The Vineyards of Champagne
Page 1
Praise for The Lost Carousel of Provence
“Blackwell uses an outsider’s passion to shine a light into the dark past of a broken family and how a sweet wooden rabbit can bring them together again.”
—The Associated Press
“Plan your trip to Provence now. In this meticulously researched novel, Juliet Blackwell deftly navigates three time periods, taking us from contemporary California to both the Belle Époque and Nazi-occupied France as she spins a story as charming as an antique carousel.”
—Sally Koslow, author of Another Side of Paradise
“An untrusting American orphan meets a dysfunctional French family—and each turns out to possess wisdom that helps the other to heal from old, old wounds. With crystalline imagery, vivid characters, and lively prose, Juliet Blackwell redefines what family means in a way that will touch readers long after they’ve read the last page. As Cady points her camera at one antique carousel after another, this novel should come with a warning: Will cause enormous desire to travel to France.”
—Stephen P. Kiernan, author of The Baker’s Secret
“Narrating from several perspectives, Blackwell weaves together a tale of love lost, repressed passion, and finding a sense of belonging that should utterly charm and delight readers new to her [novels] and current fans alike.”
—Booklist
Praise for Letters from Paris
“Blackwell seamlessly incorporates details about art, cast making, and the City of Light . . . [and] especially stuns in the aftermath of the main story by unleashing a twist that is both a complete surprise and a point that expertly ties everything together.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Bestselling author Blackwell brings us another captivating tale from the City of Light. . . . This romantic and picturesque novel shows us that even the most broken people can find what makes them whole again.”
—Booklist
“Blackwell paints a picture of Paris that is both artistically romantic and realistically harsh . . . a compelling story of Paris, art, and love throughout history.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Blackwell has woven a great tale of mystery, artistry, history, and a little romance. With plenty of backstory and tidbits about Parisian life in the nineteenth century, there’s something for everyone in this recommended read.”
—Library Journal
Praise for The Paris Key
“A charming protagonist and a deep well of family secrets, all gorgeously set in the City of Light.”
—Michelle Gable, international bestselling author of I’ll See You in Paris
“[A] witty, warm, winsome novel . . . [Blackwell’s] generation-spanning tale combines intrigue and passion with a flawless ear for language and a gift for sensory detail.”
—Sophie Littlefield, bestselling author of The Guilty One
ALSO BY JULIET BLACKWELL
The Lost Carousel of Provence
Letters from Paris
The Paris Key
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Goodson-Lawes
Readers guide copyright © 2020 by Penguin Random House LLC
Excerpt from The Lost Carousel of Provence copyright © 2018 by Julie Goodson-Lawes
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Blackwell, Juliet, author.
Title: The vineyards of champagne / Juliet Blackwell.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019023030 (print) | LCCN 2019023031 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451490650 (paperback) | ISBN 9780451490667 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Life change events--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.L32578 V56 2020 (print) | LCC PS3602.L32578 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019023030
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019023031
First Edition: January 2020
Cover photograph of woman by RossHelen / Getty Images; vintage handwriting by LiliGraphie/Shutterstock
Cover design by Katie Anderson
Interior art: grapes by Catherine Glazkova / Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To Sergio
In losing you I lost my sun and moon
May you shine on, forever, my diamond in the sky
Contents
Praise for Juliet Blackwell
Also by Juliet Blackwell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
/>
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Excerpt from The Lost Carousel of Provence
About the Author
In losing you I lost my sun and moon
And all the stars that blessed my lonely night.
I lost the master word, dear love, the clue
That threads the maze of life when I lost you.
—WINIFRED LETTS
Lucie
Reims, France
1916
The clicking of my mother’s knitting needles is the metronome measuring the minutes, hours, months spent in the perpetually cool, dim caves. The sound reverberates off the chalk walls.
When there comes a pause in the shelling, the able-bodied dare to slip out into the aboveground world. To feel the sun on our faces, to breathe deeply of the air—however rank with smoke, it is better than the stale air within the caves—and to tend to the wounded. We comb through the charred ruins of our once-beautiful city for anything of use: an unbroken teacup, a child’s toy, ripped blankets, or sweaters that can be unraveled for their wool.
