by Jan Moran
A young man with a press credential tucked into his hatband appeared at the door. Juliana waved and crossed the ballroom to meet him.
She introduced herself and directed him to Henri. “But no photos of Mr. Laurent, please.” When the reporter looked bewildered, she added, “He’s very modest and private.” As she watched Henri greet the young man, she wondered again why he was so against having his photo taken. Frankly, that had started to concern her. But she didn’t want to think about that now.
Juliana took her place to greet the guests. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Crocker.” Several of the guests were clients, too. Thanks to Caterina’s referrals, she’d helped many people design and stock their private wine cellars with the finest wines their region had to offer, from wineries such as Mille Étoiles, Charles Krug, Louis Martini, and Inglenook.
She admired the parade of fashionable evening wear. All around her, women sparkled in voluminous skirted dresses or slim, elongated styles, with jewels sparkling at their throats and wrists.
Guests began to mingle and soon the evening was underway. Juliana and Henri sat together at dinner, but she hardly touched her food. She was busy organizing the speakers. As dessert and coffee were served, Juliana stepped up to the podium to introduce the evening’s speakers, including a noted pediatric doctor.
At the end of the presentation, she returned to the podium. “I’d also like to introduce the proprietor of Chateau Laurent Wines, whose wine you’re enjoying this evening. Please join me in welcoming Henri Laurent.”
Amid applause, Henri made his way to the front. In his rich, knee-weakening baritone, Henri spoke briefly about his passion for wine and the methods he employed to raise his cabernet wine to new levels of excellence. Then he praised the group for its commitment to children’s medical care.
Juliana watched the guests as he spoke. Henri’s voice mesmerized the women in the crowd, and she saw several men study the Chateau Laurent wine bottles she’d placed on each table.
When Henri stepped down from the risers that comprised the stage, she whispered, “You were so eloquent.”
“They’re not such tough crowd,” he said with a shrug.
“They loved your wine. I heard several comments.” Juliana motioned to the orchestra conductor to begin. Soon music filled the ballroom.
Several couples immediately took to the dance floor, waltzing across the room with elegance.
“Would you care to dance?”
“Would I ever,” Juliana said. “I’m so relieved that’s over. Now I can relax and enjoy the evening with everyone else.”
Henri led her to the dance floor and took her in her arms, and then gracefully guided her to the melodic strains of the waltz.
Juliana was nearly breathless. Being in his arms was like nothing she’d ever experienced. “Where did you learn to dance like this?”
He laughed. “Boarding school, before the war. Dances were regularly organized to teach all us little hooligans how to be proper gentlemen.”
“It worked,” she said, smiling up at him.
“I’m rusty. I don’t get much practice.” His face lit with pleasure. “I’d like to dance more often. Maybe you can accompany me.”
“Maybe.” Outwardly, she was poised, but inside she was a jumble of emotions.
They danced on, taking breaks only to rest or chat with a guest. Juliana couldn’t remember when she’d had so much fun. Now that Henri had relaxed, he proved as good a conversationalist as he was a dancer. They laughed and talked as they swirled around the dance floor.
“Had enough, yet?” Henri had been teasing her about her bottomless supply of energy. “You young whippersnappers are apt to wear out old men like me,” he said, mimicking an old man’s voice.
“Hardly. You’re the one who’s been dragging me around the dance floor. I’m just following.”
“It’s about time you did that,” he said with a wink.
“Hey, I’ve let you lead.” Juliana laughed. “Most of the time, anyway.”
“It’s your forceful personality, but that’s okay. When you lead it gives me a chance to rest.”
She tapped him playfully on the chest. “You’re joking with me.”
Henri raised an eyebrow. “Am I?” He laughed and in a dramatic movement, dipped her low to the floor.
When he brought her back up, they were nose to nose, so close that Juliana could feel his breath on her cheek. They were motionless for a moment, caught in a trance.
“Let’s sit the next one out,” Henri murmured. Taking her hand, he led her from the ballroom onto an adjoining terrace where they were alone. They leaned against a low stone wall, gazing into the night sky. A harvest moon hovered over the skyline, shimmering on the bay below.
The night air was cool, and Juliana shivered involuntarily.
“Here, take my jacket.” Henri shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her shoulders. He rubbed her arms to warm her and drew her close to him.
Juliana looked up to thank him, but his lips were so close to hers that words failed her. A moment later, their lips met cautiously.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” Henri whispered. Enveloping her in his arms, he deepened his kiss.
At first, Juliana responded hesitantly. His kiss was nothing like she’d ever known; his desire was that of a man, unmistakable and overwhelming. As his lips lingered on hers, his hand trailed from her neck to the small of her back, pressing her gently toward him.
With this slight movement, Juliana was drawn to him. His lips were warm, moist, and tasted of cabernet wine. Soon, her senses were fully engulfed. The sound of the orchestra faded away, the night air warmed, and they were in a world of their own making. Nothing else existed but this moment and the feel of his hands on her face, her neck, her arms. Responding to his touch, she slid her hands over his shirt, exploring his muscular chest beneath.
