Blackbird Fly (32 page)

“
Just in case there is a heaven we
go on a trip tomorrow. We drive to Provence or Biarritz, or
somewhere you’ve never been.”

This was progressing pretty quickly. One drunken kiss
and they were off on a trip together. She smiled, a little wary
even as she felt — or because of — a rush of desire for him.

“
I can’t.”

“
You work too hard. Do you take a
day off and enjoy yourself?”

“
I’m confined to the village,
remember? Besides there’s too much to do.” Time off made her
anxious. She needed progress. It didn’t escape her that having true
free time made her more nervous than a romp with a fine, young
Frenchman. She told her family this was a vacation but it
definitely was not. It was work, getting the old place in shape.
She needed to check things off her list.

“
I have company coming, Tristan and
my sister. Tuesday evening.”

“
This is Friday. That’s three,
almost four days.”

And she knew that. Was her calendar back? It was
depressing to think so. “Where would we go? I mean, if the
inspector let me go.”

“
Anywhere. But I see a problem.
Between us we have no car.”

In her mind she saw the shutters closed, the house
empty. Vulnerable.
No
. The wine. She couldn’t leave it.
Strange how attached she had gotten to her basement treasure. Two
or three days with the house unattended? It gave her chills.

“
What if —” She put her hand on his
now. He turned his palm up and grasped her fingers. “We decide in
the morning.”

She woke in the night, wrapped in the sheets. He had
grunted when her cast rubbed his ribs. Rolling toward him, she
propped herself on pillows and stared at his profile against
moonlight, the pointed chin, the straight nose, the muscular
shoulders. Her body didn’t feel old anymore. He made her feel the
way Harry had twenty years before, a feeling she’d forgotten, of
hunger and contentment.

They had almost run home in the starlight. Whatever
had made her cautious in the restaurant had evaporated with the
twilight by the time they reached rue de Poitiers. He had kissed
her neck as she climbed the stairs, and moved on quickly as they
reached the bedroom.

He smelled of garlic, and wine, and sex. She ran her
fingers through the thicket of hair on his chest and his eyes
opened. She had wanted to touch him, and now she couldn’t stop. She
felt grateful more than anything. She wasn’t the cold-hearted bitch
she imagined she was, no —
had been
with Harry. Whatever
she’d been, that was in the past, the other Merle who forgot how to
feel, how to love. Pascal had found, then revived, something in her
that had withered, hardened, and almost died. Always, always she
would be grateful to him for that.

He pulled her on top of him, warm and strong. With
her face in his capable hands he whispered, “What are you doing, my
little blackbird?”

Chapter 32

The night was dark and full of stars when Hugh Rogers
tapped on the door. The smell of sweet florals scented the air. The
house served its purpose, imposing with a blue mansard roof, the
sort of grandiosity you would expect from a village mayor. The glow
of window light spilling onto the carefully raked gravel path. The
wisteria, past its prime, hung limp on the wrought iron fence while
the clematis crept over the arched gate. The walk was lined with
rows of small flowers in white and orange, militaristic in their
precision.

A servant answered, an elderly man in a pinching navy
uniform. Rogers gave his name and was admitted to the salon. A
squat brass lamp illuminated a circle of light near a threadbare
needlepoint chair. He preferred to stand.

Redier entered the room wearing a blue cotton
dressing gown over his trousers and undershirt. He looked annoyed.
Rogers shook his hand politely. The mayor stuck both hands in the
pockets of the thin gown, fists balled. Like his house he was tall
and pompous, his gray hair in place and a pair of rimless glasses
perched on his nose.

“
We need to discuss payment,” Redier
said. Hugh had expected as much. It always came down to money. “I
am taking all the risks. My office, the
gendarmerie
, all
will be scrutinized when this is over. You will disappear but I
will stay to face the music, as you say.”

“
You said you could handle the
scrutiny.”

