The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

“We passed a garden back there.” Thomas pointed down the road.

  “Boys.” Their mother, Marianne, a seasoned vendangeur who had worked sixteen harvests at the domaine, shot her sons a reproving look.

  “It was covered with roses! Pleeeeassse, Maman! They won’t miss a few,” Thomas protested.

  “Ask your father,” she said with a resigned sigh, glancing over at her husband, who was simultaneously smoking a cigarette, tying his shoe, and talking on his cell phone.

  Nico looked up from his clipboard, where he was tallying the filled crates. He shook his head. “You mean Jean-Luc’s house. His maman planted those flowers. No, no. You mustn’t steal his roses.” His lips twitched and his eyes began to twinkle. “Not unless you let me help you.”

  “You’d think discretion would prove difficult in a bright yellow tractor,” Marianne murmured ten minutes later, as Nico parked by the low stone wall that bordered Jean-Luc’s property. “Then again, it’s the Côte d’Or, during les vendanges . . . I suppose every other vehicle on the road is a bright yellow farm vehicle.”

  I tried to laugh, but it stuck in my throat. At the sight of Jean-Luc’s home, my heart had started skittering so that I could scarcely sit still. The house was bigger than I remembered, its roof covered in yellow and red tiles arranged in the region’s traditional geometric pattern. A round turret adorned the front of the building, a stone bird on its point overlooking a wild garden of roses, lavender, and rosemary bushes.

  “It’s pretty, n’est-ce pas?” Marianne followed my gaze. “Jean-Luc turned the stables into a guesthouse a couple of years ago, but it blends in so that you’d never guess. He built it for his mother, really. And then she moved to Spain to be closer to her daughter and grandkids.”

  “Thomas, you take the right side. Kevin, you’re on the left. I’ll stay here in the tractor for the getaway,” Nico was saying in French.

  The blood pounded in my ears. “But, uh, nobody’s home, right?” I glanced at my watch. “Six o’clock. Surely they’re all still at the cuverie.”

  “Normalement, oui,” Nico agreed. “But you can never be too careful. All right, boys? Ready? Allez-y !” He let out the last word in a loud whisper and the boys charged the house.

  Marianne laughed. “MI5 they are not,” she said, glancing at me when I didn’t respond. “Ça va, Kate?”

  “Fine, fine.” I managed to keep my voice steady.

  “Don’t worry,” she chuckled. “If Jean-Luc catches them, he won’t mind. Likes a joke, doesn’t he? I’m sure he pulled the exact same tricks when he was a kid.”

  I forced a limp smile to my face.

  The boys ran back to us, dropping armfuls of roses at our feet. “Start decorating!” Kevin ordered. “We’re getting more!” Ignoring their mother’s protests, they dashed back toward the house. I moved around the other side of the tractor and began to thread roses through the cab. The blossoms were full and fragrant, the petals starting to collapse around the edges. I tried to recall the garden from my last visit, so many years ago. It had been April, too early for flowers, the buds still furled against winter.

  “AHHHHHH!!!!!” The boys came pelting toward us. “Il est là! IL EST LÀ!”

  I peeked over the hood of the tractor and saw Jean-Luc sprinting up behind the pair. “Qu’est-ce que vous faîtes là !” he roared. What are you doing? But he was half laughing. “Stealing my flowers, you little punks!” he continued in French. He caught sight of Nico and slowed to a stop. “Are you behind this?” he demanded.

  “Behind what?” Nico said.

  “You know that I can actually see the roses you stole from my garden.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nico said innocently. “We just parked here for a minute to count the caisses. This is our last load of grapes.” He clapped a hand on Jean-Luc’s shoulder. “Speaking of which, Jeel, how are your vendanges coming along? Almost done? Or are you conceding our little bet?”

  “Pas du tout! There’s not a winner until the last grape has been pressed. And I heard you’ve still got quite a back load of fruit.”

  “All the same, you might want to order that pig from the butcher.”

  “Ah, bon? Because I told Bruyère to give him a call.”

  I peeped again and saw the two of them grinning at each other, as competitive and conspiratorial as they had always been.

  “Is the pig for La Paulée?” Thomas’s voice piped up.

