“I would prefer,” Alain replied, standing as well and studying Henri from an advantage of at least six inches, “that you just say I was called away unexpectedly and that I’m due back in a few days. I’d rather this be our, uh, little secret, Henri. Do you understand?”
“Oui, monsieur!” Henri replied, bowing slightly. “D’accord, monsieur! I understand precisely.” With that he bowed again and stooped to pick up a beautiful needlepoint pillow that had somehow found its way to the floor. He carefully positioned the pillow on a chair, turned, and stepped lightly out of the room, leaving Alain to his breakfast and his newfound happiness.
Chapter 30
Elements of her trip were all far more real and a great deal less romantic than Janie had imagined. The chateau, for instance, with its seemingly endless drafty rooms, had no central heating. And despite the fact that it was May, Janie had felt chilled from the moment she arrived. Her first impression of the chateau’s rustic simplicity had been correct, but she had been wrong to think the place either small or charming. The next morning, when Alain took her on a tour of the house and grounds, Janie came to realize that the chateau was a rather odd and outsized combination of showcase and factory.
“This is the first-year chai,” Alain explained, guiding her carefully by the elbow down a muddy path to one of the long one-story red-tiled buildings that flanked the manor house. It was dimly lit inside, airy, with a long, central colonnade and whitewashed walls. Alain and Janie walked down an aisle lined with barrels arranged in neat rows, stacked two and three high.
“These are barriques, or oak hogsheads,” Alain told her, tapping one of the barrels. “The wine is fermented here for a year, while it’s being constantly topped up. Sometimes it’s racked into a fresh barrel, as those men are doing there.” Alain pointed to three men at the end of an aisle who were gingerly turning a barrel on its side. “But let’s move out into the press room. I always find this area a bit claustrophobic.”
“Wait just a second,” Janie said, opening her notebook and making a quick thumbnail sketch of the three men at work. “This would be a good shot for the brochure—don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Alain replied, watching as she captured the scene in a few quick pencil strokes. He smiled as she closed the sketch pad. “Though I’d prefer sunny shots of the vineyard and the main house to grim rows of hogsheads.”
“Oh, we’ll have some of those, too,” Janie promised, following him down the aisle. At the far end above the door was an embossed glass replica of the Chanson lion. Illumined from behind, it cast a soft moonlike glow on the hillock of barrels beneath it. From there he showed her the chateau’s vast store of cement cuves and hydraulic presses, the fermenting vats and fouloir-égrappoir machines. Far from the rowdy, well-peopled scene that Janie had imagined, each step in the wine-making process seemed as mechanical and exacting as any assembly line. The entire operation was run with an almost hospital-like cleanliness, the blue-tiled floors scrubbed and gleaming. She listened politely to Alain’s perfunctory descriptions during their tour, all the while trying to fight a rising tide of disappointment.
“Sulphur dioxide is sprinkled into the cuve,” Alain explained as they walked back toward the main entrance, “as a disinfectant. Usually we use about ten grams per one hundred litres of grapes.”
“It all sounds so…” Janie tried to think of how to convey her feelings without seeming overly critical. “… so scientific, Alain.”
“Oh, but a very inexact science,” Alain replied, holding open the door for her. The noonday sun was a welcome change from the artificially lit interiors of the chais. “If it were truly scientific, we’d have a great vintage every year. But so much depends on the vagaries of the weather … the fickleness of the marketplace. No, try as we might, wine-making is still a risky enterprise.”
“Sometimes I get the impression,” Janie told him gently as they walked side by side up the path to the main house, “that you don’t really like it all that much.” The sunlight, slanting through the chestnut trees, dappled the gravel path and threw Alain’s face into shadow. She looked across at him when he didn’t answer her immediately, but he was staring straight ahead, his perfect face so composed it could have been sculpted from stone.
“I’m sorry,” she began artlessly, “I didn’t mean to pry. That was a stupid thing to say. Really, I…”
“Enough, Jane, please don’t babble. It doesn’t become you.” He stopped and turned to her, taking hold of her upper arms and forcing her to face him. She could feel his tightening grip through her sweater and winced inwardly at the pressure. “Whatever my feelings may be about this business, I am soon to be its director. Slowly over the last few years I have been taking over more and more of the management functions. I chose to do this thing. I decided it was my responsibility. I anticipate that the burdens and the duties will only increase when I take over the company completely. It may not be what I would have chosen to do in life if—mind you, if—I had a choice. But it’s what I must do. It’s what I will do. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry,” Janie replied, forcing herself to smile though she felt like bursting into tears. How could she have been so presumptuous? “I really am. It was none of my business.”
“I don’t know about that,” Alain replied cryptically. He let go of one of her arms, pulled her other arm through his, and started walking again toward the house.
“If you thought the tour of the chais boring, and don’t pretend you didn’t,” Alain interrupted when she started to meekly protest, “you should witness the tedium of the bottling plants, or the distribution warehouses, or the endless floors of offices in Bordeaux and Paris where we do nothing but push papers around. Most of our income is derived from the marketing and distribution of other vintner’s products, rather than our own. It’s hardly a glamorous business, darling.”
