Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 7
She sat without being asked, crossed her legs, and leaned back. Techniques to calm herself and show outward assurance, long-ingrained lawyer tricks. Never let ‘em see you sweat. Lillian spoke about the weather and Merle admired her view of the river.
Something — black curls, pink sweatpants? — was preventing her from concentrating on Lillian. The conversation with the lawyer in France, Monsieur Rancard, last night, rattled in her brain too. She couldn’t focus. Her life was no longer predictable. Everything had been tossed into the air.
Rancard was making some progress with the squatter. It was cheaper to have him wrangle with the mayor and the old woman even at 200 Euros per hour. A nun was helping the squatter now, making matters worse. Maybe Merle and Tristan could go see the house, just once, if it didn’t cost too much. The property lawyer said it would help the situation if she was there, help press her case for ownership. But now, there was a new job to contend with.
Courtney Duncan. Sophie. Their existence slammed against the defenses of her mind. Harry’s lover, Harry’s daughter. Courtney’s tears, her sobbing explanation, her pleas for understanding. Her pitiful voice echoed in Merle’s ears, making it hard to hear Lillian and her small talk.
Merle pushed the voices aside. No matter what sort of messes Harry left behind, she had to support herself and her son. Lillian represented the stable, secure future, for which Merle had just enough concentration to play the game. Stability, security: that was all she could ask for now. Now that she’d screwed up her own life.
The older woman crossed her legs. “How is it going with you and your son — since your husband’s death?”
Had she been talking to Jeff about her? Everyone was always hoping they could stop pussyfooting around you. That you will bounce back, smile, carry on. So they can forget that people die. Even you, Lillian, so in charge of your life, will give up the ghost, buy the ranch, sleep the big sleep. Even me.
“We’re, well — we’re coping.”
Lillian's eyes blazed. “You look tired.”
“That’s a frequent observation.” Merle straightened, pulling herself together. “Look, Ms. Wachowski, this isn’t an assignment I asked for. I was told you wanted me here, that you could use me, and that’s very flattering. But I’d rather be on the front lines. I don’t mean to be rude. I am grateful,” she added.
Lillian's face hardened — further — and she walked around her desk. “Would you like to go back to Harlem? Or the Bronx maybe?”
Merle may have flinched. “Ah. Is that an option?”
Lillian squinted. “I’ll be blunt. You need a lot of energy to do fundraising. And a very positive, balls-to-the-wall mentality. You’re our cheerleader, our frontline. You can’t have bad days in development. You can’t rather be somewhere else.”
A shiver made her twitch. Was there a job in the Bronx? She couldn’t go back to Harlem now, no matter what Lillian said. Jeff had cast her off without a backward glance. Did she want to go to the Bronx, start over in another office? Or was this some kind of test?
Merle sat taller. She wasn’t going to get fired because of bags under her eyes. “I'm sorry, Lillian. May I call you Lillian?" The older woman gave a curt nod. "The job sounded good to me when Jeff described it. It still does. I didn’t mean to give the impression that I wanted to go back.”
“Yes, well. It’s a struggle raising money. It's never easy. It’s like getting blood from a stone. You have to pound, pound, pound, until finally somebody cracks.”
She tried to look bright and eager. “I love the sound of cracking.”
Lillian looked her over with sharp eyes. “So you’re taking a couple weeks off? Rest and recover from all your changes?”
“I — I could. Sure.”
Lillian flipped through her desk calendar. “Most of the big firms have mass holidays in July and August. Partners come and go like lemmings. Not to mention this building’s air conditioning is ancient and the caterers are all busy with weddings. So, what do you say — September one?”
The afternoon sun blinded her on the sidewalk. Merle’s arms ached, her head hurt, her stomach had clenched into a ball. All this new information was too much: rejection by Jeff, Harry’s daughter and mistress, scary Lillian, the summer off with no income, and the obvious glee her new boss took in employing her. She felt like a punching bag. Could she take a few more body blows please?
