by Ann Mah
As my pen moved steadily across the page, I knew with absolute certainty that it would be an enormous mistake for me to reject this land. I needed to be there, rooted, so I could confront the past and take responsibility. I needed to be there to ensure that nothing like that happened ever again. For better or worse, this land was in my soul.
“Time. That’s time. Thank you, everyone. Pencils down.”
I reread my final paragraphs and closed my exam book with a sigh.
“Not too bad, huh?” Ladybug Socks was grinning at me.
“What a relief, right?” I found myself grinning back.
He held up his hands. “God, not for me. I couldn’t get a grip on that first question and it went downhill from there. I meant it seemed good for you—you were scribbling away like a maniac. You must’ve had a lot of great stuff to say.”
“Oh, well.” I blushed, and tried to hide it by twisting around and reaching for my tote bag. “We’ve still got two more papers. Plenty of time left for me to screw up.”
He dabbed at his desk with a paper towel. “Nah.” He glanced up and in his face I saw a flash of envy. “You got this.”
Outside I found Jean-Luc, leaning against the car with his face tilted toward the sun.
“Hey!” I placed my box of glasses gently on the ground and flung myself at him just so I could feel his arms close around me.
“Et, alors?” he asked, after he had given me a hug that squeezed the air from me. “How’d it go?”
“Actually, it went great. Listen, I don’t want to talk about The Test.” I grabbed both his hands, and took a deep breath. “I realized something important right in the middle of the exam. Jean-Luc”—I leaned back to look him straight in the eye—“you can’t leave Burgundy, I can’t let you leave. We have a responsibility to this land, and now that I know Hélène’s story, I understand it’s our destiny to care for it. To turn our backs on it would be rejecting our obligation. We can’t let it happen. Promise me that we won’t let that happen.” I held his gaze, unwilling to break eye contact until he agreed with me.
He laughed, confused. “But—but I thought this was what you wanted, to stay in the California? What about the job at Sotheby’s?”
I shook my head. “I don’t care. I mean, obviously, yes, I do care—but I’ll figure something out. After all, it’s Burgundy, not East Timor. There’re tons of wine jobs there.”
An expression of pure joy was suffusing his face, but still he paused to look at me, to make sure I was certain—this man who loved me so much he hoped I would never again regret a promise made to him.
I met his gaze and smiled. “As long as we’re together, everything will be okay.”
SAN FRANCISCO
Three months later
“Kate!” Heather waved as I pulled up to the curb and double-parked beside the pale pink Edwardian behemoth that was her hotel.
“Hey!” I threw open my door and dashed around the front of the car to give her a hug. “I can’t believe you’re here! I know this is the worst time to be away—only a couple of weeks before les vendanges—you must have a million things to do.”
“Seriously, Kate.” Her shining eyes met mine. “We wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” A smile crept across her face, a reckless, joyful smile, and I found myself smiling back. “Anyway,” she added, as we strapped ourselves into the car and adjusted our sunglasses, “a transatlantic trip without the kids is like traveling first class. Although Anna may never forgive me for not letting her come and do your hair and makeup.”
“They’re with Uncle Philippe and Aunt Jeanne?”
“Yeah, Papi is taking them camping at the cabotte. Can you imagine?”
“Anna likes camping?”
“There may have been a little bribery involved.” She shot me a sly look and I laughed. “But Papi thought it would be a nice way to honor Hélène’s memory. And I didn’t want to throw cold water on the idea.”
“You did exactly the right thing.” I checked my blind spot and eased into the ebb and flow of traffic.
Heather swiped at the screen of her cell phone. “What time is Jennifer expecting Jean-Luc and Nico with the stuff?”
“She said she’d be home until five.” I accelerated up a hill. “That should give them plenty of time to drop everything off for the reception tomorrow. Let’s see, there’s the wine, the flowers, the glassware . . .” I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel.
