Champagne: The Farewell

by Janet Hubbard

  Chapter Four

  Chloé looked at Olivier with beseeching eyes. “Papa sent me to find out if you’re still here. He insists that you come to dinner.”

  “I accept, then.”

  “I think meeting Max changed your mind. Didn’t I tell you you’d like her?”

  “You did and I do. And I hope to get to know your husband better. I’ll have a dinner for you when I’m back in Paris. You’re keeping your apartment there?”

  “For the time being. I hope you don’t mind that I invited Diane’s amour to the wedding. It felt like the right thing to do, as they are living together.”

  Olivier felt his breath catch, but assured Chloé that she did the right thing. “Would you please excuse me for a few moments,” he said. “I need to make a couple of phone calls.”

  “Of course. A tout!”

  It felt like the American detective, while not in the least aggressive, was coming on to him, and he was tempted to pursue the attraction. Léa had been right about his circumscribed life, and his lack of risk-taking, though he wondered how she would construe his fling with the model Véronique? And God knew that the road to becoming an examining magistrate had its own set of risks that people didn’t know about, and furthermore weren’t interested in. But Léa was referring to something else. He had never allowed himself to fall completely for anyone. He knew there was something different—and perhaps terrifying—about this most unusual cop with the longest legs in Champagne. A woman who set herself up to be shot at on a daily basis.

  He strolled down to the area of the lawn where the reception would be held the following day, and noticed the orderly way the tables were arranged. He glanced up the hill and saw the detective—a sign of his confusion was he didn’t know whether to think of her as “the detective” or as Max—taking long strides toward the house. She had changed into a short black skirt and cowboy boots, which would raise eyebrows among the more stolid people at the dinner. On the other hand, his friend Jacques seemed genuinely fond of her, and he couldn’t think of anyone he respected more than Jacques. Max carried an air of wild abandonment about her that was natural, unlike Véronique, whose magazine photos taken in the Serengeti were supposed to imply the same, but to him screamed false. He wandered back toward the house and into the salon, where his eyes interlocked instantly with the detective’s, who smiled widely when she saw him. He found her openness disconcerting.

  Marie-Christine came and placed her hand delicately on his sleeve. “Join them,” she whispered and he nodded, walking to the little group clustered around Max, Hans Keller among them. He recalled that she had been sent to entertain the German.

  She was telling a story about how the room they were in reminded her of roped-off rooms in American museums that her mother used to take her to. It made him curious about her provenance. He tried to see the room they were in from her eyes—the parquet floor covered in Persian rugs, and oil paintings, mostly portraits of Marceau ancestors in gilded frames, taking up most of the wall space. To him it wasn’t exceptional. He had always admired the ancient tapestry that covered the far wall depicting a melancholic landscape, a theme in vogue during the Renaissance.

  “My brother and I grew up in a two-bedroom apartment in the Chelsea area of Manhattan,” Max said, “before it became chic.”

  Hans asked the question that had arisen in Olivier’s mind. “Why don’t you have a New York accent like we hear in the movies?”

  Max laughed. “There were too many accents around me for me to pick just one.”

  “Your brother is a police officer, too?” Olivier asked.

  For a beat, he noticed her flinch, and then she said, a little too nonchalantly, “That’s another story and not worth going into. Marc, you’re the mystery man here. Tell us about you.”

  “I’m in the moment,” he said, “the prince who arrives from another kingdom, on a quest to meet his fairy princess.” He leaned down and planted a kiss on Chloé’s face. Olivier thought both he and the detective had been clever at deflecting any questions that were revealing.

  Hans said, “I’ve told Marc that if Léa and I close the deal, I’m inviting him to stay on at de Saint-Pern.”

  The announcement was jarring, as Olivier thought it was intended to be. Chloé, trained in discretion since she was old enough to speak, was obviously shocked, but said calmly, “No business deals taking precedence over my wedding day, please. And, Marc, you know not to broach this subject with my father.”