She stumbled down the steps of the Legal Aid Society, straightened her shoulders, and headed west into the sun. The Hudson River lay ahead, wide and gray all the way to Jersey but sparkling in the light. Where was that river going? Where did any river go? She’d never thought about going anywhere. She stayed and persevered, that was who she was. She took the safe path. Kept the calendar full. No sudden moves. It had always seemed the sensible way to live. She wasn’t interested in glamour or excitement, just doing the right thing.
An Irish bar had its glass-paned red door propped open next to a blackboard listing today’s specials: corned beef, cheese omelet, steak and fries. The smell of fried food, ever comforting, beckoned her in. Doyle’s Public House was dark and cool, the wood floors dusty. Besides grease, it smelled of brewer’s yeast, cigarettes, Lysol. The bartender brought silverware and a cloth napkin and a dry white wine.
Courtney Duncan. It all made sense now, these last years. The woman had been honest at least. Courtney and Harry worked together at the brokerage, before Harry joined Steve Hanford. She was just out of NYU. She had loved him, that was clear, something Merle hadn’t managed to do for a long time. Maybe Harry should have left her for Courtney. Merle tried to decide which was worse, a divorce or a dead husband. Dead was definitely worse. Or what about this? A dead father-of-your-toddler.
She took a deep breath and a gulp of wine then called Stasia and left a message with her secretary. Grinding her teeth, she dialed McGuinness and Lester, Esq., and held while Troy Lester was rounded up. She ordered another wine before the secretary informed her he was out of the office.
“Give me his cell number.” She wouldn’t. “Then give him my number. Tell him it’s an emergency.”
All very well about Courtney then. Just the shock of discovery, being blindsided. She should have guessed something like this — years ago. But what about Sophie? How was she going to tell Tristan that his father had another family, that he had a half-sister? That Harry hadn't been all the father Tristan had wanted him to be, because he was father to another?
Suddenly tears leaked out of her eyes — oh God why now — then as the bartender brought the wine, sobs erupted, blubbering noises. Probably not the first heard in an Irish bar but the bartender looked appropriately shaken. He returned with a stack of napkins.
Merle dabbed her cheeks. Very thoughtful. Love that bartender. “Is that your phone, miss?”
Of course it was. “Merle? Troy Lester.” Traffic noise, heavy breathing.
“Mr. Lester. When were you going to tell me about Courtney Duncan?”
He stammered and spit. His discomfort made her happy. It was good to have someone repulsive like Troy Lester to be angry at. She couldn’t be mad at Harry any more. He was gone, and philanderer that he was, cheat and betray as he did, she deserved it. She had let him go, from her heart, a long time ago.
Reluctantly, Lester spilled the beans. Harry had left Courtney and Sophie the apartment, and the slender remains of his pension fund, also plundered. A second, secret will. Merle threw the phone down on the table.
Stasia arrived fifteen minutes later and, with the help of the bartender, forced coffee down her throat. They were out on the street, walking to the subway, before Merle could tell her.
“He never sold the apartment,” Merle said, stopping for a light.
“What apartment?”
“Twelfth Street. He gave it to his blond thing, and their daughter.”
“You’re drunk.” Stasia glared at her. “Are you serious?”
“The lawyers did it in secret. The bastards. He has a four-year-old daughter. Her name is Sophie. She’s four, Stace.”
Stasia turned instantly crimson, a specialty of hers. “Filthy, lowdown son of a bitch —” She stamped her foot on the pavement.
Merle felt calm now that her sister was mad. “Do you think it was because I couldn’t —" She felt hollow, the way she felt after the hysterectomy. Not her old self, never would be again. Something gone and gone forever. “Did you know? Do Mother and Daddy know?”
“Nobody knows. If he was good at one thing, it was keeping secrets.” Stasia took her arm and led her toward the subway stairs. “Move, now. We’ll talk about it later.”
A picture of Harry came into her head, an outing to somewhere, when Tristan was three or four — Sophie’s age. Mystic Seaport, that was it. Tristan high up on Harry’s shoulders, pointing at the big sailing ships, their tall masts, a clump of daddy’s hair in his little fist. Harry holding his feet, smiling. They were a family that weekend, a strong yearning in her satisfied for at least one weekend. They jumped on the motel beds, sang songs in the car.
