"She is angry with me." This wasn’t a surprise.
He lifted a shoulder as if to say, can you blame her?
"Are you angry with me as well?"
We stood in the middle of the living room, the couch between us and the glass doors leading to the patio where my mother was waiting. Henri sighed and lifted one shoulder, leaning into the couch. I sensed fatigue—but not defeat or disappointment—in his posture.
"I am not angry, Magalie." He looked down at his hand on the back of the beige couch. "If I’m honest, I was sad at one time. At first. I do care about you, but I knew as soon as you arrived in Avignon that we were not a match. Your mother refused to listen when I told her this.”
“So why are you here now? I thought she brought you because she still thinks we should get married."
He lifted a shoulder. “She may think that. I have told her it won’t work, but you know she hears what she wants to hear.”
“Then why?”
“Your mother is a good friend. I have known her long enough to know the generous parts of her as well as her more difficult side, and she is in a complicated place right now, I think. She needed a friend. She asked me to come. I wanted to help her, and I thought maybe if she saw us together she would understand that it won’t work between us. Not the way she hopes.”
“What do you mean, complicated place? Is it Emile?” I’d wondered more than once why my mother’s husband hadn’t joined her, but she hadn’t given me a straight answer.
“I don’t know if it’s my place to say, but yes. I think they are struggling.”
I pursed my lips, thinking about that. Maybe marriages based on things besides love could be just as difficult as romantic entanglements. Maybe my mother was changing her opinion?
I nodded, grateful understanding dawning.
“Also, I wanted to see the wine country here.” He grinned, and a happy relief made me feel better.
The morning light caught the side of his face, and though I'd never seen him that way before, I realized Henri was not an unattractive man. He had a strong jaw, sympathetic eyes, and full soft lips. He had a good heart and would be a great catch for someone. I was just sorry he'd wasted so much time on me.
"Magalie," he said, turning those soft eyes on me now. "You are truly happy here? With the football player?"
Even the offhanded mention of Trace made my stomach do a quick flip. "Yes," I said. We might not really be engaged, but I was hopeful about whatever did lie between us, and eager to explore it.
“Good. I’m happy to hear it.”
I smiled at him and touched his arm gently as I walked around him to approach my mother.
The sliding screen door made a little screech as I pushed it open and shut, and I walked out to Maman in the warm morning sun, taking a chair next to her. "What a beautiful day," I said.
She made a noise that made it clear she wasn't going to agree.
"Is everything all right, Maman?" I spoke in French, hoping to find a level of familiarity with her, but she turned and narrowed her eyes at me.
I steeled myself for the talk we had to have. Maman was nothing if not dramatic. It wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized we had never played the typical mother-daughter roles. As soon as I was old enough for rational thinking, Maman had flipped us. She was the toddler, she was the teen. She was the dramatic and irrational one, and I was left to play the adult. It might not have been fair, but it had given me a lot of practice in diplomacy.
“For what it's worth, it's nice to have you here. I'm happy you decided to visit.” It was true. As exhausting as she was, Maman was my only family, and I was still glad to see her. “Now go ahead and tell me what you are angry about."
"That," she said, jabbing a finger at me. "I did not come to visit. I came to make you see reason so you would come home. But now you are entangled with this football . . . idiot." She spat the last word.
A spot of anger flared inside me and I doused it quickly. "He is not an idiot," I said, keeping my voice smooth and calm. "And I am an adult, Maman. You can't make me come home unless I decide to move back. But I have a career here now. I have a life."
"One that does not include your mother."
I closed my eyes for a moment and let the warm rays of the sun soothe me, pushing away the words I might have said. "I think," I said slowly. "That you know I didn't come here to escape you, but rather to escape a situation and to find my own path. I think you see that I am happy here, and maybe it makes you sad that I found happiness without your help?"
She blew out a breath as if this was the most ludicrous thing I'd ever said, but she didn't argue.
