The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  He leaned back on his heels and held out a hand. “My child,” he said. “I have been hoping you would come.”

  As Frère Bernard bowed and slipped away toward the main path, I moved forward to clasp Albert’s hand, kneeling beside him in the dirt. “I am your great-niece,” I told him in French. “I am Benoît’s granddaughter.”

  “Do you like peas? Benoît likes peas,” he said, handing me a trowel.

  “I do,” I assured him, my heart sinking. Was his mind slipping? I pulled at a plant, hoping it was a weed. “Frère Albert,” I began, “I was wondering if I could talk to you about your childhood.”

  “Benoît was very delicate. Always very poorly. Maman gave him calf’s foot jelly, but I had to eat the rabbit.”

  “And what about . . . Hélène?” I winced, bracing myself.

  “Ahhh, Léna.” To my surprise, his voice grew tender, and he smiled. “She used to sing me to sleep . . . Fais dodo, Colas, mon petit frère . . .” He hummed a few bars of the lullaby. “Of course, it was brutal—the war years. C’était absolument affreux. But Léna tried to protect me and Benoît from the worst.”

  “She protected you? What do you mean?” My voice rose in astonishment.

  “She rescued me from the cherry tree. She can climb like a boy. When it’s warmer, she’s going to take me camping at the cabotte.” His face darkened. “It’s not true, you know. I don’t care what everyone says. Something was twisted around. There was a mistake.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “What was a mistake?”

  “Hélène can’t be a collabo, and when I’m older, I’m going to investigate. I’m going to find out the truth. Maman says I should let the dead rest in peace, but that’s because she prefers to pretend that Léna never existed. No, no! That’s a beet seedling!” He stilled my hand with some alarm.

  I leaned back on my heels, and Bernard patted the earth around the beet plant, nestling it back into the ground. As he gazed tenderly at the delicate leaves, I sensed the window of opportunity closing. I hunted fruitlessly for a way to draw him back into the conversation, but just as I thought it was too late, he spoke again.

  “She’s been looking for it.” In the crook of his smile, I saw the mischievous boy he’d once been. “All over the house, in the cellar, taking the books from the shelves, tearing through the cupboards. Maman doesn’t know where Léna hid it, but I do. Oh, yes”—he tapped his nose—“I do have an idea! I think she left a clue in Papa’s favorite book—I saw it on her desk. But that’s a secret.” His eyes grew suddenly anxious. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? Don’t tell Maman.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  He squeezed my arm. “We keep silence here; we only speak when necessary. I need the silence to purify my soul.” His eyes shifted away. “I have sinned. I didn’t stop them. After the war . . .”

  “Stop who?” I pressed him. But his mouth drew into a hard line. “Is that what brought you to the abbey?”

  “That other girl didn’t respect the Rule of Saint Benedict.”

  “What other girl?” There it was again, that strange scratchy feeling in my chest.

  “She came a few weeks ago. She asked a lot of questions.” He heaved a sigh. “What was her name?” He eyed me. “What is your name?”

  “Katherine.”

  “Yes!” he exclaimed. “That’s it. She was my great-niece, Katreen. Benoît’s granddaughter. Benoît likes peas. Do you like peas?”

  I pressed a hand against my heart, trying to slow its strange beat. “Oui.”

  He reached out and lifted my chin, searching my face. “You look so much like Léna,” he said, his voice suffused with wonder. His eyes met mine and for an instant they were perfectly lucid, before clouding over again. “There hasn’t been a day of my life that I haven’t thought of you and asked for your forgiveness.”

  I swallowed hard against a lump in my throat. “Frère Albert, I am sure she has forgiven you,” I said.

  His face crumpled in bewilderment. “Who?”

  I drew a shaky breath. “Je te pardonne,” I whispered. “I forgive you.”

  His hand crept up and clasped my own and as my tears fell to the soil below, I saw that they mingled with those of my uncle.

  “It was so horribly sad,” I said several minutes later, as pastures flashed through the windows. “Tragic, actually. He has obviously spent his entire life wracked with guilt.”

  “But over what?” said Jean-Luc.

