The Winemaker's Wife

by Kristin Harmel

  Once they were seated and Grandma Edith had ordered a bottle of Bergeronneau-Marion champagne, she closed her menu with a definitive snap and stood up. “Well, if you two will excuse me, I just realized that I am very tired. I think I’ll go back to the hotel and take a nap.”

  Liv stood, instantly worried about her grandmother. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Nonsense.” Grandma Edith deposited several bills on the table. “The champagne is on me. Stay. Enjoy. I’ll see you when I wake up, Olivia.”

  She walked away before Liv could say another word. Liv sank slowly back down into her seat just as the waiter reappeared with their bottle of champagne, expertly popped the cork, and poured two tulip glasses. He looked at Grandma Edith’s empty chair and then at Julien, who shrugged and said, “Elle est partie.” The waiter nodded and whisked her empty glass away before hurrying off.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Liv said. “If you want to leave, too . . .”

  “And leave you to drink an entire bottle of champagne by yourself?” Julien asked. “Besides, I love Bergeronneau-Marion. Your grandmother has good taste.”

  Liv smiled. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

  “I feel certain of it.” He raised an eyebrow and then his glass. “To your grandmother.”

  “To my grandmother,” Liv grumbled, clinking glasses with Julien and then taking a long sip. The champagne was crisp and full, and its bubbles tickled her tongue. “May she one day learn to act like a normal human being.”

  Julien laughed and then fell quiet. In the silence between them, with butterflies fluttering in her stomach again, Liv had the strangest feeling that she’d just been set up on a date. But that was ridiculous; he was married, and she wasn’t the kind of person who flirted with other people’s husbands, even when they were as attractive as Julien.

  They were interrupted by the reappearance of their waiter, who filled their water glasses from a carafe and took their order: beef tartare with a green salad for Liv, and filet of beef for Julien.

  “So, tell me about your wife,” Liv finally blurted out when the waiter vanished. She needed to remind herself that the butterflies in her stomach had no business there. “How did you meet?”

  Julien looked confused, but he answered politely. “Well, Delphine and I were in school together years ago. We began to date when we were both fifteen.”

  Liv forced a smile. “Did you know right away that you’d marry her someday?”

  “Well, I thought she was very beautiful at first. But it was only once I got to know her that I knew I would fall in love with her.” He paused to take a sip of his champagne. “What about you? You are involved with someone? Your grandmother mentioned you divorced recently.”

  “Of course she did,” Liv muttered. “I’m pretty sure the day I signed the papers qualified as one of my grandmother’s favorite ‘I told you so’ moments.”

  Julien smiled. “Oh, I don’t think so. Of course, your grandmother, she loves to be right, oui? But she has mentioned many times how concerned she is about you.”

  Liv groaned. “Great. So you must think I’m completely pathetic.”

  “No, not at all! I think it must be very difficult when someone you believe in becomes someone you don’t recognize anymore.”

  Liv half laughed. “So I see she’s gone into great detail about my failed marriage.”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry. She really hasn’t.” Julien turned a bit pink. “I just—I can imagine how hard that must have been on you.”

  “Right, so, uh, I’m going to change the subject before I feel like even more of an idiot, okay?”

  “Liv, I didn’t mean—”

  She held up her hand to stop him. “Really, it’s fine. So, Julien, do you and Delphine have any kids?”

  When Julien smiled again, his whole face lit up. “A daughter, Mathilde. She’s about to turn six. She is looking forward to the end of her école maternelle, which I think you call preschool? Prekindergarten? Next year, she will be with the bigger children in une école primaire, which of course feels impossible to me. The time goes by so quickly. Every day, she reminds me more of her mother.”

  “Well,” Liv said. “Mathilde is very lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you,” Julien said. “I try very hard, but sometimes, I know I fall short. But enough about me. Your grandmother, she has not told me much about your life. Do you have any children?”

  The question hit Liv in the gut. “No, I don’t. Sometimes life doesn’t work out exactly the way you want it to, you know?”

  “You want children, then?”

  Liv examined her lap. “I did,” she mumbled.

  “But certainly it’s not too late, right?”

  Liv opened her mouth to reply, but Julien waved his hands to stop her.

  “I’m sorry, Liv. That’s a very personal question.”

  “I don’t mind. As long as I won’t bore you with the answer.”

  “Not at all.”

  Liv met his gaze and looked quickly away. “I—we, my husband and I—had trouble conceiving. We actually tried for years to get pregnant, and I think that was why our marriage began to fall apart. I—I couldn’t give him what he wanted.”

  “What he wanted? What about what you wanted?”

  “We both wanted to have a family. It felt like a failure when I couldn’t make that happen. My ex, he was someone who was used to having a perfect life. All the fertility treatments, all the specialists we had to see, all the times we got our hopes up—it was just too much.” Liv stopped abruptly and put her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. That was way more information than you needed. Talk about oversharing.” She closed her eyes.

  “No. I asked you, Liv. And I’m glad you told me, because it gives me the chance to say to you that I’m sorry that happened.” He hesitated. “When you are married, you are supposed to be partners above all else, to be there for each other through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, whatever comes your way.”

