The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 32
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Sweet and Lowdown
writing as Rory Tate:
Jump Cut
Plan X
BLOG—Sistrrs in Law
Tagged family matters, vacation, kvetching, screaming inside, ulcer time
Posted June 13
Grrls, it’s confession time. You may have guessed from posts over the past year that I have four sisters and all of us are trained attorneys. Kinda crazy, but there it is. Our father and his father before him were also lawyers. The law is in our blood. We grew up debating, arguing, holding mock trials over dishwashing duties, deposing each other, trying to best one another around the dinner table and running to Daddy’s law books if we were stumped.
We sisters are all different and use our legal training in various ways: profit, non-profit, corporate, non-traditional. I’m not going to tell you exactly what we do or where we live. I will tell you this: being a non-lawyer in this family was a non-starter. Eventually we all fell into lock step. Some are happy troopers, some not so much. Some enjoy cracking the whip, some like taking a beating. We all have our strengths.
So we’re going on a trip together! No lounging around five-star hotels or cruise ships for us. No, we’re walking through the countryside, reading maps like explorers, getting spider webs in our hair, perspiring like champs, losing our way. Sounds like a bonding experience, huh? I mean, what the hell? We don’t wear zip-off pants and hiking boots. We wear power suits and stilettos. We’re lawyers: we have manicures for f••kssake!
And yet. Grrl sigh. Not going is also a non-starter. I will report in, or lose my shit, or both.
Cresting the hill on the dirt road, Merle Bennett felt the ache of her calf muscles and paused to adjust her backpack. She wasn’t breathing that hard, just needed a second to catch her breath. Four days on the trail in the French countryside, plus all that jogging she’d done this spring made her feel strong.
Her oldest sister pulled up next to her, a little red in the face but smiling. Annie was fifty-four, bearing down on Social Security, she joked, but looking fit in cargo shorts, hiking boots, and a tie-dye T-shirt from a CSNY concert. “This is so great, isn’t it? Look at that old ruin up there, all Castle Grimly.”
Merle followed her gaze. “It belonged to Lord Byron, they say. Very gothic.”
Francie arrived puffing, auburn tendrils stuck to her face and freckles blurred by exertion. Sister number four, she was too young to be a reluctant hiker. Forty-three was nothing. Just wait until she turned fifty.
Fifty. It had hit Merle hard. Fifty and alone: the words circled her brain. Even with James. Somehow he didn’t change things where it counted, deep in her heart. Was James not a keeper? No, no mind games, not today on the top of a beautiful hill in the Dordogne surrounded by orchards and vineyards and cows, with the sun on her shoulders and the scent of lavender and roses on the breeze. This was a good day. Her sisters were here, helping her celebrate being a big, fat fifty.
Focus, Merle. Smile, Merle. This is your life, Merle Bennett.
Stasia was ahead, walking down the hill beside Elise. Number two and number five, the sisters were the same height and walked the same way. Their hips swayed just so, and they swung their arms enthusiastically. Elise had dark brown hair like Merle, but Stasia’s was lighter with well-maintained highlights. Merle was the middle sister. The Tent Pole they called her, possibly because of her Olive Oyl figure. The running, the worry, and Harry’s death were responsible for that.
“Where the fuck are we?” Francie gasped, pulling out her map.
“Right here, right now, Miss Francine honey,” Annie said, smiling like the Dalai Lama.
“That’s what you always say.”
“And I’m always right,” said Annie. “Come on.” She linked arms with Merle and Francie. “Let’s truck down this hill. We’re off to see the—”
“No singing,” Francie hissed.
“Tell that to your friend,” Merle muttered. She squinted down the hill. Francie’s friend Gillian was dressed in safari classic, khaki head to toe with an asymmetrical hat that made her look like Crocodile Dundee. What was she trying to prove with that get-up? She hadn’t made a good impression on the Bennett sisters. Merle hated to dislike people in general. Everyone had at least one good quality. Lawyers were trained to find the overlooked, that one detail that would set the case back. They just hadn’t found that detail, something positive, in Gillian yet. Her presence had upset the sister dynamic, throwing off the finely tuned, five-spoke spin. But it was too late to get rid of her.