Had she loved him then, or just the idea of a family? Was her heart a stone? He had left her, years ago.
Merle stopped. “I don’t blame him. Or her. He deserved love — everyone does — and she loved him. I didn’t. I didn't love him. Not for a long time. I — ” She shrugged. “I just didn’t.”
They were next to a flower stand overflowing with color and petals. Buckets of tulips vied for attention. Which one is the prettiest, the red, the yellow, the pink, the white? Daffodils, pussy willows. Lilacs on woody stems, their smell enticing.
Stasia was talking. Merle could see her lips move. Taxis were honking, an old woman pulled her shopping wheelie down the curb. Merle sucked the air on the sidewalk. Her chest felt like it was in a vise. Why can’t I breathe?
An open palm crossed Merle’s face. The sting felt hot. She didn’t blame her sister. What is family for if you can’t count on them to set you straight when you need it most, even in the middle of Greenwich Village? Her own sister smacked her hard across the cheek, bringing her back, holding her upright, making her grab onto the scraps of her rag-tag life.
“You didn’t love him. It’s fine. It doesn't matter.”
Merle held onto her shoulder. “Okay. Thanks,” she croaked.
Stasia pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “Breathe. And repeat after me: Case of courage. Bucket of balls.”
* * *
Poor Elise. She had no idea.
Merle looked over the orderly crowd on folding chairs on the lawn at Whitman and slumped lower in her seat. Her mother gave her a little frown and she straightened again. Must be respectful. A solemn and joyous occasion as the last Bennett girl takes the harness.
Elise clutched her diploma to her chest, flushed, her dark hair pulled back and red lipstick on her baby doll lips. Merle was distracted, sweating in a sleeveless navy shift. She’d had to tell Sauvageau about the new wrinkle, that Harry had another child who would inherit. But only if Courtney found out. And how would she? She didn’t seem the suspicious type. On the contrary, she seemed naïve, crushed and pathetic. Another ethical conundrum raised its ugly head. Ah, but to a lawyer, that was nothing. Just a thought to be compartmentalized.
The speeches were mercifully short, the May heat rising from the damp earth to surround the well-wishers in the steamy scents of spring. Finally they rose and gathered around the graduate on the lawn. After an interminable, clammy hugging session they decamped for a cool restaurant.
The Bennett clan was tricked out in understated prep-wear. Her father had gone with the red bowtie, always a winner. Bernie wore a navy blue suit with a collarless white blouse that dated from the sixties, somehow surviving a thousand washings.
Her father had insisted on Merle sitting next to him. Jack Bennett had given her shoulder a pinch of affection and sat silently through the toasts. His hearing wasn’t great so he liked to just smile at these big gatherings. The salad came and he dug in.
On her other side Francie wore a low-cut flowered dress that showed off cleavage and tan. Francie was the knock-out sister, with auburn highlights and turned up nose, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and bright blue eyes. Merle had invited Betsy, who knew all the sisters and got along especially well with Elise, but her daughter Lynnie had a soccer game. Just as well, Merle thought. No point in the friends suffering.
At the kids’ end of the table, Tristan wore his black blazer and a half-pressed blue oxford cloth shirt with a wonky collar, both last seen at his father’s funeral. Francie had picked him up at school — she lived near Blackwood. She worked in Greenwich but couldn’t afford to live there. Her clients had a different set of problems than Merle’s, lawsuits between neighbors over dogs and parking, bankruptcy, prenups. Francie waffled between loving it and hating it on a weekly basis.
There were sixteen of them around the table, the sisters, one spouse, Stasia’s three kids plus Tristan, a couple boyfriends (Francie’s was chiseled and very young), Aunt Gloria, Bernie’s sister, a cousin or three. Stasia and Annie talked across the table, heads together. They couldn’t look more different: Stace in red polka dots and bangles, Annie in something tie-dyed and a big, furry scarf around her neck. Merle wished she were over there instead of by her father and Francie. She wanted to hear their gossip, laugh a little.
