The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  “I don’t understand why we must do this.” Marta kept her voice low, as if someone might be listening.

  Josephine frowned into the night. She would have preferred not to include the other woman in her scheme. But she could no longer trust herself to keep things straight in her mind. “We have been over this, Marta. You are to be my memory if mine fails.”

  A heavy sigh met her explanation. “I meant, why must we do this at night?”

  “No one can know where we are hiding these treasures.”

  “You do not trust your own family?”

  “It’s not a matter of trust.” With secrets came lies. With lies came the weight of guilt, the burden often too heavy to carry alone. Josephine had done it once before. To protect a single member of her family. She would harbor this new secret to protect all the others.

  Marta’s voice sliced through the still night air. “The Nazis may not come.”

  “They will come. And they will rob us.” Josephine had a sick, queasy feeling at the thought. “Or they will stand by while others steal what belongs to my family.”

  As they’d done in Germany nearly a year ago. The authorities had looked on as mobs ransacked and looted homes and businesses. Though called Kristallnacht, the Night of the Broken Glass, the violence had lasted for days. Lives had been lost. Irreplaceable treasures had fallen into the hands of thieves and charlatans. If the Nazis allowed such horrors on their own streets, how much worse would it be for France?

  Josephine surfaced at Marta’s voice. The woman had been talking while she’d been thinking of injustice. “You are missing one rather significant point about that terrible night.”

  “And that is?”

  “The violence was targeted solely on Jewish homes and businesses.” Marta’s eyes glimmered like sparkling black diamonds under the bright moonlight. “No one in your family is Jewish.”

  Marta was wrong. One of them was, in fact, by Germany’s definition, a Jew. But that was a secret Josephine would never reveal. Not to Marta.

  Not to anyone.

  Chapter Seven

  Gabrielle

  Her mother insisted they reschedule the anniversary party to coincide with the last day of harvest. Gabrielle protested the timing. “It’s too soon.”

  “Nonsense.” Hélène punctuated the word with her distinctive flick of a wrist. “There is no better time to celebrate two hundred years of champagne making than the end of harvest.”

  “Maman, the vines will need tending once we’ve stripped them of their fruit. And the infant wine always requires a close watch through the course of its first fermentation.” She gave other reasons, but Gabrielle didn’t mention war. What would be the point? Her mother would only toss out one of her platitudes about seeking joy while the battles remained outside France.

  “Gabrielle, ma fille, even you cannot work both day and night. There must be moments of rest. Is that not the reason the Lord made the Sabbath?”

  Bringing God into the conversation was a bold move, even for Hélène. But it worked to her advantage. Josephine immediately sided with her daughter-in-law. “The last day of harvest it shall be.”

  Which explained why Gabrielle now stood on the edge of the party, the scent of the vineyard washed from her skin, and dressed in a sleek evening gown her mother had loaned her from her own wardrobe. She’d wondered aloud why it mattered what she wore. Hélène had been clear. “You will represent this family properly.”

  Another battle lost. Nevertheless, Gabrielle could admit her mother had been right about one thing. Their neighbors wanted this party.

  They arrived in their finery like stylish waves rolling along the still night air. The women in their shimmering dresses, the men in their pristine white jackets and ties. Their smiles seemed strained, their laughter a little too loud, and Gabrielle sighed at the forced merriment. The thin coating of cheerfulness was as flimsy as a house built from cardboard and paste.

  But perhaps, for some, the pretense was as real as it would ever get. They smoked their cigarettes—Gabrielle had never understood the fascination—and ate Monsieur Chardon’s exquisite food. They drank the champagne Gabrielle had selected without her grandmother’s knowledge. Devious, perhaps. But necessary. If questioned, she would cover her decision with an inspired response. “The 1919, 1920 and 1921 single vintages represent the only time in our history we’ve been blessed with exquisite harvests three years in a row.”

  So far, no one had questioned her selections.

  A high-pitched, girlish giggle sounded from the other side of the room, drawing Gabrielle’s attention to her sister. Draped in a gown designed by Mademoiselle Chanel before she’d closed her atelier, Paulette was at her most beautiful. She happily entertained a group of young men and women.

  The sliver of love slicing through Gabrielle caught her off guard, more powerful for its unexpected arrival. Most days, she felt disconnected from her sister and she worried the silly teenager would turn into a silly woman. Now, in this moment, she saw only the little girl who’d loved her dolls and make-believe tea parties.

  Gabrielle took the pleasant image with her out onto the terrace. Standing in the fresh air, away from the sickly-sweet aroma of clashing perfumes and cigarette smoke, she was able to breathe easier. As she stared up at the full moon, she breathed in again, this time holding the smell inside her. I will remember this scent long past tonight. It will always remind me of my mother’s determination to have a party, my sister’s desire to be the center of attention, my grandmother’s failing memory and my own desperation to protect the women I love.

  And, oh, how she loved them, with the fullness of a heart that couldn’t bear another loss. It was nights like these Gabrielle felt the most alone, when laughter rang from others’ lips and not her own. Never her own, not since Benoit’s death.