She didn’t know how long they’d been entwined in each’s others arms when he tightened his grasp. Overcome with passion, he lifted her from the ground and whirled around. Juliana laughed with joy.
“What in the name of heaven am I going to do with you?” he exclaimed, burying his face against her neck and teasing her earlobe with his tongue.
Juliana pulled him to face her, her palms pressing against his cheeks. With her eyes focused on his, she sought to catch her breath. Never had she felt so overcome with desire. Not even with Alfonso, the man she’d planned to spend the rest of her life with. “What have you done to me?”
“Me? I was fine until you insisted I attend your press event.” Henri lifted her hand and kissed it.
“Which you didn’t want to come to.”
“Now that would’ve been the worst mistake of my life. I’m so glad I let Raphael coerce me into going.”
Juliana touched her lips to his again. These few minutes of passion had changed everything. Her heart and common sense were warring within her, but she didn’t care about anything but being in his arms.
“I have someplace I’d like to take you.”
“I can’t, Henri. No, I won’t.”
Henri looked horrified at her thought. “No, that’s not at all what I have in mind. Well, maybe it is, but I’m a gentleman. I will not compromise you.” When she looked hesitant, he added, “Even Mrs. Morales thinks I’m a gentleman.”
Juliana laughed at the thought of her landlord. “Ah, but you bribed her with a bottle of wine.”
“A very good bottle of wine.”
“Indeed it was.” Juliana couldn’t hide her excitement. “So where are you taking me? Another adventure?”
“You’ll see.” With a mischievous smile dancing on his lips, he took her hand and led her through the ballroom.
7
For days Juliana ignored Henri’s telephone calls, despite her landlord’s pleading to call the ‘nice gentleman’ back. Henri Laurent was many things, but he was not that, Juliana assured her.
Juliana lay on her chenille-covered bed s
taring dully at the ceiling. Caterina had brought an extra set of clothes to her at the hotel and drove her home the following day after work. Her friend had listened to her rant about Henri, commiserating with her as good friends do.
Henri had misled her—surely for devious motives, she decided—and she’d lost a client because she’d crossed the professional relationship line. She had only herself to blame. Her glamorous world didn’t seem so dazzling anymore, and she wished she could crawl into a cave until her bruised pride and broken heart mended.
Now, with her anger spent, Juliana blinked back tears of despair, wishing Henri had been the man she had imagined he was.
She began to feel sorry for herself. Her sweet Alfonso, the only man who would probably ever love her, had died. However, she was not alone. Many men and women had given their lives in the Second World War and the Korean War, so the country was full of women like her who were widowed or would never marry.
The radio often blared statistics of unmarried women, and it was sobering to her. Would she end up like Mrs. Morales, running a boarding house and trying to mother every young woman who passed through her doorway?
Turning on her side, Juliana punched her feather pillow with a vengeance. But was a life like her landlord’s really so bad? If the alternative was a man like Henri, she’d be just fine on her own. She didn’t need a man in life, thank you very much.
She huffed in disgust. It was official; she was twenty-seven and now entering old-maidsville.
That was far better than being married to a duplicitous man.
She felt sorry for Anne and Beatrice, for having a father like that. Recalling the day she’d been at Chateau Laurent, she thought he had seemed genuine around them.
But if she were honest with herself, she’d had several questions along the way. Why had he appeared so suddenly in the valley and bought one of the largest properties around, only to hide his family away behind locked gates and doors? No one locked up their homes like that here. Well, hardly anyone. What was he hiding?
Restless, she turned over again and laced her fingers behind her neck, studying the ceiling. How had he acquired that strange French-American accent he had? And why had he left Boston?
He’d told her he’d gone to boarding school and then joined the war effort in Europe. Yet, he never talked about the war, his rank, or his branch. Every other man she knew who’d been in the armed forces had something to say about it. There had been nothing in his home to suggest he’d ever been at war.
Nothing.
That was suspicious in itself. No, there were too many clouds around Henri Laurent, and she didn’t want to weather the storm.
Thinking about him and her lonely life ahead, Juliana’s eyelids grew heavy.
Suddenly, her eyes flew open. That day at his home, hadn’t Anne and Beatrice called him Henri? She was almost sure of it. Spying the letter the girls had written to her on her dresser, she pushed off the bed and snatched it.
There was proof at the end of the letter: P.S. Henri is nice too.
Who calls their parents by their first name? Maybe some precocious children did. But these were sweet girls.
Who looked nothing alike and were both eleven years old. On the boat, Henri had called them his wards, but she’d been too stubborn to listen.
Juliana sat on the edge of the bed, her head suddenly pounding. Drawing her hands over her face, she had a sinking feeling. Could there have been truth in Henri’s words?
She couldn’t sit still. Jumping from the bed, she paced the room, thinking. Then she jerked open her bedroom door and raced downstairs.
One of her housemates was on the phone. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Juliana cried. She made a rolling gesture with her hand for the other woman to hurry up.
Her housemate frowned, shook her head, and turned her back to her.
“What’s the rush?” Mrs. Morales looked out from the kitchen where she had been cooking. The center hallway smelled of chicken soup and cornbread.
“I’ve got to call Henri back right away.”
