The Things We Said Today

by Lise McClendon

  She heard a door slam downstairs. A moment later the hire car Callum had been driving all week pulled up to the new bridge and slowly rolled across the burn. The bridge was metal, solid as a rock, they told her. They were able to use the old footings, anchoring them with new metal pilings. The bridge had come prefabricated and was put in place within a day. The folding bridge had gone back to Aberdeen. Everything was back in order.

  She felt a slight guilt that Callum’s friends, the sisters and their families, were exiled to the Hydro. They could have come back, some of them. The fact that they wouldn’t just go home to America was an irritant. What did they mean by staying on and reminding the entire village of the disaster of all their plans?

  It had been just her and Callum at dinner last night. Mrs. MacKeegan made too much food, something Fiona was always lecturing her about. Waste was not a happy subject. But a perennial one with Cook. She’d been with Fiona for nearly thirty years and thought thin women were against God’s holy plan.

  Fiona walked down the stairs. It was nearly time for lunch and she wasn’t at all hungry. She would just pop in to the kitchen and tell Mrs. MacKeegan to skip the entire service since Callum had left. Where had he gone? She put a niggling little worry about her younger son out of her mind. Since he emigrated to America she had to do that. There was no other way to survive.

  Cook had a big pot of soup on the range and was peering into the steam when Fiona arrived.

  “I’ll not be eating luncheon, Mrs. MacKeegan. Callum has gone into town.”

  “Aye, mum. Just me and the boys then.”

  Staffing problems were on Cook’s mind since they’d lost both Vanora and Jinty. She’d brought it up twice already. She turned to check Mrs. Logan’s expression with a hopeful glance.

  “I’ve asked in the village,” Fiona said. “The job pays well. We’ll find someone to clean.”

  Mrs. MacKeegan’s eyebrows shot up. “And for caretaker? Sayin’ Jinty don’t come back?”

  “I’m working on it,” Fiona said, stiffening. They had a long relationship but she took issue with the woman telling her what needed to be done. “It’s not your concern.”

  “Pardon, mum, but it is. You say you’re having guests this weekend.”

  “Old friends. Killian can help.”

  “Ever seen him put linens on a bed? Serve dinner? Pour wine?” Cook smiled. “Naither me.” She tipped her head, as if deciding whether to speak. Of course she decided ‘yes.’ “There’s been some talk, mum, in the village. About Killian.”

  “Talk?”

  “You know that we had no petrol, none to be found, for the generator?” Mrs. Logan nodded. “But that tank behind the coach house was filled, wasn’t it, not three weeks ago. It was to prepare for the guests, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. What are you getting at?”

  “It was empty. So was all the other small carriers for petrol. Jinty found six or more in a pile behind the barn. All dry.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Killian Yarrow was seen in the village a week or two back, mum. Taking money and giving folks petrol, pouring it into their cans.”

  “Who saw this?”

  “I’m sorry to say it was me, mum. I was in the village getting supplies.”

  “And you didn’t tell me straight away?”

  “You was caught up in the weddin’, wasn’t you? We weren’t to ken about the thunder bomb, was we?”

  “Weather bomb,” Fiona corrected in a small voice. “No. You couldn’t know we’d need that petrol so soon. And thank you for telling me.”

  Fiona was turning to go when Mrs. MacKeegan said, “I’m a wee bit worried about ol’ Craiggie, mum. He seems to be doin’ poorly. Just sits there, starin’. I took him up some brekkie and he never touched his tea from last evenin’.”

  It seemed a miracle the man had survived the storm, or lived this long in general. Fiona didn’t like to be reminded about her obligation to Craigg. Her father had made him a promise, and her husband had made her keep it. The sight of his crippled, nearly broken body brought to mind Lyle, and bad times. Craigg had been a friend to Lyle, in his way, and took the boys in hand to help out. Still, they were hard memories, when their world fell apart. He was an irascible old heathen. It wasn’t fair that he still lived and Lyle had died so young. She’d never been able to forgive him for that.

  “Is that so?” Fiona said archly. “And what do you recommend?”

