Free Blackbird Fly by Lise McClendon Page B

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