by Ann Mah
“Hi, Kate!” Two voices yelled back.
I followed Jennifer downstairs to the kitchen, breathing in the scents of sautéed garlic and chopped parsley. She immediately went to the fridge and poured us both a glass of sparkling water. “Poor man’s Champers?” she joked, proffering a tumbler.
I smiled weakly.
“Oh, dear girl,” she said. “You’re looking a bit peaky. I do wish you’d stop worrying. After all, at the end of the day, it’s just a stupid exam.” Her sharp gaze traveled over me, taking everything in. “Or . . . is something else the matter?”
I fell silent, a flush creeping to my cheeks. “Do you remember the secret cave I found at Domaine Charpin?” I said finally.
“Of course.”
“Last week I went back to Burgundy. No, wait, let me finish,” I said, when her eyes widened with surprise. “I thought I’d figured out a way to find the Gouttes d’Or. But instead, I found a diary from World War II, and it contained some pretty damning revelations about my family.” I filled her in on Hélène’s history, glancing away, too ashamed to look her in the eye. “The story, it’s so horrible, sometimes it seems unreal. But then I catch myself, and force myself to recognize all over again that these things actually occurred. Honestly, I’m not sure how to live with the shame. Every day I find myself scouring my thoughts, terrified they’ll reveal that deep down inside, I’m a bigot.”
“Oh, Kate.” Jennifer’s head dropped.
I gulped at my glass of water. “Sorry. This was supposed to be a relaxing evening. I don’t want to burden you with this stuff.”
She stared at the floor for a long moment. “I think, actually,” she said slowly, “that I’m one of the few people who might truly understand. It wasn’t pretty, you know, growing up in South Africa in the shadow of apartheid. If I rarely talk about it, it’s because it still hurts. My father was Afrikaner and a racist in the purest sense of the word. My mother, too. I see that now, but it took me a long time to accept it. He terrorized my mother. Beat her. Me and my sisters, too. All of us—his girls.” Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “It’s a little different for you because you never knew your great-grandmother. But I spent a lot of time trying to understand the choices my parents made. Sometimes I wonder if that was just another way for me to justify their actions.” She sighed and fell silent.
“But how do you deal with it?” My voice rose. “How can you accept them as your family, and love them, and condemn them at the same time?”
“The same way,” she replied simply. “By asking questions, and trying to understand their choices. Not in order to excuse them,” she added, “but so I could take responsibility.”
Before I could respond, a heavy figure trundled down the stairs. “Kate!” boomed Baxter, holding out a thick hand for me to shake. “How’re you doing, darlin’? Big day tomorrow! I’ve made your favorite veal stew. If that doesn’t bring you luck, I don’t know what will!” He beamed at me, his smile faltering when he saw my strained expression. “Test be damned, Jennifer! Get this girl a glass of wine!”
For the rest of the evening, Baxter did his best to jolly us along, piling delicious food upon our plates and trotting out all the funniest stories from his South Carolina childhood. He even ignored his wife’s protestations and poured me a second glass of wine. “It’s medicinal,” he insisted. By the time I kissed them all goodbye, I had managed once again to compartmentalize my feelings about Hélène.
Jennifer followed me outside to my car. “Call me tomorrow when you’re finished,” she said. “And remember: At this point it’s more about luck than knowledge.”
I smiled as brightly as possible. “Thanks.”
I waited until she had closed the door behind her before starting the car and pulling onto the street. It was still early—barely eight o’clock—so I drove home through Pacific Heights, watching the lights of the Bay Bridge sparkle like sequins against the dark night sky. Usually I found this drive soothing, but as my car sped down the city’s slopes, careening further and further from the center of Jennifer’s calm confidence, a familiar anxiety began to set in. I wasn’t ready for The Test. I still wasn’t ready. Only last week, at my final practice exam, I had misidentified a French chardonnay as Californian. “Did you discern malolactic flavors?” Jennifer had asked pointedly. “Are you even analyzing what you taste?” I had mumbled an excuse and we had moved on. But her point was clear: If I was still making that kind of stupid mistake, I was going to fail.