  “I’m not sure. Something happened with Hélène. But I couldn’t figure it out.” I chewed the inside of my lip.

  We were in the truck on the way back to Meursault. I had already told Jean-Luc about my conversation with Albert—and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about that fleeting moment when my great-uncle’s eyes had turned perfectly clear and sharp.

  “He was confused,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he has dementia. He thought I was her.”

  “What did he say when you told him you were Benoît’s granddaughter?”

  “He, er—actually, he thought I was talking about someone else.” A full minute passed, during which time I counted seven cows. “I think Louise went to see him at the monastery and pretended to be me.”

  “Seriously?” Jean-Luc sounded skeptical. “That seems a little far-fetched. Would Louise really do something so dastardly?”

  Yes, I thought with irritation. But there was no point trashing Louise. “Although if she did meet him,” I said in a reasonable tone, “I can’t imagine their conversation being any more informative— oh my God.” I sat forward so quickly the seat belt locked against my chest.

  “What?” he asked. And then, when he saw the expression on my face: “Quoi?”

  “Papa’s favorite book—his father’s favorite book! Albert said Hélène left a clue in it. Monte Cristo. The Count of Monte Cristo.” I hesitated, struggling to connect the pieces. “Uncle Philippe told me that was his grandfather’s favorite book. When Heather and I were cleaning out the cave, we found so many copies. We thought it was just a coincidence. But what if Hélène had planted a secret message in one of them?”

  “Attends, I am having trouble understanding.” Jean-Luc frowned. “You think Hélène left something in Le Comte de Monte-Cristo?”

  “Not just something,” I said, impatient. “Information about where they hid the bottles of Gouttes d’Or.”

  “Where is the book now? Is it with Nico and Bruyère?”

  “I think we took it to the charity shop, so it must be . . . oh shit.” I knew where the book was, with unerring certainty. “It’s with Louise.”

  “Ah.” Several kilometers passed. “You know, she keeps unsorted books in the back office of her shop,” Jean-Luc said at last, blandly. “It’s a mess—cartons piled everywhere.”

  “Yeah, but how would I get into her private office?”

  Ahead of us, red brake lights bloomed around a stalled vehicle. Jean-Luc downshifted and the truck slowed. “Maybe”—he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel—“I could ask Louise to lunch tomorrow. She’s been talking about wanting to go to Le Jeu de Paume.”

  My eyebrows shot up almost of their own volition. Le Jeu de Paume was one of Beaune’s most celebrated restaurants—recently awarded two Michelin stars, with the prices to match. “Wow! I’ve heard that place is really . . .” I hesitated, searching for the right word. Expensive? Romantic?

  “Slow,” interjected Jean-Luc. “Oui, I expect lunch will take at least a couple of hours. Four courses, wine, coffee. It should be plenty of time for you to hunt around her office while she’s out.”

  “Wait,” I said, a tiny spark of hope igniting within my chest. “Hunt around her office? But if she’s not there, how will I get in?”

  “I imagine Walker will be there, minding the store. Perhaps you may not find it so very difficult to distract him? That is, only if you agree, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, fighting to keep a grin from spreading across my face. “I agree.”

&nb
sp; “Good.” He smiled. “Alors, here is what I have in mind . . .”

  With a small spoon, I stirred the murky demitasse of coffee for the twentieth time. Half an hour ago, Jean-Luc had dropped me off at this café in Beaune before zooming off to meet Louise for lunch. By now, they had probably finished their Champagne and gougères, and moved on to the entrées—chilled crab, perhaps? Shaved white asparagus in truffled vinaigrette? Glasses of chilled Meursault before a bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin? I pushed away the limp remains of a goat cheese salad, checking the time on my phone before signaling for the bill.

  The walk to Louise’s bookshop took ten minutes, and on the way I mentally rehearsed the script Jean-Luc and I had prepared the night before. “Get there exactly at two o’clock,” he had instructed, and so I waited out the final four minutes on the sidewalk across the street from the building.

  “Bonjour?” I called upon entering the shop, but the spot behind the cash register was empty.

