gourmet food. A couple of them looked pretty rough, including ‘Handy Dan,’ her seat mate. Somehow he lurched to his feet when she announced she had to catch a train.

  “It’s your lucky day! The LB is right downstairs,” he crowed.

  “The Luxury Barge,” a partner explained. “It’s famous.”

  “The stories that back seat could tell,” another cackled.

  Laughter, then someone must have seen her confusion. “The Bentley Mulsanne. How many are there?”

  “Not many can afford them,” Dan declared proudly. “Like riding on a cloud. My driver will take you to the station,” he said, pulling out his phone.

  Merle told him no. He insisted. She resisted. He insisted more. The back and forth with a man who rarely heard ‘no.’ Amusing if it wasn’t so annoying. The youngest partner, possibly sober, was watching all this.

  “Kindly ask Dan to cease and desist,” she said loudly.

  “He’s just being a gentleman, Merle,” said the young lawyer whose name was Mick or something. She squinted at him. “He’s worried about your safety.”

  “I called a cab.”

  “Then let me walk you down. Please,” said Dan who was getting squishy around the eyes now. He was the type of man who would hate her in the morning, no matter what happened between them.

  “All right, sure. You come too,” she told Mick. “Now please. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get my train.”

  She allowed Dan to take her elbow and point her into the elevator, as if she, not he, needed navigational guidance. He kept it there, massaging her arm, as they silently descended to Columbus Circle. He tried to get her into his car again on the sidewalk. Was she going to have to fight him off? She pulled her arm away and insisted again. Mick finally put his hand on Dan’s shoulder.

  “She’s got this,” Mick said. “Let’s go back up and have a cognac.”

  She found out the next day that the two partners were locked out of the elevator because of the late hour. No cognac after all, such a shame. Lillian didn’t ask what time the party broke up. She didn’t want to know.

  The firm made a generous donation to the pro bono fund, and pledged hundreds of hours by their very junior people to help out. Lillian was pleased. She bought Merle flowers. Her sister Francie was green with envy that she’d gotten to dine at such a magnificent food palace as Per Se. She wanted to know all the details.

  Merle couldn’t remember one thing she ate. Only the encounter with a slime-ball.

  But last night, in the outskirts of Toulouse, she ate the most amazing foie gras, and lamb shanks in orange, and a chocolate soufflé. She held Pascal’s hand as they shared airy morsels of deliciousness.

  She would never forget that meal.

  Pascal rolled toward her and draped his arm over her. She entwined her fingers with his and felt a deep calm. New York City was so far away. Could it stay that way? No, no thinking like that. Stay here. In the moment.

  He moved against her. “Shall I make coffee first?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Within an hour they had coffee, got dressed, and he had vanished in his old green BMW, off to meet his team in some village. He apologized, and kissed her plenty, but had to go. They didn’t make it back to bed.

  She nestled into an outdoor chair, a weather-beaten slatted thing with no paint. Pulling a blanket off the bed she wrapped herself in it for protection from splinters mostly, and sat in the shade, drinking coffee and watching birds in the garden and bees in the fruit trees. Once or twice (or a few times) she found herself making lists of what she could do today, then she pushed the thoughts away as treason.

  She looked for her cell phone. She’d left it inside. What was Annie doing today? She’d never gotten to talk to her about Callum again. His last answer— that happy smile— seemed like a good sign. But with Annie, who knew. Could she call Francie? Or Stasia? Would they know?

  Thoughts of her sisters passed through her mind like embers from a dying fire. Together the five of them were like a small bonfire: feeding off each other’s energy, burning bright, a center of energy. Now, apart, the coals were stirred and fire died down. Where was Elise, her mind asked, unwilling to let the heat go. Was that little twerp doing something bad to her? Was he stealing her money?

  The sun moved and lit her face. Enough. Today is just today.

  * * *

  Pascal returned at seven that evening, carrying bags of food. All cooked and prepped, he said as if she had expected him to cook for her. His presence, his arrival like this at the end of the day, returning to her, was the fulfillment of a silent promise. He would not forget to come back to her. He spread the feast on the outdoor table: a seafood pot-au-feu, baguette, haricots verts, a tart. And wine, a chilled rosé he remembered she liked.

  He looked like his day hadn’t gone as well as hers. The skin around his eyes was puffy and in the late sun she saw strands of gray in his hair. He looked tired. She felt guilty for her nap. She had spoken to no one, done nothing but read a novel, sleep, and walk around the orchard that surrounded the cottage. Visit the goats over the fence, pick wildflowers, sniff blossoms. It was a dreamy day.

  “You look rested,” he said, smiling.

