The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

  Bottle Rocket was the Big Bad Wolf, Hugh’s biggest competitor for the products of family-run French wineries.

  Rosalyn nodded. Of course she would go to represent Small Fortune Wines in Champagne. She couldn’t refuse Hugh anything; she owed him too much. Besides . . . maybe he was onto something. Maybe a change of pace was what she needed to pull out of the tailspin. Nothing else seemed to be working.

  “So, how’s Andy doing? And his wife?” Rosalyn belatedly thought to ask. “Is the baby out of the NICU yet?”

  “Baby and mamma are doing just fine,” said Hugh. “I brought them a gift basket yesterday, signed the card from all of us.”

  “That was nice of you.” Rosalyn cringed inwardly. She used to be the one who bought the gifts, sent the cards, visited friends in the hospital. The Rosalyn-That-Was thought of other people, organized impromptu parties, never forgot a friend’s birthday. Another unexpected indignity of grief: It had rendered her self-absorbed.

  “It was no problem—any excuse to buy baby things,” said Hugh. “Those little outfits are so tiny; hard to believe a human can come in a package that small, isn’t it? Did you know they arrive in this world complete with teensy fingernails?”

  Rosalyn smiled at the note of wonder in his voice. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Anyway, Andy’s not happy that he’s missing out on this trip—that’s for sure.”

  “I’ll bet. I’ll give him a call and check in before I leave.”

  Hugh tilted his head and fixed Rosalyn with a look. “Make the most of this, Rosie. Seriously. Sometimes a trip can shake off the cobwebs, open your eyes to new possibilities.”

  “I just got back from Paso Robles, remember?”

  “Paso has its charm, but it’s not exactly the French countryside.”

  “And yet Paso Robles has 7-Elevens, which, contrary to their name, are open twenty-four hours. That’s a true gift to humankind, if you ask me.”

  “Champagne’s the ticket, Rosie. Dash loved it there; I have a feeling you will, too.”

  Chapter Two

  Damn Hugh, anyway.

  The airplane seat belt sign had not yet turned off when, in a confetti-like explosion, the woman sitting next to Rosalyn dropped a folder full of papers and swore a blue streak that made the temporary denizens of the hushed first-class cabin turn their heads and stare. Even the perfectly coiffed, ever-poised AirFrance flight attendants were given pause.

  “Let me help you with those,” Rosalyn said, straining against the tight grip of the seat belt to pick up the yellowed papers scattered at her feet.

  “Oh, crikey—yes, please. I can hardly move with this damned cast.” The woman gestured in front of her to the leg sticking out, bound in an enormous cast that was brightly decorated with colorful swirls and interlocking paisley designs, done in a childish hand with Magic Markers. She was tall, probably fifty-something, with short, spiky peroxide blond hair. The woman spoke with a broad inflection that Rosalyn couldn’t quite place: it sounded British, but not quite. “The kids in the pediatric ward decorated it for me. Not bad, eh?”

  “Very pretty.”

  “I’m Emma Kinsley, by the way, from Coonawarra. Do you happen to know it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Would’ve been shocked if you did. Australia. Tiny town, really, located somewhere between Adelaide and Melbourne. And you?”

  “Rosalyn Acosta. Nice to meet you.”

  “Sheesh, I’m such a drongo,” said Emma, watching as Rosalyn gathered whatever papers she could reach without unbuckling her seat belt.

  “Drongo?”

  “Klutz, I should say. Look at this: History is scattered at our feet. There’s a metaphor in there, wouldn’t you say, Rosalyn?”

  The papers appeared to be an assortment of handwritten letters, yellowed with age. Some were still in envelopes; others were loose; most were written in French, a few pages in English. But Rosalyn barely glanced at the correspondence. Instead, her heart fell at the thought of spending the next ten hours or so in forced companionship with a chatty seatmate.

  I should have traded in the first-class ticket for an empty row in coach so I would have had privacy, Rosalyn thought.

  It wasn’t that there was anything particularly off-putting about Emma; it was just that, deep down, Rosalyn didn’t want to chat. With anyone. At all. Perhaps ever. Anyone else in my situation would be happy, Rosalyn reminded herself for the thousandth time. As everyone from Rosalyn’s mother to the mail carrier had remarked, an all-expenses-paid trip to Champagne—with a couple of days in Paris, no less—sounded like a dream come true.

  But lately stories of recluses had been resonating with Rosalyn: Emily Dickinson and Emily Brontë, J. D. Salinger and Henry Thoreau; various hermits in the history of numerous religions—there were a number of hermitic saints in Christendom, she knew, though she couldn’t put names to them. Rosalyn certainly wouldn’t describe herself as a person who emulated the saintly in any way, yet she would be willing to take the vow if it meant she could hide away somewhere in harsh monastic silence. No questions, no comments, no advice.

  And yet here she was.

  “So, tell me,” Emma continued as Rosalyn handed her the last of the letters she had been able to gather. “What’s waiting for you in France, Rosalyn? Business or pleasure?”

  “I . . . I’m going on business,” said Rosalyn.

  The plane achieved altitude, the seat belt light pinged off, and a flight attendant came over and smoothly gathered the rest of the dropped papers, placing them in a messy stack on Emma’s tray.

