Blackbird Fly (30 page)

The tour was an hour away. Merle took off her
sweater, hung it in the closet in the tasting room, and changed her
shoes. In the bathroom she brushed her hair, put on lipstick. She
didn’t look too bad, except for the cast on her arm. Walking toward
the house, she passed the aging room, its big doors closed and
locked. What had those trucks been doing the other day, before her
fall from the ladder? What was so secret in here?

She looked around. No one nearby. She stepped over to
the side door and tried the knob. Locked. Was it lying, the first
sin, that made her bold? She walked around the building and found a
window unlocked. She reached inside and cranked it wider then
peered into the gloom inside. Where was Gerard? She boosted herself
onto the sill and slipped inside.

She was behind the rows of oak barrels at the back of
the chai. Lying on their sides, two rows high, the top row on
heavily supported wooden beams spanned the width of the building.
They appeared to be all the same as before, none missing. In front
of them was something new. Wooden wine cases, with bottles inside
on their sides, two rows deep. So this was what the trucks were
doing, loading or unloading these cases. She leaned closer to see
the label, picked up a bottle and held it up to the light from the
window. ‘Château du Saint Clar, Grand Cru Classe, 1992.’

Of course it wasn’t Château Gagillac. They didn’t
bottle their own wine. There would be no Château Gagillac except in
big plastic jugs, anytime soon. She looked at another case.
‘Château Buzet, Cru Bourgeois, 1988.’

She laid the bottle back in the wooden crate, running
her fingers over its mates there, all alike. Similar crates with
different wineries stamped on the sides were stacked in neat piles.
Voices outside! She crept back to the window. Back over the sash
she landed quietly on the grass then peeked around the corner of
the chai. No one there, and the voices had gone too. Heart beating
fast — what had she been thinking? — she walked slowly toward the
house to get her instructions for the day.

The crunching of the stones under her shoes blotted
out noises. She raised her left fist to knock on the door. There,
again. Angry voices, from inside. She couldn’t follow the French,
but it sounded like Gerard. Odile answered, equally fast and
surprisingly loud, giving Gerard as good as he got. Unfortunately
it seemed to set him off further. More yelling, then a bump. Had he
hit her — or she him?

Before Merle could turn away from the door Gerard
yanked it open, his face flushed with anger. He glared at her and
slammed the door shut behind him, shoving past her then tramped up
the path to the chai. He disappeared around the building.

Odile opened the door, her face placid and
unreadable. Besides a little flush in the neck, you’d never know
she’d just had a shouting match. A French thing, Merle supposed,
being able to fume and shout then be sweet as pie.

The list of wine-tasters was long, fourteen people.
Odile was her usual efficient self, and because of the language
barrier, their conversation was over before it started. Odile sent
her off as she stared out the window, worry creasing her face.

The tour group arrived in a small white bus, all
British. They were a jolly, rosy-cheeked, limp-haired clan, and as
they paid their money they joked with her. “How’d you break your
arm, dearie? Stayin' clear from Frenchmen, was it?” “If it was you,
Jack, it’d be from lifting drinks glasses.” “You seem to keep up,
Terry. Not that there’s a contest.” “Lovely having a driver, isn’t
it?” “A bit too lovely, if you ask me.”

Merle took the last man’s money, and opened the cash
box to look for change. “There you are, sir.” She blinked at him.
Anthony Simms again, with his bad hair — definitely a toupee — and
doggy brown eyes.

He smiled sheepishly. “Hello, Merle. How are
you?”

“
Another tour?”

He shrugged, opened his mouth to answer. Merle
straightened her shoulders as she saw the rest of the group was
staring at them silently as if expecting a little
entertainment.

“
Ready? Let’s go to the vinification
room and see how the grapes begin their journey into
wine.”

Tours were shorter now, with the
chai
— where
wine was aged — off-limits. She gave a little speech outside the
locked doors to describe the oak barrels, explaining the process of
selecting new and old barrels and why that was important, the
special oak used to build them, the special coopers who did the
work. The tourists didn’t seem to mind. The morning sun burned off
the mist quickly and all felt the contentment of vacation in its
rays. One couple kissed at the edge of the vines, much to their
friends’ amusement.