Once again, his endearment stopped all her other thoughts. His intimate tone of voice transfixed her. She was still struggling to recover her composure when, as they were climbing the five shallow steps to the front entrance, he said, “However, there is one rather lovely side to the business which you’ve yet to see. The vineyards. I thought we’d spend the afternoon touring them. I’ve had Cook prepare a picnic. We could leave immediately if that is okay with you.”
The afternoon was like drifting back into the dream that Paris had been. The more harshly defined reality of Chateau Chanson disappeared behind the warm, earthy fragrance of the vineyards in bloom. They drove down dusty one-lane roads lined with carefully tended rows of vines. Alain and Janie had their picnic beside a small, quickly traveling brook overhung with wild flowers. Alain cooled a bottle of Chablis in the water between two stones, and they ate sandwiches of chevre and fresh tomatoes in the shade of a gently creaking willow tree.
“This is so peaceful,” Janie said, sipping her wine and closing her eyes against the warm sunshine. “I love the vineyards, Alain. This—oh, this sense of order and tradition.” She sat up on one elbow and looked at him. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Of course,” Alain replied. “It’s what I like as well. It’s what makes the rest—the business end that we saw this morning—palatable.”
Janie leaned back again and sighed, closing her eyes. “Oh, I could stay here forever!”
Had she known it would happen? Had she been secretly willing it to? Suddenly a shadow fell across her face, and cool lips brushed hers. Without thinking, with an almost painful rush of longing and a sense of relief filling her limbs, her lips parted in a silent smile and she felt Alain’s tongue against her own. They drank each other in slowly, the sun warming their backs, the wands of the willow waving gently above their heads. The kiss lasted for—how long? Janie would never know—until a cloud blocked the sun and she felt the dampness of the ground against her back. She shivered.
“Darling, you’re cold!” Alain cried, cradling her closer. “Here, take my jacket.” And before she coul
d protest he’d struggled out of his expensive tweed and pulled it around her shoulders. He sat back on his heels and smiled at her. “You look like some terribly shy stable boy who’s just been caught nipping sugar cubes.”
“It’s how I feel, too,” Janie told him, blushing, and trying to brush her hair back into some semblance of order. Her expensive new black lizard ankle boots were covered with mud, her corduroys grass-stained. She sat up, brushing twigs and dust from her pant legs. “I must look a sight.”
“A vision,” Alain answered, standing and helping her up. He drew her to him again, kissing her forehead, her right temple, then, hungrily, her eager lips.
“We … should be going,” Janie said breathily when she felt she was about to faint in his arms.
“Yes,” he replied, looking down at her, “there’s so much I want to show you.” Once again, she felt as if she were walking through a dream—the sun, the fragrant field of wildflowers, Alain’s strong arm around her shoulders as they retraced their steps to the car.
They continued the tour of Chanson’s seemingly endless vineyards: wide, green acres of carefully groomed vines, bloom-covered, rolling gently to the horizon. They stopped twice to talk to workers, the men doffing their worn caps to Jane and talking respectfully to Alain.
“The weather’s been warm and calm,” Alain told her as they climbed back into the car after the second stop, “so the flowering’s a bit early. All the signs are pointing toward a truly fine harvest. I have a funny feeling,” he added, smiling across at her and squeezing her hand, “that this is going to be a vintage year.”
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and the late afternoon shadows lengthened, but Alain drove on. Through another field of dusty green, then another, over a small covered bridge, then, after a steep right, they made their way slowly down a long narrow dirt road flanked by ancient chestnut trees. A rambling, thatch-covered manor was nestled at the end of the avenue. Blue and white earthenware pots filled with geraniums stood sentry at the rough-hewn wooden door. Alain drove across the pebbled courtyard and stopped the car.
“Where are we?” Janie asked, gazing up at the mullioned windows. Long chains of ivy hung from the second floor wooden gallery. Smoke curled from a far chimney. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
“Good. I’d hoped you’d like it,” Alain replied, climbing out of the car. “We’ll be spending the night here.”
“What?” Janie exclaimed. “But … you didn’t tell me. I haven’t packed anything. I’m not…”
“Darling, darling,” Alain interrupted as he opened her door and held out his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen to all of that. Your things were moved here this afternoon from the chateau. Everything’s in perfect order. Now come along and let me show you the grounds before it’s too dark to see.”
Janie shrugged off her irritation—hadn’t he only been trying to please her?—and followed him through the charming wood-beamed house and out to a rambling, magnificent rose garden. An ancient well, covered with prim roses, stood in the middle of the garden. Hand in hand they leaned against it and gazed down into its liquid depths.
“It’s like looking into your eyes,” Alain said, his words echoing down the dark shaft. “Magical.”
“You talk a lot of romantic nonsense, Alain Chanson,” Janie replied quickly. The sun-drenched afternoon, this fairy-tale house, Alain’s intense and enthralling presence—it was all too much. Janie felt she should pinch herself. Wasn’t it time, after all, to wake up? What was she doing here, in the gathering twilight, standing beside a wishing well with the man of her dreams? It was all so unreal! Despite Alain’s dizzying impact, she was well aware that she wasn’t acting like herself. It was as though she had been carefully reading from a written script. Except for those timeless moments in Alain’s arms, she felt wooden and unspontaneous.