Stasia and Rick’s oldest, Willow, had brought her boyfriend down from college. Willow lived up to her name: tall and slender with gold waterfall hair. Her boyfriend was scruffy, with dirty brown hair and a black t-shirt, but hung on Willow’s every word. Would the children be happy, Merle suddenly worried, examining their expressions. Tristan frowned at her then elbowed Oliver and laughed.
Stasia caught her eye and winked. Annie, who was told the sordid story of Harry’s other life just last night, gave her a ‘buck-up’ smile. After the salad and a polite inquiry into Merle’s state of mind, Francie, not as yet clued into the latest revelations, launched into a lament about her job, social life, and lawyering.
“I can see the appeal of Legal Aid, I really can. At least you get to do some good.”
“There’s that,” Merle said, chewing lettuce.
“If I have one more sixty-year-old chief executive marrying his twenty-something bimbo and wanting to keep all his cash from her, I’m going to kill myself. Why does he even bother? I mean, marriage isn’t all that great. I should know.” Francie had tried it once, briefly. The airline pilot she married was hardly ever home. Her boyfriend gave her a lascivious smile. He was home free.
“I’m taking the summer off,” Merle said. It had a nice ring to it.
Francie smiled. “Sure. What would you do, Merle, paint your toenails every day? No, wait, you’re going to a Buddhist retreat. Yeah, that’s it. Ommmm.” She laughed and her boyfriend, Willie or Dick or somebody, laughed along.
“I'm done in Harlem. I got packed off to Development. They don't need me until fall, or until I get my attitude adjusted.”
“They said that? Come on.” She squeezed Merle’s hand, suddenly serious. “You’re really taking summer off? Are you all right?” Despite her stunning beauty and a bright, easy charm unknown to the other sisters, Francie could be a loving sister. Merle squeezed back, thinking she should call her more often. Tell her about the nasty family secrets. One of these days.
Merle raised her glass. “To attitude adjustment — it’s not just alcohol anymore.”
Francie giggled. “I’ll go drinking with you any time!”
Someone called: “To Elise!”
As they clinked crystal Merle stood up. “Excuse me, Elise, for using your graduation day for this.” Elise smiled, dipping her head in gratitude. She was a little tipsy, draining her glass as if another toast in her honor was in the offing. She turned for a refill to her boyfriend, a pudgy classmate who wouldn’t last, they all could tell.
“As you know in his will Harry left me — and Tristan — a house in France. His family home. Sort of a surprise but what the heck, right? Who are we to look a gift-horse in the mouth? Let’s just hope it’s not a Trojan gift-horse. Anyway, at the end of the term we will be traveling to the small village of Malcouziac, somewhere in France, to throw out the freeloaders and see if we can sell it.”
After a shocked pause Annie said loudly, “Hey. You mean, no work? A vacation? An honest-to-God summer holiday?”
Her father turned to her frowning: “You’re going where?”
“To France,” Bernie shouted in his ear.
A holiday. Mystic Seaport popped into her head. That was a holiday. Those days, whatever they were, were over. Long over, if they only knew.
Put a face on it, Merdle. Vacation sounded a whole lot better than the drudgery, legal wrangling, and endless spending ahead. Harry would have liked that. He goes his own way and she gets stuck with his dirty work.
Oh, yeah, let's see that smiling face.
She raised her glass. “To vacations. What a concept.”
Book Two
France
Chapter Eleven
After all these weeks, from a wet April morning to a hot June day, not so long in time but emotionally an obstacle course of peaks and valleys, she was here. Across the sea, over the deep blue ocean. Exactly ten weeks and three days, nine Sundays, a Memorial Day. Over the miles and the hours, after packing and arranging and explaining, here she was, in France where Harry was born. Where he lived. Where not a trace of him remained.
They stared at the house. Monsieur Rancard — ‘Arnaud’ after four hours together in his perfumed Benz — rolled down the window, letting in hot, dry air. The lawyer, although handsome in that suave Mediterranean way, was business-like, even blunt. No passes, no intimate taps on the knee. She had sweated through her safari shirt and stuck to the seat. They talked nonstop and she was exhausted. Yet, a flutter of anticipation rose in her as they turned the last corner, pulled up to the curb.