  “What kind of business?”

  “I work for a wine importer based in the Napa Valley. I’m going to Champagne to—”

  “No!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m going to Champagne, too!”

  “Oh. How about that?”

  “What a coincidence! Maybe we should commandeer the plane and make it land a bit closer to our destination. Don’t you just despise landing after a long flight and then having to drive another couple of hours, with jet lag, no less? How are you getting there?”

  “I have a rental car reserved.”

  “You should ride with me! I’ve got a driver picking me up: a very tall, dark, handsome man, not that I notice such things. But the Champagne region isn’t that big. I’m sure we could drop you off with no problem.”

  This is a nightmare, Rosalyn thought. But then she checked herself: not a nightmare, not really, not in comparison with so much. Still, it was awkward. But as Dash used to say, “Awkward never killed anybody.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be any bother,” Rosalyn began. “I—”

  “Nonsense. You’ll come with me, and I’ll drop you off.” Emma started paging through the letters, shaking her head and muttering. “Just look at this mess. I had these in order by date, and now I have to start all over again. What a pain. So, where exactly are you headed?”

  “A small town called Cochet, but—”

  “Cochet? Good God, what’s in Cochet?”

  “A, um, champagne producer offered me use of his gîte.”

  Gîtes were vacation rentals—sometimes a small cottage, sometimes a room in a house. Wine producers in France often kept accommodations for visiting buyers, or rented them out to tourists for a little extra cash. They had done so long before the advent of Airbnb.

  “Tell me we’re not talking about Blé Champagne, as in Gaspard Blé.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. You know him?”

  “Ha! Blé’s a . . . How should I say it? An associate of mine. Be careful with that one. Gaspard fancies himself quite the ladies’ man, if you know what I mean.”

  “Is he really that bad?”

  “Not actually.” Emma waved her hand and chuckled. “He’s charming. He’s just a bit of an old-school-style rake.”r />
  “How do you know him?”

  “I’ve been investing in the region for a while. Gaspard and I go back a ways . . . even had a brief fling, once, if I recall.”

  Rosalyn’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Every once in a while a little Neanderthal energy can be fun in the bedroom.” Emma gave a knowing smile. “Anyways, I’m worried about you! There’s absolutely nothing in that little town. One little store and that’s it. Not even a boulangerie, and who’s ever heard of a French village without a boulangerie? It’s not even particularly charming—most of the older buildings were destroyed during the wars. In fact, as a general rule in Champagne, you won’t find the kind of delightfully medieval villages that characterize the south of France.”

  “I’m not looking for charming villages. I’m going on business.”

  “Huh.” Emma stared at her for a long moment. Rosalyn found her steady gaze disconcerting. Intelligence shone in Emma’s dark eyes, and there was a level of perception beyond the norm that belied her casual words. “So what will you be doing there?”

  “I’m supposed to be making some connections for my boss, Hugh Small, from Small Fortune Wines.”

  “Oh! You know who you should talk to? Comtois Père et Fils. Do you know them?”

  “I don’t know anyone yet.”

  “Jérôme Comtois is now the fils, the son, of Comtois Père et Fils. French to the core, though I imagine he speaks English well, thank the heavens. Used to be a professor of English literature at the Sorbonne, as a matter of fact.”

  “And now he grows grapes?”

  Emma nodded. “Long story involving a rascal of an older brother who was supposed to take over the family business but instead ran off to be a beach bum in Thailand. At least that’s the way I heard it. The whole thing was one big mess because the father had run the place into the ground, but since it’s been in the family for generations, it carries the weight of history. So when his brother abandoned the family, Jérôme felt compelled to step in and take over. His wife at the time—an American like you, by the way—didn’t like country life and returned to Paris. Rumor has it she had been having a fling with the older brother, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least, but you didn’t hear that from me. I’d hate to spread gossip.”

  Rosalyn realized that she was listening with rapt attention, her mouth hanging open. Chagrined, she closed it. “Is he . . . Do you know him well?” Rosalyn asked.

  “Who?”

  “Jérôme Comtois?”

  “Oh, no, never met the man.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “You’re wondering what his story has to do with me. Thing is, he inherited this collection of wine-making paraphernalia that his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents had acquired over the years—according to what I’ve heard, there are ancient winepresses and old corks, a million things stored down in those cellars. I hesitate to call it a museum, but that’s what the sign says—though last time I checked, Jérôme had taken the sign down. Supposedly there’s also an old library chock-full of books and documents, including some items salvaged after the wars. I’ve been in touch with a historical archive in Reims, and the archivist suggested I take a look at the Comtois collection. I’ve tried to get Jérôme to give me permission to look through the place, but so far, no luck.”

  “Why do you want access?”

  “Because of these letters.” She held up the messy stack and let out a dramatic sigh. “I had everything organized by date.”

  Despite herself, Rosalyn was becoming intrigued by Emma’s convoluted story. “So who are the letters from?”

  “A French soldier in World War One, named Émile Legrand. His family had a farm on the outskirts of Reims, which I’m sure you know is the capital of Champagne.”