"And I hope that I can show you my life here, share my happiness with my only family in the whole world—my maman." She didn't move to respond, so I went on. "I love you, Maman, but I am a grown woman and I needed to find my own way."
"On the other side of the world?"
"In a wine-growing region that had room for me to learn, yes."
"This is not about wine."
"It is," I corrected. "For me, it is. It is about learning and growing and—"
“And ruining any plans for happiness by becoming engaged to someone I have never even met."
"Only you would see an engagement as someone ruining their plans for happiness.” I felt truth in my next words “I think I can be happy with Trace, Maman.”
She sniffed but didn't answer, and my patience shredded.
"Maman," I said, my voice becoming a plea.
She stood, brushing herself off and seeming to reassemble her more formal, proper countenance. She faced me with a false smile. "Very well. Let's see your life today, Magalie. Show me what is so wonderful here that you had to leave home without even saying goodbye."
I knew she was hurt about the way I left, and if I owed her an apology for anything, it was that. "I am sorry, Maman. I felt trapped. I shouldn't have gone so quickly, without talking to you."
"Thank you," she said.
"I love you, Maman," I told her, and reached for her.
Though the hug was a little stiff, my mother allowed me to hug her and eventually wrapped her arms around me too, softening a bit.
For all her foibles, Maman was not a bad person. She was a woman who wore the scars of being abandoned by her own parents when she needed them most, and being abandoned by a man she thought loved her. I understood these things, and that was why I should have thought harder about the way I left. I saw now how my own abandonment just reopened the wounds my mother carried within her, and why she might have worked so hard to keep me near, not realizing she was pushing me away.
"Let's go have breakfast," I suggested.
"Oui," she agreed, and as we walked inside to meet Henri, she squeezed my hand, making my heart lighten in my chest.
Even though I felt as though Maman might have accepted what I’d told her, softened just a bit, I knew she would still look for reasons why I should move back. And though pretending to be engaged might have been an over-the-top way to demonstrate my independence, it was the only way to definitively convince her that my life was here, that I was truly settled here. I was not going home with her.
At one o'clock, we were pulling into Chateau Le Sec, and I found there was a swirl of anticipation in my stomach at the thought of seeing Trace. There was a secondary, less pleasant feeling growing as well, as I thought about the lie which seemed almost pointless now. But it was out there and we had to go forward with it. Would we be able to pull it off?
And what would it do to the fragile relationship we had begun to build?
"Here we are!" I told them, parking in the big lot outside the low sprawling winery building. I felt like I saw the low buildings and sprawling vineyards with new eyes as we made our way to the tasting room. The low Spanish style buildings were a soft yellow, and broad red-paved patios with low stuccoed walls jutted out on various vistas overlooking the lines of vines marching up and down the hills. A twinge of pride made me look to them with a
smile—I wanted them to love it as much as I did.
"This is beautiful," Henri told me, looking around with appreciation glowing in his eyes.
"Familiar a bit, non?" I asked him. The chateau at Avignon was also built in a Spanish style, and the sun that washed through the brown rows undoubtedly made Henri feel as at home as it had made me feel when I'd first arrived.
"Oui," he said, leaning in almost conspiratorially and taking my elbow in happy acknowledgement as we walked through the arched doors into the tasting room.
Trace was there already, and his eyes found mine for a brief second, and then they landed on the spot where Henri held my arm, and narrowed slightly. I pulled my elbow gently from Henri’s grasp.
"There she is!" Chloe called, coming around the counter. "We were just boring Trace with wine talk. He'll be happy to have you here to make him feel more welcome." She turned to my mother and Henri as Adam and Trace came to join us near the door. "Welcome," she said.
"Maman, Henri," I turned toward my guests. "Please meet Chloe and Adam Tennyson, and this is Trace Johnson."
"Your fiancé," my mother added, not very helpfully.
