My Grape Year: (The Grape Series #1)

by Laura Bradbury

  “Have you had a nice time?” he asked. His eyes were bright, but he was certainly not drunk. Nor was I.

  “It’s a great party,” I said. “Merci.”

  I continued up the stairs, but Félix somehow managed to transfer both tarts into one hand and caught my arm with the other.

  “Wait,” he said. “I need to do something.”

  “What?” I asked, smiling and leaning closer. He looked like he wanted to tell me a secret.

  Instead, he planted his lips on mine and began kissing me. I didn’t draw back immediately. I was worried he was going to drop the tarts, and also I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He wasn’t a great kisser—entirely too much saliva like Florian—but it was nice to actually feel close to someone after feeling lonely for the past while. Despite that, I pulled away. I didn’t like Félix in that way at all.

  “Pute!” A voice shouted from the bottom of the stairs. I jerked back and saw Élise’s little face, screwed up into misery. “I hate you, Laura!”

  “Eh merde,” Félix sighed.

  Élise burst into tears and took off downstairs again.

  “I think she has a crush on me,” Félix said.

  “That was nice, Félix,” I said, needing to set the record straight. “But you know it didn’t mean anything, right?”

  Félix smiled at me. “I know. Sorry. You look sad sometimes and it was just a Happy New Year’s kiss.” He consulted his watch. “It’s five minutes past midnight. Bonne année.”

  “Bonne année,” I said to him. “Maybe you should go and reassure Élise.”

  “I will,” he promised. “I don’t want her to poison you or anything over this.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. Félix headed back downstairs again.

  “Wait,” I called out, “would she?”

  He turned around slightly and considered this. “With her, who knows?”

  I walked up the last few steps, suddenly feeling like all the energy had been sucked out of my cells.

  After my trip to the bathroom, I collapsed on one of the leather couches in the living room, not yet feeling fit for company or to face Élise. A wave of despondency washed over me. I’d never loved New Year’s. It always felt like too much pressure to have fun, but this year was worse than ever.

  My year was almost half over. I still hadn’t fallen in love. I didn’t have a group of friends to hang out with on a regular basis. I lived with a family whose children seemed to want to either sleep with me or kill me. I had learned to speak French, I reminded myself. That was something. Still, if the rest of the year continued like this, I wouldn’t fulfill the most important of my daydreams.

  Where was he? Where was this great love of my life? Had it been ridiculous to even dream that I would meet him there in France? He probably didn’t even exist, I thought, let alone have a path that was going to intersect with mine.

  “C’est quoi ça?” A booming voice came from above my bowed head.

  I turned around on the couch, to see a hearty-looking Burgundian man with a red face and a rotund belly staring down at me. He had both his hands full of wineglasses, which he was holding by the stems. He was clearly perplexed.

  “What on earth is a pretty girl like you doing up here all by herself on New Year’s Eve?” he demanded. “This is all wrong.”

  “I was at Félix’s party downstairs.” I jerked my thumb in that direction.

  “Is he not serving you enough wine down there?” he asked, suspiciously.

  “Non, non. I just came up to use the bathroom and just needed some time to think…”

  “Man trouble?” That hit too close to home.

  “No. Not that.”

  “What is your accent?” he demanded.

  “Canadian,” I said. “I’m Canadian.”

  “Québecois?” He sounded dubious.

  “No. I’m from English-speaking Canada. I just learned French when I came here in September.”

  “Do you like wine?” he asked.

  “Adore it,” I said.

  “Well I am Félix’s father, Gérard. You must do me the honor of coming down to my cellar for a tasting. I have one group just on their way out and another just arriving. Will you?”

  I thought of Élise’s face when she had seen Félix and me on the stairs. “I’d love to.”

  He didn’t have a free hand but nodded at me to follow him. I put my jacket on, and we went out the front door and crunched across the gravel courtyard. It was pitch black out and snow swirled around in the frigid air.