Merle sighed, pledging to herself to try harder. She didn’t want to try to like someone on her vacation. It didn’t seem quite fair.
Since they arrived in Paris together, on the plane, on the train, and on the trail, Gillian had remained aloof. She didn’t answer when asked a question, didn’t listen, didn’t offer help or information. She acted like she was doing them a favor by going on the trip. Merle had given Gillian a pass for a couple days, but it was the singing that pushed her over.
She had a nice voice, that was true. Besides Annie’s folk guitar days, none of the Bennett sisters were musical. They would be walking along, talking and laughing, and Gillian, not participating in the conversation, would nonetheless pick up on some phrase or word and burst into song. Usually Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra—if someone remarked on the moon, she rang out with all the verses of “Fly Me to the Moon”—which was weird for a woman of 30-something. No one knew how old Gillian was. She seemed older than Elise, who was also celebrating a birthday on this trip, her 40th. Elise, the baby, always seemed young.
But, dear lord, the singing. It drove Merle bat-shit crazy. She was trying hard not to let it show. There were five more days on the trail to go.
Stasia, in a wide-brimmed hat decorated with wildflowers, rolled up pants, and a pink shirt, stopped next to Gillian. Elise pulled off her backpack and laid it on the dirt. A break was in the offing even though they’d only walked for an hour. They’d never make it back to Malcouziac tonight at this rate.
Gillian was staring at something in the ditch, hands on her hips. Merle frowned. There wasn’t supposed to be a sixth member of this trip, but Francie hadn’t gotten that memo. She’d invited her law firm colleague to go walking through France with them. Francie was the type who always needed a pal at her side, reinforcing her specialness. She was the prettiest sister, auburn hair streaked with sunlight, beautiful skin, the tallest. Pulling in the biggest salary too. But right now she was just one of the hiking Bennett sisters. She’d been cranky from the start.
When they arrived at the bottom of the hill, Gillian was crouched low in the grass, hand extended. Elise turned to them, eyes wide. “It’s a dog. Hurt or something. Gillian found it.”
They gathered around a filthy liver-and-white dog curled on its side, head up, brown eyes sad. A poodle maybe or a mix, a small one, its curly hair matted. When Gillian reached out a hand to pat its head, the dog thumped its tail.
“Don’t touch it,” Stasia said. “God knows where it’s been.”
“Aw, sweetie dog,” Gillian cooed, ignoring her. Merle looked at Stasia, who wiggled her eyebrows. This was a new wrinkle, the fuzzy side of Gillian. Stasia had tried to befriend her at the start of the trip, being a pal, calling her Gillie. She’d been corrected.
“He’s hurt. He’s all bloody on that hip,” Elise said, peering down. “I bet he can’t walk.”
“We’ll carry him,” Gillian announced. “How far to the next village?”
“Hold on,” Merle said. “We can send somebody back for him.”
“It’s a mile at most.” Francie consulted her map. “Loiverre. Not super tiny.”
“So they might have a vet.” Gillian walked around the back of the dog. “I’ll carry him. Stand back.”
“Wait, Gillian. Stop.” Stasia held up a hand. “He’ll bite you if you pick him up. Then we’ll have two injuries.”
Gillian handed her backpack to Elise and scooped her arms under the dog while clucking in his ear. The dog whimpered, his injured leg twitching, but laid his head back against his savior. Gillian gave Stasia a look of victory—or possibly fuck you—and walked out of the grassy ditch toward the village.
“She won’t make it.” Stasia marched beside Merle, shaking her head. “So bull-headed. What was Francie thinking? Gillian is ruining everything.”
At five-four with an athletic build, toned arms, and muscular legs, Gillian was strong and fast. The rest of them struggled to keep up with her, even with a dog in her arms. Francie skipped ahead to try to help. Elise carried the extra backpack and offered encouragement.
“She must hit the gym more than the lawyers I know,” Merle said.
“Don’t hold that against her,” Annie said.
Stasia laughed. “Oh, I’ve got a dozen other grievances, counselor.”