  The familiar pang of grief struck as a glittering couple strolled past. Gabrielle watched the woman slip her arm through the man’s and whisper something in his ear. He laughed from deep in his throat. And then, they eased away to a darker portion of the terrace.

  Gabrielle understood the desire to enjoy a private moment away from the crowds. She and Benoit would have done the same. She sighed, feeling his absence deeply tonight, as painful as losing a limb. Ironic, since a lost limb had hastened his death. The memory of his suffering brought an ache in her chest that nearly stole her breath. Biting her bottom lip, she looked down at her work-chafed hands. Her mother’s expensive lotions had done little to hide the consequences of her time among the vines.

  Benoit would have considered the collection of blisters and cracked nails a badge of honor. Though she wished for his presence, his strength, his smiles and laughter, she was glad he wasn’t here to see the results of this year’s harvest. So much waste, with too many grapes deemed unworthy of anything but a shallow burial at the roots of their vines.

  The smell of someone’s cigarette intruded on her solitude. She knew that scent. Her mother’s unique brand imported from America. Gabrielle turned her head and found Hélène leaning against the stone wall next to the terrace doors. Partially cloaked in shadow, her mother’s eyes were closed. A lit cigarette dangled from her fingertips.

  She did not look herself.

  No, that expression of hopelessness did not belong to her mother. Hélène’s outward calm rarely slipped. Until this moment, Gabrielle hadn’t realized how much she relied on her mother’s unflappable confidence in herself, in her place in the world, in the Maginot Line to hold back the Nazi monsters. “Maman?” She tempered her voice to hide the thread of panic slipping down her spine. “Are you unwell?”

  Nothing else explained the wretchedness shimmering off her like a fragrance gone bad before its time.

  Hélène turned her head slowly. She blinked, as if only just noticing Gabrielle stood by her side. “I am well.” Hélène’s shattered expression told a different story
. “The champagne, however, is running low.”

  “Let me see to the problem for you,” Gabrielle offered.

  “We have hired Monsieur Chardon to deal with such matters.”

  True. They had not, however, hired him to rummage around in their wine cellar. “Then I’ll inform monsieur of the situation.”

  Without looking at her, Hélène lifted the cigarette to her lips. “Thank you, Gabrielle. That would be a great help.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but her mother was already spinning on her heel and returning to the party. Sighing, Gabrielle located the caterer in the kitchen. He was a squat, balding man with a vile temper and a doughy face currently pink and shiny from exertion. “Monsieur Chardon, may I have a word?”

  He regarded her with a distracted half glance, half glare. “What is it you need, Madame?”

  “I understand the champagne is running low.”

  “We have plenty of the ’19 and ’20.” With a jerk of his chin, he indicated the uncorked bottles lined up in neat rows along the counter. “But the 1921 has been depleted. I will need a key to get into the cellar to secure more.”

  “Non, I’ll get the champagne myself. You will want...ten bottles?”

  “Twenty.”

  That seemed excessive, considering there were plenty of the other two vintages waiting to be uncorked. She kept silent on the matter, because Monsieur Chardon’s request served her own purposes, as did the party itself. Now that it was in her mind, Gabrielle would use this opportunity to address an important, potentially ruinous detail she’d neglected when she’d executed her plan to hide the champagne.

  She prayed she hadn’t waited too long.

  In this, timing was on her side. François’s duties currently kept him busy among the wine racks at the front of the cellar. He had no reason to venture to the spot where she’d built her makeshift wall. That didn’t mean he hadn’t done so.

  She located him speaking with her grandmother in the main salon near the fireplace. A small, thin-faced, bearded man in his early seventies, he’d been with her family since the previous century. He was clearly uncomfortable attending tonight’s formal event. The way he continually tugged at his collar gave him away. He would welcome an excuse to exit the party.

  “Ah, Gabrielle,” her grandmother said, spotting her approach. “This is such a lovely celebration, oui?” Josephine gazed over the crowd with the smile of a benevolent monarch approving of her loyal subjects. “The people of Reims seem very cheerful.”

  “Very.”

  “This is the first of many more happy days to come.” Josephine’s black eyes shone with an unfocused light that tore at Gabrielle’s very core. “You will see, chère. The worst of the war is over. We can rebuild now.”

  The words were from another party, at the end of another war. Gabrielle remembered her grandmother saying this the night they’d received news that her father was returning from the trenches. She prayed she was mistaken. But no. Josephine’s unfocused gaze showed the condition of her mind. The older woman was lost in another time.

  Should Gabrielle attempt to pull her grandmother back into the present? Or let her enjoy this moment in the past? She ventured a neutral approach. “Grandmère, I’ve come to steal your companion for a bit.”

  Josephine turned her smile onto the man standing uncomfortably beside her. Had Gabrielle not been watching her grandmother closely, she might have missed the confusion that lived in the fast-blinking eyes. But then her gaze cleared, and she patted François’s arm with affection. “Thank you, my trusted friend, for humoring an old woman and her memories.”

  Relief nearly brought Gabrielle to her knees. As quickly as she’d disappeared, Josephine had returned to the here and now.

