Her time with Dash had seemed like just such a fairy tale, a charmed life of love and connection and beauty and happily ever after.
But when he died, the magic had been replaced with a void, an absence. For the first time, she envied others their religious faith; it would have been far better to imagine there was someone in charge, someone with some sort of plan that required Dash’s death and Rosalyn’s agony. Surely there was a reason. There had to be a reason.
Dash sent no signs. There was no magic. Hummingbirds were on a desperate hunt for food; the woods were no more enchanted than she was. And the most glorious sunsets were caused by air pollution or smoke from wildfires.
The more she chased her husband’s ghost, the farther away he felt.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Lucie
Now that my life has become a whirlwind of scavenging ruins, cleaning wounds, organizing children, and picking grapes at night—not to mention how difficult it is to find enough water and privacy to bathe—I have grown weary of dealing with my long tresses.
Maman always says a woman’s hair is her crowning glory. Though I love and respect my mother, I fear her ways no longer apply; they have disappeared as surely as the Villa Traverne and our neighbors, the parties and society functions that once made up our lives.
The world has turned upside down, and I with it.
So I took a set of shears and bobbed my hair. Women are doing it all over; I saw pictures in one of the dog-eared magazines passed around from one denizen of the Pommery caves to the next.
Predictably, my mother is furious to the point of tears, and wonders aloud what has become of me, what is to become of us all; but her protests dissolve into prolonged coughing spells. She has developed a worrying hack, and no matter how much tea of anise I make her, she does not seem to improve.
On his last visit, Émile told me he quite liked my new hairdo. He said I looked posh, and modern. This time my fiancé sent a present of earbobs—which are wholly impractical but look grand with my newly cropped hair—but Émile brought me something I truly treasure: a translation of a book of stories by an American author named Edgar Allan Poe.
Émile and I stroll the lengths of the crayères together as I tell him about bringing in the harvest, and list for him what we have lately been able to scavenge from the ruins. He exhorts me to be careful on my expeditions, but I remind him that I have stayed alive this long, and have no intention of dying anytime soon.
At my urging, Émile tells me of the lice and the flies and the rats plaguing the soldiers, of the death and blood and destruction. He confides that his fellow soldiers have begun to see ghosts, and that he, too, sometimes feels an otherworldly presence come to stand beside him on the battlefield. He hopes I do not think less of him for telling me this.
And through it all, his sad, beautiful eyes tell me something else altogether.
I have been proposed to several times; I know when a man is falling in love. It is my own heart that takes me by surprise.
Chapter Thirty
The next morning on her walk, Rosalyn again spotted Jérôme Comtois in his fields, this time on a tractor. He wore a scarf and heavy gloves, dirty jeans, and muddy boots, and was topped by an army green parka-length jacket.
Owning a vineyard sounded like fun, but Rosalyn knew that the reality was one of hard, constant toil. Grape producers were farmers, pure and simple; they spent long days tending to the earth and the plants, enveloped by mud, sun, and wind. They might clean up for a wine tasting, but at their cores were farmers.
As Rosalyn watched Jérôme, she decided he was more rugged than handsome. She found it hard to picture him teaching in a classroom at the world-famous Sorbonne, so perfectly did he fit working in his fields. He put her in mind of the Frenchmen who had gone to California in search of gold, back in the day, and left their mark with such place names as French Creek and French Canyon, and, of course, the French wineries of Napa.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour, madame.”
“I owe you money,” she said in French, reaching into her pocket to extract the envelope she had been carrying around in case she saw him.
“It is not necessary. I told you not to worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it. But I still want to pay you back. Rumor has it you already don’t think highly of my people, and I don’t want to give you more cause to dislike us.”
He pressed his lips together, turned the engine of the tractor off, and climbed down. He pulled off one glove, accepted the envelope with a quick nod, and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he started fiddling with a knob on the side of the tractor.
“So,” Rosalyn said, “I hear you have a museum.”
“Yes,” he replied in English. “But we are only open to tourists during the summer.”
“Actually, I’m here on business. I represent a small American champagne importer.”
He didn’t reply but for a moment ceased his incessant fidgeting. The dawn air was so cold, their breath left traces of mist before them; Rosalyn watched his hands, amazed that he could feel anything with his bare fingertips.
“You should speak to the co-op,” he suggested. “I make only a very small vintage.”
“I’m aware of that. I’ve been told it’s excellent.”
He straightened, placing his hands on his hips and studying her. “Why is an American importer here at this time of year?”
“I got here a little early, I guess. I didn’t realize everything would be closed. It’s . . . a little different where I come from.”
“Where is that?”
“Napa, California.”
He nodded. “I’ve been there. It was a long time ago.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Oh. Well. I . . .” She trailed off, unsure how to respond. The French could be so very blunt.
“Madame—”
“Rosalyn,” she said, thrusting out her hand. “Rosalyn Acosta.”