“Why are you spoiling such a perfect moment?” Alain asked, turning her chin up so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “You still do not believe you are beautiful—is that it? You still do not believe that I could…” He hesitated, then leaned over and kissed her again.
Immediately, her fears dissolved. Yes, he was right, of course. The only problem was that she doubted herself. She couldn’t let herself believe in the happiness that was pouring down on her. She was terrified to take to heart the offering of love—for surely that was what Alain was giving her—that she had fantasized about for so long. She couldn’t accept that her long-cherished dream could, in fact, become reality. She let her arms curl around his neck, drawing him closer.
“Oh, my love,” Alain whispered, kissing her eyes, pressing his lips against her hair. “My beautiful, red-haired angel!”
“Alain,” she replied softly, seeking his mouth. But even as he kissed her again, even as he led her by the hand up the outside wooden stairway to the second floor gallery, she knew that she was letting herself fall back on the prerehearsed script that seemed to be directing her movements and emotions. Actually, what did she feel when he kissed her? Janie asked herself as she followed him down the gleaming upper hallway. The walls were peach-colored in the fast-fading afternoon sun, and Alain’s head was surrounded by a halo of slanting rays. What did she feel? What did she want? He stopped and turned to her at the end of the corridor, drawing her to him again.
“This is your room, darling,” he said, pushing open the door to a spacious oak-beamed room dominated by a canopy bed draped with paisley damask. “Your things are in the closet. You should find everything you need. I’ll be downstairs—waiting for you.”
By the time she had bathed and washed her hair, it was dark. She turned on the lamp beside her dressing table and brushed out her hair. Alain had been right: all her clothes had been neatly hung in the closet and stowed carefully in the dresser drawers. She should feel exultant, she knew. But she didn’t. She should be filled with nervous joy, tingling expectation. How odd that she wasn’t! Instead, she sat there staring at her startlingly beautiful reflection in the silver-rimmed oval mirror and realized that she felt lonely and frightened and suddenly a very long way from any place she could call home.
Chapter 31
“Listen, what’s the problem?” Melina said, trying a new approach. She was leaning against the glass edge of her huge desk, toying nervously with the phone cord. “You know I’m good for the money … it’s just a matter of cash flow.”
“I’m well aware of what the matter is,” the bank manager replied evenly on the other end of the line. Melina could picture him in his little glass cubicle of an office, sitting erect as a scoutmaster behind his regulation faux-mahogany desk. He was a tallish man, as Melina recalled, with long arms that shot out beneath his cheap cotton shirt cuffs and a neck that looked like it had jumped from a jack-in-the-box one too many times. On the few occasions when she had dealt with him face to face, his gaze kept sliding down her body and, like a mountain climber losing his purchase, he would have to drag his attention with difficulty back to the conversation at hand. It was always about cash or Melina’s continual lack thereof. Not that money wasn’t owed her, for chrissakes, as she kept trying to explain to the idiot. It’s just that accounts like City Slickers took their own sweet time in paying.
“Well,” Melina replied in her deepest Southern drawl, “then you know that I always come through. Just give me another two weeks … that’s all I’m asking.” She almost added “honey” but decided at the last second that bank managers probably weren’t quite as dumb as they looked.
“Impossible, Miss Bliss,” the man retorted. “My superiors are already asking unfortunate questions about the bank’s need to carry you for a week or so every month. This cannot go on. I must have more than verbal assurances from you that this new business you mentioned is coming in. And that it will meet its obligations to you on time. You’re quickly becoming a bad credit risk, do you realize that? And I personally pleaded your case to my board of directors less than six months ago. It puts me in a very
awkward position.”
Oh, screw you and your awkward positions! Melina wanted to scream. Instead she flipped through her Rolodex quickly until she found his card, sighed deeply, and replied, “Please, Arnold, I hate to think of you under any kind of pressure for my sake. I’m so sorry I didn’t get this information to you sooner, but we’ve just been so incredibly busy here! You know how it can be. I’ll put together some figures as soon as I can and have them on your desk by … day after tomorrow?”
“I’ll need signed assurances,” Arnold replied stiffly. “Notarized, too. No more of those fluffy marketing proposals for accounts that don’t pan out. I want names, billing totals, the complete picture. I want facts, Miss Bliss, do you understand? Or this cash flow problem will be solved permanently—by being shut off, once and for all.”
“I understand, sir,” Melina murmured through clenched teeth. “I look forward to seeing you again.” She dropped the phone into its cradle. “Slimy toad,” she muttered aloud as she collapsed into her crushed velvet crimson swivel chair. “Horrible, measly little man!” she added, trying to make herself feel better. But it didn’t help much.
Since her return from her mother’s funeral everything had been going wrong. First, that disastrous telephone call from Alain.
“I’m so sorry about your mother,” he had said when they finally connected the day after Janie had flown to Paris. “You must be devastated.”
“Hardly,” Melina had replied. “Frankly I’m relieved. How are things there? I’ve a flight scheduled for eight tonight which will get me into Paris around…”
Changes of Heart Page 24