  “Ouais, Nico and I always throw a big party after the harvest, and Bruyère roasts a whole suckling pig. You’re coming to La Paulée, right?” Jean-Luc asked the boys.

  “J’sais pas.” Thomas circled the tractor to find his parents. “Maman? Are we going to La Paulée? Maman? Papa?”

  “Oh!” Jean-Luc poked his head around the vehicle and caught sight of the group of us. “I didn’t see you back here!” He strode forward to greet us, kissing Marianne’s cheeks, and exchanging a quick handshake with her husband, Raymond, who was still on the phone. And then his eyes fell upon me, and I heard him saying “Bonjour, Katherine.” Our hands met, the blood rushed to my cheeks, but before I could find my voice he had moved to the other side of the tractor. A few seconds later, he returned to his truck, hopped inside, and drove away with a wave.

  My knees felt so weak, they were shaking. I concentrated on twisting roses and grape leaves together, and hoped the fading light would prevent anyone from seeing the flush staining my cheeks.

  “Every year I say I’m never going to roast another suckling pig. And every year I get talked into it.” Heather stepped back from the wood-burning oven, her face glowing scarlet. “Is this thing hot enough? Is it too hot? Is the damn pig even cooking in there? Who the hell knows?” She squatted and stared at the flames, which were radiating enough heat to blister anything within a five-foot radius.

  “Ça sent bon! It smells delicious,” said Nico, dropping an armload of firewood on the patio’s flagstone floor.

  “Yeah, well, we can’t eat smells. Remember last year?”

  “What happened last year?” I asked.

  “I started cooking too late. The pig took seven hours. Or was it eight? We ended up eating at two in the morning . . . everyone was wasted.” She clutched at Nico’s arm. “Do you think I should run out to the butcher to get more sausages?”

  “Chérie, we’ve got ten kilos of saucisses.” He patted her shoulder. “There’s plenty of food. Ne t’inquiète pas.”

  “Or maybe I should make another lentil salad? There’s still time, right?” Muttering to herself, she headed back to the house.

  “She’s always like this before La Paulée.” Nico watched her disappear inside with an affectionate smile. “Alors, Kate”—his expression grew serious—“I have been wanting to talk to you. Now that les vendanges are finished, we were hoping you would stay a few more weeks. To finish our special project.” He lowered his voice at the last words.

  I frowned. “What project? You mean cleaning out the cellar?”

  “Er.” He threw a glance behind him. “Yes. La cave.” He was practically whispering. “You and Bruyère have made such excellent progress. It would . . . it would be a shame not to see it through.”

  I felt guilty saying no. Nevertheless, I began to shake my head. “I really can’t impose on you guys any longer.”

  “It’s not an imposition. Having you here has really lifted Bruyère’s spirits. I don’t think either of us realized how isolating it can be without other Americans around.”

  Through the windows of the kitchen, I saw Heather at the sink. She turned to retrieve a bunch of parsley from the cutting board, then spun back around again. It was true, she had seemed more lighthearted of late, as if her momentum had finally shifted forward. But again, I shook my head. “I need to get back to San Francisco. The Test . . .” I allowed the sentence to trail off. The truth was, The Test was still several months away. But being here in Meursault made me more uncomfortable than I wanted to admit.

  Nico had been listening
expectantly, but now his entire body deflated. “D’accord,” he said. “Of course, I understand.” But his disappointment was obvious—and so much greater than the situation warranted—that I couldn’t help but wonder if he and Heather were hiding something. Every time I mentioned the cellar, they blanched with panic. Why did they really want to clean it out?

  Against my better judgment, I heard myself saying: “My Airbnb renters did just email to see if they could stay longer. Maybe I could look into changing my ticket.”

  “Really?” Nico’s face lit up.

  “How much longer would we need?”

  “Not long. Two weeks, max?”

  Two more weeks in Meursault. Two more weeks fraught with the possibility of running into Jean-Luc. But two more weeks would also give me time to visit the Burgundy vineyards Jennifer had suggested, and meet the Burgundy producers she’d contacted on my behalf. Two more weeks would allow me to taste as much Burgundy wine as I could find. What would Jennifer do? I didn’t even have to ask.