With shaking hands, I pulled up outside my apartment building, parked, and headed to the door, so preoccupied that I didn’t notice the figure sitting on the steps until I was right beside him.
“Kat.”
I shrieked and tripped on the stairs, catching myself on the rail.
“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.” In the urban glow of the streetlights Jean-Luc’s face had half turned to shadow.
“What are you doing here?” My mind was so filled with The Test, I felt dazed, like I’d been shaken from a dream. Stepping forward to hug him, I felt his arms circle me, solid and strong. In the weak light, I could just make out the stubble covering his chin, his rumpled clothes belying hours of travel.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
I hesitated. More than anything in the world, I wanted to stay up all night with him. But The Test flashed in my face like an angry beacon.
“I know your exam is tomorrow morning,” he said quickly. “But I have something you need to see, something important that I felt I needed to bring to you myself. It’ll only take a minute.”
Inside my apartment, he fumbled briefly in the inside pocket of his jacket, and handed me an envelope. “Tiens.”
“What is it?”
He took a deep breath. “It’s a letter from Hélène.”
With shaking fingers, I pulled the letter from the envelope, the sheets creased and brittle, covered with the careful loops of Hélène’s handwriting.
1 novembre 1944
Chers Albert et Benoît,
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. Please don’t try to find me. I’m leaving because I want to make a clean start and, anyway, I don’t yet know where I am going. I wish things could be different. I wish I could watch you grow into the fine young men I know you will become. But I want you to have the chance to move forward from this war, the same as everyone, and I know it will be easier for you to do that without me.
You have, I know, witnessed some terrible things these past few weeks. To be honest, I am not sure that I will ever be able to forgive your mother. But lest you judge her too harshly, there are two things I want you to know. First, I sincerely believe that her choices were made out of a deep love for you, her sons. For that I cannot blame her, because I, too, love you profoundly. Second, it is thanks in part to your mother that I am able to leave. Last night, she brought me her jewelry box, and together we sewed its contents into the lining of my coat. “I hope it will be enough, Hélène,” she said in a low voice that belied her guilt. She feels ashamed—as she should—as she always will. This act is not enough to absolve her. Though I am unable to forgive, I do feel a shred of compassion for her. The war has brought out the best and worst in each of us.
Mes petits frères, I hope you will remember me and Papa, and the happy hours we spent together in the vineyards. Papa’s truest legacy lives in this land, in the plants that flourish in our cherished rocky soil. But he also left us something tangible—a cellar of treasured bottles hidden in a secret place. No one else knows about it, not even your mother, but I have placed a clue in Papa’s favorite book that will help you find it.
There is something else, too, that I have left for you—my journal. I am giving it to you because I feel it’s important to preserve a record of what happened. But I will understand if you wish to discard it with the past.
And here is where I must make my own confession: When I leave the domaine tonight, it will be with bottles of Les Gouttes d’Or tucked into my trunk
. I am sorry to take away part of your heritage, but I see no other option. My plan is to go to Paris, sell the wine to the highest bidder, and use the money to leave France forever. Oh, how it frightens me to write those words—I, who can barely muster the simplest greeting in a foreign language—but I hope that the help I once offered others will be returned to me.
Alors, Albert, Benoît—I bid you au revoir. How I shall miss your little voices, your beloved faces. I hope that you will think of me sometimes—and if you do, remember this: What we fought for were the justice and compassion that define civilization.
Je vous embrasse,
Hélène
I raised my eyes from the letter and found Jean-Luc’s gaze upon me. “Sh—she didn’t die?” My voice emerged in a croak.
He shook his head.
“And Virginie—” I cleared my throat. “In the end, she helped her?”
“It’s not enough to redeem her. But at least it’s something.”
I touched a corner of the stationery. “I wonder if Albert and Benoît ever found her letter.”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Presumably, as soon as Hélène left, Virginie bundled all her stuff into boxes and moved everything down to the cellar. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I think the guilt and shame must have been unbearable. She couldn’t forbid her sons from talking about their sister, so she told them Hélène had moved away and died. Eventually she had the bench and memorial plaque placed in the town cemetery.”