“
Of course. But —” The mayor walked
to the cold fireplace and placed a hand on the mantel. An ornate
clock whirled behind its glass case. “I have both keys. One to the
house, one to the gate. What will you pay for them?”

“
She changed the locks, you
said.”

“
The new key, that is the one I
have. The locksmith gave it to me in exchange for help with his
taxes. There is always a way a mayor can help his
populace.”

“
Bloody patriotic of you. But this
concerns me how?”

“
You need the keys. You
—”

“
But there you’re laboring under a
falsehood. I can get into that house any time I want, without your
keys.”

The mayor glared at him under bushy white eyebrows,
as if the force of his will could move mountains. “You cannot.”

“
Oh yes. In fact I don’t need your
help at all.”

“
We have a deal, Mr. Rogers. On your
honor, you will change nothing.” The mayor reddened, angry. “You
know how we got the gate key? From her, from Justine! One of the
men — he was rough, he frightened her but it had to be done. Now we
are complicit.”

“
Ah, the merry band of frog
bunglers. Very subtle, tossing her off the cliff. And so now we
have the inspector to deal with, complicating matters. If only you
people had showed a little finesse.”

The mayor stomped over to him and stared down his
nose. “Do not lecture me on finesse, Mr. Rogers. The French
invented it. ”

Hugh couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Yes, I see. And
tact as well.”

“
You were to be done a week ago. You
must finish and go,” the mayor sputtered.

“
Right. So the deal is 80/20, take
it or leave it. I don’t need your filthy key. All I need is for you
to keep the inspector out of the way. It’s taking a bit longer
since you allowed the American to move in. I can’t very well barge
in, now can I?”

“
The inspector thought it was a fine
idea. I had no choice.”

“
Then give the inspector the name of
your man who did the deed. That will clear the American and she
will go home. Then we wouldn’t even need my little diversion,
although God knows it’ll be a doozy.”

The mayor shook his head. “I cannot do that.”

“
So we see where your loyalties lie.
No doubt it’s your idiot nephew you’re shielding. Well, you’ve made
your choice. Just don’t get in my way, old boy.” Rogers brushed
imaginary lint from the mayor’s dressing gown, causing Redier to
bat his hand away, horrified. Hugh stuck his finger at the man’s
chest. “Do your part. Stay out of my way.”

Chapter 33

In the morning over espresso in the kitchen Pascal
turned to Merle. “North, south, east, west. Where shall we go?”

He had told her he would rent a car, a convertible,
so they could feel the world go by. But she couldn’t. “I have to
stay in the village.”

“
Let me talk to the inspector. He
will make an exception if you are with a Frenchman.” He put his
arms around her. “I can very persuasive.”

She wanted to tell him about the wine. She hated that
she had lost her trust in people since Harry died. As if his
betrayal had soured her belief in goodness. She wanted to think
Pascal was good, that he was who he said he was, that he wasn’t
after that wine he liked so much. She could see goodness in his
eyes, in his touch. But she was raw, needy, and that made her wary
again.

“
What if — we make our own little
resort here. Less expensive, and very private.”

She kissed him and the regret of the decision
balanced with the relief. It was too much responsibility. She
couldn’t burden him with it.

They set to work transforming the garden. Pascal
rallied, finding an umbrella and two fold-up lounge chairs
somewhere. A keg from the basement was topped with a piece of wood
for a table. She shopped for a special dinner and he shopped for
wine and champagne. By noon they had locked the shutters to the
house and declared a holiday. He gave her a foot massage. She gave
him a one-handed shoulder massage and they filled the big washtub
with warm water and bubble bath and soaked their feet and laughed
at themselves.

“
You have no swimsuit? No problem,”
he said grinning. So she sunned herself in her black lace
underpants and nothing else, after aligning the umbrella to shield
the view from Yves and Suzette’s upstairs window. He wore a
swimsuit the size of a slingshot. She liked it very
much.