  By the time the guests started to arrive, the afternoon sun blazed overhead, and the pig had begun to crackle, filling the air with a succulent aroma that people exclaimed over as soon as they stepped out of their cars. The garden was soon overflowing with grape pickers and their families—I recognized my fellow vendangeurs from Nico’s harvest; the others, I assumed, were part of Jean-Luc’s team—as well as assorted friends, relatives, neighbors, and vineyard employees from both domaines. Marianne and Raymond were discussing secondhand camper vans with a Spanish couple, and Heather was whisking various platters of food to and fro. Packs of kids grazed on handfuls of potato chips before running off to play complicated games of hunt and chase.

  Even as I wound my way through the crowd, I was constantly aware of Jean-Luc’s presence as he chatted with the other guests. I had the feeling Jean-Luc was conscious of me, too, and for the same reason: so that we could avoid each other. Still, in little stolen glances, I saw the years had treated him kindly, broadening his shoulders, etching lines on his face that only made him more handsome. I still remembered the last time we had said goodbye: a rough squeeze at the airport, a brush of the lips. If I had known it was forever, would I have taken more care? But that was before insomnia had started driving me from bed in the dark hours of the night, before vocabulary words began running on a constant loop through my mind— deuxième emprunt de logement (second mortgage), droits de succession (inheritance tax), publication des bans (public announcement of marriage)—before the doubts began to dominate my thoughts: What if we’re too young to get married? What if I don’t want to live in France for the rest of my life? What if it’s easier for him to stay single? I would have sacrificed almost anything for Jean-Luc. But what if the sacrifice was him? In the end, I broke it off over a phone call, a crystal-clear, long-distance conversation from California. Because I wasn’t brave enough to see his face.

  The afternoon was dissolving into a brilliant evening, the dark blue sky sparkling with a million stars. Heather and Nico wrestled the pig from the wood-burning oven—all crisp, golden skin and moist flesh—and when Uncle Philippe carved the first slices, everyone burst into spontaneous applause. The buffet table groaned with charcuterie and salads, a great mound of barbecued sausages, gratins of courgettes and other garden vegetables, platters of gently oozing local cheeses, and an array of homemade cakes and tarts contributed by Heather’s neighbors. We ate and drank until eventually the wine gave way to ratafia, a home-brewed digestif made from lightly fermented grape juice and some sort of lethal grain alcohol. Nico and Jean-Luc lit a bonfire in a corner of the garden, and one of the neighbors produced an accordion, trilling a warbly tune and rousing a group to dance. Couples paired off to clap and stomp out the traditional steps—I spotted Heather and Nico, his sister, Chloé, and her husband, Uncle Philippe and Aunt Jeanne. A slender young woman with long, honey-colored hair pulled Jean-Luc toward the circle and together they joined the others, whirling about with linked arms. She lifted her face toward his—small foxy features, dark eyes that sparkled in the firelight—smiling at him with such warmth that I needed no one to tell me that she was Jean-Luc’s girlfriend. Was she a neighbor, perhaps? Or a former schoolmate, a girl he’d probably known since they were both in diapers? She threaded through the others with the sure feet of someone who had been dancing these steps since childhood.

  Not for the first time, I thought about how this life could have been mine. I could have been the vigneron’s wife, basking in the glow of my husband’s smile, laughing a little as I stumbled over my own feet. I could have been savoring this respite after the harvest, satisfied with our hard work, buoyed by the hope of a spectacular vintage. Instead, here I was on the sidelines, an observer instead of a participant.

  The accordionist ended the dance with a merry flourish, the couples broke apart, and everyone applauded. Jean-Luc and his girlfriend stood laughing over some joke, the light from the bonfire burnishing their flushed faces. He looked so robust standing there, out of breath, a little sweaty from the dancing, not the perfect image of my memory, but a real person who laughed, flirted, shouted, swore, who was brilliant and funny, headstrong and ambitious, and maybe a little too much of a perfectionist. For all these years, Jean-Luc had been a ghost, a specter of wishful thinking, haunting me. Now that he stood before me, I finally understood that the decisions I had made long ago had sent our lives on two separate paths, diverging too far for us to find each other again.

