“Maybe the identity of your son’s father is a problem?”
“Nathan is Styron’s son.”
“So why all the mystery?”
“There’s no mystery, Virgile. My son just happens to be the jealous type. I prefer to keep him away from any lovers I might have, and for that matter, I’ve never seen the need to share information about my son with those who come and go. I do admit to being an overprotective mother.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s involved in theater, and he models to make ends meet. He studied archeology but ditched it because he wanted to act. He’s in London a lot. He had a part in a musical. It closed after a short run. Sometimes he models for commercials and print ads. He’s rather good looking.”
“And he knows it.”
“Yes, he’s quite aware that he’s handsome. With his looks, no one could blame him for a touch of arrogance.”
“How old is he?”
“A bit older than you.”
Sheila extended her right arm and reached into a pile of catalogs and magazines on the buffet. She picked up a swimwear catalog and handed it to him. On the cover was a predatory-looking model.
“What can I say? Handsome fella. Hats off.”
“He looks like Styron: same eyes.”
When it came to the man who had shared her life for so long, Virgile found it curious that Sheila called him only by his last name.
“Where does your Nathan live?”
“Sometimes in London, more often in Paris. He spends weeks at a time there. He’s not very forthcoming about his life. He doesn’t like answering questions. On the other hand, he wants to know everything about my life. As you can imagine, I take great care when I talk about myself.”
“So does your son, the actor-model, make enough to live on? He never hits you up for any money?”
“Already, without knowing him, you judge him. Besides, what business is it of yours?”
“I just asked if he can get by on his own. Modeling is tough. And he looks so familiar. I’m trying to figure out where I’ve seen him.”
“Did Benjamin send you?” she asked. She rose from her chair and edged closer to him. Her arm was brushing his. Her lips were quivering.
“No, he didn’t. He’s already done with Jarnac,” Virgile said. He turned away and looked out the window.
“Do you still have feelings for my boss?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. It seems so long ago now.”
“But you lured him here. You wanted to trap him. As it turns out, you didn’t know him at all. My boss values loyalty. Being unfaithful is abhorrent to him. You realize that now, apparently, because you’re coming on to me. So tell me why. Is it because you’re desperate to make my boss jealous, or is it because you’re trying to make the Lavoisier woman jealous? You’re aware of her interest in me. Admit it.”
“So you think this was all about some scheme I had in mind? You think I’m manipulating you to get you into my bed? Then you’re the one who’s ignorant. You don’t know me. Get out of here! Just go!”
Virgile was already at the door.
§ § §
Lavoisier Cognacs was in the news the following week. And it was good news. Lavoisier won the gold medal at the eau-de-vie competition at the Salon de l’agriculture in Paris. The trade journals devoted several glowing articles to the woman who, through thick and thin, had succeeded in preserving the spirit of authentic cognac. In her interviews, the heiress never failed to dedicate the medal to her deceased brother, “certainly the best nose in all of Charente.” The independence of Lavoisier Cognacs was no longer in question. A new French associate was by her side. As for the Chinese investors, they were simply silent partners who were keeping a watchful eye on market developments.
Benjamin dashed off a congratulatory note and was quickly rewarded with a phone call from the recipient.
“Mr. Cooker, I must thank you for your support. You have a lot to do with the recovery of our company.”
“I believe you are giving me too much credit, Ms. Lavoisier.”
“I know how modest you are, and I confess I was not always worthy of your trust. At any rate, it’s all water under the bridge. When will you be back in Jarnac?”
“My goodness, I’ll come whenever the opportunity presents itself.”
“I’ve heard that your assistant has already been back here in Charente. He visited one of your compatriots, a certain Sheila Scott. You know about that, I presume?”
“Oh yes,” the winemaker replied, swallowing his surprise.
“I did some checking. She does not have a very good reputation.”
