Burgundy

by Janet Hubbard

  “The defense attorneys are publicly criticizing the judges for removing the rights of suspected terrorists,” Madame Bré said. “It will be a tough job.”

  “I’m prepared for the criticism. Change is underway, and I want to be a part of it. Sixty-seven percent of our citizens have lost faith in the government’s ability to protect them.”

  “And Max,” Anne said, “where are you in all this?”

  “I’m in New York City, just promoted to sergeant.”

  “Congratulations, Max,” Olivier said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Nor did I know of your dramatic change.”

  Isabelle excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen, followed by Juliette and Hank. Anne turned to Max, “The arrival of her family has given your grandmother new purpose.”

  Max sighed. “I watch my mother with my grandmother, and feel sad that they missed so much of each other’s lives.”

  “Your grandfather, Frédéric, was the type who could never admit when he was wrong. Or apologize. In my mind it was his only character defect. But it prevented him from reuniting with his daughter, or knowing his grandchildren, which is a tragedy. Isabelle has deep regrets, but she will never admit them.”

  “You were a friend of my grandfather’s?” she asked Madame Bré.

  “Of course. We have lived in this village for many years. Frédéric was from a very old family here, an aristocratic family who ended up losing their vineyards to the inheritance laws that were created by Napoleon after the Revolution. The land gets divided up, which divides families, and the taxes, on top of all that, are prohibitive. This was the case with my son-in-law, Jean-Claude. In the end, eighty winemakers were sharing fifty hectares of vines.”

  Max knew from her grandmother that Anne herself had been in a family squabble, and was finally ousted from the board of her family’s company. She then started her own vineyard, eventually making some of the most famous wines in the world.

  Isabelle called them to the table, and Anne left them to enter the kitchen. Olivier, who had sat listening, said, “I wasn’t sure that I would be accepted. And when I mentioned it to you after the attacks in Paris, you brought up my old nemesis, depression.”

  “And so you decided not to say anything?”

  “I thought it best if we talked about this in person.”

  “What? Your depression? Your new job?”

  Max knew everyone was waiting at the table. She strolled into the dining room ahead of Olivier, and sat. Madame Bré’s grand cru wine was on the table, so distinguished that it required only Domaine Bré to appear on the label. Olivier took the seat beside her. A sideward glance told her that he was unhappy.

  “I’ll be interested to hear your opinion of my wine,” Anne said to Hank, who finished his beer and said he’d be happy to try it. “I never ask the opinions of the oenophiles,” she said. “They’re always asking me about the pH balance. It’s ridiculous.” She turned to Olivier, “Will you do the honor of pouring?”

  Max could see that he was only too happy to oblige. Hank sipped and said, “It’s got some zip.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear,” Anne said, and they all laughed. “What you are doing really, Monsieur, when you sip this,” she said, “is tasting the terroir, a word that was invented here in France. We can learn to identify a wine from the soil in which it was grown. The vines may cover less than a hectare…”

  “That’s two and a half acres,” Juliette interjected.

  “But that wine will taste differently from the wine produced one hundred yards away.”

  Hank leaned forward. “But the winemaker, meaning you, adds your essence to the terroir, right? It’s your method of making the wine that helps to create its fame.”

  “My wine contains everything I have learned since I was a child…my philosophy, if you will, and in that sense you are correct. It begins with the harvest, and choosing which day to pick, which grapes are selected, then fermentation happens, all carefully monitored on a daily basis. We never really know the results of all this until we sip the wine.” She paused. “There is a French expression that compares winemaking to a symphony, in which case the terroir is the composer or composition, and the conductor is the vigneron.”

  “And you’ll be passing this philosophy along, I hope,” Hank said.

  “My daughter, who had a keen interest in wine, passed away last year,” she said. “There is a young girl who came to me this year as a laborer, who has a fantastic nose, meaning she is a natural. But…” her voice drifted off.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter,” Hank said. “I know what it’s like to lose a kid.” He paused, “I talked to a Brit earlier today who sings the traveling girl’s praises. Her name is Lucy, right?”

  “Oh, I know the B&B guy. Tim Lowell. I was planning to call to see if he knows Lucy’s whereabouts. She’s with him every opportunity she has.” She sipped her wine. “I have to say, this isn’t bad.”

  “It’s superb,” Olivier said.

  Max said, not wanting to get off-topic, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is this Lucy a seductive type?”

  Madame Bré smiled. “Not at all, in the traditional sense. I would say she is androgynous. But she has great élan. Esprit de corps.”

  Isabelle said, “I saw quite a lot of her over the winter. It’s not fair what we are doing to her reputation. She has spunk, and a certain charisma, but she is a normal girl, who—to my mind—has a difficult path to navigate. She glanced at Anne and continued, “Her mother, now dead, convinced her that her biological father is here, which is why she came to Burgundy, and she lives in constant fear that her step-uncle is coming to claim her.”

  Everyone shifted their attention to Anne. “She adored her mother, but I think she was pretty much on her own as a child. She’s like a vine that veers off in the wrong direction, following the light. It will wither if the roots are not deeply set.” She looked at the faces around the table. “I’m with friends, I know, and so will speak freely. I feel Lucy was sent here by my daughter.”