  “It was no hardship, I assure you.” François took Josephine’s tiny hand between his work-roughened paws. “We carry many of the same memories in our hearts, non?”

  “We do, indeed.”

  They shared a brief smile. And then François turned his attention to Gabrielle. “I am at your service, Madame.”

  She had a moment of nerves. Was this the right night, the right time? Should she simply let well enough alone? She quickly discarded her indecision. There would never be a perfect time to test her wall, or the person most likely to discover what she’d done. “Come with me, François.”

  He obeyed without argument. She’d expected nothing less. His loyalty to her grandmother extended to her. He’d never married, never even ventured beyond Champagne. His life—his entire world—began and ended with Château Fouché-LeBlanc. The thought was a balm to her nerves as she led him along the same route she’d taken six weeks before.

  This night, the moon guided them across the terrace, down the stone steps, along the barren rows of vines, naked and at rest now. At the cave’s entrance, Gabrielle had to pause and take a steadying breath. The monumental consequences of what she was about to do played out in her mind. This would be the wall’s first test.

  Giving nothing away, she unlocked the door and shouldered into the cave first. François joined her under the soft glow of the 24-volt lights. As he stood comfortably in his personal domain, Gabrielle realized again the risk she’d put him in without his knowledge.

  There was still time to protect him. “Monsieur Chardon requested twenty bottles of the 1921,” she said breezily, trying—and failing—to hide her worry inside the mild tone.

  “Josephine specifically told me you were serving the 1928 tonight.”

  François’s even tone gave Gabrielle pause. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something more. Was he now testing her? She searched his face for the answer. His expression never changed. He simply stood in the low light, waiting, letting her look. “We cannot serve the 1928,” she said. “Not tonight, or any other night for many days to come.”

  He nodded. “It would not be wise, I think. Perhaps, even dangerous.”

  Gabrielle’s breath caught in her throat.

  She was still trying to work out how much he knew, when he said, “There is something you need to see. Come with me and I will show you what I mean.”

  He directed her down the long corridors with their low ceilings and inadequate light. They journeyed in silence past the wine racks holding bottles of champagne in their second fermentation, their necks positioned at a precise thirty-five-degree angle for the sediment to collect at their corks. Part of François’s duties was to oversee this process. He alone gave the bottles their fractional turns at precise, predetermined intervals until the wine was clear and ready for the next phase in becoming champagne.

  They rounded the first corner in silence, descended a tiny flight of steps cut into the limestone and then moved through yet another series of corridors that housed the oak barrels and more champagne. Finally, they came to the very end of the cellar. He placed his hand on the fake wall and turned to look at her, saying nothing.

  Gabrielle’s entire body went cold, but she held his stare.

  He’d said he wanted to show her something, so she moved in next to him and looked. Shoulder to shoulder, they surveyed the stones together.

  The first thing Gabrielle noticed was that the spiders had done their job. As if they’d known their purpose, they’d spun their webs at strategic, seemingly random points. Her second thought was that François wasn’t voicing his opinion about the wall, its location, the spiders. Nothing. He had something to say. She could see the truth of it in the way he rubbed at his beard, the sign he was thinking.

  “You understand what I’ve done?” she asked.

  He made a sound in the back of his throat that could have been agreement, or possibly a warning, Gabrielle could not say which. “You have protected your family’s future in a very clever way.”

  “And now, by the very nature of this conversation, I’ve put you at risk as well.” The moment the words left her mouth, she felt the
magnitude of what she’d done. She’d brought this man into her confidence without giving him a choice in the matter. As surely as the spiders had captured their unsuspecting prey, Gabrielle had woven François into her web of lies. “If the burden is too much, I will find you another situation. Perhaps in my father-in-law’s vineyard.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort.” He patted her arm in a paternal gesture that brought a sting to her eyes. “Your grandmother was wise to put you in charge of this project.”

  “She doesn’t know. She cannot know.” Her voice cracked with the urgency she felt in her heart. “François, please, she must never know. This stays between us.”

  “You are asking me to lie to your grandmother?”

  “It would be a lie of omission. But yes, that is what I am asking.”

  “Very well.” He turned to look at her. “During the last war, Josephine and I buried the bottles beneath the vines. This, I believe, is a better solution. Now. Look. Some of the stones have shifted. You see? There.” He indicated a spot on their right, then pointed to another position three feet lower. “And there.”

  There were other places of concern, large enough to expose her faulty construction if someone looked closely enough. François had. Others would, too.

  Dismayed, Gabrielle tugged in a hard pull of air. Mistake upon mistake. Lies upon lies. She’d acted in haste, and now the stones themselves exposed her recklessness.

  “The wall has to be stabilized,” he said. “I will do it now, while the party distracts your grandmother.”

  How easy it would be to let him take care of her mess. How cowardly. “I’ve already involved you more than I should. I can’t allow you to—”

  “You can and you will. It is settled. You will let me do this for your family.”

  “We’ll fix the wall together,” she countered. “After the party. For now, we have champagne to deliver to a fussy, overpaid chef who is enamored with his own brilliance.”