Burgundy

by Janet Hubbard

  “Olivier won’t be amused.”

  “He’s French. He’ll be mad as hell and then grow rational. Stand by him and he’ll be okay.”

  “You’ll be with me.”

  “Nope. I’m stopping at the café.”

  “I’ve got your back, Max,” Lucy said from the backseat.

  Hank chuckled. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a bridesmaid that bad.”

  “I’ve never been in a wedding.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, we have more serious stuff to deal with than a wedding,” Max said, jealous that they were bantering in the same casual way that she and Hank usually did.

  “Like my boyfriend’s murder?” She began to sob uncontrollably.

  “Pull over,” Max said. Hank obeyed and Max got out, opened the back door, climbed in with Lucy and wrapped her arms around her quaking shoulders. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”

  “Everyone I care about is gone.” She put her head against the door and closed her eyes, making small, wet, gasping sounds.

  Hank turned around. “You got handed the joker, Lucy. The school of hard knocks. Some people get the queen of hearts and die with barely a scraped knee. It’s what my wife calls karma. I can tell you this, which would make me feel better if I were in your shoes—and I have been—Tim never knew what hit him.”

  Silence prevailed in the backseat, then a muffled voice said, “Okay.” Max dug in her pocket and pulled out a wadded tissue, shaking it out and handing it to Lucy. Hank started the car and continued toward Anne’s.

  “You’ll probably be a target again before this is all over.”

  “Tim told me that the photos show that I was shot from behind, but the shooter’s face was blurred. The guy wore a hat with a visor pulled down low, but Tim thought, once enlarged, he would be able to see who it was.”

  “Did Tim know that you were conscious when he came to visit you in the hospital?”

  She smiled, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Yes. We talked about where we were going to travel. He wanted me to get my high school diploma before we took off.” Lucy blew her nose. “After that, we decided that I would come back to France with him, we’d marry and I’d work with Anne.”

  Hank said, “You do know this whole thing about her husband being your father is more than likely a fairy tale.”

  “Anne wouldn’t lie to me. She’s going to adopt me. End of story.”

  “She also doesn’t want Jean-Claude to have a certain parcel of land.”

  “You’re hard to like, Hank.”

  “I’m a realist. You’re not used to that. And Tim was right, the reality is that you need to finish your high school education at the very least. You can to come live with Juliette and me until you’ve accomplished that.”

  Max turned to look directly at her father, stunned. “Who’re you replacing, Frédéric or me?”

  “Whoa. Where is that coming from? Replace Frédéric? Not on your life. And don’t even think of quickstepping into the notion that we’re replacing you. We’re going to jumpstart Lucy, and send her on her way.”

  “Ma agreed to all this?”

  Hank grinned. “She doesn’t know yet. I was just testing the waters.”

  “Geez, Dad.”

  “What about Uncle George?” Lucy asked.

  “He’ll be legally relieved of guardianship. To set the record straight once and for all, he didn’t kill your mother. She died of an aneurysm. By the way, how did you escape from the mental hospital?”

  “It was easy. I’d played poker every night with the guys who picked up the linens. They rolled me out in a cart covered with sheets.”

  “Ha! Like Annie’s escape from Ms. Hannigan!” exclaimed Max, clearly impressed, and referencing the 1982 movie starring Aileen Quinn as an orphan escaping from an abusive guardian.

  “I’m surprised George didn’t report your escape to the police, or the media.”

  “He actually tried to keep the scandal from leaking because he was already in trouble with the hospital board. He contacted Yves instead.”

  “He must have suspected that there was a French father somewhere in the mix.”

  “Sure. My mother’s dream was to return to France, and find him.”

  “If that had happened, then I don’t think Anne would have been adopting you.”

  “Dad!”

  “Here we are,” Hank said, pulling up to the house. “And here they come.”

  Isabelle and Anne made a beeline for the car. “Your color is improving,” Isabelle said, peering at Lucy. “Come inside. Juliette made cookies.”

  “I’m going to check on my barrels,” Anne said. “Please excuse me.”

  Max asked if she could come along.

  “If you’re still speaking to me.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Max said. She turned and entered her grandmother’s house. “Is Anne alright?” she asked aloud.

  Isabelle lagged behind the others and whispered to Max. “No. Hugo came by and they had a long talk. He feels that he cannot go through with the land deal. He has decided to tell his children about Lucy. ‘I can only hope for the best,’ is the way he put it. The notaire also called, and the land rightfully belongs to Anne.”

  “That must have made her day.”

  “Au contraire. She’s quite devastated about Tim’s murder, actually. We all are, but she is taking it particularly hard. She says it is a blight on our collective land, which will endure for a long time. I’m afraid she’s right.” She turned to Max. “And you, my dear? Are we in terrible trouble with your fiancé?”

  “I would think so. You behaved like the haut monde that you are, taking matters into your own hands, assuming that you have enough influence to avoid any repercussions.”

  “There was no assuming. I’ve already spoken with the office in Paris.” Max knew that she meant the office of Philippe, who, until recently, was Olivier’s boss, and who was still Isabelle’s son-in-law. “Olivier will understand, once we explain.”