  A group of youngish adults stumbled across the courtyard in the opposite direction, hunched over in the cold but laughing and singing some French song.

  “Salut Gérard!” they called out. “Thank you for the tasting! Bonne année! Bonne santé!”

  As they passed me, one of the men—one whose face I couldn’t make out in the dark but who seemed to have black hair—bumped into me. Our arms merely brushed but I felt it like an electric shock, so much so that I stopped in my tracks.

  “Desolée!” he called out to me, stopping too. He peered in my general direction and took a step towards me, but his friends doubled back. They grabbed him by each arm and pulled him inexorably forward. They began singing again.

  “This way!” Gérard ushered me towards a little rectangle of light in the far wall and down the stone steps of his cellar. I recognized the smell of a Burgundian wine cellar immediately, and it warmed my heart. “That was my previous group,” he said once we were at the bottom of the steps. Some boys from the village.”

  “Boys?” They didn’t look like boys to me.

  “Well…I suppose they’re not really boys any longer, but I’ll always think of them that way.”

  Four different men were already down there, encircling the tasting barrel, expectant expressions on their faces. They were all pushing fifty or sixty, and for a moment I wished that the village “boys” from the courtyard were down in the cellar with me instead.

  “What have you brought us?” one of them declared when he saw me behind Gérard.

  “Une petite Canadienne!” Gérard declared, triumphantly. “I found her all alone on one of my couches, and I couldn’t have that, évidemment. She clearly was in dire need of some proper Burgundian hospitality.”

  The next several hours became somewhat of a blur. Down in the coziness of Gérard’s cellar, we tasted all kinds of different wines, some dating back to the early 1900s, or so Gérard thought. The men, friends of Gérard’s—I now saw where Félix got his hospitable personality from—flirted with me, and paid me lots of innocuous and gallant compliments on my charm and beauty that made me laugh.

  When we stumbled out of the cellar, the dark sky was paling to gray.

  “I think I might have missed my ride,” I said, but couldn’t find it in myself to be overly concerned.

  “You can stay over here,” Gérard said. “Plenty of beds! We usually have a few strays after our parties.”

  Just then Félix made his way into the courtyard.

  “Laura!” he said. “We were wondering where you were! Did my father kidnap you?”

  “Yes,” I chuckled. “And he forced me to drink wine.”

  Gérard squeezed my shoulder. “I like this one, Félix!” he declared. “You should marry her.”

  “We’re just friends,” I said to Gérard.

  “Alas, that is the story of my son’s life.” He shook his head in mock sadness.

  “Do you want to come with us for breakfast?” Félix asked. I saw two of his non-Scouts friends were behind him.

  “Where?”

  “My grandparents house just down the road.”

  “I think I need to find Élise and Yves, if they haven’t left already.”

  “Oh they haven’t.” Félix waved his hand. “They’re asleep downstairs with pretty much everyone else.”

  “All right,” I said. I found I was in no hurry to see Élise.

  I thanked Gérard and gave him a kiss on each cheek, which m
ade his skin turn an even deeper shade of red.

  “Did you talk to Élise?” I asked Félix as we all crossed the courtyard and ventured into the snowy lane.

  “Yes.” There were puckers in his forehead. “She does hold on to grudges though. I think I may have made things even harder for you. Sorry about that.”

  I shrugged. “It was hardly great to begin with.”

  Félix waved at the tall stone wall that dominated the end of the lane. “That’s Stéphanie’s house,” he said.

  “Did she and Sandrine come in the end?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember seeing them.”

  We slipped and slid down the road—the same road across from the village bakery that we had slowed down on, on our way to la Maison des Hautes-Côtes.

  “Won’t we be waking up your grandparents?” I asked Félix.

  Félix snorted. “Are you kidding? They’re winemakers. They’re incapable of sleeping past four o’clock in the morning.”

  Their house was a ramshackle stone affair at the bottom of the street. We climbed up a set of steep stone stairs and Félix knocked on the door.

