Blackbird Fly (25 page)

Leading them outside she pointed out the intricately
pruned vines and the grapes hanging under their leaves. She
explained about the concept of
terroir
, one of the things
she’d read up on and found most interesting about winemaking, the
way everything worked together to make wine. She scooped up a
handful of reddish soil for the tourists. Earth, sun, rain, clouds,
hills — just like Annie’s prayer flags, this
terroir
business. Very karmic, grapes. The day was cooler than it had been,
with clouds, but still the soil felt warm to the touch, its rocky
base holding heat through the evening to release it in the cool
night air, keeping the vines toasty and coddled.

She showed them the barn-like chai where the oak
barrels aged the wine. They were happy as she filled their glasses
in the tasting room. She was exhausted; she hadn’t spoken this much
or this loudly in months. She had sweated through her blouse and
underwear, feeling the slick rubbing of her thighs.

Odile split the cash and thanked her with a nod. The
tourists had bought several jugs of wine. The money couldn’t have
made a big difference to the winery. A hundred euros was nothing
for a big operation like this.

Anthony Simms leaned against a small white Peugeot in
the parking lot, his arms crossed on his chest, trying to look
nonchalant. His brown-going-gray hair was parted too far to one
side and his shirt collar was frayed. The tour hadn’t improved his
looks but he did, after all, have a car. When he saw her he
smoothed his shirtfront like an anxious suitor.

“
I want to apologize,” he began.
“For taking time away from your tour. Occupational hazard when you
vacation alone. Latching on to attractive women for
company.”

“
That can be dangerous.”

“
Very.” He smiled guiltily. Or maybe
he thought sexily. “If you would let me take you to coffee to make
it right? Unless your husband would object.”

Thinner than she’d first thought, he was not as old
either. That hair had to be a rug. So he was bald. Maybe he was
ill, on chemo? Was that why he was on a prescribed holiday? She
chided herself for being so judgmental.

“
He might if he was still alive. He
died this spring.” Still strange to say, but better. Getting better
all the time, as John and Paul would say. She had been playing the
Beatles full blast while she painted, singing whenever the mood hit
her, which was surprisingly often. So smart of Annie to think of
sending the CDs with her. Those old songs made her feel young
again.

Anthony winced as if she’d punched him in the guts.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I do know how it is. My mother passed away
only a month ago. I don’t know why it hit me so hard.”

“
I’m sorry. Was she
elderly?”

“
Quite. A blessing, I guess. But
still.” He looked off, biting his lip. A little dramatic, she
thought. “Can we commiserate over dinner then? It would be so
pleasant to have your company. And I might — I don’t know, help in
some way?”

Assessing her frame of mind, she thought not. She
wasn’t in the mood for moping, or sharing death stories with this
odd person, this stranger. But the sun had come out. The afternoon
was hot and sticky and her feet hurt. “I could use a ride back into
town.”

Simms brightened, springing into action, opening the
door of his little rental car. The air conditioning felt luscious
and her feet cooled. He babbled about his vacation, some caves
nearby with prehistoric drawings of bison, his brave old mum, his
friends who urged him to get away from England after he had spent a
week sifting through eighty years of belongings.

“
That week almost killed me,” he
said. “What do you do with your mother’s girdles, for
godssake?”

Ick
. A musty bachelor, devoted to old mumsy
and her undergarments. So why was he interested in women? She
glanced at him. Harder to tell with Europeans. “Where do you live,
Anthony?”

“
In London, rather north. Do you
know London?”

“
Um, no. Turn right here.” She
pointed at her street.

“
Can I make a reservation for dinner
then? There’s a delightful bistro a block the other side of the
plaza.”

Someone was sitting on her step. “At the end on the
left. You can turn around.” He pulled the car into a U-turn at the
crumbling wall and stopped. Pascal looked up.

“
I’m sorry. I appreciate the ride.
But I have a workman here.”

He squinted at Pascal, annoyed. “Well, I know where
you live. Maybe another time? You’re all right then?”