  The house phone rang. Juliette answered and handed the phone to Max.

  “Philippe Douvier called me,” Olivier said. “And I know what happened. It will be on the news tonight.” He sighed. “I can’t believe you didn’t let me in on this little secret. I, too, was worried sick about the girl, and so was Abdel. I thought we were a team.”

  As Max anticipated, the blame was all falling on her.

  “Olivier…”

  “Please, let’s not waste time with what has passed. I hate this legal system that allows these two insufferably pigheaded women to buy their way out of having to take responsibility for their actions. I’ll need Lucy here first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll have her there.”

  “I’ll see you this evening, Max.”

  He’s trying to understand me, she thought.

  ***

  She walked the short distance behind Anne’s house to the elegant building that had served as wine cellar for generations, and was immediately thrust into an intuitively sacred space. The 2015 wine was fermenting in vast stainless-steel tanks, and wines from the 2014 vintage, in burnished French oak barrels, were standing in perfectly aligned rows, each marked with the name of the wine and the degree of roasting the barrels had undergone. It had all been lovingly nurtured by Anne, whose taste in the wine world was now infallible. Every drop of her wine was spoken for before the grapes were even picked from their vines. The vaulted room had an aura comparable to that of a library, Max thought, or of a sanctuary; mysterious places where the soul recognized home.

  Mozart’s Symphony in C Major echoed around the spacious room. Max knew from previous conversations that Anne fervently believed that only Mozart could properly season the wine aurally. Anne’s philosophy permeated every drop of the wine, including tenets borrowed from Rudolf Steiner, who believed in
planting according to the phases of the moon. Max continued down the aisle and again paused as she caught sight of Anne, who was at the far end of the room that contained fifty to sixty barrels, all in various stages of production. Max knew that the new chardonnay aged for about eighteen months before it was bottled. She had overheard Anne telling Hank that the wood barrels infused the wine with the circular energy of the cosmos. To her father’s credit, he had nodded in comprehension.

  Max realized as she drew closer that Anne was in distress. “Anne?”

  “I’m sure Isabelle told you that Hugo has abandoned our agreement.”

  “She did.”

  “He doesn’t want to die a coward.” She said it with a cringing sense of irony.

  “It doesn’t sound cowardly to risk the opprobrium of one’s children.”

  “Take his side. You’ve already presented your moral stance on this.”

  Max didn’t like the cynicism, but she also didn’t want to fight with Anne. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I’ve overstepped some boundaries.”

  “We all do at one time or another.” She leaned against a barrel. “I want what I want, Max. That was my mantra for many years. I wanted Gervais, even though I knew he would wander. I wanted a child, and my adorable Caroline arrived. I was furious with my family for banishing me from the company, and so I created one of the most famous wines in the world. The name Bré resonates for millions of oenophiles worldwide.”

  Max nodded dutifully.

  “And then it started slipping away. My husband. Caroline. The emptiness I feel now is appalling.” With that, she began to cry. She was slighter than Lucy, and Max thought of glass shattering. A fine glass, like Murano glass. She didn’t know whether to touch her or not. “Lucy’s presence and jubilant energy began helping me to feel that my glass was half full again…oh, you Americans and your clichés! Glass half-empty. Glass half-full. And here I am in full imitation.”

  Max thought she would make a conciliatory attempt. “You fill Lucy’s glass, too, you know. The first person she wanted to see when we picked her up was you.”

  “Really?”

  “She will really need you now when she discovers her father’s identity. He can’t be everything she has conjured him up to be. Her mother created a man who is, in clichéd American terms, a Prince Charming. That was the fantasy that Diane had clung to for most of her life, and she passed that image on to her daughter.”

  “Hugo is anything but that!”

  Max smiled. “And Jean-Claude is not just a villain, either. Caroline loved him very much. She wanted to bestow something special on him. Give him a chance to be who he is.”

  “Which could be a murderer.” She stared hard at Max. “I know he’s a suspect. He came and told me. He’s also scared to death that Alain is going to shoot him.”

  “At least he’s confessed to the affair.”

  “Men are stupid. It’s the classic story. Man’s wife dies. Woman rushes in to nurture said devastated man. Sex ensues. Big problems are created. Woman’s husband finds out. Alain might, in fact, shoot him. I would, were I in his shoes. And then, if I had that good-for-nothing son to bear, I’d probably shoot myself as well.”

  Max could see she was serious despite her snarky tone, and suddenly felt a well of unreasonable laughter bubbling up. It exploded out of her.

  “What has happened to you?” Anne demanded.

  Max was doubled over. “I think I must agree with you.”

  Anne smiled, and then gave a slight laugh, but it was obvious that she didn’t entirely grasp what was so funny.

  “You Americans,” she said, but it was said with amused fondness. Then: “The one to watch in all this fracas is Yvette. Mark my words.”

  Max grew serious. “Why do you say that?”

  “Humiliation does terrible things to people. It’s the emotion most difficult to overcome. People will tend to recall ancient humiliations upon their deathbeds. People are already shunning her, I’m told. As the insidious story of the photograph gets out, the barrage of subtle insults will be painfully like the stoning of shamed Arab women. I told Jean-Claude this. He has ended it. He said he was trying to be kind; he doesn’t love her. Of course he doesn’t love her. He wanted sex and comfort. Pure and simple.”