"Ma'am," Trace said, sticking out a hand that looked enormous next to my mother's small frame. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
He was so very American, so very big and imposing and just . . . there. I loved that about him—his comfort in the world, in his own skin—but I could see how his very hugeness was like a confrontation to my mother, who shrank back a bit.
"Mr. Johnson," Henri stuck a hand out to shake. "I am so honored to meet you. I follow your team."
Trace grinned at Henri, clearly delighted to be recognized. "Maybe you could come catch a game while you're here."
Henri nodded. "I'd like that very much."
Adam was almost immediately at Henri's side as we continued pleasantries and moved farther into the open tasting room and toward the counter. "We went Sunday," he gushed. "It was incredible."
"Shall we taste some wine?" Chloe asked, waving us toward stools.
I moved to go around the counter, but Chloe waved me back toward Trace. "No, today you are a guest."
I took a seat at Trace's side, between him and my mother, and he smiled down at me. I felt happy to be next to him again, wishing I could kiss him. I leaned into his warm side instead.
"You ready to be impressed?" he asked.
"I told you, I'm already impressed," I whispered to him, and I couldn't help the giddy smile that I knew was radiating out of me. Trace projected a kind of strong solidity I knew I could draw from. If I wasn't feeling strong—he was right there, big and sturdy and dependably himself.
Adam was on the other side of the bar, and he pulled a few bottles from beneath the counter as Chloe lined glasses up in front of us. "In honor of our special guests," he said, "I've brought out a few things we don't normally taste."
My mother sighed, as if being forced to endure something, and I turned to her with a smile I hoped might be contagious. I was going to find a way to make my mother have fun. These people were too important to me to allow her to ruin the day.
Henri, for his part, did look excited.
Adam explained the first pour, talking about the terroir and the blend, and Henri leaned closer, listening to his explanation with rapt attention. Trace was listening too, but where Henri nodded now and then in understanding or appreciation, Trace was pressing his lips together and wrinkling his nose with confusion.
"Just taste it," I suggested, bumping his shoulder. “It’s less about what you know and more about what you like.”
"I will taste it, but he didn't say go yet," Trace whispered back.
I laughed, imaging Adam calling out, “go” and all of us downing our tastes at once. "Have you ever been wine tasting?" I asked.
"If you count today," he said, looking up thoughtfully and then pretending to count on his fingers. "I've been once."
I laughed, and my mother cleared her throat. I turned to look at her.
"You are being rude," she said, whispering in my other ear. "The winemaker is talking and you are carrying on a private conversation." I swallowed down my response and forced a smile.
"Please, go ahead," Adam said, lifting his glass.
We all swirled and sipped, and I listened as Henri and Adam discussed the way the wine had been harvested, fermented, blended and aged, while also appreciating the comical faces Trace was making. I felt my attention divided, though, and I turned to my mother. "What do you think?"
"It tastes American," she said.
I rolled my eyes, feeling my patience wearing thin. I was French, and I could appreciate that there were very good wines made in other places, but it seemed my mother was looking for a battle today. I wasn't going to give her one if I could avoid it.
"So?" I asked Trace.
He smiled down at me. "Tastes of elderberries."
"No it doesn't!" I laughed.
"Okay, I've never had an elderberry, so I don't know. Tastes red."
"That's a start."
He smiled and ducked his head closer to my ear. "I feel a little out of my depth. Can you give me a quick little cheat sheet with some good wine words on it? Like, what was the thing you said the other day? Tannish. This wine is tannish."
"That was tannic, and this one isn't especially." I had an idea. "Hang on," I said, slipping off my stool. "I'm going to go grab the wheel," I told Adam and Chloe. "Be right back."
I returned with a few copies of the tasting wheel printed on paper that we used for some of our private groups. It had all of the different aromas that could present in wine, grouped and arranged around a wheel, like a color wheel but for wine. I slid one in front of Trace and put one at the other end for Henri to look at. We had something similar at his winery in Avignon and I thought he’d like to compare.
