By Lise McClendon
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Additional info for Blackbird Fly
Amanda had played the part but not exactly, not being the maternal type. Merle tried to imagine Harry as a little child, round and smiling, playing in the fields of lavender — the way she imagined the French countryside, bucolic and fragrant. The bass and drums of music videos thumped through the ceiling, bringing her back to the present. She put the obituary aside. Like so much in the past, it didn’t matter. Not any more. ” She backs through the gate with the chicken held by its legs as it flaps and squawks.
We’ll listen to each other snore. She pinched her arm. Nothing changed. The old man was saying in his clear and not-very-aged voice, “Harry inherited this house from his parents when they died. ” Merle nodded, unable to speak. A house in France? “It’s in the Dordogne,” Lester added brightly. “Southwest France. A small town. ” “A villa? ” Stasia asked. “No acreage, I understand. No vineyard. ” Troy Lester looked at the old man. “We’ll see what we can find. Maybe Harry kept something in his own files.
Wake up, Merle. The doorbell rang. She rubbed her cheeks, and marched to the door, eager to pounce on another cheesy casserole or gooey dessert. Betsy stood on the porch in her clogs and barn jacket. Faithful friend and cheerer-upper, Betsy had been stopping by each evening, when she knew things grew too quiet. They had been friends since their kids were in preschool, and still jogged together once in awhile. As Merle made them both herbal tea, Betsy’s eyes turned toward the thumping ceiling. “He got in a fight at school.
Blackbird Fly by Lise McClendon