At first Jean-Luc and I had talked about eloping. But when Jennifer offered to host a reception at her house, she and Jean-Luc, the pair of them, had persuaded me into a small wedding ceremony. No gowns, tuxedos, or stiff hair—just family, friends, and a lot of really good wine. I bought a beautiful cream satin dress with a slender, cap-sleeved bodice and full skirt that brushed my knees; a pair of burnished gold pumps still left me several inches shorter than my fiancé. Jean-Luc’s mom and sister were ecstatic to visit San Francisco, though my parents had, regretfully, declined. Luckily Jennifer would be there to walk me down the aisle.
“Are you nervous?” Heather asked.
“About marrying Jean-Luc? Nah.” Without warning, my face melted into a goofy smile. “I’m . . . excited.”
She smiled, pleased, and finished sending a text before letting the phone drop into her lap and falling quiet—so quiet I thought she might have drifted to sleep. At the Bay Bridge, she roused herself once again. “Aw,” she said, as signs for UC Berkeley flashed overhead. “University Ave.”
“We can make a pit stop at Top Dog if you want,” I joked.
“Maybe on the way back.” She gazed out the window, at the concrete and asphalt of the urban sprawl unspooling before us. “You aren’t going to miss it?”
“What, this?” I gestured at the big box commercial center, a great, salmon-pink blight on the left side of the freeway.
“Well, yeah—the convenience. The weather. The . . . freedom.”
Another half mile slipped by as I considered her question. “Sure,” I said eventually. “I’ll miss it. After all, this is the only place I’ve ever lived. But on the other hand . . . this is the only place I’ve ever lived. Know what I mean? How will I ever grow up if I don’t leave?”
“I think I know exactly what you mean.” She stared down at the backs of her hands, rough from dishwater, the nails clipped short, an heirloom diamond sparkling from her ring finger. When her mouth curled up in a wistful smile, I was reminded that Heather had made a similar leap a long time ago. Maybe, I thought, she sometimes regretted leaving her youth and freedom behind before she was really ready.
“Besides,” I added. “I suspect we’ll be back one day. Jean-Luc still hasn’t given up his dream of owning a piece of California vineyards.”
“Domaine Valéry Napa Valley?” she mused. “Actually, that has a nice ring to it.”
By this time, the traffic had lightened, the landscape growing steadily more bucolic as we drove further north. Heather fell asleep again, but at the first sign for Davis she bolted upright in her seat, pulled her handbag to her lap, and began rooting through the contents. “You’re sure it’s okay that we came alone?”
I, too, found myself suddenly fending off a flutter of nerves. “You did all the legwork finding her,” I pointed out. “I don’t think anyone else would have guessed that Hélène had changed her name to Marie.”
She peered into a tiny mirror and dabbed powder across her face. “Nico really wanted to be here, but I felt like this was something we needed to do on our own—as the women of the Charpin family—the female future.” She clicked her compact shut. “And there’ll be other chances. I’ll make sure of it.”
The campus of the University of California, Davis was an idyllic leafy sprawl intersected by a web of orderly paths. We followed a pack of polite bicyclists to the shimmery waters of Putah Creek, crossing over toward a glittering glass structure that had the words “Department of Viticulture and Enology” etched in large letters upon its side. Inside, the lobby was cool a
nd shadowy, a respite from the midday heat.
“Mrs. Charpin?” A young woman came forward to greet us, pushing long dark hair behind her ears. “I’m Anita Gonzalez, a grad student here.” She offered a shy smile.
“Anita, hi!” Heather’s face lit up. “Thank you so much for your help arranging today.” She nudged me forward. “And this is Kate Elliott.”
Anita shook my hand enthusiastically. “I’m a huge admirer of your fiancé’s winery. We studied it in my viticultural practices seminar, and everything Mr. Valéry has created is truly remarkable. It’s—it’s inspirational.” Her cheeks grew red.
“Are you hoping to become a winemaker?” Heather asked as we moved across smooth, polished floors toward a bank of elevators.