  Max thought her statement a little harsh, but said nothing aloud.

  But then Anne surprised her. “And who doesn’t want sex? I would adore having sex these days. I am in the most sensuous business in the world. All our senses stay alert all the time. Even in the middle of the night, I am thinking of the moon, and my darling vines, and the way they wind themselves down deep into the soil for sustenance. Of how they become entangled with each other, like lovers. I adore the fecund, wet soil in my hands, and watching the clouds to see what is coming. Who doesn’t fantasize when looking at clouds? And the first sip of a new vintage when it ready. After waiting, and waiting…it’s positively orgasmic.”

  Max thought back to Olivier rhapsodizing over the bottle they’d drunk together in Bordeaux. “Olivier said practically the same thing when we sipped a 1945 Mouton Rothschild.”

  “Of course he did. You’re lucky to have a man who has his senses open, especially a magistrat. They’re generally the most closed group of people I’ve ever met.”

  Max wanted to see him, and tell him what Anne had said about Yvette. Her name hadn’t come up once. Yet she was there on the periphery as Max recalibrated various scenes in her mind: friends with Tim, Alain’s wife, Jean-Claude’s mistress, mother of Roland, cook for the hunt, hater of Lucy.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Olivier hung up and looked to Abdel. “I’m more tolerant than I expected to be. I suddenly saw how I encourage Max to choose between her father and me.”

  “You wait for the whole story before jumping to conclusions now. You used to lecture us about that.”

  Olivier realized how his philosophy had changed. He now believed that all stories were inherently incomplete, that there was no such thing as a whole story. Each life was comprised of fragments that people pieced together over time. Inwardly, he went back over the story that Ali had just recounted in his interview, as he confessed to his part in liberating (as he called it) Lucy Kendrick from the hospital.

  He’d said that an old lady had phoned him and told him to come immediately to the hospital, then gave him explicit directions. All she’d said about the truth of the mission was that it was in relation to Lucy Kendrick. From this comment, he’d known that Lucy was okay. He left his shop immediately, and upon arriving at the hospital, had been told by two grandmotherly types that he was to drive the getaway ambulance that would carry Lucy to a house far in the country where the girl would be safe. He had started to explain that he could not take such a risk, that he had been arrested before, and that his dark skin would make him stand out.

  The older of the pair of ladies, (and Olivier knew that he meant Maxine’s grandmother, Madame de Laval) had said that he had no choice, and that she would pay a lawyer whatever it took to free him if he was caught. He had looked at her askance, he said (he had used that word, which had impressed Olivier) and Madame de Laval had said, “You want her to live, don’t you?”

  Ali had shortly found himself behind the wheel of an ambulance, which he backed up to the hospital entrance and, next thing he knew, the two genteel women were wheeling Lucy out in a wheelchair. She was unrecognizable in a long coat and a woman’s hat pulled down over her ears. She had looked like one of them, slumped as she was in her wheelchair. He had lifted her out of the chair and put her in the back of the ambulance, and then driven to the house quite a distance away, in Bouzeron, up a long driveway to a smaller house, hidden away and surrounded by vineyards. A stocky woman had come out and greeted Lucy warmly, and then she had turned to him and invited him in for a glass of wine. He’d told her that he didn’t drink, as it was against his religion, and sh
e’d said that she understood, but that she could smell pot on him, and if he could do that he could make an exception this once, and sip what Nature provided to her people for stress relief. He recalled that it had been, in fact, an extremely pleasant experience. Afterward, he had driven back to the hospital parking lot and returned the ambulance, with no questions asked. He was certain that the women had paid someone off, but he didn’t ask.

  Olivier dismissed him and, watching him exit, saw Yvette standing in the doorway. He felt that sense of dread stirring in his belly.

  “Olivier, may I speak to you for a moment?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She was wearing a dark pantsuit and ill-applied makeup. Her hair bounced around her shoulders like it had when she was a teenager. “I wanted to speak to you about Alain. He considers you a friend and I think perhaps you can help him.”

  “Is something wrong?” Olivier felt shame rise in him, as of course everything was wrong in that little household. “I mean, is Alain okay?”

  She started to sniffle, reached in her bag for a tissue and began wiping the errant tears away. Her eyelashes were caked with mascara and now her cheeks were blackened. She touched her right cheek. “Alain has taken to violence and that is why I’m here. He hit me. Here.” Her hand continued to rest on her cheek.

  Olivier felt chastised, and deservedly so, though something in him wondered if he was being manipulated. He recalled the hostile look he had glimpsed on her face through the window when he had gone to see Alain, and realized he carried a distinct resentment toward her for that. “Yvette,” he said. The first-name basis didn’t come off well in these professional circumstances, he realized, and besides, he barely knew her. “I am expecting someone to arrive at any moment to discuss the deaths of Yves Laroche and Timothy Lowell. I want to hear what you have to say, but we will have to schedule this discussion for another time. I am deeply sorry to hear about Alain. Would you mind if I spoke to him about this?”