“But where did you get the letter?”
“From Louise,” he admitted, faintly embarrassed. “She brought it to me right after you left. She had discovered it months ago in a used book at the charity shop in Beaune. She tried to buy the box but you and Bruyère—”
“I remember. We outbid her.” I snapped my fingers. “I knew she was up to something that afternoon.”
“When Louise read the letter, she immediately started looking for the secret cave—and she enlisted Walker to help. They suspected it might be somewhere at Domaine Charpin, but they were hoping Nico and Bruyère would give them a cut if they could lead them to it.”
“Except I found it first. But why did she give the letter to you?”
“You and Nico have been so quiet about the cave, she didn’t realize you had actually discovered it” he explained. “She came to me and asked if I would help her. It turns out, Louise is far more conservative than I thought—frighteningly extreme, actually. She’s fanatical about keeping this wine in France. She knew we’d been to the abbey together, and she offered to split the profits of the French sale if I told her what you’d learned.”
“Sounds like a pretty far-fetched plan.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t everything about the wine business far-fetched? Ninety-nine percent of my success relies on the weather.”
I smiled faintly, and Jean-Luc pressed his advantage. “Listen, Kat, I came here because I knew how much Hélène’s letter would mean to you. But that’s not the only reason.” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I know a lot has changed since—since—well, since the last time we were together. We have become different people, perhaps. But my feelings for you have never changed. You’re still the person I want to see every morning, and share a glass of wine with every night.” He gave me a crooked smile that caused my internal organs to melt. “Kat,” he said softly. “Would you—”
He broke off as I drew away from him. “Oh, Jean-Luc.” I paused, trying to marshal my thoughts. “Ever since I left Burgundy, I’ve been thinking about this. Us. How we could make it work. I don’t think either of us wants a long-distance relationship. I want to wake up with you every morning. Eat breakfast together. Cook dinner together. But my life is in California, and you have the winery in France, and, well . . .” I bowed my head. “I can’t go back there.”
“But wait, wait, wait!” Why was he beaming? “You didn’t let me finish! What if I”—he gave a little flourish—“would like to leave France?”
My jaw dropped. “What about the domaine?”
“It’s the Côte d’Or, chérie. I’d have no trouble finding a buyer.”
“But how could you—why would you—your entire life—”
“Exactly!” His face flushed. “It has been my entire life. Even when I was a little boy, I knew I would become a vigneron and take over the family vineyard, just like my father, and his father, his father’s father, and so on, and so on, until the beginning of time! But Kat, more than anything, there is you. Sure, yes, I could continue making wine in Burgundy forever. But I would rather do something else—if it means you are by my side.”
I thought of the night, so many years ago, when Jean-Luc had kissed me for the first time. For many days afterward, I had been goofy with happiness, drifting through my classes with the sound of his voice in my ears. I remembered the day I had broken up with him—the tears, the doubts, and, ultimately, the self-righteousness that had stiffened my resolve. I had been so convinced that I was doing the right thing for both of us. How could I have known that sacrifice isn’t always rewarded, that hard work doesn’t always pay off, that luck plays a bigger role in success than any successful person would ever admit?
On the other side of the kitchen counter, Jean-Luc was watching me with those clear, tawny eyes. Jean-Luc, whose touch I still dreamed about. Jean-Luc, whose friendship I still longed for. Jean-Luc, whose absence I had felt so keenly, I had even rejected the type of wine he made. For ten years, I had denied it, most of all to myself. I took a deep breath and lifted my face to his.
“I missed you. A lot. No, no, more than that, Jean-Luc—” My voice dropped, and I gulped, trying to swallow the tremble. “There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t thought of you.” His face split into a smile. Before I could second-guess myself, I stepped around the counter, teetered up on my toes, cradled his face with my hands, and kissed him, softly at first and then, as he responded, with increasing passion, until the rest of the world fell away.