  Rosalyn noticed that Emma pronounced Reims in the French manner, which sounded like Rance.

  “It’s the correspondence between Legrand and my great-aunt Doris, who lived in Australia,” continued Emma. “Doris was a real Francophile; from what I hear, she went to Paris on her honeymoon, and then traveled back to France after the war. But she never let on that she had a secret life. The little scamp.”

  “Maybe it was a secret romance.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. I haven’t made my way through many of these—there are hundreds of them. I suppose it’s possible their relationship was romantic, though Doris was a lot older than Émile. Still, while the French don’t mind the older woman–younger man dynamic—bless their Gallic hearts—I think it was more of a simple pen pal situation.”

  “How did they become pen pals?”

  “Have you ever heard of the marraines de guerre?”

  Rosalyn shook her head. Before Emma could explain, the flight attendant stopped at their row and offered them flutes of champagne.

  “Ah! Fantastique! Merci.” Emma accepted a flute with a grateful flourish. “I swear I was about to perish of thirst.”

  Rosalyn took a proffered flute and set it on the tray in front of her, watching the minuscule bubbles rising through the liquid gold. She wished she liked champagne. She wished she could enjoy the attentive first-class service. Mostly, she wished she were somewhere else. Someone else.

  “So, have you heard of them?” Emma asked.

  “I’m sorry—who?”

  “The marraines de guerre? From World War One.”

  Rosalyn shook her head. “I don’t know much about the First World War, except that it was supposed to be the war that ended all wars.”

  “Yes, we all saw how well that worked out. But you’re in good company: The Great War has been overshadowed by the very war it was supposed to prevent. All the movies are about World War Two, not One. . . .” Emma trailed off as though pondering the significance of her own words, then took a hearty gulp of champagne. “Makes sense, if you think about it. Nazis. The perfect cinematic foil.”

  “So . . . marraine means ‘godmother’?”

  “Right. They were the ‘war godmothers.’ Sounds better in French. You speak French?”

  “Some. I studied it in college, and I’ve been cramming while prepping for this trip, but I’m rusty.”

  “I find the key to speaking well is to drink plenty of champagne.” Emma glanced at Rosalyn’s untouched glass and held her flute up: “To champagne!”

  With reluctance, Rosalyn raised her glass and they tinked.

  Dash’s last New Year’s Eve: the indoor rainstorm over the pool at the Tonga Room in the Fairmont Hotel, everyone laughing. Dash was the life of the party, as always, making instant friends with those dining at the neighboring tables. He had rented a luxury suite for the night. No expense spared for his love, his bride, his girl.

  Rosalyn imagined that the people sitting in economy were drinking their bubbly from plastic cups—assuming they were served champagne at all. She suddenly resented the formal, slick coolness of the first-class glassware. Don’t be ridiculous, Rosie, she chided herself. It’s just a glass. She took a sip. The wine tasted sour, the bubbles shocking her tongue, tickling her nose, annoying her.

  Nope. Definitely not a champagne fan.

  “So,” Emma continued, seemingly oblivious to Rosalyn’s lack of enthusiasm, “the marraines de guerre wrote to soldiers at the front to keep their spirits up. The soldiers were young men from all over France. Sometimes they didn’t have family members to write to them, and sometimes the postal service from their hometowns was cut off. So the marraines filled in, writing to the boys and sending them occasional care packages of socks and baked goods. The idea was that the personal connection with folks back home would bolster morale, remind the men of what they were fighting for.”

  “Oh, that’s”—Rosalyn searched for the words—“that’s really sweet, but also sort of tragic.”

  “You want to hear something funny? At the time, the program was criticized�
��a lot of people thought it was immoral.”

  “Is that so? It sounds positively Victorian, if you ask me. I mean, they were pen pals; what could happen?”

  “Never underestimate the ability of some people to fear something new,” Emma said. “Many of the marraines were single, and critics suggested that the unmarried young ladies writing to young men would encourage disgraceful thoughts and behavior. How that would work wasn’t exactly spelled out, but the war did bring about a lot of changes and a loosening of social traditions. Still, considering how many of the soldiers didn’t make it out of the war alive, or at least whole, I suppose the point was largely moot.”

  The flight attendant stopped by to take their dinner orders. Rosalyn handed her nearly full champagne flute back and asked for a glass of red wine, prompting a subtle lifting of the eyebrows from the attendant.

  Rosalyn felt Emma’s eyes on her. She considered ending their conversation by claiming she needed to listen to her French-language podcast, but their dinner would soon be served, and she didn’t want to be rude.

  Besides, the topic they had been discussing intrigued her, despite herself.

  “So, your aunt was a marraine de guerre?” Rosalyn asked.

  “Yes. She was born and raised in Australia, but her mother came from France. Doris was very wealthy, with patriotic feeling for France, as well as Australia, which had entered the war alongside Great Britain. I never knew her—she was actually my great-great-aunt, I guess, the sister of my great-grandfather—but according to family lore she was a strong-minded woman, a wealthy widow, accustomed to getting her own way. She didn’t have children, so maybe this was her way of showing maternal affection. However she managed it, she and Émile kept up their correspondence throughout the war.”