  “Oh, I dunno, mum. Needs might to gang to the doctor, if he would. I dinnae ken about doctors. Mebbe you could chap him up, get him to go.”

  Fiona glared at the broad back of the old woman who spun to face the soup pot, stirring a wooden spoon slowly. She willed the lady to turn back, to look her in the eye, so she could show her contempt for this idea in a glance. But Cook kept stirring, round and round, steam rising.

  * * *

  Fiona waited until four, when Callum returned from wherever he’d been, to check on Mr. Craigg. Her son looked a bit wind-blown, his hair askew, boots muddy, as if he’d been out walking in the hills. His color was good, ruddy, and she made no issue of his disappearance, just asked if he would go with her to Moss Cottage.

  They walked solemnly, in silence, as if the duty must be done. Needs must, she thought sourly as he rapped his knuckles on the rough old door. It had been years since she’d been this close to the cottage. The state of it appalled her— the peeling paint, the creeping mold, the missing shakes from the roof. Why had no one kept up on the maintenance? She must have a word with Gunni. It was his job to point out things that needed to be done if she wasn’t at home. Although, in truth, she’d never had a message like that from him in the three years he’d lived here. He was very attentive to the livestock, however.

  She had hoped Jinty Arbuckle would take on that task, living-in through the year as well. Fiona rarely got into the Highlands past October. That month was often busy with shooting parties and deer-stalkers. After the snows came she preferred the city.

  Her ankle had pulsed from an old sprain as she’d walked across the yard and up to the cottage. She wondered if Hugh and Davina would take good care of Kincardie House when she was gone. Callum would be in America, far away. Would this be her last summer in the hills? She took a deep breath and told herself to stop being ridiculous. She was not yet seventy-five. Still the years took their toll. Just look at Mr. Craigg. She remembered him so young and vital, walking the hills with his dogs.

  Callum was knocking again. He called out for the old man and tried the latch. The door creaked as it swung open.

  “Mr. Craigg?” Fiona said loudly. “It’s Callum and Fiona calling.”

  They stepped into the gloomy sitting room. It smelled of coffee and grease. There was his breakfast plate by the sink, still covered with a tea towel. She lifted a corner to confirm that the food was untouched.

  Callum went into the bedroom and returned. “He’s not here.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. Missing again? What is wrong with the man?” Fiona crossed her arms and frowned.

  “He’s probably around the yard somewhere,” Callum said, stepping back into the afternoon shadows. “I’ll take a look. You go back to the house, Mother.”

  Was everyone to give her orders now? She felt a flare of irritation at Callum, and at Craigg. Not to mention Mrs. MacKeegan who had sent her on this fool’s errand.

  “Let’s check the barn,” she said.

  Callum pushed back the heavy barn door to let sunshine into the space. They stood for a moment, allowing their eyes to adjust. Callum recovered first and began checking stalls.

  “Where was his pony? I thought it was here.” He pointed out the first stall.

  She stepped forward into a spot of sunshine coming through the roof. The storm damage was severe here. They would need an entirely new roof on the barn, she thought, calculating the costs with chagrin.

  Callum said, “Pascal moved her. That’s right. That’s why Mr. Craigg went out in the storm that night.
Because Pascal moved the pony to the back, out of the rain.”

  He walked to the far end of the barn and peered over the high gate. “Not here either.”

  “So that solves the mystery,” Fiona declared. “Mr. Craigg has taken his pony out for some air.”

  She waited outside while Callum latched the barn door again. He had a bit of worry on his brow. She decided to ignore it. If he wanted to get in a lather about the old man, well, she couldn’t stop him.

  They were walking back across the matted lawn when Callum said, “Annie is coming for dinner, Mother. Try to be pleasant.”

  She felt a little dagger to the breast. She ignored it, holding her head high. “Whatever do you mean? I am always courteous to your friends, Callum. Far more than pleasant.”

  He held the front door open for her, a wry look on his face that she didn’t recognize. It made the dagger twist a little. Her son, criticizing her demeanor, her manners. Laughing at her. How dare he? She clenched her jaw and squinted at him in a way she did when he was naughty as a boy. He didn’t seem to catch it.