“I suppose you heard that from Mr. Fauret de Solmilhac. Is he privy to confidential information about this person?” Benjamin made his tone just condescending enough to head off any more disparaging remarks. Then the wine expert added, “Most women are careful about protecting their reputations, wouldn’t you say?”
There was a moment of silence before Marie-France, all sweetness, repeated her invitation.
“Something tells me we’ll be seeing each other soon,” Benjamin concluded. “Call it intuition. My regards, Ms. Lavoisier.” Benjamin felt himself flushing with anger. He had always tried to avoid prying into his assistant’s private life. Yes, maybe Virgile was just paying Sheila an innocent visit. But he wondered if there wasn’t more to it. Had Virgile lost his head and gotten involved with not only Marie-France but also his ex-lover? Benjamin didn’t want to even think about it.
§ § §
When Virgile called, Marie-France’s voice was flat at first but quick to become honey laced, “Oh, darling. What has become of you? Do swing by if you are in Jarnac.”
Virgile borrowed the van again, and when he arrived, the sun was already leaving shadows on the landscape. The aromas of summer were floating beneath the alders, and the public garden was swarming with teenagers. The sound of excited laughter was coming from the riverbanks. The air was warm, and dragonflies were dancing on the water. Marie-France, however, was standing motionless on the landing at Château Floyras.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Virgile said.
“Of course. It’s always a pleasure.”
“I know I was insistent, but I need to have a look at something in the greenhouse.”
Marie France gazed at the Charente River as it carried petals from the wild almond tree blossoms downstream. Then she took Virgile by the wrist.
“Come,” she said.
Marie-France led Virgile to the greenhouse, where Pierre Lavoisier’s little world was still intact. His sister had not moved anything in this baroque setting, where each object, each piece of furniture told a story. Only the dust seemed recent. A gilded cherub holding a torch greeted the silent visitors with a smile.
“You didn’t touch anything,” Virgile said.
“The only thing I’ve done is search Pierre’s desk. I’ve gone through every single account. I even found a secret drawer. Come see.”
Marie-France Lavoisier opened the roll-top desk, pulled out the drawer, and revealed a cache of pages from a variety of catalogs. The same man was in each of them. He was affecting a pose and expression meant to make the products on the pages more appealing. He was damned good at it.
“Wow! Nathan. Yes, that’s Nathan!” Virgile was sure of it.
“Who?”
“The son of…” Virgile stopped himself. “You’ve never seen this man at Floyras?”
“Never, I swear.”
“You’re sure your brother didn’t have visitors here?”
“With Pierre, you could never be sure of anything.”
“Why, then, when I asked you if he might have had a secret lover, didn’t you say anything about it possibly being a man?”
“Be quiet! Don’t tarnish his memory, I beg you.”
“I was fond of your brother, and I respected him. I never would have judged him because of his sexual orientation. I won’t hide the fact that he w
as attracted to me. He would have been more forward if I hadn’t discouraged him. But that didn’t keep us from being friends. He was intelligent and sensitive.”
“Who is this Nathan? Do you know him? I am sure he’s a gigolo. He’s the one who milked him for all that money!”
“Probably,” Virgile agreed.
“Do you think he killed Pierre?”
“Why would he do that?”
“I…I don’t know. But you still haven’t answered me. Do you know this pervert?”
“Please, don’t talk like that. Pierre wouldn’t want you to speak that way about any lover or friend. And I don’t want you to either.”
“Forgive me. I overstepped.”
“I don’t know this man. I just know who he is.”
“You think he and my brother were…”
“At this point, we can’t rule it out.”
“Do you think this Nathan was holding something over Pierre?”
“Regardless of what you think, there’s no stigma in being gay these days.”
“You’re right. What does it matter anyway?” Marie-France said, looking into the distance. “What’s done is done.”
Abruptly, she turned back to Virgile. “I’m a bundle of nerves. Have a drink with me.”
“No, I have to get back to Bordeaux. Mr. Cooker is expecting me. We have a tasting tonight in a big château in the Médoc, and I really can’t get out of it.”