  “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn,” Hans said. But it was a calculated remark, Olivier thought, and it had stirred emotions, exactly as he planned it.

  Jacques entered the little group and refilled their glasses with champagne. “This is quite good,” Hans said. “It compares favorably to de Saint-Pern’s L’Etoile.” Olivier sipped his and thought he could taste hazelnuts and another scent from childhood, perhaps the lilies that his father grew.

  Jacques’ brow furrowed, “It really doesn’t compare. The Hortense has a much more robust style, monsieur, whereas the L’Etoile is more similar to the lighter wines produced by Taittinger and Perrier-Jouët.

  Marie-Christine called, “A table!” and they all turned to her. Hans immediately took Max’s arm. “Sit with me and I’ll translate for you.”

  She gently removed his hand and said, “I’ll never learn French that way, Hans.”

  “My mother has a seating order,” Chloé said. “Let’s go in.” Olivier noticed Jacques’ brother Antoine standing in the hall, and went to say hello. Marie-Christine seemed flustered. “Monsieur Clay and Madame Durand are due any moment,” she said. “They told us to go ahead. Please take your seats.”

  “Madame Durand is Marc’s mother, right?” Max whispered to Chloé, who nodded and rolled her eyes skyward.

  “Drama queen,” she whispered back.

  ***

  The oblong table had been elegantly set with a hand-sewn linen tablecloth and Limoges porcelain. A cluster of crystal glasses was arranged around each plate, and a ravishing mound of peonies formed the centerpiece. Jacques, now standing at the head of the table, indicated that Max should sit to his right. “Your American friend can sit beside you,” Jacques said. “Though you should be encouraged to speak French after this.”

  When Antoine plopped down on the other side of Jacques, Marie-Christine dashed over to him and discreetly said that the seat was reserved for Chloé. Antoine’s eyes roved around the room and landed on Chloé. “I need to talk to my brother. Okay with you?” She nodded. Jacques shot his wife a look that implored her to acquiesce, and she did. Léa made an entrance, looking stunning in simple black dress and diamond earrings. She said to Marc, “I can’t imagine what is taking your mother and Ted so long.”

  “Neither of them is known for being prompt.”

  “Go and call them again.”

  The peremptory command from Léa went unheeded. Marc turned to speak to Chloé as though he hadn’t heard Léa. Her obvious pique was eclipsed by Jacques, who offered a standing welcome to their guests before ceremoniously opening another bottle of champagne.

  Hans said, “The sound of a perfectly opened bottle should be as gentle as a sigh.”

  Antoine would have none of it. “That saying has been copyrighted, you know. Wasn’t it Dom Perignon who said it first? And oh yes, what’s the cliché about drinking the stars? That was attributed to the old monk, too.”

  Jacques stood. “Here’s a toast to Herr Keller, who, according to him, is the hopeful new owner of de Saint-Pern. I thought it appropriate to open a special bottle to celebrate.” Marie-Christine gasped and stared at her sister, as if demanding the truth. Jacques calmly poured the champagne into the flutes, but Olivier knew that he was angry that Léa hadn’t confided in him about the German bidder, and no doubt hated having him here at his table. “I wish him well in his battle against our neigh
bor, Baptiste Dupuis.”

  Mimi brought out a large tureen of soup, lait ardennais made with leek, potato, escarole, and milk, a favorite of Olivier’s. Suddenly the double doors to the dining room swung open and all eyes shifted to the couple entering the room. Geneviève Durand was appallingly thin, her cheekbones, chin, shoulders, and elbows reminding Olivier of a Cubist painting. She cut a commanding figure in the doorway, her back slightly arched, her black eyes looking around the room, dark red lips upturned, as though she had just won an award. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I’m happy to see that you have started.”

  Ted, wearing a charcoal grey suit, his pale hair splashed across his forehead, cut a dashing figure. Spotting Max, he took great strides across the room American-style and gave her a hug when she stood up. “It’s so great that you’re here,” he said. “Have you had a chance to get to know Léa?” He turned to his fiancée, who not very discreetly turned her head when he leaned down to kiss her.