My mother’s hands were once soft from a lifetime of ease. Now those same hands reclaim old misshapen sweaters with an avarice that astonishes me, unraveling the yarn, winding it into a hank, soaking it in water to relax the crimp of the stitches, sometimes even dyeing it: pale yellow with onion skins or grayish purple with discarded grape musts.
Before, my mother taught me how to sit with my knees together, how to move gracefully, and when to smile. Those skills have no place in the caves. But another lesson I have learned from my mother: Yarn remains fundamentally unchanged, no matter its pattern. It is still wool. It might be singed, abandoned, stripped from a corpse. It might be unraveled altogether, a twisted, knotted rat’s nest of fibers. But it can be cleansed and untangled and knitted back together again. It can take a new form. The shape may be different, but the wool is fundamentally the same.
The human spirit does not want to die; it is a resilient thing.
That first year of the war, without any hale young men, without the aid of decent horses or farm equipment, and with German bullets and shells raining down from the hills, we made up our minds to bring in the harvest. That first year, and the second, and the one after that. Every September, when the heat of summer begins to cede to the chill of autumn, when the cellar master declares the fruit has reached its pinnacle of sweetness, we venture out under cover of darkness to pick the grapes. We haul them belowground, capture their juices, and lay the bottles to rest in the cool, dank caves.
We bring in the harvest, knowing that our beloved champagne will be drinkable only long after the war is over. A Victory Vintage to be savored in celebration of the end of war.
Women. Children. The elderly.
We bring in the harvest.
We make the wine.
Chapter One
Rosalyn
Napa, California
Present day
There’s one major problem with your little plan,” said Rosalyn, patting the dossier Hugh had dropped on the desk in front of her. According to the itinerary, she was booked on an AirFrance flight to Paris departing from San Francisco the day after Christmas. She was to stay a couple of nights in Paris, then pick up a rental car that had been reserved in her name and head for Champagne, less than a two-hour drive northeast.
“What problem? I booked it myself.” Hugh nodded and gave her an exaggerated wink. “First class—that’s the ticket. Get it? The ticket?”
“But I don’t like France. Or the French. Or champagne, for that matter.”
“Are you saying you dislike la Champagne, as in the region of France,” asked Hugh, “or le champagne, the bubbly nectar that is celebrated the world over?”
“Both, as you very well know. Not a fan.”
Hugh’s only reaction to her ill humor was a broad smile. Rosalyn’s boss was a bear of a man who dwarfed the cramped winery/import office located in the lovingly renovated garage of his sprawling Napa Valley vineyard home. Standing several inches taller than six feet, the ironically named Hugh Small had the well-padded physique of a man who entertained frequently and enjoyed his own excellent cooking—and wine—a tad too much. His graying brown hair was wild and scruffy, and his clothes so sloppy that, if he hadn’t been so well-known in the valley, the locals might have assumed he was one of the wanderers who camped among the vines, cruising the highways of Napa and Sonoma for dregs in bottles left on picnic tables by well-to-do tourists on wine-tasting jaunts.
Ten years earlier, Hugh had fulfilled a lifelong fantasy by purchasing a vineyard in Napa. He quickly realized just how hard it was to get established in the wine-producing business, and branched out into importing and selling select vintages from France and Spain through his company, Small Fortune Wines.
Hugh’s favorite joke: “How do you make a small fortune in the wine business? Start out with a large fortune.”
Today Hugh’s light blue pullover sweater sported a moth-eaten hole over his heart. Rosalyn stared at it, pondering its significance. Hugh had more than enough heart for the both of them.
“Honestly, Hugh,” Rosalyn persisted, trying to keep a lid on the vague panic simmering somewhere deep within her, “I know most people would jump at the chance to go to Champagne, all expenses paid, but I really don’t enjoy traveling. You’re sure you need me to do this?”
He nodded. “Andy’s still at the hospital with his wife and their preemie; he couldn’t possibly leave now.”
“Couldn’t you go? I could stay here and run the office.”
“I need a wine rep in France,” he said. “And you’re a wine rep.”