Twelve wineglasses sparkled on the table before me, arranged in a loose semicircle. With my fingertips, I adjusted the position of the furthest one, frowning at the watermarks clouding its foot. Why hadn’t I polished them more carefully last night? Did water stains bring bad luck? I glanced at the guy to my right. His wineglasses were spotless. He caught me staring and gave a faint nod. “Nervous?” he asked, jiggling his leg up and down. I caught a glimpse of ladybugs on his ankles—lucky socks.
“My God, yes. You?”
“I could puke at any moment,” he admitted cheerfully. “It took me forever to find a parking spot this morning. Thought I was going to miss the entire thing. I finally begged a garage to squeeze me in. They’re charging me the equivalent of a month’s rent.”
A tall woman wearing a flowing crepe pantsuit and owlish glasses entered the room. “Good morning, everyone,” she intoned. The room quieted and thirty pairs of eyes swiveled to her face. “Welcome to the first practical paper of the Master of Wine examination.” She bent her head to the sheet of paper in her hand and began reading. “As you know, you’ll have two hours and fifteen minutes to complete twelve blind tastings.” A team of assistants circled among us, pouring wines into our glasses. “This morning we’ll be covering still whites. You’ll be asked to assess variety, origin, winemaking, quality, style.”
I stared at the array of liquids in the glasses before me, ranging from palest lemon to buttery gold. Somewhere in their depths lurked the key to my future.
“You may begin.”
A rustle filled the room as we broke the seal on our exam booklets. White wines were my weak link, and as I waded through the essays, struggling to make my responses as meticulously clear and analytical as possible, I felt my confidence slipping away. Was Wine 1 a sauvignon blanc or riesling? Was Wine 2 from South Africa or New Zealand? Germany or Austria? Jupiter or Mars? By the time I reached the fifth and final question I was shaking with self-doubt.
Wines 11–12 are from the same region.
For
each wine:
Identify the specific origin as closely as possible.
Compare the state of maturity, giving the vintage for each wine.
Compare the quality of the two wines, within the context of large- and small-scale vinification. As a large corporation taking over a family wine business, should you keep the family values alive and, if so, how?
Even without smelling or tasting them, I guessed the wines were from Burgundy. I took a tentative sip of Wine 11 and a sharp tartness hit my tongue, tapering to a smoky, flinty finish. It was as austere as a couture gown—draped with deceptive simplicity, sewn with meticulous stitches—meant to fill the taster with awe. I allowed the liquid to reach every corner of my mouth before I spat into my plastic cup.
Chablis, I thought. Premier cru? I reached for Wine 12.
The nose hit me first, lush notes of tropical fruits, peaches, and a wisp of lemon, as familiar and beloved as the scent of his hair. I closed my eyes and took a sip, rolling it on my tongue, that powerful wine, that muscular wine, with its supple, honeyed depths. Meursault Les Gouttes d’Or. It tasted of Jean-Luc. It tasted of home.
I began to compose my answers, my pen flying across the page, the words spilling from me. For the first time, I knew exactly what I wanted to say, and exactly how I needed to structure my essays in order to create the most impact and earn the most points. But when I got to the third part of the question, I paused, rereading it once, twice, three times, considering my response.
As a large corporation taking over a family wine business, should you keep the family values alive and, if so, how?
The words darted through me, and I was surprised to find tears springing to my eyes. A large corporation taking over a family wine business . . . Was that, then, to be the fate of Jean-Luc’s domaine? Snatched up by a multinational conglomerate, run solely on profit margins and markups? I swirled the golden liquid in my glass so that the alcohol ran in spidery legs down the sides, and suddenly I understood that the greatest thing about this wine was not its supple beauty, nor the mark of its terroir—no, it was the love that its vigneron had infused into it at every step, a commitment that stretched, unbroken, to the beginning of wine itself. If I had learned anything from Hélène’s story it was that the stewardship of this land was a privilege, the responsibility a type of freedom. Liberté. The word could have so many different interpretations: Freedom from oppression. Freedom from the past. Freedom to stand up to injustice. To remain and fight for one’s values was surely as important a legacy as the terroir itself.