  Marie-Christine came and formally shook hands with him, and motioned him to sit, then brought a bowl of soup and placed it in front of him. Marc had rushed over to his mother and escorted her to the chair next to him. The room was alive with several conversations taking place at once. Olivier, acutely aware of Max’s presence, watched her interact with her friend Ted. He said something that made her burst into laughter. She seemed comfortable, not at all out of her element, which he thought puzzling for someone who claimed to have grown up in a modest apartment in New York.

  Antoine, now saturated with wine and who knew what else, said, “Léa, chérie, the mystery is killing me. Are you, or are you not, selling de Saint-Pern?”

  Léa stood. “It is unfortunate timing,” she said, “for this to be happening on Chloé’s wedding weekend. And so, I will answer all questions the day after the wedding.”

  Olivier thought it a fine response.

  Just as the guests were starting to relax back into their individual conversations, Geneviève said, “To sell de Saint-Pern would be like selling the soul of Champagne itself. I don’t think the region would ever be the same.”

  Who does she think she is, coming from Paris, and who knew where before that, to make such a pronouncement? Olivier thought.

  “What do you know of Champagne, Madame?” Léa retorted. “Actually, we are a global community, and you are speaking as a traditionalist. I don’t see how a Parisian seamstress can feel so passionately about the sale of a champagne company.”

  Olivier winced inside.

  “She seems to care more than you do,” Antoine said. “Because I think she’s right. You are being callous about the people who work for you. Selling out…”

  “De Saint-Pern is mine to do with as I please,” Léa shouted at Antoine. “Look at you! What do you do for the people of Champagne, except leech everything you can from your brother. I don’t have to answer to you. Ever!”

  “I’m going to speak to Baptiste Dupuis about purchasing my de Saint-Pern shares.”

  Hans said, matter-of-factly. “I want them. We’ll talk later.”

  “This has gone too far,” Léa said, getting up and leaving the room. Ted followed her out.

  Marie-Christine, her lips pinched, blurted, “Antoine, you’re drunk. Please leave my table.” The silence that followed was heart-pounding. “We have a wedding tomorrow and look at Chloé.”

  Antoine’s head jerked up and he gazed at Marie-Christine with pure scorn. “You married into this family. You had nothing before that. So don’t tell me what to do.”

  Jacques stood and grabbed Antoine’s arm, but he jerked away and staggered across the room to the double doors. Geneviève stood and lit a cigarette, walking dramatically across the room. “For a wedding party there appears to be a lot of angst,” she said. Marc asked his mother to sit down.

  Just then, Mimi bustled in with the main course, un filet de truite au vin de champagne, trout cooked in white wine, chives, cloves, and special Burgundy truffle that the region was known for. Jacques had brought out two bottles of the estate chardonnay and was opening one.

  Olivier saw that Max was frozen in her seat and thought it must be strange for her, to watch this live soap opera that she couldn’t understand. Those who remained attempted to lighten the conversation, but unfortunately a pall had settled over the room. The conversation was desultory after that. Eventually they were herded into the salon for coffee and Jacques brought out a 1911 Armagnac. Max huddled with Chloé, and in a few moments they excused themselves for the evening.

  Jacques came to Olivier when he announced that he was leaving, and asked, “Did you know about this Hans Keller fellow?” Olivier shook his head. “There is more to this than meets the eye,” Jacques continued. “Something Léa’s not revealing. Though she has always been impulsive, this business of selling the company rather than deal with Baptiste is uncharacteristic of her. At least Baptiste is French.”

  “She hates the way Baptiste destroys the artisanal quality of everything he touches. You know, Léa’s desire to sell may be nothing more than her wanting change. Her company is doing well. Her champagne is huge in the Asian market now. Champagne sales are at an all-time high. Land is at a premium.”

  “Which reminds me, your boss, the Minister of Justice, asked me recently if there was anyone on the periphery of Champagne who might want to sell land. Some of those farmers are sitting on potential goldmines, but it’s all speculative.”