“Just barely.”
“And you speak French.”
“Just barely.”
“And you’ve got a palate. Better than mine. Besides,” said Hugh as he sorted through a stack of mail, tossing several envelopes into the recycling bin, “it’s downright embarrassing that you’ve never been to France. What self-respecting wine rep has never been to France?”
“I have been to France.”
“Once. And if I’m not mistaken you went to Paris, which is no more representative of France than New York City is of the United States. And admit it: You enjoyed your time there.”
Snowflakes glittering on their scarves as they stood under the lamppost at the corner of Rue des Abbesses and Rue Lepic. Tipsy on wine and after-dinner cognac. Giggling as they watched a man slip silently down the snow-covered cobblestone streets of Montmartre, their breath coming out in wispy clouds, mingling in the frigid air.
“It’s our laughter,” says Rosalyn, lifting her mittened hand as if to capture the mist. “Come back!”
Dash grabs her hand, warming it with both of his, kissing it. “Plenty more where that came from, Rosie. A lifetime of laughter for my beautiful bride. I promise.”
Dash had lied.
“Of course I enjoyed it,” Rosalyn said when she realized Hugh was still watching her, awaiting an answer. “It was my honeymoon. That was different.”
“Dash went to France many times,” Hugh pointed out. “He loved it there.”
Rosalyn felt the usual sharp stab in her gut at the sound of her husband’s name. Still, she appreciated that Hugh never hesitated to speak it aloud. It muted the pain, ever so slightly, each time someone talked about Dash as though things were normal; as if invoking his spirit, inviting his presence into this world. Most people tried to avoid any reference to him, or acted chagrined, as though they’d done something awkward and embarrassing by bringing him up.
“I like it right here,” insisted Rosalyn, gazing out the window at the twisty grapevines that marched alo
ng the rolling hills, their undulating lines interrupted only by an occasional oak tree. The sight of the parallel rows was soothing, as if a Zen master had pulled a giant rake through sand. “I defy anyone to come up with a more beautiful place than Napa.”
“There’s nothing wrong with seeking a refuge for a while, Rosalyn,” said Hugh, his voice dropping, its gentle sincerity grating on her nerves. “But it isn’t a life plan. If you decide to settle in Napa, it should be just that: a decision. Not an attempt to hide from life.”
Rosalyn’s eyes stung; nausea surged at the base of her throat. One hand fiddled with the silver locket that hung around her neck while the other reached for the travel dossier as she pretended to study the itinerary, hoping to distract herself, to stem the tears, to quell the incipient panic.
Breathe, she reminded herself. Ten slow, deep breaths . . .
“As you can see,” said Hugh, his voice regaining its cheery tone as he pointed to a few items highlighted in bold script on the agenda, “you’ll be representing Small Fortune Wines in Champagne for the festival of Saint Vincent, patron saint of vintners, which is held on the twenty-second of January. Until then, you’ll meet with vintners, make nice, tour the caves—”
“Like I need to see any more wine caves in my life.”
“You do need to see more wine caves in your life, Rosalyn,” Hugh insisted. “The champagne caves are unlike any you’ve seen before; there are two hundred kilometers worth of crayères under Reims alone. An entire city, underground. Do you know the French moved whole schools and businesses down into the caves during the First World War?”
“Fascinating,” Rosalyn said. “But is that why you want me to go? To attend a wine festival and tour some caves? That doesn’t sound terribly cost-effective to me.”
“No, no, no, you’re also going to sign some new, smaller producers. It’s the foundation of my vision.”
“Your . . . what, now?”
Hugh returned her smile. “My vision to get people to stop thinking of champagne as a luxury, get them to drink a glass with appetizers as they do in France. Americans equate champagne with the big, expensive houses, Mumm and Taittinger. I want you to find and sign a few of the small champagne houses, the ones that don’t charge a fortune for their wine. Step one is reconfirming our commitment with Gaspard Blé—you’ll be staying at his vineyard. I’ve known Blé for years, but I heard through the grapevine—get it?—that Bottle Rocket’s sending someone to the festival. I wouldn’t want to lose Blé to the competition.”