“Yes, I understand.”
They said good-bye with a handshake, and agreeing that they felt just a little awkward, they hugged like two friends united by a secret pact. It was more than an embrace but less than a kiss, which would have led to more. Virgile needed to take his leave. He knew his weakness. He jumped into the van and took off from Floyras in a cloud of dust.
11
Chinese Investors Consider Upping Stake in Lavoisier Cognacs
A Chinese investment firm is poised to acquire even more shares of one of the oldest and most prestigious cognac companies in Jarnac, following the death of a primary owner. The Cheng Group could acquire enough shares of Lavoisier Cognacs to have equal ownership with Marie-France Lavoisier, who heads the company. Lavoisier has fought the acquisition, first made possible when her older brother, Claude-Henri, sold his shares to the Chinese firm. Now it appears that the accidental death of her younger brother, Pierre, could open the door wider.
A family ally has said he is ready to buy back shares the Cheng Group already owns. But according to Hong Kong News, the Chinese group headed by Shiyi Cheng has no intention of selling its shares and, in fact, will move to acquire more shares, even though it would still lack controlling interest. Industry experts say the Chinese firm’s acquisition is intriguing, as the spirits market in the Far East is experiencing a deep recession.
Seated on the Noailles veranda, Benjamin carefully folded the salmon-colored pages of Le Figaro and ordered his steak with shallots, grilled just the way he liked it: rare.
“And with that, Mr. Cooker?”
“A Château la Louvière, please, and a carafe of water.”
The waiter, with his Andalusian accent and legendary talkativeness, usually engaged Benjamin in friendly conversation. The winemaker had known him since opening his offices on the Allées de Tourny. But today Benjamin was anxious and moody. Of course, this was not keeping him from fully appreciating the 1994 Louvière, with its herbaceous nose and fullness in the mouth. Benjamin slapped the thick liquid on his palate. Maybe his salvation would come from what was at the bottom of his glass, rather than what was in the papers.
Benjamin’s fleeting optimism vanished when Virgile arrived on the veranda. His assistant flashed his usually irresistible smile. Benjamin, however, hadn’t forgotten the troubling questions concerning his assistant’s behavior.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“No, boss, I’ve just left the lab. Three of our clients in Graves are fighting an invasion of dead-arm. We might have to use the radical method. Damned fungus!”
The waiter had already set Virgile’s place.
“Tell me, Virgile, I don’t usually meddle in your private life, but how is it going with your women in Charente?”
“What do you mean, boss?”
Much to his own surprise, Benjamin felt himself losing his proverbial British calm. “Can’t you contain yourself, boy?”
“Mr. Cooker, I’m sorry, but I’m not following you. Okay, I dabbled in the cognac a little but found it a bit strong for my taste, and that was that.”
“So tell me, Virgile, how is Sheila these days? I hear you paid Samson’s Mill a visit. Strange—you didn’t tell me you were going.”
Virgile didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t tell me you think I was up to something.”
Benjamin glared at him, cleared his throat, and said in a perfectly neutral voice, “Beware of Delilah.”
“Sir, please don’t give it a second thought. Yes, I do have a weakness for older women, but she’s not my type. And I don’t think I’d get past her son, anyway. He’s not keen on the idea of her having any boyfriends.”
“Her son?”
“Your friend didn’t bother to tell you that she had a grown son, Nathan. His father is none other than her old companion.”
“Styron? The writer?”
“Yes, Styron. But I didn’t know he was a writer.”
“You obviously don’t read a lot of fiction, Virgile. And speaking of fiction, you’re saying that there’s nothing between you and Sheila Scott?”
“Sir—with all due respect—you and I have shared an almost lifelong interest in wine, but we have not shared the same woman.”
Benjamin looked at him without flinching and sighed. “All that is moot at this point. Sheila and I were lovers a lifetime ago. We’re no more than friends now, and that’s the way I want it.” He wiped a dribble of wine off the bottle. It had been threatening to run onto the label, with its handsome château reflected in the water.