  “You know what I mean, Mother,” he said. “As they say in America, play nice.”

  32

  France • Wednesday

  By the time Merle sat down at the rough-hewn farm table for a bowl of soup and fresh bread, she was so tired she could barely eat.

  She checked her watch for the time then remembered she’d left it on the nightstand at Pascal’s in the early morning. Dutiful that she was, Merle had gotten up at bird-chirp o’clock, before five as instructed. Pascal looked so comfortable, sleeping on his side. She lifted the sheet to see his naked ass one last time. He would leave early as well, he’d told her. His duffle bag for travel sat by the door. She stepped over it into the misty dawn.

  The sky was pink above the hill opposite Pascal’s. Yellow daisies grew next to the road, nodding with dew. The wind was still but held sweet scents of grasses as she passed the fruit trees blooming their guts out. Why didn’t she get up this early every morning? It was magical.

  She turned into Irene’s lane, the only sound her running shoes scraping on dry gravel. As soon as she arrived she was pressed into duty, sitting with a goat who seemed to be about to deliver. How they could tell she had no clue. Irene and her daughter scurried around, calling to each other in incomprehensible French, ducking into barns and sheds, jogging into fields.

  By ten a.m. two kids had been born, one in the pasture on her own and one in the barn with Merle and Louise helping Irene. Well, Louise did the helping, Merle just hung around, watching, running for things.

  Then, a little later, things got dicey. A maman was in trouble, off by herself in the pasture, struggling with her delivery. Irene sent Louise in the house for supplies and enlisted Merle to hold the nanny goat’s head and gently soothe her. Irene did some internal rearranging and they coaxed the mother through. Merle tried to avert her eyes from the sight of Irene’s arm disappearing up the business end of the birth canal but found she couldn’t. She was fascinated. New life, adorable, pint-size goats with tiny ears, struggling to stand on wobbly legs, latching on for sustenance: it was all too amazing. The definition of springtime. Printemps à la campagne.

  In the farmhouse kitchen Irene was slathering bread with fresh goat cheese, a splatter of mud smearing her cheek. Her eyes flashed with the morning’s success. She chattered to Louise who duly translated bits and pieces.

  “Mama is very happy as all three are females,” Louise said. “She will keep the best for the herd and get a good price for the other two. All three appear healthy.”

  Merle stared at her soup, carrots awash in broth, willing herself to pick up the spoon. Her arms ached. She’d helped carry a goat from the barn, a baby back to the barn, and a big bag of feed. It was a good ache, satisfying, but more of a workout than pushing papers around in Manhattan.

  “Mama asks if you enjoy yourself,” Louise said softly.

  Irene’s round cheeks were bright, her eyes glistened; she was trying not to laugh. Merle smiled at her. She couldn’t think of all the grammar and sputtered,“Trop de travail.” Much work. “But yes, I very much enjoyed myself. It was amazing, thank you. The babies, the wonder of new life. The care and love you give your animals. It is very impressive.”

  Louise smiled then, a rare event, and translated for her mother.

  “Merci beaucoup, madame,” Irene said.

  They sent Merle home with a crock of goat cheese and told her she could return in the evening to help feed the newborn kids if she desired. She tried not to hug Irene but failed, giving the woman as big a hug as her puny arms would allow.

  She shuffled back down the lane to Pascal’s cottage. Thank god they let her have a break. It would have been embarrassing to have to beg. Throwing herself on the bed, Merle kicked off her shoes and slept like a rock for two hours. When she woke the sun was slanting through the western windows, creating patterns on the walls.

  Her head was still fuzzy with sleep. She stared at the ceiling, seeing images from a dream that swirled in her mind: a French aristocrat in a fancy collar, a black-haired lady goat-herder, blue hair ribbons, a moonless night sky, feet running up the stone steps.

  How silly. She blinked, her thoughts crystalizing. Like those ridiculous gothics—

  Oh.