She stepped out. Anthony waited a few beats before
driving away, as if he might have to jump out and defend her
honor.

But Pascal only stood up and stretched.
“
Bonjour
, Merle.”

She moved around him to unlock the door’s shutters,
then the door. France was like Fort Knox, or Brooklyn. She arched
an eyebrow at him. He wore clean jeans and another black t-shirt,
his usual attire. His nose was sunburned. “Are you here to finish
the roof?”

“
I got called away to another job —
”

“
You don’t have to explain. No one
else does.”

The air in the front room rushed out, cool and
soothing. She threw her bag on the oak table and kicked off her
shoes. She wasn’t used to wearing dress shoes, or walking a mile on
poor roads. This morning she’d had to jump into the ditch when a
truck carrying chickens passed so close his side mirror might have
knocked her flat.

“
You look different.” Pascal was
standing at the door, looking out.

She touched the back of her hair, feeling foolish
now. She was still the same person, cut or dye or not. She had
wondered if he’d notice, and he had. Stop the presses.

“
You’ve missed Tristan. He went to
camp, back in the States.”

Why hadn’t Pascal called Albert to tell her he
wouldn’t be working? Was that so difficult? She realized she was
angry at his neglect of her house — or his rudeness— and tried to
take a deep breath and relax. She didn’t want to be angry any more,
at herself or anyone.

“
Will he be back?” He sat down
across the table from her.

“
In a couple weeks, with my
sister.”

“
One of the Charlie’s
Angels?”

“
The oldest. Annie.”

He worked his nails, more solemn than she remembered.
She felt the slats of the chair on her damp back. The little clock
on the mantle ticked off the minutes. She stared at him, at his
dark curls. He didn’t look up, just sitting there in silence as if
waiting for her to do something, to say something. But what? What
did she want from him? She got up and got herself a glass of cold
water from the refrigerator.

“
Have you heard any more about the
murder?” she asked.

“
I’ve been — out of
town.”

“
I was wondering. Do you think
Justine Labelle was her real name?”

He frowned as if he’d been thinking about something
important and she’d barged into his thoughts. “Why do you say
that?”

“
I got three numbers for a Justine
LaBelle in Bordeaux. At all three she was the same child, now four
years old, and no relation to the sixty-something prostitute. So
who was the squatter? The Inspector said she was from Bordeaux, but
not recently. Did she have a connection here? She thought she knew
Harry’s mother.”

He was listening hard, but tipped his head up.
“Harry?”

“
My husband. He was born in this
house.” She looked up at the water-stained ceiling and said, for no
reason she could think of later, “He died in the spring.” She was
saying it today, over and over.
He died. He was dead.
If you
said it enough, it sunk in.
In the spring:
as if that was
ironic, to die at a time of rebirth.

He caught her eye until she looked away, embarrassed.
“I did not know about your husband. I’m sorry for your loss.” His
eyes flicked down to her shirt sticking to her chest.

The quiet of the house surrounded her, a deep,
intimate sound, like the breathing of a child in sleep. Pascal
filled the house spaces, just being here made it seem like a real
house, not a idiotic remodeling project. He sat, forearms on the
table like she would serve him food, like he wanted to stay. The
moment was soft, almost languid. She watched him breathe with the
house, his chest rising and falling under the black t-shirt.
Breathing for the house, keeping it alive.

“
Are you back then to work on the
roof? From visiting your wife or wherever?”

He smiled. “I have not seen my wife for many
years.”

Christ.
She felt her color rise in her neck.
Why had she said that? “I’m sorry, I had no right to —”

“
Divorced, we are. She lives in
Paris now. And yes, I am back to work on the roof.
Bien
sûr
.”

Of course he was. He wasn’t there to give her a
sponge bath.
Stupid widow
. She picked up her shoes. “I need
that roof finished so I can get the big bedroom done. It’s the only
room that’s not been painted.”

He stood up and stepped in front of her, blocking her
way to the stairs, looking over her shoulder into the kitchen as if
admiring the leafy green she’d painted there. “You’ve been
busy.”

