“Rogers?” Merle blinked, trying to engage this new information. “Your brother’s son, your nephew — is he named Hugh Rogers?”
Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “So that is why you’re here, to squeeze blood from this old stone. Many have tried to recover the money he’s swindled them out of. You won’t be any better at it. All you’ll winkle from this old body is onion soup, I told you.”
“No, I — I met him in France. This man, Weston Strachie. Hugh says he swindled his father out of some wine. A long time ago.”
A dry laugh came from the old woman’s mouth. “Hugh’s been barking about that wine for years. Well, don’t worry, I want nothing to do with him and his dirty dealings. I’m sure it’s some tale Armstrong made up to make himself feel better for throwing away all those pounds. Throw the blame off his own stupidity. Now Hugh appeals to me from his prison cell in Paris. ‘Help me, Aunt Annabelle.’” She snorted. “Not likely, laddie.”
Merle let her rankle subside. She had more questions.
“Weston came here, did he?”
“Oh, yes. We were all young then. He was a friend of Hugh’s father. The restaurant business, always a poor way to earn money, if one must. Let’s see. He came several times, I believe. The year Virginia was here, though, she had just come back from school. It was winter, I recall. He stayed for the season, six or eight months.”
“What year was that?”
“Virginia was nineteen, I believe. Sometime after the war. 1950, maybe.”
“Why did he stay so long?”
“Armstrong enjoyed having a pal around. Pudge and I were married then but — well. They didn’t get along. Wes had energy. He loved to shoot and drink and all. He wooed silly Virginia right from the start. Poor wretched girl. I tried to warn her about men like him but she did love him.”
Merle looked at the photo. “Was she wrong, do you think? To run away with him?”
The leafless trees across the back garden made stark designs on the sky. Annabelle’s voice was soft. She glanced at Merle then disappeared into her memories.
“Love is never wrong. But where it leads you, that can be the biggest mistake, one you pay for all the rest of your life. I fell in love with Pudge Gallagher against everyone’s wishes. He was a buffoon, they said, but I didn’t see that. I was blind. I found that out later, to my sorrow. He spent my money and that was that. So were they right about Pudge, about my mistake? The heart doesn’t hear that. I couldn’t tell Virginia she would be unhappy, that she would, as you say, meet a painful end with him, could I? She would have been unhappy if she’d stayed — although we all liked to think we could have picked out someone better for her than that slimy American. We always like to think we know best for others, don’t we.” Annabelle sighed. “She was happy, for awhile, do you think?”
“I suppose,” Merle said. “Maybe that's —” She stopped. To be happy for awhile seemed like such a small thing.
“All we get. Yes,” Annabelle said. “Life is long, I can tell you. It has moments you cherish and those you wish you could forget. You know what the poet said, ‘he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternity’s sunrise.’”
The smell of boiling onions wafted in from the hall. Merle said goodbye. The Widow and her Gothic Mansion had come to life. The bitterness, the loneliness, the empty rooms and dashed dreams crashed in on her. She shivered, closing the heavy door behind her.
In the car Merle tried to feel the coursing of life through her veins, blood sending oxygen to her brain. I am alive. Would she end up bitter and alone like Annabelle Gallagher? No. She would not ruminate on her failures, on her faults, on her losses. She would not. But she would send Annabelle some money, a ham every Christmas, something to atone for the sins of Weston Strachie. Wait, she had money now. Of course she did. She’d send Annabelle a ham every week. She would stop into that butcher shop in Hockingdon.
Yes, and then — she would move on. She sat straighter and said it aloud: “I will move on.” Was this the release she’d been looking for? Had she forgiven herself for her blinders and blunders?
The sky was so blue suddenly, the clouds blown off to the west. If this wasn’t forgiveness, it was a decent stand-in. It would do. It was reality. She hadn’t loved Harry; he hadn’t loved her. With any luck she would grow old, he would not. She would hold her grandchildren, he would not. It was a hard bargain but she had no choice. Accept death, she’d told herself. But what about life? Was she ready to accept all it offered, good and bad? To open her arms, her heart to anything and everything?
She opened her bag — that much she could do — to put away the envelope of photographs and memories. There, tucked into a side pocket, was the purple marble little Sophie had given her. They had all met one Saturday in early October, Harry's extended family: Courtney, Sophie, Tristan, and Merle, at a pizza parlor on the Lower Eastside. There were nerves, lots of them, except for Sophie who danced in wearing her red party dress and pink tights. The little girl brought gifts, a marble for Merle and a rabbit’s foot for Tristan. It had been so hard to tell Tristan about them. He had cried, pounded his bed with his fists, and cursed his father. Then the next week he sent her an email from school that he wanted to meet Sophie. She was his sister. She was a connection to his father, he wrote, a way to keep him in his life. Tristan was so much wiser than she was, in so many ways.
The marble was smooth, veined with white. She rolled it in her palms. Now that she didn’t have to worry about Tristan’s future, she was concocting a plan to put aside money for Sophie from the auction proceeds. But first she would invite Courtney and Sophie for Thanksgiving dinner at her dark, shadowy house. It would be awkward, difficult. There would be more nerves and probably tears. But she would be brave. She wasn’t afraid of the future now.
She shut her eyes and thought of Pascal. Was that love? Probably not. She went days without thinking about him when she was busy. But she could love again, it was possible. Her heart wasn’t cold and dead. There was something left inside her, a yearning for more. Another chance. A richer life. A second half.
Possibility. Was that all that it took to feel alive? Could it be that it wasn’t getting the thing you desire itself but the anticipation, the struggle, the dream of it that makes living so amazing? Was it that simple?
The noon sun peeked out again from the clouds, glinting off the car’s chrome. The old woman’s poem echoed in her head. ‘Kisses the joy as it flies’— she got that. Annie would be proud: enjoy the moment. But ‘eternity’s sunrise’— what the hell did that mean? Hope? A new day? Always living in that moment when the sun comes up, a new day begins and anything is possible — or — or —
Merle touched a finger to her forehead and smiled. The engine roared back to life. She didn't have a clue what the poet meant.
And that was all right.
Be sure to check out these other novels
by Lise McClendon
The Bluejay Shaman
Painted Truth
Nordic Nights
Blue Wolf
One O'clock Jump
Sweet and Lowdown
www.lisemcclendon.com
follow me on twitter @lisemcclendon
and my blog at http://www.lisemcclendon.wordpress.com
Also available from Thalia Press
Casey Jones Mysteries by Katy Munger
and Hubert & Lil Mysteries
by Gallagher Gray
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapte
r 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Blackbird Fly Page 30