In fifteen minutes they’d reached Loiverre and gathered in the central square to reconnoiter. Gillian lowered herself to the stone steps by a statue of a soldier and the French flag, cradling the dog in her arms. Annie volunteered to go ask about a veterinarian.
Elise jumped up and they took off together for the post office before Merle could say anything. She’d never found postal employees helpful in France, especially if you didn’t speak perfect, colloquial French.
Sandwiches were eaten in silence as they waited. Gillian soothed the dog, talking baby talk. Annie and Elise returned and led them down a side street to the entrance of a medical office. “No vet,” Annie explained. “But the doctor treats animals sometimes.”
The receptionist in the doctor’s office begged to differ. Her eyes widened at the sight of the smelly dog. Merle asked in her re-tooled French if there was someone around here who treated dogs.
“Ah, oui, madame,” the young woman said, dashing into a back room. She returned with an older woman, apparently a nurse. She was tall, silver through her dark hair, and had kind eyes. Merle explained their situation.
“She says she can take him home and treat him,” Merle told her sisters. “We can leave him with her. She’ll try to find the owner.”
“No,” Gillian said, still attached to the animal, clutching him tightly. “I want to take him with us.”
The sisters looked at each other. “Be reasonable,” Francie said. “We’re on vacation. What are we going to do with an injured dog?”
The nurse bent down beside Gillian and talked to the animal soothingly in French. The dog seemed very sweet, considering the pain he must be in.
The nurse stood and addressed Merle. “Tell your friend not to worry. She can come back for le chien in a couple days if she wants.”
The walk that afternoon was hot and dusty. They were mostly on farm roads but veered off onto a trail marked with little pink slashes on fence posts, through woods, and next to a creek. The shade was delicious. The French sun could be brutal in June, baking the hillsides. The roses in the hedgerows grew limp as did the Bennett sisters. Gillian marched off moody and alone, back to her silent self.
The walking was meditative for Merle, calming her overactive mind. Her job in New York helping Legal Aid get Big Law backers kept her spinning in circles. Or maybe that’s just the way she rolled, booked to the max, going 110 percent all the time. At any rate, she was back to her mind-set of lists and calendars. Nearly a week in France hadn’t cured her of that. She would stay on for a couple extra weeks though so there would be time to unwind. It worked last year in this soft European time, where no one has anything more important to do than buy fresh croissants. She’d looked forward to getting back in the golden light for months. It really was a shame Gillian had to come along with her negativity.
Stop. Calm. Family. Tristan. She said it like a mantra. Dinner tonight at Albert’s. Wine. France. Calm. Wine! There was a happy thought. Her throat felt parched, even with the last few lukewarm gulps from her water bottle. A cold Sauvignon Blanc would go down nicely.
By late afternoon, they were close to her adopted town. The approach to the walled village of Malcouziac filled her with pride and a kind of longing. Here was her piece of the Earth, a rocky, forlorn shard of charm. Harsh, unknowable, foreign. And yet, she belonged to it. Down a deep valley choked with brambles then up the other side, past high cliffs where the Saint Lucretia shrine guarded them all, around the butte, down another hill and there they were, the golden stone of the bastide walls, framed against the sky, curved and delicate, yet sturdy, and satisfyingly permanent. As much as the village had despised her last year, she loved it in all its messy glory. Centuries of fighting, clan against clan, duke against king, outsider against local. The walls of Malcouziac had lasted seven centuries. They would endure long after the petty quarrels of today’s inhabitants.
The past year had taught her so much: patience, tolerance, forgiveness. If she could practice those things on herself, she could sure as hell offer it to the unfortunate citizens of Malcouziac. They had a new mayor and gendarme. She’d only been in the village a couple days before the walking tour, but there was a new air of friendliness.
They rounded the cliffs, tall and chalky on their right. An image of Harry sprang into her head, something that didn’t happen often anymore. Her husband died last year of a heart attack and set her world on end. He would have enjoyed this though, in his curmudgeonly way. She could see him waddling along in his fancy loafers, tie loose, suit coat draped over a shoulder, moaning about the heat. If he wasn’t already dead, the heat would have killed him.