  Liv’s eyes felt damp. “That’s how things are with you and your wife?”

  Julien looked down at his hands and then back at Liv, a shadow across his face. “Liv, you do know that my wife is—”

  Liv waved her hands to stop. “Oh God, sorry, it’s totally not my business to be asking about your marriage, is it? Seriously, it’s been so long since I’ve been alone with an attractive man that I—” She stopped and shook her head, her cheeks on fire. Had she really just called him attractive? This was mortifying. “Great, and now it sounds like I’m hitting on you. I’m so sorry.”

  Julien laughed, the dark expression gone. “Well, being called attractive by a smart, beautiful woman isn’t the worst thing that has happened to me today. There’s certainly no need to apologize.”

  Liv groaned. “Can we change the subject again, forget I said anything?”

  He grinned. “But what if I don’t want to forget?”

  The words sounded almost flirtatious, and Liv looked away before she could read into them. “So, um, Mathilde, huh?” she said. “Do you like being a father?”

  “Liv, it’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever done in my life.” The light that came on in his eyes made Liv want to cry. Would Eric have felt that way if they had succeeded in getting pregnant? Liv knew immediately the answer was no, and that made her wonder why she’d been so eager to build a family with a man like that. Maybe it was because she’d never really believed that men like Julien existed. “And what about you, Liv?” Julien asked after a pause. “Do you still want to be a mother?”

  Liv sighed. “Honestly? I’m forty-one, and I have no idea what I’m doing with my life right now. I don’t think I know what I want anymore. I just—I feel lost.” It was the first time she’d admitted it aloud.

  “Liv,” he said, and he waited until she looked up. “I don’t think you are lost. I think your future is open. You’re ready for whatever magic comes along.”

  “Yeah, but who’s to say there’s any magic coming?
”

  “I am,” he said slowly. “You just have to believe.”

  But later, after she’d parted ways with Julien outside the restaurant, she let herself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like to have a life in which she had a family to care about and a partner who loved her the way Julien evidently loved his wife. But the thought was so far from reality that it only made her feel worse.

  Julien was wrong. Maybe his life was magical, but hers was a mess, and she had no idea how to fix what was broken.

  fifteen

  FEBRUARY 1942

  INÈS

  Inès spent her drive to Reims stewing about Michel—the fact that he didn’t trust her, the revelation that he was hiding munitions without telling her, and the way he seemed determined to make her feel small and insignificant. She was tired of feeling as if she didn’t matter, though it was certainly nothing new.

  But then she’d seen the way he’d looked at Céline outside the kitchen window, and something had shifted within her. She recognized the expression on his face, because it was the way he once looked at her. What if her husband hadn’t just lost interest in her, but had fallen in love with Céline? But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Though Inès knew he was frustrated with her ineptitude around the champagne house, her disinterest in politics, surely he knew she was trying. In any case, Edith would talk some sense into her.

  But when she arrived at the brasserie late in the morning, it was closed up tight, and no one answered when she pounded on the door. She went around back to Edith’s apartment, but there was no answer there, either. Hugging herself tightly and turning into the fierce, frigid wind whipping through the streets of Reims, Inès finally walked away in a daze.

  Where could Edith be? It was a Wednesday morning, a time when Edith and Edouard should have been preparing to open for lunch. She imagined Edith at a clandestine meeting somewhere, delivering information to a shadowy contact like the one Inès had stumbled upon in the cellars of the Maison Chauveau, and the more she thought about it, the more irritable she felt. How was it that everyone seemed to be walking around in possession of precious secrets, while Inès was coasting through a life that hadn’t changed at all, a life that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things?

  Perhaps she could persuade Edith that she could have some value as a worker for the underground, too. She would make Edith see that she was trustworthy, and she would finally be able to show Michel she was someone he could respect.

  But the longer she walked around Reims, keeping her head down to avoid eye contact with any of the German soldiers strolling by, the colder and more abandoned she felt. By the time she passed by the Brasserie Moulin for the sixth time that day and finally found it open, her mood had darkened again. She went in and spotted Edith immediately.

  “Where have you been?” she asked Edith as she approached the bar.

  Her friend looked up from drying glassware. “Inès? What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to see you. I’ve been in Reims all day, Edith, but you were out.”

  “Yes, well, Edouard and I had somewhere to be.” Edith’s eyes slid away. “I didn’t know you were coming.” She gave her a small smile. “Are you all right, then?”

  Inès could feel her shoulders relax a little. “Where were you?”

  Edith blinked. “Just at a friend’s apartment for a bit.”

  “Which friend?” Inès didn’t know why she was pressing; she likely didn’t know all of Edith’s friends anyhow, which made her feel sad. Life had moved on here without her, just as it had at the Maison Chauveau.

  “Someone you don’t know.” Edith hesitated and then crossed from behind the bar to take Inès’s hand. “My dear, you don’t look like yourself. Would you like to go upstairs to our apartment, perhaps take a nap for a bit?”

  Inès shook her head. “Perhaps I can help you out in the restaurant tonight.”