“You should have done that a long time ago. The party line was busy all morning so Agatha just got her young man now. You’ll have to wait. It’s impolite to interrupt.” She frowned and shook her wooden spoon at Juliana. “And pull yourself together. Ai yi yi, your hair is a mess.”
Juliana hastily smoothed her hair into place. She waited for a few minutes, pacing the hallway, but her housemate seemed determined not to hand over the phone just to spite her.
Then again, Juliana had been awfully rude to her.
She ran back upstairs and shoved her feet into a pair of woven espadrilles. She ripped off her dirty shirt and wriggled into a clean one, buttoning her shirt with one hand and grabbing her purse and keys with the other.
She could probably make it to Calistoga before Agatha got off the phone.
Once Juliana was on the road, she tried to speed through the dusty back roads, but meandering livestock and slow farm tractors delayed her progress. Frustrated, she pulled up in front of Chateau Laurent.
The gate was locked. Of course.
She parked on the side of the road and ran to the gate. Grabbing the top railing, she hefted herself up and swung her legs over, dropping down the other side.
So much for the security of gates, she thought to herself, jogging to the front door.
Remembering her landlord’s admonition, she pushed her hair back and tugged her shirt down. Something felt amiss. Looking down, she realized she’d buttoned her shirt wrong. It was lopsided.
“I can’t win today,” she muttered to herself. Turning around, she unbuttoned her shirt to fix it.
The door creaked open behind her. Clutching her shirt, she whirled around.
“Mrs. Peabody, oh, thank God it’s you.”
The housekeeper’s eyebrows shot up nearly to her gray hairline. “What on earth are you doing here half-dressed?”
“I’m looking for Henri—Mr. Laurent.”
“Like that?” Mrs. Peabody began to back away and close the door.
“No, no, please don’t close the door.” Fiddling with her buttons, Juliana shoved her foot in the doorway. “My buttons were all wrong because I was in a hurry. I’m trying to fix them.”
The housekeeper looked doubtful, but sighed and kept the door open. “He’s not here.”
“Can I wait for him inside?”
“You’ll be waiting a mighty long time. He took the children this morning and left. I have no idea when they’re going to return.”
“Tomorrow?” When the woman shook her head, Juliana added, “How many days?”
“Weeks, I’m afraid.”
Bending over and bracing her hands on her knees, Juliana muttered a few choice words to herself under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, sorry.” She raised up. “Where did they go?”
“Mr. Laurent said they were going south.”
“Any specific place?”
The housekeeper shrugged.
Juliana pressed her palms together. “If he calls, please tell him Juliana Cardona is trying to reach him.”
“I remember you, Miss Cardona.”
“Will you tell him?”
At last, Mrs. Peabody smiled. “I’ll be sure to, dear. I believe he was quite fond of you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Peabody, thank you. Tell him I—I’m quite fond of him, too.” Juliana almost hugged her with joy. Instead, she grabbed her hand and shook it fiercely. “Thank you from the very bottom of my heart.” She pressed her hands to her heart for emphasis and then turned to leave.
“Um, Miss Cardona?”
Juliana turned around. “Yes?”
“Your shirt. You might want to finish buttoning it.”
Juliana looked down. She’d gotten only as far as the top two buttons.
After climbing over the gate again, Juliana got into her car, feeling dejected. She’d been too late. Resting her forehead on the steering wheel, she let tears
fall onto her lap.
She wondered if she would ever see Henri again. Outside her window, she heard the dull rhythmic clomp of horse hooves. She looked up.
A farmer in denim overalls with a wagon of hay had passed her. Drawing the back of her hand across her tear-stained cheeks, she watched him. Fortunately, he turned near the end of the lane. She cranked the engine.
She passed the spot where the farmer had turned off. Down a narrow lane stood a country church with a graveyard to one side. A strange feeling struck her. Coming to a stop, she slid the gear into reverse, and then backed up. The farmer had stopped his horse on the other side of the church. She parked and got out.
Could Solange be buried here? Juliana walked to the graveyard. She tucked her hair behind her ear and peered at the headstones, stepping gingerly around the graves.
At the far corner of the small graveyard, she spotted a carved angel. Several bunches of wildflowers lay at the base. Juliana raced through the cemetery, zig-zagging around the plots.
She dropped to her knees by the angel. There were three clutches of wildflowers, clearly picked today and only slightly limp from the sun. Her gaze fell on the carved marker.
Here rests our beloved Solange-Marie Laurent.
Laurent. Her head spinning with doubt and disillusionment, Juliana sank her face into her hands and fell to one side, gasping between sobs.
She didn’t know what to believe anymore.
8
A hand touched her back, and Juliana yelped. Looking up, she held her hand against the sun until the outline of two men came into focus. One of them held out his hand.
“Come with me, child. There’s a bed of ants nearby. They’re overrunning this gravesite.”
Sobbing, Juliana stumbled to her feet with the help of a young man wearing a priest’s collar. The farmer she had passed was hurriedly brushing ants from her dungarees.
“Let’s go inside,” the priest said.
Once inside the stone church, Juliana could breathe easier. Incense tinged the air, and it was mercifully cool and dark. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she fumbled her way to a wooden pew.