In the tasting room they admonished each other to
taste and spit and not drink too much and to ‘bottoms up.’ Anthony
Simms stood alone, solemnly sipping and swirling his wine. As the
tour ended, the Englishmen including Anthony digging in their
wallets for sizable and very welcome tips, she ignored him. He
walked out of the tasting room with the group. She was glad but not
convinced she’d seen the end of him.

Back at the office, Odile didn’t answer the knock.
The door was unlocked so she’d let herself in, piling half the
money at the edge of Odile’s desk and scribbling a note.

Outside neither of the Langois was visible, nor the
field crew who pruned and watered the vines. The bottles in the
chai were a puzzle. Maybe Gerard wholesaled other wines on the side
to make money. She changed her shoes in the tasting room, tied her
sweater around her waist, and put on her sunglasses. It would be a
hot walk back.

Simms waited by his car again, the only one in the
gravel lot. He hadn’t gotten more attractive with time. In fact,
just the opposite.

“
Hello, Merle. Very nice tour, as
usual.”

She stopped, crossing her arms. “Did you learn
anything new?”

“
You probably wonder why I’m here
again. I can see you do. And,” he laughed at himself and stepped
toward her, “I should explain. I wanted to see you again. But I
couldn’t get up the nerve to just knock on your door.”

“
And you, who know where I
live.”

“
And me a grown man, you can say it.
It’s what you meant. I know. It’s silly. I get so — oh, you know.
It’s crazy. I was hoping I could give you a ride home again?
Please. I would like that.”

She felt the heat on the top of her head and wished
she had a hat. The sweat was already collecting on her back. Yet
she really didn’t want to ride with him again.

“
Oh, come on. I’m not stalking you,
is that what you think?”

She squinted at him. “It crossed my mind.”

He threw up both hands, palms out. “All right, I
confess. I did walk by your house, twice, but I lost my nerve.” He
looked concerned suddenly. “What did you do to your arm?”

“
Fell off a ladder.” She sighed.
“Look, Anthony. You’re a nice man and I would enjoy a cool ride
back into town. But as I told you, I recently lost my husband. It
probably doesn’t look like it but inside I am still mourning. It
would be wrong for me to let you spend your money on me when
nothing can come of it.”

A pretty speech. Being a cranky widow had to be good
for something.

His smile frozen, he opened the car door. “A ride
then, and nothing more.”

She straightened and closed the door. “Have a lovely
afternoon.”

There was no way she was getting into that car again.
He backed up and turned around, glaring at her. The walk home was
very hot and her arm ached. A few cars passed going in the other
direction. She kept an eye out for Anthony but he didn’t show. She
didn’t have to jump into the ditch — this time.

As she turned onto rue de Poitiers, there he was. The
white Peugeot sat in front of her house. The idiot. What did he
think he was doing? She walked right up the sidewalk to her door
and unlocked the padlock. He was out of his car in a flash.

“
Merle, I want to apologize. I just
thought we —”

She spun to face him. “No. I can see you are a
gentleman. You have to respect that I am saying no.”

She fumbled with her key, her hands shaking a little
as she shut the door behind her. He sat in his car, looking
straight ahead out the windshield, fingers tight on the steering
wheel.
Drive away
. He turned to look at the door and she
jumped to the side. With a roar the Peugeot, and Anthony Simms,
were gone.

For good, she hoped, pulling out some cheese for
lunch. In the garden she could see eight shutters propped against
the table, freshly painted. She shook out her shoulders, trying to
dispel the unpleasantness of Anthony Simms. Had she seen the last
of him? She fixed a plate of grapes and cheese and bread, poured
two glasses of wine, and took the tray into the garden.

Pascal was under the cistern, washing his face and
hands. “After lunch I turn them and paint the other side. Then take
the others down.” She showed him the food. “I have to go play some
cards today.”

“
Ah, right. Use your charm and
guile.”