  Everyone grew stone-still.

  “It sounds strange, I know, but I was at such a low point after Caroline’s death, I really didn’t want to go on, and this girl arrived at my door, radiating vitality or strength, I’m not sure which, and I thought, ‘She is part of my destiny.’”

  Juliette, who had been quiet, said, “I believe you. We don’t always know the reason for someone having such an effect on us, but when it happens we must pay attention. I, too, receive messages from my son Frédéric.”

  Max had never heard her mother speak in this manner, although she, too, was sure her brother had been with her time and again, as when she had nearly lost her life during the Bordeaux case.

  The slightly awkward silence was broken by Anne, who smiled and said, “That makes me feel ever so much better, just to have shared that.”

  Max knew Hank was keen on bringing the subject back to grounded reality when he said, “The fact is, the girl is elusive as hell, and maybe running from someone. Somebody needs to have a talk with her and find out what’s going on and stop pretending she’s some wraith.”

  Anne looked to Olivier. “We have already instructed Olivier to find her.”

  He nodded, wanting to end the subject, Max knew. She could see from his clenched jaw that he did not like the idea of being instructed, but he was also too civil to be rude. “She was seen a couple of days ago in Lyon.”

  “Well, then, why is everyone in such a tizzy?” Isabelle asked. “Anne, are you certain she didn’t tell you where she was off to, and you forgot?”

  It was obvious that Anne was offended. “Absolutely positive, Isabelle.”

  Max looked over and saw her father’s lopsided grin, and winked at him.

  The first course arrived, a tarte a l’epoisses, or cheese tart made with epoisse, one of the great Burgund
y cheeses. Juliette smiled at her daughter’s exaggerated expression of bliss upon her first sampling of the tart.

  Olivier said that he had been invited by Alain to hunt wild boar over the weekend and wondered if Hank wanted to go.

  “I’m in.”

  “But you don’t hunt,” Juliette said.

  “I can walk across a field. I can shoot a gun. What else is there to know?” Everyone laughed.

  “I’d like to try,” Max said.

  “They have a women’s hunt club,” said Olivier, wishing he could avoid the issue. “According to Alain, his wife and the other women prepare and serve food on the day the men hunt.”

  Anne said, “My son-in-law hunts with them. It might take a little coercion on my part to get you in, Maxine, mainly because these men don’t take to outsiders, much less women, but I’m willing to try.”

  Isabelle said, “And why should they want women in their club? France is not the U.S., where no one must ever be excluded.”

  Juliette chimed in, “Maman! Women have had to fight for every inclusion in the U.S. You can’t imagine what it was like for Max at the NYPD when she started.”

  Hank looked from mother to daughter. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  The question broke the ice as everyone laughed, and Hank looked befuddled.

  The main course arrived, and attention shifted to food. Onglet de veau, or veal steaks accompanied by a pumpkin gratin and wild mushrooms sautéed with garlic and parsley, received raves from everyone. The wine that accompanied it, a rich, deep, dark red from Domaine Billard Gabriel, was a premier cru Pommard wine, and Max thought perhaps her favorite of all pinot noirs she had sampled.

  Anne said, “This domaine is owned by two sisters whom I support every chance I get. Pas mal, eh?”

  Olivier, after sipping, said, “Victor Hugo said of the Pommards, ‘It is night in combat with day.’”

  Max felt his hand on her thigh, and turned to click her glass gently against his. For a moment it was only the two of them in the room, and doubt subsided as she saw the warmth radiating from his eyes.

  The main course was followed by a salade de cresson, watercress salad. A tarte aux pralines roses was brought in for dessert, and by then the merriment of the group was at full tilt—except for Max, who tried valiantly, knew she wasn’t succeeding, unable to rise above her insecurity.

  When she refused dessert, Olivier whispered to her, “Please come home with me tonight?” His hand encircled hers and she nodded.

  Chapter Six

  “It’s unfair of me to pull you away from your family, Max, but with so much family about, I thought we should seize any moment to be together.”

  “I took a nap and feel fine.”

  The hour was late, but Olivier was happy to be driving to his parents’ home in the south. It had been exactly the kind of evening Olivier enjoyed most, the kind that made him feel like a bon viveur. The company and the wine had been scintillating, the meal superb. And having Max by his side had made him realize how lonely he had felt over the past year.

  He said, “Do you really want to hunt?”

  “I prefer hunting to hanging out in the kitchen with Yvette.”

  Olivier laughed. “I’m the one who doesn’t want to hunt. I said yes to Alain because I thought your father would enjoy the opportunity.”

  “You were right. He jumped at it.”

  “Alain seems bitter about his life. Jealous of the neighbor who is making better wine, disappointed in his son, and I think worried about his marriage. It’s like he’s reached a dead-end, but he’s still young.”

  “I see this with some of my friends. Education finished. Marriage. Decent jobs. Good money. A kid or two. Yet they complain. The marriage feels flat. The job is boring. Daycare expenses are prohibitive.”

  “I don’t know how Americans manage with the high costs of education and health care. It must feel like they are on a sinking ship.”