He stood close enough that she could feel the heat
rise off him, smell garlic, sweat, olive oil. Sweat was running
down her back again. She wanted to touch his hair, his shoulder,
his hip.

“
You — um, you know where the ladder
is?”

In her bedroom she sunk back onto the bed and looked
at the ceiling. The shutters were closed against the sun but she
could hear the ladder’s rattle as he raised it.

She took five deep breaths, holding them for five
beats as Annie had taught her. She used to do this before court or
whenever she had to make a presentation. It calmed her. How old was
he — thirty-five, forty? Maybe he was only thirty, but she doubted
it. He had a few small wrinkles around his eyes, and a face
weathered by summer sun.

She tried to picture herself cockeyed and reckless,
seducing him. It didn’t work, just like Harry’s forgiving words
didn’t work. Seduction: that was someone else, someone younger,
someone who understood the world a whole lot better than Merle
Bennett did. Someone who lived in the moment and didn’t give a shit
about the future.

She took off her skirt and blouse, underpants and
bra, and changed into shorts and a t-shirt. Outside she ran warm
water into the tub from the cistern, squirted in some liquid soap,
and washed the clothes. With a quick rinse and a squeeze they were
ready for the line. What would her mother say if she saw her
washing clothes in a metal tub and hanging laundry on the line, her
panties blowing in the breeze while a Frenchman stared down from
the roof? Dear stiff-necked Bernie, who’d passed on most of her
straight-laced qualities to her middle daughter.

She’d worn black lace underwear today, purchased in
the back of the only clothing store in town. Now the little panties
— very small in fact — swung happily, frisky things, on the line.
On the roof Pascal was putting the last tiles in place. She went
inside and took a shower in the new stall and let the hot water run
on her back.

By the time she was dressed she was in possession of
her mind again. She was under village-arrest, her passport
confiscated. She was just trying to hang on for the ride, as Harry
always advised.
Don’t get nervous, hold onto the reins and stay
the course.
Why she still listened to that chubby, philandering
squanderer of fortunes was an issue she couldn’t get into right
now. She had a house to finish and a life to put back together.

With a salad with goat cheese and bread and olives
she ate in front of the cold fireplace, making lists in her mind.
She wanted to go back to the parish records for another look. She
had missed something there. She wanted to talk to the inspector
again, get Justine and Sister Evangeline’s real names, track them
down wherever they’d been. She wanted to find out if he’d learned
anything himself, since he was supposed to be investigating. She
wanted to know who the bones belonged to.

She could hear Paul McCartney with his sweet, teenage
voice: “Your day breaks, your mind aches.”

Every –
bite
– thing –
chew
– will –
swallow
– be –
sip
– all –
bite
– right.

As the nighthawks circled high on the thermals, she
went outside to take down her clothes. On the back doorstep was a
note under a rock. Ignoring it she locked the gate and took the
clothes off the line. She folded the underclothes carefully, put
the skirt and blouse on hangers, and hung them over the doorframe.
Before she read the note she poured herself a glass of wine,
Gagillac’s red table wine from the gallon jug. She took a long
drink of it (the hell with swish and swirl) and compared it —
unfavorably — with the magical Pétrus.

“
I have finished the exterior of the
roof. Tomorrow I will

come with supplies to finish the ceiling upstairs.
Pascal d’Onscon.”

So formal, his full name, in case she had other
Pascals in the wings. What did she expect — sonnets? In weeks,
maybe less, the repairs would be complete and she would put the
house on the market. If it didn’t sell, she would rent it for the
winter. She would never come back.

This should have made her sleep soundly, the
knowledge that things would be done, her tasks accomplished, her
name cleared. But she watched the moon rise in the east, almost
full, and shine onto the bed linens. She didn’t want the summer to
end. She wanted it to go on, full of flowers, wine, olives, and —
possibility
. Yes, possibility, that thing she was so afraid
of. Now she hungered for it, she lived for it. She rolled onto her
stomach and put the pillow over her head.