“
Charm?
Moi
? ”

She drank Pascal’s glass of wine as well as her own,
then went upstairs to lie down. She gulped a couple aspirin for the
ache in her arm. An old person’s siesta, for the widowed and the
maimed.

She woke up groggy in the afternoon heat. The
second-floor bedroom collected it, especially with the shutters
off. A ceiling fan over the bed is what she needed. Another job for
the electrician.

Pascal was lathering blue paint on the old wood
shutters, some of which really should be replaced. Rebuilding a
house, making it livable again, could become a mission. This house
had become hers as much as it ever was Weston and Marie’s. It was
Tristan’s birthright, his heritage. Maybe she wouldn’t have to sell
it at all. The wine would be worth a few thousand dollars, maybe
more. Maybe enough to keep the house until he went to college.

The rug warmed the room with its faded colors,
despite the worn spots. Tristan’s little bed made a decent sofa,
although she still wanted a gold chenille one, there in front of
the fireplace. And an armchair, a big fat one to curl up in and
read long novels on wintry days. She couldn’t imagine winter in the
house, not when the weather was so hot. Would the house be drafty
and cold? Did it get cold here, did it snow? She would come for
Christmas, someday.

Someday.

On the way to the church the Bordeaux lawyer called
her back. He promised to look into her case, to speak with the
inspector and find out what progress was being made. She told him
about her confiscated passport and demanded it back. He was polite,
if not reassuring. He would call her back again with news, if he
had any.

Madame Beaumount didn’t seem surprised to see her.
Merle stuffed another bank note into the wooden box in the
refectory and was led into the basement of the church again. Madame
slapped the white gloves against her skirt to clean them and stared
at Merle’s cast. The gloves were thin, stretching awkwardly over
the cast on her right hand. When Madame saw that they would work
she left her alone.

She found more names she recognized this time.
Redier, Saintson, Taillard. An Yves Estephene Redier was baptized
in Sept-ember, 1923. Another boy, born 1925 to the same parents.
She found the marriage of the Sabatini’s. How had she missed it
before? Josephine Chevalier had married the Italian in 1938. No
sign of them after that.

According to the bartender the Chevaliers had moved
away after the scandal. If Laurent Chevalier was Marie-Emilie’s
father, he would be over ninety if he was still alive. Merle kept
looking, searching for something she knew had to be here, if she
just looked hard enough.

The hours passed quickly in the windowless basement.
She went over the same pages, again and again. The routine was like
preparing for a trial, looking for precedents, researching back and
then back again, farther into history. Finally, when her back hurt
and her eyes had begun to burn, there it was. Two names she knew,
‘Dominique’ and ‘Redier.’ She had looked at every ‘Dominique’ in
the book. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at.

“
Dominique Eloise Redier, baptized
April 5, 1936.”

Her parents were listed as Andre Thomas Redier and
Catherine-Juliet (
nee
de Neuvic). Backtracking she found the
mother’s and father’s baptism, in 1918 and 1915. Marriage in 1935,
and the father’s death in late 1936, just a month after his
daughter’s birth. Dominique’s confirmation in 1946.

Merle scribbled down dates, names, then sat back in
the hard chair, stretching her shoulders. Was this the Dominique of
the letters? What was her connection with Marie-Emilie?

Merle pulled out “1950-2000.” In 1954
Catherine-Juliet remarried, to a man named Carlo Lombardi. Did
Dominique marry? She may never have returned to Malcouziac.

Scanning the end of the 1950’s and half through the
‘60s Merle found nothing more. She must have missed something. Back
to the beginning, she scanned the ‘50s where the handwriting was so
flowery she had trouble reading it. It looked like the writer had
gotten old and feeble. There, at the start, 1950, Dominique again.
How had she missed her? A baby boy baptized. She was a mother, at,
what? — fourteen. No father listed. No name for the baby, just
“
garcon
.” Baptism was June 3.

Writing the information in the notebook she sat back,
letting the information sink in. Harry was born in the village. His
birthday was May 30, 1950. She felt a chill up her spine.

Could it be? Dominique was his mother? She scoured
the births again, focusing hard on every entry for 1950. Only one
fit his birth date.