Several times she felt herself getting up to do
“something.” This relaxation state, especially in her home
environment where the tasks glared at her — FIX ME! — was
difficult. Pascal began to massage her palm, which was not only
incredibly sensual but made her forget everything practical, all
her lists. He made her close her eyes so he could describe where
they might be. Biarritz, he said, with miles of white sand and blue
ocean, waves breaking against the beach. Fish frying at little
shops, the coconut of suntan oil, hairy Spaniards flexing their
muscles, buxom Frenchwomen bouncing along and little naked children
playing in the surf. The fresh tang of salt and seaweed. The sea
wind, raw and wild. Sailboats off the coast, fresh mussels.

“
Are we drinking wine?” she asked
drowsily.

“
White wine. So much we can barely
stand up. But we don’t need to — we aren’t going anywhere. This is
where we want to be.”

As the sun lowered they made love in the afternoon
heat, his hands warm against her body. Making love again, as good
as it was, made her feel suddenly sad. For Harry, for all the
nights they — or at least she — had spent alone, for the nights she
didn’t care that he spent in the city, for the relief she’d often
felt at his absence. For the time — there it was again, that dirty
word — for the time they’d wasted.

After dinner Pascal lay naked beside her on the bed
as the sky turned purple. “What was he like, your husband?” He
rolled over on his side. “If it is okay to talk about him.
Harry?”

“
Harry. He was older than me, by
five years. Short, in a French way. His mother was French. He lost
his parents when he was four. I think it made it hard for him to
love. Or maybe I just — ” Was it her fault? Was she to blame? She
couldn’t shake it.

“
What?”

“
He was a good father, a good enough
husband. But something was missing. ”

“
He had lovers?”

She glanced at him. “At least one. He had a child
with her.”

“
It happens,” he said.

“
Not so much in the U.S. I didn’t
find out about it until he was gone. His little girl, the one we
never had — I couldn’t have any more children — I don’t know if it
was that or I wasn’t — oh, shit.” She wiped the tears angrily with
the back of her hand. Pascal rubbed her cheek with his thumb and
waited for her to speak again. She loved that, just the patience of
a man.

She looked away from the ceiling, into his eyes. “You
know what? I didn’t love him either. Oh, at first, but not for a
long time. I made myself believe that I did. All those years. I
didn’t even realize it until he was gone.”

“
How did he die?”

“
A heart attack, at his desk. He
worked a lot.”

“
So maybe his heart was finished.
Maybe he was not lovable.”

“
But I did love him once — at least
I think I did. Then something happened. I stopped. Sometime,
somewhere. I don’t know why. Maybe I never loved him. Maybe I don’t
even know what love is.”

He licked her neck, slowly, and sucked on her ear
lobe. As she held her breath, he whispered into her ear, “Do you
want me to show you, cherie?”

The next morning they slept late, waking only when
room overheated from the sun. The make-believe beach didn’t seem
big enough for conversation. She felt raw and alive in a way she
hadn’t felt for so long she wondered if she was still practical,
rational Merle Bennett. She held Pascal's muscular hand across the
gap that separated their chairs. She went topless again, safe in
her walled beach. How many summers would it take to go comfortably
topless at a real French beach — five? Ten? What would she be doing
in ten years?

She shut her eyes, blotting out the future, while
Pascal went to a bistro, bringing back goat cheese country salads
they ate with more white wine. They did nothing. The word ‘NOTHING’
careened in her head until she understood. You could do nothing for
one day. The world would not slap you down. You did not become a
nothing if you did nothing for a day.

Early Tuesday morning Pascal sat in the garden,
drinking his coffee, quiet. They were dressed now, back to their
old selves. Was he regretting this nothing-weekend, wondering how
to extricate himself? Better not to know, to accept this little
gift, this sunburn on her stomach, this aliveness, mental and
physical, for what it was and nothing more.

Albert came over to introduce his neice. His sister’s
grand-daughter, Valerie from Paris, was dark-haired and adorable,
just fifteen. Tristan arrives tonight, she told them, promising a
dinner. Pascal went back to work on the ceiling, nailing up the
last of the lath.