  “And Europeans, we read, are feeling overwhelmed by over a million migrants flooding in. Look how much has changed since you and I met, Olivier.”

  Olivier listed out loud the attacks that had occurred: the one on Charlie Hebdo last January, the attempted attack on a popular train from Amsterdam to Paris in August; the Paris attacks in November, with over one hundred dead and many more wounded; and only a few weeks ago, the attack on the Bruxelles-National Airport. “And more anticipated,” he added. “People are traumatized, and the randomness of the attacks make everyone more fearful.”

  “I get why you wanted to switch to the anti-terrorism unit.”

  “It was stupid of me keep my plans a secret. I wanted to make sure I was accepted before I announced it. I’ll be honest and say I did feel depression gnawing at me after the first attacks, but then I decided that I would be acting in this new role, not reacting. All of my training has led to this, Max.” They were off the highway now, and entering Viré. He smiled at her. “I can assure you that tonight I’m not depressed. You look ravishing, by the way.”

  She laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  He led the way into the country kitchen that contained a wood-burning cookstove; a large, wooden farm table in the center; homemade jars of jam on a tray. The French put furniture in their kitchens, which made them cozy. She followed Olivier into the salon, a room filled with books, comfortable sofas, and art on the walls. A small office adjoined this room, with more books resting on shelves.

  “I like imagining you here as a boy,” she said, as he built a cozy fire in the fireplace.

  “And I like having you here with me now.”

  “Olivier.”

  He turned to her. “Oui?”

  “We have to talk. I feel awkward as hell saying all this, but here goes. We are surrounded by our loved ones who are expecting you to propose to me. It is obvious, to me at least, after a few hours together that you and I are moving toward our futures in solo mode.”

  He poured a glass of Armagnac for each of them. Since he had bought the ring for Max and failed to propose, he’d over-thought the whole thing. It wouldn’t be fair to take her from her parents. It was thoughtless to ask her to move to a country where attacks were constantly happening. He, too, worried about the depression that had threatened to cripple him. So many reasons to remain a bachelor, none of which, he reminded himself, had to do with another woman. There had been only Max for a long time now. And though she had just arrived, the thought of her leaving created a well of sadness.

  He handed her glass to her, and sipped from his. “Max, I am ready to discuss this, but first I must retrieve something. Don’t go anywhere.” He went up the stairs and opened his suitcase, the same suitcase he’d had in New York. The ring had lived in a little corner of the suitcase all this time. He fumbled around and put his hand on the little box.

  She sat exactly as he had left her, perched on the edge of the sofa, the cognac untouched. He had never seen her look quite so sad when he entered the salon again. “What could you possibly not live without for an hour?” she asked with a smile on her face.

  “This.” He pulled the ring from his pocket. “I have had this since the counterfeit case in New York. It was bought for you, and somehow I started thinking it was unfair to ask you to marry me. But, really, I was terrified. I think I have never loved anyone until you, Max.” If he hadn’t felt so much concern about her answer, he would have laughed at the expression on her face. A mixture of shock and disbelief and finally a wisp of a smile. He took both her hands and pulled her up and said, “Will you marry me?” She nodded, and he slipped the engagement ring onto her finger.

  “Olivier.” The heat from the fireplace filled the room, and this time there was no holding back as they shed their clothes and slid down onto the rug and made love.

  They’d pulled pillows off the sofa and sipped brandy, talking about logistics
—and who would live where, when—when Max suddenly said all that practicality bored her tonight. She began to caress him, her body moving like a wave on top of him, her eyes molding into his. This time there was no hurry, no attempt to make up for lost time, no anxiety about the future.

  “I am enraptured by you,” he whispered to her, and she kissed him again. And again.

  It was four in the morning when she yawned and said she needed to sleep.

  “D’accord. I thought we could marry in two weeks. We could marry here.”

  “Olivier, are you drunk?”

  “I’ve been intending to propose for two years.”

  “Are you referring to the night at Restaurant Veritas in Manhattan?”

  “That was the day I bought the ring. Yes. We were interrupted by our teammates coming to escort us to the plane.”

  “And then in France, the night we drank the ’45 Mouton Rothschild?”

  He laughed. “Exact. The wine overwhelmed my senses.”

  “That’s the strangest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

  He put his arm around here. “I admit to being callous. It was running from attack to attack that made me realize how lonely I was. I spent hours thinking about the victims, reading stories of how they had kissed loved ones good-night and rushed out to a concert, or to a meet up with friends, and never returned. I had visual images of what they had left behind: a hairbrush left on a dresser, the note that never got sent, the empty wineglass left by the sink, a lover asleep on newly laundered sheets.”

  Max squeezed his hand. “I’m here.” He pulled the quilt that his grandmother had made for him when he was a child around them, and they drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The sound of a cell phone ringing woke Max. She was still wrapped up in a beautiful old quilt on a rug, enjoying the heat coming from a wood stove. She held her hand up. The ring was elegant, simple, and perfect for her. She listened as Olivier spoke softly in a different room. She got up and slipped her arms into the robe he had placed beside her, and went into the kitchen.