“Oh, gosh no. My dad’s a grape grower in Modesto, and I’ve spent way too much time out there.” She pressed a button. “No, I’m thinking about wine sales. Or maybe the Master of Wine program.”
“That’s what Kate is doing!” Heather said.
“Seriously?” Anita turned to me, her brown eyes filled with awe. “That test—it seems almost impossible.”
“It actually is impossible,” I agreed with a laugh.
The elevator opened on the fifth floor and we followed Anita to a set of double glass doors.
“Mrs. Charpin! Ms. Elliott! I’m Professor Clarkson. Welcome to the Robert Mondavi Institute at UC Davis!” A large man moved through the open doors of the conference room, giving a nod of dismissal to Anita, who disappeared discreetly down the corridor. The professor seized first Heather’s hand, then mine, giving them a vigorous shake. He ushered us into the room, introducing us to the faces around the table, all of them department faculty, their names and titles disappearing from my head the instant he uttered them. “May I offer you something to drink? Water? Wine? We have lunch all ready. Please, do help yourselves.” He gestured at the buffet spread upon a side table—platters of roast beef, poached salmon, grilled vegetables, all beautifully arranged.
We selected some food and found seats at the table. “This is lovely—thank you so much,” said Heather, once everyone had begun eating.
“It’s the least we could do,” said Professor Clarkson, with just a touch of unctuousness. “We are very grateful for your family’s generosity. The Hélène Marie Charpin Scholarship will enormously benefit low-income students pursuing degrees in enology or viticulture. Seriously, this money will mean a lot to a lot of kids.”
Heather smiled. “We hope to grow the endowment over time,” she murmured quietly.
The Sotheby’s auction of our family’s secret cellar, entitled simply “A Private Collection,” had attained a new record in wine sales. We had all traveled to London for the event, gathering afterward in the private dining room of a discreet restaurant to discuss our plans for the future. To my surprise, Uncle Philippe had suggested—to unanimous family approval—the creation of the Charpin Foundation, which would bestow donations on refugee aid organizations, as well as grants for wine research and scholarship. “Bruyère shall head it,” he declared. “If, of course, she agrees.” Heather had blushed and accepted with genuine emotion, and all of us had cheered.
As for the domaine, no amount of windfall could tear Nico and Uncle Philippe from their land. They remained passionately devoted to the vineyards and had high hopes for a millésime this year—an exceptional vintage to celebrate the opening of Heather’s charming bed-and-breakfast, which had already garnered eight excellent reviews on TripAdvisor.
I cleared my throat across the silence that had suddenly descended. “I was wondering . . . did anyone here work with Marie? I know she passed away many years ago, but . . .”
“I did.” A slender, silver-haired woman leaned forward in her chair. “I was her teaching assistant in the . . . oh, it must’ve been in the ’80s. She was a tough cookie—all of us grad students were terrified of her. But there’s no doubt that her work was influential. Her research on synthetic compounds really helped establish viticulture in Sonoma.” Everyone around the table was nodding and murmuring in agreement. “The funny thing I remember about Professor Charpin,” she continued with a frown, “is that even though she loved chardonnay, she absolutely refused to drink white Burgundy. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw a drop of it touch her lips.”
Without warning my eyes filled with tears, and I blinked them away. “And she didn’t have a family?”
The woman looked uncertain. “No. No one. Only some nieces and nephews—in New Jersey, I think?”
“New York,” Heather said softly.
“Somewhere back East,” agreed the woman. “She used to speak fondly of them, but I got the impression they didn’t see each other often.”
“The Reinach family,” I said. “They helped her come to America.” This was the greatest discovery that Heather had unearthed. Rose Reinach and her parents had indeed been murdered at Auschwitz. But her brother Théodore had—somehow, miraculously—survived. Arriving in New York sometime around 1944, he had completed a degree at Columbia, launched a successful printing press, and—at some point in the late 1940s—sponsored the immigration of one Marie Charpin. He had died about ten years ago, and Heather had been trying unsuccessfully to find his descendants.