  The story came to her like a summer thunderstorm— sudden, loud, relentless. The stiff, buttoned-up baron, the comely peasant girl— but was she a peasant or an orphan? Was the word ‘comely’ used anymore? Details, details. Merle sat up in bed, a charge of electricity like lightning running down to her fingertips.

  Her heart was beating wildly. No Liaisons Dangereuses, no French farce, this story would be set in the countryside, high on a hill, in a remote château. The Dordogne? In winter, cold, bare branches on trees. Unhappy loners, tragedy, lost in their misery. Maybe a ferocious storm, a weather bomb, would hit, like in Scotland.

  Or. . .

  Out of bed, in a frenzy, she rifled through her bag for her notebook and a pen. In the kitchen she poured herself a large glass of rosé and sat at the small table.

  She opened her notebook, ripped out her to-do lists, and began to write.

  33

  On the TGV

  Pascal locked his car in the lot at the modern Avignon railway station, bought a ticket, and jumped onboard the last car of the high-speed train, the TGV. He’d torn across the coast on the A9 from Agde. Before he could find his seat the train pulled out, heading north to Paris.

  His assigned place was next to a young woman with a baby. On his seat the child was laid out, legs wiggling in the air. He kept walking through the car, looking for somewhere to land. As the train reached maximum speed he was tucked in next to an empty seat, by the window, in première class. He’d have to use his badge to remain but he had no worries. No more passengers would board. This was a direct route, no stops. Ah, French trains. They were the best.

  The light was fading from the flat, vineyard-filled Bouche de Rhône as they climbed higher into the Massif Central. The day had been long but productive. The team that came together in the small coastal town of Agde, full of holiday makers, sailboats, and sandy beaches, had worked hard. Two officers were already embedded undercover at the winery. The evidence of fraud, of switching native grapes with imported ones, was unmistakable. Not unexpected here on the Mediterranean coastline where boats could come and go with little oversight. A long-time smuggler’s haven, a backwater far removed from the chic resorts of the Côte d’Azur.

  But not far from the eyes of the Police Nationale. This particular winery had been under suspicion for a couple years, since their prices seemed too good to be true. Then they won a wine-tasting contest that brought them more publicity and the prices went up like a rocket. Good for business, bad for gangsters. The investigation would break in just a few days, with multiple arrests.

  At dinner Pascal received a reply on one of his inquiries about the other matter. His team was deep into their buckets of moules when
the email arrived on his mobile phone. Attached to the email from a friend in Paris was a newspaper article. Another one about Bruno Nordvilles-Moura. He clicked open the attachment.

  The screenshot appeared to be an article on a website of some sort. Something called Français Pour L’amour, or ‘French for Love.’ It was written in a slang sort of French that was used by young people and immigrants. And perhaps tourists. The article’s headline read ‘J'ai Dit Ne Pas le Faire’ or ‘I Said Don’t Do That!’

  He recognized the locale of the photo, the Tuileries, the famous gardens in central Paris. In the large fountain near l’Orangerie, where children often sailed colorful boats and office girls took in the sun, stood a woman up to her knees in water, drenched to the skin, dripping from her arms, her blue skirt, her hair. Her white blouse was nearly transparent, her black lingerie visible. Her hair covered much of her face, dark brown strings to her chin.

  The email from his colleague read: “Is that your man on the left, behind the green chair?”

  Pascal left the table on the outside patio and found a dark corner inside the restaurant. He squinted, enlarging the photograph on his tiny, ridiculous phone. Behind the green chair stood a man in a hat, laughing, one hand on the back of the chair. It looked like Bruno but it was hard to tell.

  He took a close look at each person in the photograph, school boys, couples, elderly women, before returning finally to the woman in the fountain. With a shock he realized it was Elise Bennett, Merle’s sister. That was her chin, with the dimple. And floating in the water was her yellow sac à main, a bright sunny handbag. He remembered it because it was quite expensive, an Hermès. Possibly a knock-off but recognizable all the same. He wanted to examine it in Scotland, check for authenticity, but never had the chance.