  I glanced around, taking stock of the layout. Located on the ground floor of a shabby hôtel particulier, Louise’s shop was dim even at midday, the windows covered with an elaborate iron grillwork. The shelves spilled over with used books, and a couple of limp orchid plants offered the sole concessions to decor. Through a half-open door along the wall, I glimpsed Louise’s private office: a large desk partially obscured by stacked boxes.

  I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other. “Hello?” I called again. At least five minutes ticked by, and then the sound of running water heralded Walker’s appearance from a side door.

  “Bonjour,” he began, before catching sight of me. “Kate?”

  “Walker, hey!” I smiled and moved forward to hug him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Surprise! I decided to come over for one final last-minute cram session before The Test.” I hoped he hadn’t heard the catch in my throat.

  “Whoa, that is seriously hardcore.” Walker lifted his dark brows. “Isn’t The Test in like two weeks?”

  “Nine days,” I corrected him. “But who’s counting?” I let out a girlish trill, inwardly wincing.

  “Yeah . . . seriously hardcore,” he said again, but this time he spoke more slowly. Did his eyes just narrow?

  “How are you doing?” I said quickly. “It’s good to see you! I—I’ve missed you.”

  “Really,” he said with an undeniable chill in his voice.

  “I’ve missed studying together,” I amended. “I really learned a lot from you.”

  “What are you doing here, Kate?” He crossed his arms and eyed me shrewdly. “Why on earth are you taking such a long trip right before the most important day of your life?”

  “I told you,” I insisted. “I’m cramming for The Test—meeting with winemakers and sommeliers. As many as possible. I’m learning so much!”

  “Like what?” he challenged.

  “Like . . . I had the best wine and cheese pairing yesterday,” I gabbled nervously. “Volnay and fromage de Cîteaux. Have you tried it? The wine really cuts across the earthiness of the cheese.”

  “Fromage de Cîteaux?”

  “Um, yeah. Do you know it? It’s this washed-rind cheese—”

  “That’s produced only at the Abbaye of Cîteaux,” he finished my sentence. “So, I’m guessing you went to see him, too, huh? The old monk? Crazy as a loon, right?”

  I pressed my lips together, furious with myself.

  “You know”—Walker heaved a sigh—“we could’ve worked together. We could’ve helped you find the missing wine, and a buyer to boot. And obviously we would’ve kept everything completely discreet. Instead we’ve wasted all this time at cross-purposes. Why don’t you trust me, Kate?” He tapped his chest. “I mean, we’re both American. We both work in the restaurant biz. What about the fellowship of the somm?” Was he joking, or not? As so often was the case with Walker, I had no idea.

  “Is, uh, Louise around?” I asked, after an awkward pause. “I’d like to ask her advice about a rare book that a friend wants to sell.”

  “Sorry,” he said, though he did not seem very sorry. “She’s at a meeting.”

  “Well, if she’s coming back soon, I’ll just wait. No problem.”

  “It could be a while,” he said shortly.

  “So are you saying that Louise would not be interested in a first-edition, hand-bound volume of The Physiology of Taste?”

  He hesitated.

  “In Danish,” I added.

  Walker glanced at the clock. It was nearing a quarter past two. I could see him calculating the amount of time Louise could possibly take for lunch. “Okay,” he agreed finally, and I would have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t heaved a gigantic, exasperated sigh.

  I sat down on one of the skeletal garden chairs lining the wall and fiddled with my phone as if checking email. Instead, I set the timer, turned up the ringer, and waited. Three minutes later, my phone began buzzing and chiming, and I pretended to answer it. “Hello?” I said to silence. “Oh, hi, Dr. Iqbal. Sorry, what? You have my test results back from the lab? Sure, I have a minute to talk. Hold on, let me go somewhere more private.” I rose from the chair and caught Walker’s eye. “Okay?” I mouthed, raising my eyebrows and pointing at the door to Louise’s office. Without waiting for a response, I pushed my way inside.

  While the shop’s ambiance could best be described as barren neglect, Louise’s inner sanctum was overflowing with boxes, cartons piled to the ceiling, except for a small island around her desk. “Oh my God, are you serious?” I said for Walker’s benefit, while staring at the masses of brown cardboard. How on earth was I going to find anything in this mess?