I think we could have lingered for the rest of the afternoon chatting with everyone, but Heather and I still had to drive back to San Francisco in time to change for the evening’s rehearsal dinner. The professors left, bestowing handshakes and business cards, before disappearing down the corridor. Professor Clarkson walked us to the car and we each gave him a brief hug goodbye.
“You ready to head back?” Heather asked after he had trundled away on his bicycle.
I hesitated, fingering the edge of my cell phone. “The results of The Test are supposed to come out today,” I admitted. “I told myself I wouldn’t let it ruin the entire weekend if I didn’t pass. But . . .” My heart had begun to skitter an uneven pattern in my chest.
She gazed at me earnestly. “Have you tried to visualize success?”
I rolled my eyes. “You can take the girl out of Berkeley, but . . .”
“I’m serious!” She shot me an injured look, but she was laughing. “Close your eyes. Imagine the email on your screen—”
“Heather!” I bleated her name, two syllables of pure exasperation.
“Would it kill you to humor me just this once?” she snapped.
And because she was my best friend, and cousin-in-law, and maid of honor—because she had spent hours listening to me fret about The Test—because she had housed and fed me for weeks—because I knew she truly loved me, just as I loved her—I obediently shut my eyes.
“Okay,” Heather sounded greatly mollified. “Picture an email from . . .”
“The Institute of Masters of Wine.”
“And it says . . .”
My eyes flew open. “This is ridiculous.”
“C’mon, Kate,” Heather pleaded.
“It says something like . . .” I closed my eyes again. “We are delighted to inform you that you have passed the practical element of the examination. Many congratulations on this wonderful achievement! Now go forth and get plastered on Champagne—only the good stuff! We’re fairly confident you’ll be able to recognize it. Winky emoji. All best from the old farts at the Institute of Masters of Wine!”
“Okay.” I heard a smile in her voice. “Then what happens?”
“I jump up and down. You start crying. We call Jean-Luc and he starts crying.”
“And then?”
“And then . . .” I swallowed hard. “I tell Jennifer tonight at dinner. Jean-Luc and I get married tomorrow and instead of a honeymoon we work les vendanges, but it honestly doesn’t matter because we’re together. In a month or two, I decide on a subject for my research paper, and start writing. Meanwhile Jean-Luc and I settle into domestic bliss at the domaine. And then, a year from today, praise be to Dionysus, I am officially declared a Master of Wine!”
“And then?”
“And then . . .” I hesitated. I’d never allowed myself to think this far ahead. “I start writing about wine for Decanter, Wine Spectator, and . . . oh, hell, sure, why not? The Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, Bon Appétit. I become an expert on rare Burgundies. The major auction houses beg me to head their office in Beaune, but I insist on being a consultant so I can balance life with Jean-Luc and our baby.” I opened my eyes and took in her look of surprise and delight. “Just one baby.”
She turned away, not quite hiding a grin. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No,” I admitted. “I guess not.”
We stared at each other, and though my heart was no longer skittering in my chest, it thumped with a heavy, portentous beat.
The phone slipped in my sweaty hand. I tapped in my pass code and then pressed the envelope icon, waiting for the messages to load. “It’s slow. I don’t have much service,” I said uselessly. Checking for mail . . . Checking for mail . . . A single message from The Institute of Masters of Wine slid into my box, followed by a buzz. Before I completely lost my courage, I gritted my teeth and tapped the screen with a trembling fingertip, scanning the lines until I reached the second paragraph.
“What happened? What does it say?”
Wordlessly, I handed her the phone. She read it in a glance, and then suddenly she was gripping my shoulders. “Oh, Kate!” she said, and her voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “You did it. You did it!” She threw her arms around me and squeezed the air from my chest, releasing me so quickly I staggered back against the side of the car, my entire body limp with disbelief.