By the time I sat down with Trace again, my mother had slid over and taken my seat, so I sat on her other side, a hard lump of worry forming in my stomach.
"Do you like the wine?" my mother asked him.
Trace glanced at me with a slightly panicked look in his eyes, then found the wine wheel in front of him. "Mouse nest," he said, too loud. "And sulfur."
I stifled a laugh and glanced at Adam, hoping he would know Trace wasn’t serious.
My mother stiffened and Adam looked confused as Trace gave me an apologetic smile. He mouthed over my mother's head. "Sorry, I panicked. "
So far, this wasn't going especially well.
Chapter 68
Rabid Hedgehogs and Other Terrifying Rodents
Trace
Oh man. Magalie's mom is scary. Like small, but terrifying. Like a rabid hedgehog or a wombat on Ritalin, maybe.
When she asked me what I thought of the wine, I panicked. Did Magalie tell her I knew a lot about wine? Did she tell her I was a wine newb? What exactly did she tell her? Suddenly I realized we were not prepared for this lie we were trying to tell, that we didn't have enough back story to make this work at all.
"You do not enjoy this wine?" She asked me after my moronic recitations of words on the damned wine wheel. Why on earth did it say "mouse nest" on there? What the hell did mouse nest taste like anyway?
"Oh, no. I think it's . . ." I was about to throw out a few more words, when I realized maybe honesty was the best policy, at least maybe on the things I could be honest about. "Look, I'm kind of a wine novice," I admitted.
A little glint appeared in the woman's eyes and she sat just a bit taller, swirling her own glass.
"I have never been wine tasting," I went on. "So I've only had just a glass here and there. Magalie is trying to teach me, and my sister likes wine, so sometimes I drink hers." I realized too late this last statement really only made sense if you knew my sister and I lived together and that we had a weirdly close but not at all off-putting relationship. Which this woman did not know.
She wrinkled her brows and continued staring at me. "Mmm," she said.
Terror spiked inside me. I didn'
t understand mothers. I thought they were supposed to be warm and sweet and make cookies and stuff. I thought this lady might be trying to scorch me with laser beams from inside her eyes.
"Magalie," I said, leaning back and trying to whisper behind her frightening mother. "Might we have a quick word?" Suddenly my speech had gone formal, like I was a British footman on that silly Downton show Erica liked.
She frowned, but slid off her stool and met me at the back of the room near the doors. "What?" she whispered.
"This is awful, she hates me."
"Trace, we've been here ten minutes."
"And I've already shouted out 'mouse nest.' Do you think it could get worse?"
Magalie laid a hand on my arm, and it actually did calm my rapid heart a bit. "It's okay," she said. "It'll be fine."
Adam was pouring a second taste, talking about barrel aging and oak, and we returned to the bar, Magalie’s hand making me feel only slightly less panicky.
Henri, at least, seemed like a pretty nice guy if you put aside the fact that I was sure he was probably in love with Magalie. He'd been touching her when they walked in, but he seemed more intent on talking to Adam now.
"So," Magalie’s mother said, leaning back in her chair and swirling her wine glass. Man, she'd make a good super villain. Her dark hair was pulled severely back and her lips were an unnatural shade of red. Like she'd maybe been drinking blood. "You and my daughter met how?"
I worried suddenly that this woman would not want to hear that we’d met online. She would want a real story—something whimsical and fun. My mind raced. She turned to look directly at me, and the cold dark eyes chilled my insides and I swear every bodily function halted. "Erm," I managed. "She came to a game." I nearly blurted the words, and Magalie heard, turning her attention back to us from where she'd gotten wrapped up in wine talk with Adam.
Her eyes were huge and full of confusion, but she said, "Yes, I met Trace at a game.” Over her mother’s head, she gave me a look that I was pretty sure translated to, “what the fuck?”
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 34