  Edith glanced over her shoulder, where a bartender was drying glasses, three waiters were chatting, and two Germans were deep in conversation at a table in the corner. “Oh no, Inès, we have plenty of help.”

  “Are they in on it, too?” Inès nodded to the waiters. “Do they . . . listen to conversations?”

  Edith’s eyes widened and flashed as she released Inès’s hands. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Inès,” she whispered.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  When Edith spoke again, her tone was frosty. “Be careful, my friend.”

  Inès closed her eyes. This wasn’t going how she’d imagined it. “I’m sorry, Edith. I didn’t mean—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I need you, Edith. Nothing is working out the way I thought it would. I’m useless at the Maison Chauveau, and Michel has grown to despise me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Edith said, her eyes darting quickly to the Germans in the corner again before returning her divided attention to Inès. “You’re the love of his life.”

  “You’ve barely seen us these past two years, Edith. Things are different now.”

  “I’m so very sorry you’re feeling that way. But I’m not sure what you think I can do.”

  “You can help me, Edith. You can let me have a role in whatever it is you’re doing here. Please. I want to show Michel that he can trust me. I want him to look at me the way he . . . the way he looks at Céline.” And there it was, the raw truth, the thing Inès most feared.

  “What are you saying?” Edith asked softly. “You think he’s having an affair with Céline?”

  “I—I don’t think so.” Inès hesitated. “But the way he feels about me has changed. Maybe if I work with you . . .”

  “No, Inès.” Edith’s tone was firm. “There is nothing you can do. You are welcome here anytime, but only as my dear friend.” She leaned in closer. “The work we are doing here is dangerous.”

  “And you think I cannot handle it.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Edith sighed. Edouard emerged from the kitchen and frowned at her, his eyes darting to the Germans in the corner. Edith nodded slightly, unspoken words passing between them. She turned back to Inès. “I’m sorry, but I really must deliver some beers. But stay as long as you like. Come sit at the bar, and I’ll have the bartender fetch you a glass of wine, all right? You are always welcome here. But don’t think that you can casually become involved in something you don’t understand just because you want to win your husband back. That’s not how things work.”

  As Edith walked away without turning back, Inès watched her go. She had the strange sensation that she had fallen off a ship and her best friend had just walked away with the only life preserver.

  • • •

  Three hours later, the dinner service was in full swing, the brasserie was crowded with Germans, and Edith had vanished into the crowd, leaving Inès alone. She had been installed at the bar since Edith had dismissed her that afternoon, and the bartender had steadily refilled her glass, his expression gradually changing from one of disengaged politeness to one of pity as the room around her grew blurrier and blurrier. By the time a clean-shaven man with slick silver hair and a perfectly tailored gray suit sat down beside her and said bonsoir, the world was fuzzy, and Inès was finally at ease.

  “And what is a beautiful woman like you doing out alone on a night like this?” the man asked, gesturing for the bartender. He ordered her a glass of champagne without waiting for her answer and then turned his gray eyes back to her. “Surely there is a gentleman somewhere wondering where you are.”

  Inès flushed at the compliment. “Yes, well, my husband is too busy thinking about business and war,” she muttered before she could stop herself. “He probably hasn’t even noticed that I’m gone.”

  “I would notice,” the man said, lowering his voice until it was almost a purr. “I would feel your absence deeply, were I the one you had chosen.”

  That got her attention, the idea that she had chosen anything at all. She
felt so constrained by the decisions she had already made that she had lost any sense of control over her own life. It made her feel like nothing, but looking into the eyes of the man at the bar, she felt something she’d almost forgotten. This man clearly found her attractive, and with that realization, she regained something she thought had been lost.

  She didn’t say anything, for she had nearly forgotten how to flirt, and besides, that wasn’t what she had come here for. Her champagne arrived then, little bubbles racing to the surface, and the man raised his glass. “To you,” he said, watching her closely.

  “And you.” She took a small taste. It was surprisingly refreshing to have a glass of champagne that hadn’t been made by her husband, to enjoy it without sitting across from someone who was analyzing every sip.

  “I suppose I should introduce myself,” the man said. “My name is Antoine. Antoine Picard.”

  Inès let him take her hand. “Inès Chauveau.”

  “Chauveau, as in the Maison Chauveau?”

  “It is owned by my husband.”

  “Ah. Well, it is a pleasure.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it softly. “A true pleasure, madame. But it is a shame for me that you are someone else’s wife, I think.”

  “And perhaps it is a shame for me that I have a husband who doesn’t seem to care whether he has a wife at all.” When Inès saw something spark in the older man’s eyes, she knew she had crossed a line. She could have taken it back, forced a laugh, softened the words by adding something about how Michel was just busy, but she held her tongue and watched as the man’s gaze locked on hers.

  “Your husband does not sound like a very wise man,” Antoine said, watching her carefully.

  “He is very educated,” Inès said. “Far more than I.”

  “It sounds as if he has reminded you of this more than once. He does not put much stock in your opinion?”

  “Well . . . yes.” Inès blinked. How did the man know? “He treats me as if I’m a child.”