“What are you smiling about?” Annie asked her.
“Nothing.” Merle took her sister’s arm. “Everything.”
“Harry or Pascal?”
Pascal: last summer’s curative to her broken spirit. She hadn’t told him she was back in France. It would be awkward with James around. It seemed less complicated to just forget about Pascal.
“You know me too well.”
Annie squeezed her hand. “Will we have to go back for that damn dog?”
Merle laughed. “Yes, oh wise one. I think we will.”
The multi-paned door to the house on Rue de Poitiers stood wide open, a gust of wind rattling its dry shutters against the stone. Merle stood on the threshold, heart thumping. Tristan was alone in the house. He’d forgotten to lock the door. Panic shot through her. How close disaster had been last summer.
Laughter in the back garden reassured her. The cache of wine was gone. The bad guys were locked up. She took a breath. Why was she still so jumpy? She and Annie were the last two hikers to arrive. The sisters had felt the need for fresh air. That was all.
The ancient stone house still smelled stale from the winter, its thick walls cool and a little slimy in spots. It needed airing. The blue shutters were old and cracked but freshly painted. The orange tile roof had been repaired and survived the winter intact. Everything was intact. No need for worry. In the main room with its huge trestle table and a worn horsehair sofa, she knocked on a window sash and pushed it up. A breeze from the vineyards carried in the scent of fruit and musk.
Stasia called from outside. “Bring the wine, Merdle!”
When Merle arrived after a year away, she’d been worried her garden would be a mess, both from neglect and from last year’s modernizing. But her neighbor Josephine—who lived here long ago—had delivered on her promise to keep things tidy and growing. She’d watered the grapevine and the espaliered pear tree, trimmed the roses, and swept dead leaves off the gravel patio. Merle was looking forward to thanking her at dinner tonight.
Stepping through the tiny kitchen into the sunshine, Merle felt the same rush of pleasure at the sight of the garden as the first time—an electric charge of wonder: her oasis, her pleasure grounds. Stasia had scoffed when Merle described it, calling her a romantic. How could a small garden be all that? When she saw it, Stasia admitted she was wrong. It was a special place. There, where she and Pascal danced that last night. There, the old rock pissoir, a soon-to-be converted outhouse with a vine climbing over the mossy roof. The wooden water cistern, still used for laundry and gardening, stood guard on its ten-foot legs surrounded by lavender. The roses were all in bloom, the red one busting its guts.
It was all so quaint and harmless and French.
Such a contrast, this little paradise surrounded by hard, weathered rock walls. Inside, they were softened by wisteria and clematis and grapevines. Outside, the world could be hard and cold. But in here, everything was safe and calm.
She delivered the bottle of wine as her sisters took off boots and swilled liquids then went to hug her son.
Tristan and Valerie sat at Père Albert’s kitchen table, playing cards. Her son had met the girl last summer. She was the reason Merle got Tristan to come back to France with her. Her great-uncle Albert was round and cheerful, a former priest with the sort of beatific air that made you forget not to call him Father. His head injury from last year had set him back a little. He’d lost weight, Merle noted, and was less sure of climbing the ladder to pick his beloved plums for eau de vie. But he emerged from the sitting room with a big grin and open arms.
“Bien venue, Merle. How was the walking?”
“Lovely. The weather couldn’t have been nicer. We stopped for a few gustations along the way.” The wine tastings only worked at the end of the day of walking, otherwise there was much weary carping. But Merle only smiled. Albert wasn’t interested in bickering.
“And your feet? Okay?”
“Not one blister.”
“What about Aunt Francie?” Tristan said, his eyes on his cards. “No blisters for Queenie Franceenie?”
“Well, yes. She got a couple.” And bug bites, thorn pricks, sunburn, and scraped elbows. Disaster seemed to follow Francie on the trail, at least from her perspective. Each sister’s personality blossomed on the trail. That morning Merle had made a mental list of each one’s travel mojo.
Annie: Everybody has a good time, right now!
Stasia: Follow the plan or I shoot you.