  I took a deep breath and pried open the closest box as quietly as I could. “But how is it transmitted?” I said loudly. “I mean, we used protection.” Squirm, Walker, squirm, I thought.

  A quick rifle through the first box yielded a bunch of old cookbooks. I shoved them aside and pulled another from the stack. “Sorry, sorry, no, no. I’m just completely in shock.” I stared at a ragged pile of Georges Simenon novels. “Can you repeat that?” I tore open another carton. A flash of brick red beneath the flaps indicated a stack of Gault Millau wine guides.

  “What kind of scan?” I said as I reached for another box. Outdated travel guides, dog-eared penny romances with creased covers, a wobbly stack of pocket dictionaries: English-French, Français-Italiano, Français-Español. My fingers brushed against thick, textured leather, and then closed upon a heavy volume. Les Frères Corses. My eyes traveled to the author’s name: Alexandre Dumas.

  My heart was suddenly pounding against my chest. Pulling the box closer, I scrabbled to the bottom, throwing the other books on the floor, heedless of the noise. Finally, I unearthed a book bound in tattered black cloth, its cover a portrait of an overweight man clad in an old-fashioned suit. The title read: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. The spine slumped as I opened the cover and turned to the first page, which was marked with a name in careful, copperplate script: Edouard Charpin.

  Angry voices boomed in the bookshop, causing me to leap to my feet. I clutched the book to my chest, lunging for my bag, but not before the office door flew open, revealing Louise in a slim grey dress, nude heels clicking as she stormed toward me.

  “Vous!” she hissed. (Even in my shock, I noticed she was using the formal form of “you.”) “Qu’est-ce que vous faîtes!” Her dark eyes darted to and fro, taking in the open boxes. “What is that?” she demanded of the book in my hands. “Where did you get it?” In two swift steps, she was in front of me, attempting to snatch it back.

  I threw a glance toward my bag, but it was out of reach. “Louise! What a surprise to see you here! In your office!” I said feebly, trying to buy time.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Katreen. I know exactly what you’re up to.”

  I wrapped my arms around the book. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  She took a step closer, so that I could smell the sickly musk of her perfume. “Give me the
book. Give me the book and I will even”—her eyes narrowed—“yes, I will split the profits with you. That’s what this is about, n’est-ce pas? Money. But you are forgetting that I am the one who has invested so much time collecting all this junk, hunting for the little needle in the stack of hay.” She waved a hand at the boxes. “I know a French collector who is willing to pay top value—cash, under the table. He is dying to get his hands on those bottles of Gouttes d’Or, no questions asked. Just give me the book, and if it leads to anything I will give you a share. A two-way split, d’accord?”

  Sheer outrage caused the blood to rush to my cheeks. “Those bottles belong to my family!”

  “The wine belongs to France. This is part of our French heritage, Kate. How on earth could you sell it at auction to rich foreigners when its true place is here in our homeland?” Before I could respond, she grabbed for the book, her sharp-clawed fingers leaving a long red scratch on my arm. I stumbled away from her, the heel of my boot snagging on a corner of the carpet. I threw out an arm as I started to trip, and a steady hand shot out and grabbed my elbow, pulling me upright.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe là?” Jean-Luc boomed. He released my arm, and I regained my balance by clutching at the wall.

  “Oh, Jean-Luc!” Twin roses bloomed in Louise’s cheeks. “What are you—Katreen and I were just—” She laughed. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon!”

  “Obviously,” he said.

  Louise paused delicately. “Did you know Katreen was in town again?” The edge in her voice was barely perceptible.

  Without answering her question, Jean-Luc reached over and plucked the book from my hand. “Le Comte de Monte-Cristo.” He smiled.

  “Isn’t it a wonderful book? What a treasure!” Louise held out her hand for the book but Jean-Luc neatly sidestepped her and turned toward me.

  “On y va? ”

  Quickly, I snagged my bag off the floor and moved toward the door. Jean-Luc followed me out of Louise’s office and neither of us paused to say goodbye.