  Almost immediately, it was opened by a white-haired old lady in a flowered housecoat.

  “Bonne Année.” Félix leaned forward and gave her a kiss. “These are my friends.” He introduced us all. “We’re here to have breakfast.”

  Félix’s grandmother did not seem to be at all surprised or put out by this announcement, and opened the door and ushered us in. She told us to take a seat at the table, which was covered with a red oilcloth. At the table sat a wrinkled old man. A cane leaned against his chair.

  “Doudou,” Félix said and gave him a kiss, then repeated the introductions again. He introduced his grandfather as le Doudou, which wasn’t a word I was familiar with; but people in these villages had all kinds of strange nicknames. We all kissed each other in greeting before sitting down.

  Félix’s grandmother measured coffee into an aluminum stovetop coffee pot. She ordered her husband to the boulangerie to get things to eat. Le Doudou struggled to stand up with his cane.

  “I can go,” I whispered to Félix. “I don’t want him to slip and fall.”

  “It’s good for him,” Félix whispered back. “He’ll see some friends he knows, have a chat. There’s nothing worse for him than sitting around all day at home.”

  Grandmère set out glass café au lait bowls in front of all of us, then began heating up milk in an ancient casserole on an equally ancient stove. I admired the massive wooden buffet that stood like a sentinel and took up the whole back wall of the kitchen.

  Le Doudou was taking quite a while to come back, long enough for me to start imagining him lying in the icy street with a broken leg. In the meantime, Félix entertained his grandmother with tales of the previous night’s party. She appeared to be a dour woman at first glance; but she possessed a taste for the ribald, and Félix had her in stitches.

  At last, le Doudou blew back in the door, snow sprinkled on the shoulders of his woolen jacket. “Il fait un froid du canard out there,” he declared. Now that was an expression I wasn’t yet familiar with—it is “duck cold” out there. I’d have to look that one up in my dictionary. He did look far cheerier than when he left.

  “Who did you see?” Félix asked.

  “Le Père Curie was talking to Olivier and Franck. Apparently the boys were tasting at Gérard’s last night. They haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

  “You should have invited them here for breakfast,” Grandmère chastised.

  “They were going back to Franck’s house,” le Doudou said. “La Michèle will take care of them.”

  “I think I might have crossed with them when I was going to the cellar last night,” I said. “It was dark and cold though. Hard to see.”

  Le Doudou sat down again, his wrinkled cheeks rosy. “Gérard needs to replace his courtyard light,” he said. “I keep telling him.”

  “I didn’t see Sandrine or Stéph though,” I said to Félix. “Did they come?”

  “I’ll bet Sandrine was waylaid by a boy,” Félix said. His grandmother swatted him unceremoniously on the head.

  “Don’t say such things about your cousin.” Her eyes glinted. “Even if they are true.”

  Grandmère placed steaming bowls of café au lait in front of all of us, then followed that with the basket full of croissants and pain au chocolat, as well as three fresh baguettes, a block of creamy butter, and several jars of homemade jam.

  We all dug in. As far as a beginning to the new year, it was far better than I had hoped.

  CHAPTER 20

  When school started up again a few days later, Sandrine apologized for not meeting up with me on New Year’s in Villers-la-Faye. Félix had been right—both she and Stéphanie met some new boys from a different village, and that had required a last-minute change in plans involving mobilettes and a party in Beaune.

  Thibaut pulled me aside before school to ask me how my holidays had been. I described some of the trials and tribulations of living with the Girard offspring, including the Scouts meeting in Nuits-Saint-Georges, and quickly had him in stitches.

  “You know, Laura,” he said. “I missed you over the break. I was surprised how much.”

  “Oh really?” I never knew when he was mocking me, and I didn’t want to fall into yet another trap and expose myself. I rolled my eyes to underline that I didn’t take him seriously.