Virgile watched. “‘Sooner or later, all the pleasures of youth come back to haunt us,’ my grandfather always said.”
Was this Virgile’s clumsy attempt to philosophize? If so, Benjamin didn’t want any part of it. “As I said, Virgile, that’s all in the past. Next topic.”
“Let me point out that you’re the one who brought it up.”
“That’s true. Forgive me. How old is her son?”
“Mid-thirties. He’s a frustrated actor who models for catalogs. Not too interesting in my book.”
Before laying into a slice of clafoutis, Virgile told Benjamin about Nathan’s affair with Pierre.
“In any case, we may be going back to Jarnac soon, my boy.”
“Yes, I saw in the paper that the Chinese are upping their stake. That Fauret de Solmilhac is just a windbag if you ask me. So Marie-France is going to lose control of the company, isn’t she?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Benjamin said, smiling enigmatically.
When the waiter brought the bill, Virgile grabbed it and took out his credit card.
“Oh, come on, you don’t need to do that,” Benjamin said.
“Let me take care of it, boss. I’ve been feeling indebted to you lately.”
The winemaker cracked a smile and emptied his glass of Louvière, uncapped his Havana, and watched his assistant beat a path between the tables and escape into the Allées de Tourny, where a beautiful brunette with a turned-up nose was waiting for him.
Benjamin picked up the Le Figaro again and started to go through the leisure section. He spotted a review of the most recent issue of the Cooker Guide. The critics were being particularly nitpicky this year. No one would ever admit it openly, but he suspected it was because he had doubled the chapters on North American wines.
§ § §
That night, Marie-France did not forego her moon bath. The light was warm and caressing. She stretched out on the sofa, thought of Virgile, imagined him in her brother’s arms, and could not fall asleep. The following day, she had a me
eting in Cognac with a lawyer named Jolliet. He had been in charge of the estate since her brother’s death.
“We need to meet very quickly,” the lawyer had said in a hushed voice. “Tomorrow at nine thirty will be perfect.”
The lawyer’s office overlooked the Charente River. From the waiting room, Marie-France could see boats with the Hennessy flag carrying sightseers across the river, where gray wine warehouses rose up like cathedrals without steeples. Marie-France watched the spectacle with the pride of a company owner who had, until now, refused any touristy compromises. Lavoisier Cognacs didn’t have to go chasing after customers. Lavoisier customers, whether they were in New York, Hong Kong, Singapore, or Dubaï, were practically handpicked. But for how much longer?
Marie-France was thinking about all this when she heard the refined voice of Mr. Jolliet.
“My dear Ms. Lavoisier, always on time.”
The lawyer’s dark and ostentatious office was as dusty as its occupant. With his snowy hair, badly trimmed beard, and waxy complexion, the Lavoisier attorney was from another era. His bowtie almost brightened the appearance of this man, bent with age or perhaps the weight of secrets in his charge. From among the files cluttering his Napoleon III-style office, he reached for the thickest one, cinched in a purple cardboard folder.
“As you know, you and your older brother are, in fact, the only heirs. The absence of any will simplifies the procedure. Lavoisier Cognacs shares held by your deceased brother, or a little over thirty-three percent of the company, will be split between your brother, Claude-Henri, and you. Half will go to you, and half will go to him.”
Mr. Jolliet paused, as if his explanation was not plain enough. He cleared his throat and added, “Do you follow me?”
“Perfectly, Mr. Jolliet.”
“Your brother informed me yesterday of his intentions.”
“Everyone knows his plans. I read the paper just as you do, Mr. Jolliet.”
“Yes, but the paper did not say that your brother refused the offer made by a certain Maurice Fauret de Solmilhac. Furthermore, your brother rejected the Cheng group’s offer to buy the shares at 2.3 million euros. Mr. Lavoisier has informed me that he does not wish to sell his shares but will henceforth sit on the board of directors of the company you manage.”
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