He gazed at her hand for a moment before grasping it and shaking. “Jérôme Comtois.”
“Enchantée.”
“Madame Acosta—”
“Rosalyn, please.”
“Rosalyn, bon. I am sorry to sound impatient, but I have much work to be done.”
Do your freaking job, Rosie, she thought. It’s now or never with this guy. She had dealt with reluctant clients before. Usually she was on the other end of this transaction, trying to sell the wine she represented to a retailer or restaurateur, but in many ways it was a similar dynamic.
“Please, just hear me out. Two minutes of your time?”
Jérôme sighed, but nodded.
“My boss, Hugh Small of Small Fortune Wines, specializes in importing from small family wineries. We currently represent a very high-end champagne, but are in the market for more affordable wines to be served by the glass. We’d like to introduce Americans to smaller French wineries, to make champagne more of an everyday pleasure.”
He studied her for a moment. “That sounds like a practiced speech.”
She shrugged. “It’s my job, Monsieur Comtois.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“I wonder why you are in the wine business, why you are here, shivering in the cold, when everyone’s out of town.”
“Oh, I, uh . . .”
“You love champagne—is that it? Went into the business because it sounded like a romantic Hollywood film? Wine making is not romantic, madame. It is standing out in the cold, checking on plants, fighting frost and hail and bugs and wind. It is a cycle of never-ending neediness of the vines. The reason no one is in town now is because this is the only time in the entire year they can leave for a week or two. It is not romantic.”
“I never thought it was. I went into
this business because I needed a job,” she said. “My . . .” Her voice caught, and she stopped, afraid of breaking down in tears. My husband died and left me in terrible debt, and I needed a job. Everyone says it’s a dream job, I’m so very lucky, but I hate it. I hate my job.
Tears stung, but did not fall. Rosalyn had promised herself after Dash died that she would not be ashamed of crying. And she wasn’t—she cried in grocery stores, in her car, in public restrooms—but she despised how tears brought conversations to a halt, especially with men.
And crying was hardly professional behavior. If she couldn’t get a grip on her emotions, she really would have to find another way to make a living, and where would that leave her? Back to waiting tables? If she had to move back in with her mother, even temporarily, she would shrivel up and blow away on the dry wind.
Grief brain. She forced herself to focus on the situation at hand.
“I apologize, madame.” Comtois looked alarmed, and a muscle worked in his jaw. “I did not mean to upset you. My ex-wife tells me that sometimes I am brusque to the point of rudeness.”
“It’s not your fault, and I’m not upset.” Rosalyn cleared her throat and joined him in staring at the rows and rows of grapevines planted along the rolling hills. She knew that the vines nearest the forest would produce grapes with a unique flavor, just as those grown on the hillside would be distinct from those grown on the flats. Variation within a vineyard was especially pronounced in France, where vintners did not irrigate the vines. Instead, they believed the struggle of the roots searching through layers of chalk and limestone to find water improved the taste of the grapes and, eventually, of the wine.
“I mean, I obviously am upset, but not because of anything you’ve done or said. . . . I’m at something of a crossroads in my life, I guess you could say.”
The moment she blurted it out, Rosalyn cringed.
A moment of silence passed between them. She stared at his mud-covered boots, wondering why she felt so comfortable standing in the fields with this gruff farmer.
“Look, this is silly,” she said. “I really would like to try your champagne, and possibly rep your wine in the United States, but I also wanted to return your money, and to ask a favor.”
“Another favor?” Comtois said, and she could not tell if he was serious or teasing.
“Emma Kinsley is a friend of mine, and she would like very much to access your family’s collection. It’s a long story—and certainly a long shot—but she’s looking for some letters from World War One, and thought there might be something tucked away in your collection, in some corner of your caves. . . .”
He nodded slowly. “She’s been in touch, but I told her I don’t think I have anything like what she’s searching for. My father collected artifacts, such as corks and winepresses. There are a few books from the World War One era in the library, but I haven’t seen any personal paperwork or correspondence.”
“Well, I said it was a long shot.”
A crinkle showed between his eyebrows when he frowned. “Emma Kinsley sent you here to ask me that?”
“I’m honestly in the area scouting for small champagne producers. But she asked me to mention it if I saw you. You’re . . . a little hard to pin down.”
“You seem to catch me in the fields rather frequently.”
“I suppose most people aren’t out at five in the morning.”
He gave her a ghost of a smile, his tongue playing with his cheek.
“I suppose not. But at the moment, I really do need to get back to work. Madame—”
“Rosalyn.”
“Rosalyn, the so-called museum is a mess, with issues with electricity and water damage. It’s too dangerous for someone to go poking around looking for family heirlooms. If I can, I’ll get it cleaned up and ready to visit by tourist season, though I can’t promise even that. Please tell Madame Kinsley she will be welcome to go through the place at that time.”