  “I did,” he insisted. “The prof is showing us a film about Rousseau in Philosophy today. I’ll save you a seat. D’accord?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”

  He leaned over and gave me a kiss on each cheek, even though we had already had our bises greeting a few minutes before.

  “We just did les bises. Did you forget?”

  “I didn’t forget.” He turned and walked towards a group of other guys.

  Philosophie was the last class of the day, and Sandrine didn’t have it with me. It was basically Thibault and a bunch of his friends, who were also becoming my friends. I walked in a bit on the late side, and most of the desks were filled up. Thibaut and his buddies were at the very back of the room, their desks pushed right up against the wall.

  “Laura!” He waved at me. “Over here!”

  I went over and took the one empty seat left that was pushed up against Thibault’s.

  I stuck my bag underneath the chair. “Why do I get the impression you guys aren’t planning on watching much of this movie?”

  “Such an accusation!” said Maxime, a tall blond boy who was always joking. He reminded me of Big Bird from Sesame Street. “I’m offended.”

  The teacher came in then, looking distinctly disenchanted about school being back in session. “I have things to do while you are watching this,” he said. “I will be in and out, but I expect you all to be on your best behavior.”

  We all exchanged smiles. Now there was a rule that was just begging to be broken.

  He shut off the lights and began the movie on an old TV set that he’d rolled in on a metal cart. The voice of the narrator began banging on about Rousseau and his ideas of freedom and nature. After a few minutes, I shut my eyes and was just conjuring up a pleasant daydream when a hand moved across my desk and clasped my hand.

  My eyes flew open.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed at Thibault.

  He put a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhh.”

  He then murmured something else that I didn’t hear, so I leaned closer and signaled him to repeat himself. Instead of whispering in my ear, he kissed me. I looked up at him. Surprise must have been written all over my face.

  “Did you not like that?” he asked.

  I thought about it. There was…something…there. I wasn’t sure if I even liked Thibaut sometimes, but I was drawn to him. Besides, I was lonely.

  “Maybe. I think we’ll have to try again for me to know for sure.”

  He kissed me again, and I felt a flash of something. Not a lightning
bolt, but a spark of lust. Maybe we can fan that into something?

  I spent the rest of the class making out in the corner of the room with Thibaut.

  The next morning, Sandrine caught me as soon as I got off the bus from Noiron. “Tell me it’s not true,” she said, her features frozen in a scowl of disapproval. “You and Thibaut.”

  I shrugged. That morning I had twisted my hair up in a barrette just as the French girls did, and the nonchalance of the style had rubbed off on me. “I was bored. It was just a bit of fun.”

  “You can do better,” she said.

  “It’s nothing serious. Really. Don’t worry.”

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything further.

  Two weeks later we were all together in PE class. Thibaut and I hadn’t gone beyond kissing in dark corners and empty classrooms. That, though, we did at every opportunity.

  We had begun a gymnastics unit. I had always been remarkably ungifted at that particular sport. I could barely execute a cartwheel.

  Thibaut stood beside me as we watched our classmates scurry up a rope attached to the twenty-foot gymnasium ceiling.

  “God, I’m never going to be able to do that,” I said.

  “Me neither,” he said. “I’m strong—good for ripping out old vines and such—but I don’t seem to have a knack for vertical motion.”

  “Maybe if I keep going to the back of the line the teacher won’t realize that I haven’t gone.”

  Thibaut smiled down at me. “Doubt it. She’s got a list.” He jutted his chin to indicate the clipboard our officious Gym teacher held in her hand.

  “Merde.”

  Thibaut laughed. I wondered again why Thibaut always insisted in keeping our assignations in the dark. He never acted at all like a boyfriend around me at school, except when we were alone. It made me feel angry, hurt, and a little embarrassed. Still, my pride wouldn’t let me broach the topic with him.

  I admonished myself to stop overworking my brain trying to figure out what this thing was between Thibaut and me.It was just fun, right? Why couldn’t I just be the kind of person to just enjoy something for what it was? My damned brain, always working overtime.