  “I did nothing today. Zilch. Just like old times.” In the Dordogne they had practiced doing nothing, a venerable French tradition according to Pascal, that involved wine, food, occasional coffee, and the gentle buzz of bees in flowers. Nothing more.

  “Including— ?” He pointed to her t-shirt and mimed taking it off. “Au naturel?”

  They had done some nearly naked sunbathing in the walled garden. “I was waiting for you for that.” She checked the cloudless sky. “It looks like w
e’ll get another beautiful day.”

  He grinned but tweaked his shoulders as if they ached. “There is a new task. In the Languedoc. I am sorry.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Oui.”

  She waved a piece of bread. “You told me you had to work. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But I asked you to come to France and now— what will you do? I may be gone two or three days.”

  A buzzing in her ears reminded Merle she didn’t do well without a plan, a list, a bunch of chores at minimum. She needed to be busy like people needed to breathe. She frowned at the remains of her lovely dinner. What would she eat while he was gone? There was an old bicycle here but no car for her. How far was the village store, the café?

  His eyebrows were scrunched with worry. So she smiled. “What’s around here then? Is the village nearby?”

  “A kilometer, down the hill. Not far. There’s not much there, I’m afraid.” He ducked his head, checking her eyes. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? Maybe come with me?” She could imagine the welcome she’d get from officers in an undercover situation, or whatever their ‘task’ was.

  “I’ll be fine. I have two novels to read. If I get lonely I’ll talk to those cute goats next door.”

  He perked up. “Did you meet Irene? She tends the goats and makes the cheese?”

  “She makes goat cheese right there?”

  “Ah, oui. It is very intriguing. And not stinky, I promise.” He stood up. “Come. We will go meet Irene.”

  The cottage where Irene lived was hidden around the knob of the hill and down a lane lined with flowering trees in pink and white. Apples and plums, he said, as she exclaimed at their beauty, walking hand-in-hand down the drive. The evening was warm, the sky was turning golden, blushing like a baby.

  Irene was making dinner when they arrived at the low stuccoed house with at the orange tile roof, a classic French farmhouse with a sagging, low porch across the front. Pots of red geraniums sat on the steps. The smell of garlic exploded as her daughter, Louise, answered the door. She was petite, about 20, with long, brown hair and a shy demeanor. She ran quickly for her mother.

  “She must be home from university,” Pascal whispered. “I have only seen her once or twice in many years here.”

  Irene emerged, smiling broadly at Pascal and wiping her hands on her apron as she greeted them. He introduced Merle. The short, plump woman had a wide face and short blonde hair that ringed her head like a crown. She wore a plain blue dress and muddy rubber boots that seemed out of place in a kitchen. Her hands looked strong and capable. She exclaimed in rapid French to Pascal, something about long-time-no-see.

  Then she rattled off something to Merle. She blinked, hoping Irene spoke a little bit of English.

  “Merle est un américaine, madame,” Pascal explained. “Elle ne parle pas trop de français.”

  “Un peu,” Merle said, wincing. A little French but not fast enough. A pity. “C’est dommage.”

  Irene paid no attention to all that, smiling in a friendly manner, patting Merle’s arm, and continuing in rapid-fire French. Pascal replied, equally fast. They went on like that until Irene called for Louise to come out of the kitchen. That much Merle could understand.

  The young woman stepped back into the room. Her mother took her arm and pulled her forward, talking to her in a low, insistent tone.

  Louise blinked, nodding, although she looked slightly terrified. To Merle and Pascal she said, in halting English, “Welcome. My mother says that tomorrow the madame can help us with the— chèvrerie?”

  “The goats,” Pascal said.

  “We have six chèvres, the goat, the mamans, who will soon give the birth. One naissance, ah, birth, comes, came early today. Madame may help, if she wish,” Louise said, looking skeptically at Merle.

  Merle smoothed her spotless white slacks. Her fingernails were way too clean. Louise was looking at her own nails, chipped and dirty. She smelled sweet, like she had just taken a bath after a dirty day in the barn. She probably thought Merle was a — what was that Scottish word? — a toonser, a city slicker. And she’d be right.

  Pascal glanced at her, eyebrows jumping. A glint of amusement shone in his eyes, as he pictured her, no doubt, rolling in hay with nanny goats. He’d had his sheep moments in the Highlands. Was it her turn to wrestle furry beasts?

  “Oh,” Merle said. “Gosh. That would be amazing. I would love to help, if I can. I mean— je ne sais rien — I know nothing— about goats.”

  Irene waved her hands and laughed, chattering. Louise even smiled. “It’s okay. We will help. The mamans, they do the work most of the time.”