Chapter Thirty-one
I’m afraid my meeting with Jérôme Comtois was a bust,” Rosalyn said later that day when she found Emma outside in the parking lot, smoking. “On all scores. He’s not interested in being represented by yours truly, either.”
Emma stood at attention. “You talked with him? What did you say? What did he say?”
“I gave him my standard spiel about wanting to rep small French champagne producers, and he said, in a nutshell, ‘Thanks, but no, thanks.’ He even said it in English.”
“What about the collection?”
“Apparently there are electrical and water issues that need fixing before he’s willing to let anyone in, and that wouldn’t be before the tourist season. He said that in English, too. I’m starting to believe he doesn’t think highly of my French.”
Emma coughed into her hand, then gestured to her cigarette. “I know, I know. I smoke too much. So, where did you find Comtois?”
“I see him sometimes in his fields when I walk early in the morning. I didn’t realize it was him at first, but I finally put it together. Anyway, I owed him some money, so I was carrying around the cash in case I saw him.”
“You owed Jérôme Comtois money?” asked Emma. “I thought you didn’t even know who he was.”
“It’s a long story involving an American credit card.”
“Ah, couldn’t get the card to work at the gas pump when the store was closed, huh?”
“Okay, I guess it’s not that long a story.”
* * *
With Gaspard back in town, Blondine cooked a formal multicourse dinner every night. The amount of planning, shopping, cooking, and cleaning was daunting to the typical American sensibility.
One night the feast began with butternut squash soup, which was followed by coquilles Saint-Jacques in wine and butter sauce with rice, and île flottante for dessert. The next it was duck confit and cassoulet, green beans in butter, salad, and an elaborate cheese course. After that was dos de cabillaud, lentils, potatoes cooked in duck fat, and vanilla panna cotta covered in fruit and topped with an almond cookie. Everything was accompanied, of course, with plenty of crusty bread and champagne.
In regular attendance were Gaspard, André, Blondine, Emma, and Rosalyn. Occasionally they would be joined by Dominique and Dani, and twice by Pietro and his wife, Colette. Sometimes another friend from town would stop by—usually with no advance notice. Blondine seemed to expect it, and always made extra.
One night Gaspard announced, “I have invited Jérôme Comtois to the Gathering of Vintners in the Vranken Pommery cellars this weekend.”
“He never comes to such things,” said Blondine.
“He will this time,” said Gaspard. “I made sure. I am not without influence in this town, especially now I am on the Comité Champagne.”
“My hero!” said Emma. “But I’m not sure it will do much good. He doesn’t seem willing to let me into his collection.”
“Try again, though I’m not sure how you expect to get to the party since it is being held in the cellars.”
Emma swore. “It’s true. These old buildings weren’t exactly built with broken legs in mind. But never you mind.” She let out a sigh. “I’ll figure out a way.”
“There are one hundred and sixteen steps leading down to the crayères of Pommery,” Rosalyn pointed out. “And the same number back up.”
“Good thing I’m rich,” said Emma with a grin.
* * *
The following night Gaspard announced he was dining with friends in Reims, Blondine planned on spending the evening with her mother, and André had the night to himself. Emma and Rosalyn were on their own for dinner.
Feeling like defiant teenagers, they decided to have a “colonial dinner,” which consisted of all the snacks they wanted and absolutely no cooking. They laid out a feast of a crusty baguette, two kinds of pâté, a chicken terrine, olives, potato chips, smoked salmo
n, and, in concession to good health, two prepared salades the French seemed very fond of, one of grated carrots and the other of lentils. Luscious Swiss chocolate bars were dessert.
It was fun to speak in fluent English; Emma and Rosalyn had developed a patois around Blondine, conversing primarily in French but switching to English here and there when Rosalyn couldn’t think of a word, or when Emma wanted to be sure Rosalyn understood something.
“I knew it,” said Blondine when she arrived late that evening and took in the detritus of their feast on the table. “You should have come to my mother’s house for a proper meal. My father will be angry.”
“We ate some salade,” said Rosalyn, feeling like she was caught going off her diet by her mother.
Emma had no such guilt issues and waved her off. “Gaspard is running around with his new ladylove. Not to mention, the man has absolutely no say over our nutrition, or lack thereof. Rosalyn and I are from the colonies; we could live on popcorn and PowerBars for a year. It’s our superpower.”
Rosalyn smiled. “This is true.”
“However,” Emma added, “if it will ease your mind, know that I have no compunction about lying to Gaspard and saying we ate a sumptuous meal with you. Make up a menu and we’ll go with it. Steak frites, perhaps?”
“I made coq au vin once,” said Rosalyn, “in this very kitchen.”
Blondine pressed her lips together. Rosalyn imagined that on an older person, the gesture might seem bitter or angry, but on Blondine’s young face, it was adorable, somewhere between a pout and defiance.
“Did you want to go through more letters?” Rosalyn asked.
The Vineyards of Champagne Page 20