  I walked to the patio to pour myself another drink. There was no open wine, so I reached for a new bottle, peeling away the foil and twisting into the cork with my wine key. I opened several bottles for good measure, losing myself in the familiar, soothing efficiency of the task.

  “You must be Kate.” It was a guy’s voice, American. I turned in surprise. He had a shaggy mop of dark brown hair, thick eyebrows arching above black-framed glasses, a smile that wavered between wry and self-conscious. “Heather told me there was another somm here,” he added. “Hey, I’m Walker.”

  “Hi.” We shook hands, his grip dry and firm. “Are you friends with Heather and Nico?” I asked.

  “Nah, I just met them tonight. I’m actually doing a stage with Jean-Luc. Staying in his guesthouse, which is pretty sweet.”

  I nodded without comment and grabbed another bottle of wine.

  “Oh, please, let me.” He removed the bottle from my hand and trickled some into my glass. “You know, a lady is never supposed to pour her own wine in France.” He emphasized the word “lady” like it was an antiquated concept. “So are you stage-ing here at Charpin?”

  “Um, sort of. Nico’s my cousin. And I’m a Master of Wine candidate preparing for the practical exam.”

  “Whoa.” His eyes widened. “That test is hardcore. Hats off to you.”

  “How about you? What brings you to the Côte d’Or?”

  He sipped from his glass before responding. “Actually, I’m studying for the Master Sommelier exam.”

  “Ahh!” I said with mock horror. “You’re one of them.”

  “By that I assume you mean someone who’s an expert on wine and knows how to serve it?” he said in a bantering tone.

  “Actually,” I teased, “I meant someone who can’t hack the intellectual rigor of the Master of Wine.”

  “Can you even pour wine without spilling it?”

  “Six wines,” I said in a musing tone. “That’s all you have to identify, right?”

  “Look, I’ll concede that the MW is more difficult if you sabre open a bottle of Champagne.”

  “No problem.” I glanced around. “Where’s the sabre?”

  He held up his hands and laughed. “Truce!”

  “Called your bluff, huh?” Somehow I found myself touching my hair.

  “Nah, I just didn’t want to see you behead one of those kids running around.”

  “As if.” I picked up a bottle and refilled his glass. As I returned the bottle to the table, the smallest trickle of wine dribbled onto
the pristine tablecloth. “Er, anyway,” I said as he started laughing, “did you come to work the vendanges?”

  “I was somm-ing in New York but, man, those hours . . . they burned me out. I had some cash saved up and figured, hey, maybe I should just move to France for a while. I’ve got an Irish passport and speak French. It seemed as good a time as any to take off and do some traveling, finally check out the premier wine regions everyone keeps talking about. So, you know, basically, I’m yolo-ing.” There it was again, that ironic twist of a smile.

  Despite myself, I laughed, just as the accordion let out a sudden blast.

  “Hey!” Walker nodded at the lawn, where couples were once again assembling, facing off in two lines. “You want to dance?” He whisked the glass from my hands, placed it on the table, and beckoned at me to follow him.

  “I don’t know the steps!” I said, growing flustered as I glimpsed Jean-Luc looming at the far end of the row.

  “Doesn’t matter!” He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “We’ll fake it!” And he pulled me into the swirling mass of dancers, spinning me around and around until their faces became a blur of color.

  26 FÉVRIER 1940

  Cher journal,

  The days creep along in dreary monotony, our meals an endless rotation of roots. Carrots. Parsnips. Leeks. Potatoes. A few days ago at lunch, I expressed yearning for a stalk of rhubarb, a leaf of sorrel, a peapod, any sign of spring. Madame sniffed. “Count your blessings,” she snapped. “It’s wartime.”

  “La drôle de guerre,” I said, for that is what the newspapers are calling it—the Phony War. Not a thing has happened since September.

  “You should be grateful you have any food at all.” She slapped down a dish of pureed turnips.

  “France will crush the Boches,” cried Benny.

  “Arrrrrh!” Albert growled.

  “Enough!” Madame’s voice rose. “Hélène, you are exciting your brothers. I will not have this kind of talk at the table.”

  “But—” I took a breath to defend myself, but Papa shot me a look.