  “Okay.” Merle felt a little burst of usefulness. She would watch some baby goats— what did you call them? Kids. She would watch some kids being born. That would be something she didn’t get to see often, or ever. She would take photos for her sisters. They would be impressed, wouldn’t they? Or horrified. She was such a damn toonser.

  She smiled at Irene, nodding. “Merci. I’ll come over tomorrow— demain— then?”

  Irene chattered and Louise translated: “Mama says come early. At five o’clock if you are up. Things happen early on the goat farm.”

  31

  Scotland • Tuesday

  The crazy weather of the previous week had completely cleared, blown out to sea by a high pressure system that beamed sunshine down on the Highlands, making the world a steam bath of heather and wet leaves. Stasia stepped outside the Hydro, clutching her notebook, and was startled by the glare off the last of the puddles.

  “Crikey,” she muttered, having decided that nearly two weeks in Scotland was long enough to adopt some British phrases. “Bloody blinding.”

  She glanced around, hoping no one had heard her. No doubt she sounded ridiculous. The hotel valets had gone missing, off setting up cricket or croquet or something. Two horses came down the path from the barn, carrying children who looked frightened and delighted, as children often were. Hers were almost grown. Willow was so confident, with a boldness that astounded Stasia at times. She rarely showed fear any more, or delight, although Oliver could still be counted on for a shout-out for sporting events. He got that from Rick who would never cease being a boy about sports.

  She struck out for town, only a half mile or so, around the stables and the lawns, through streets lined with stone Victorian houses, their gardens bursting with flowers. Tulips and rhododendrons were everywhere. Bluebells completely covered some yards, splashes of brilliant indigo, and tiny pink flowers crept out of cracks in old walls. She paused to take a few photos for the magazine’s designers.

  She hadn’t had time to think much about work. She certainly didn’t miss her commute into the city every day, and long, boring meetings about contracts. Models and their agents— ugh. The fashion world seemed to attract the most self-absorbed, socially stunted people. Her magazine, Gamine, thrived on it.

  The business of her father’s health took up too much space to let her worry about the magazine. It would all be there when she returned. That was one of the delights, and hazards, of the law. It was dense, torturous, plodding at times, but if you went away it would still be there waiting for you, as complicated as when you left. But no one would die of a heart problem while you were on vacation.

  Jack Bennett seemed fine now, feisty and cracking jokes and enjoying the company of his daughters plus Oliver and Willow’s antics. He almost split a gut when Oliver put on his Scottish outfit. Oliver pranced around, flipping the kilt menacingly. It was a shame he hadn’t gotten to wear it the Wedding That Would Not Behave, as Merle called it, but there was no taking it back to the store now.

  They hadn’t seen much of Francie. She’d borrowed a car and gone off to Aberdeen on her own. Probably sticking her nose into the death of Vanora Petrie but Francie was oddly closed-mouthed about her activities. Her discretion only fed Stasia’s suspicions. Had she found a man in the city already? No, it had to be something with Vanora, and the girl who confessed. Franc
ie had been out to the Logan’s once at least.

  Annie had not been to Kincardie House. Callum had come into the village to see her though, and things were, well, promising. That was why this errand today was pressing. Stasia smiled to herself as she pressed her notebook to her chest, walking down the hill through the main part of the village and up the stairs to the seamstress’s studio.

  “Mrs. Begbie,” Stasia said as the seamstress waved her inside. “Good of you to meet me.”

  “Sorry to hear about the wedding,” the seamstress said, lips pinched.

  “Is the whole village talking about it?”

  Mrs. Begbie wagged her head. She did seem chagrinned at least. Probably because her outrageous, not-to-be-missed gowns, and her connection to the Logan family, wouldn’t be showcased.

  “You’re come to gather the dresses then? I’ll bring them out.”

  Stasia looked her in the eye, held out her notebook, and sat down on the floral banquette by the window. “Actually? Let’s chat, Mrs. Begbie. If you have a minute?”

  * * *

  Fiona Logan pushed aside the drapes at her bedroom window. The yard between the house and the old coach house was dry now but the grass was flattened and dead in places. The sunshine didn’t help the view, in her opinion. She’d never paid the natural world much attention but now the aftermath of the storm made it impossible to ignore.

  It was just as well the wedding hadn’t happened. Her guests due to arrive next weekend, friends from London who had cancelled their trip because of the storm, wouldn’t see how bad things had been. It would look like it was their fault the party didn’t go off, not her son’s. It was complicated in her mind. She loved Callum. She wanted to send him off in the best of style, as befitted a man of his class. But nothing— nothing had gone right.