Read Online Blackbird Fly by Lise McClendon - Free Book Online Page B

reaction to
female hysterics, with which he had little experience. She was
usually calm, rational, practical, sitting back at these awful
business dinners, reflecting on her virtue, her dutiful nature, her
patience at putting up with idiots.
    After that the What? What?! came back —
silently, in her head — when confronted with ridiculous questions
or inane people. That happened just a few times, but enough to
stick. It began to haunt her thoughts, as if questioning what she
was doing, what she wanted, what the hell was going on with her
life. She tried not to wonder what it was really asking. Mostly it
was just there: the what-what , like a tic she sometimes
managed to ignore, but mostly tolerated.
    Maybe it had been her subconscious trying to get her
to realize she didn’t love Harry and what the hell was she still
doing married to him. It was a theory. Then why had it returned
after Harry was dead? What did her subconscious want now? She’d had
her chance to ask Dr. Murray, the tweedy, soft-spoken counselor who
had examined Tristan on Monday. He would have listened, even if
he’d looked askance at her. But she couldn’t bring herself to
mention it. Like a scary relation never visited, the what-what was best left in the dark, unexamined and
un-poked.
    She stood up and stretched her arms at the pink
tulips. She wouldn’t go back to the office today. No, she had a
life of uncertainty to get on with, a meeting with her new people.
Her old people could start learning how to cope by themselves.
     
    The apartment building in Greenwich Village was
nothing to get excited about — dark red brick, five floors with the
fire escape hanging on the front. Harry had paid a pretty price for
his pied-a-terre despite its ugliness, although Merle still
couldn’t remember how much. Or how much it'd sold for. His New York
real estate adventures had been out of her league. When they moved
to Connecticut he bought this second-floor unit lacking anything
special besides its location a block or two from the Gotham Bar and
Grill, one of his favorite restaurants.
    She’d had lunch at the Gotham, a wild indulgence
considering the state of her finances, sitting at their elegant
bar. Lovely over-priced food and bright, almost sunny interiors
bursting with huge flower arrangements. The bartender had been kind
and a little flirty. She felt raw in the face of handsome,
too-friendly men, something she’d had no trouble with in the past.
She had smiled at him, drunk a glass of wine, then a strong cup of
coffee. Still she had fifteen minutes before she was to meet her
new boss.
    So she'd wandered over to the old Twelfth Street
building. She had just enough time to get the name of the current
owner of Harry’s old apartment. With luck she’d also satisfy her
curiosity that Harry had indeed sold it five years before, and if
the stars aligned, for how much. Last night in Harry’s home office
she’d come up with zero about the apartment. Wouldn’t he have had
to claim capital gains the year he sold it? Maybe he lied on his
tax return. He’d lied about the trust fund and spent the life
insurance on his crazy schemes. At this point everything was on the
table.
    Pushing into the cramped lobby she eyed the
mailboxes. On Harry’s old box was simply the number — 202. Merle
pressed the doorbell and was surprised when the buzzer to the door
opened without a word. Maybe this would be easy.
    The door to the apartment was freshly painted in
spring green. A young woman opened the door the width of the chain
and peered out. Hanging on her leg was a small girl, dark-haired
and barefoot.
    “ I’m looking for the owner of the
apartment,” Merle said, smiling. “Would that be you?”
    The woman, with long black hair and heavy eye makeup,
brushed crumbs off her fingers onto her tight jeans. She looked to
be in her early twenties, chewing gum as she looked over Merle. She
undid the chain and opened the door. “I’m the nanny. She’s not
here.”
    “ Oh,