  Olivier’s ears perked up. “Philippe Douvier?”

  “We were in school together.”

  Olivier had also attended one of the French elite schools, and knew how friendships there carried over into politics and business to the point that it bred corruption. Olivier was well aware of the acreage Jacques was referring to. Global demand for champagne was on the rise, but as the grapes for champagne could only be grown on land approved by the Appellation d’Origine Controlée, there was a need for more land to be officially designated for growing grapes.

  He knew that a group of so-called government experts had drawn up a secret list of forty communities for possible approval. The larger champagne companies were in favor of expanding the current designation, which Olivier assumed meant that politics and business were again in bed together. He thought a select few would be informed about which of the communes would receive first approval, giving them a leg-up on where to purchase hectares.

  Jacques said, “I hope if he knows something he’ll let me in on the big secret.”

  “You don’t want to get involved with him. I need to go.” The two friends shook hands. Once in his car, Olivier slid in Beethoven’s First Piano Concerto and drove to his parents’ house. He answered immediately when his mobile phone rang. “What a night. I don’t think anyone will be speaking to me tomorrow.”

  It was Léa.

  “I will be. We can discuss Arthur Rimbaud or some other poet.” She laughed and he thought it a lovely sound.

  Chapter Five

  The church where the wedding was taking place dated back to the twelfth century and was a blend of Romanesque and Gothic architecture. Built of grey stone, it was typical of churches of that era. Its austerity reminded parishioners to shed the superfluous, while its loftiness caused the spirit to soar upon entering. The stone floor was slightly uneven, so that heels tapping against the stone created an echo in the hollow space. Great shoots of white lilies mixed with arum extended from crystal vases that had been placed on the altar, perfuming the air with their sweetness. Ushers welcomed the guests as they entered the side doors, and showed them to their seats. Family was seated in the Gothic chancel. Guests took seats on the oak pews in the central nave beneath the typical Romanesque wooden ceiling.

  Max took the arm of the usher, who walked her down the wide aisle to the third oak pew in the central nave. An older couple watched her and issued polite smiles when she sat down. She had been given the
opportunity to sit in the chancel with the family but declared her desire to be where she could see everything that was going on. Her heels were a bit high, she thought, and she felt self-conscious about the hat with large pale pink flowers adorning it that added another four inches to her height.

  The man beside her leaned over and said, “Quel chapeau! Ma femme est jalouse.” How perfectly charming, Max thought, translating, What a hat! My wife is jealous. She grinned at him, and in the same moment noticed Olivier on the other side of the woman, looking straight ahead.

  “Merci,” she whispered to the man she presumed to be his father; she turned her attention to the other side of the church, avoiding eye contact with Olivier. She overheard the woman she assumed to be Olivier’s mother whisper to her husband, “She’s an American detective. Olivier just told me.”

  “Do you think she wears the hat when chasing a criminal?” the man beside her whispered back to his wife.

  Max was amused. The organist had begun and the beautiful strains of Mozart floated up to the ceiling. Max watched the guests arrive and be seated: a sartorially elegant man and his blond wife whose identity she learned when a guest behind hissed his name; a woman in bright pink and auburn curls who sat gabbing with the man at her side while he stared ahead, ignoring her; and Hans the Manipulator, whom she now hoped would fail in his bid for de Saint-Pern. A dark-haired, athletic woman who sported a tan entered and sat in the pew across the aisle from Max. A ruggedly handsome man put his hand over hers the moment he sat down beside her.

  She couldn’t avoid hearing Olivier’s mother say to her husband, “Diane came after all. I’m disappointed that she would show up with Olivier here. These are our friends, not hers.” Her husband gently shushed her.

  Max cast what she hoped was a surreptitious glance in Olivier’s direction, but he was looking directly at her. She tried to give a casual smile. He said something to his parents, then stood and crossed in front of them in order to sit beside her. “I like your hat.”