We shared a bottle of champagne—the young lady, her mother, and I. Perhaps it is the contrast of what I have seen these last months, but never have the bubbles tickled my nose in such a joyful fashion, never has the nectar tasted so sweet.
Obviously, since I am writing you this letter, I made it back to my xxx in one piece. Still . . . I think it will take me some time to understand all I saw and felt on my trip back to the city that I once called home.
Rosalyn sat back in her chair and stretched when she came to the end of the letter, feeling a sense of accomplishment. Glancing at the clock, she realized hours had passed while she had been immersed in Émile’s world, translating, struggling to understand.
He had signed the missive to his pen pal, Je vous prie d’accepter, Madame, l’expression de mes sentiments distingués. She smiled at the oddly formal closing: “I pray you accept, Madame, the expression of my distinguished sentiments.” His signature was bold, penned with a flourish:
Émile Paul Legrand
“It’s likely that Émile died—along with a million and a half others,” Emma had said.
Rosalyn felt a deep pang for all those who had lost their sons, boyfriends, husbands, loved ones during that horrific war. At the same time, she felt solace in their bereaved company.
She hated that.
Rosalyn searched for Emma Kinsley’s business card so she could let her know that she had one of her precious letters, but of course she couldn’t put her hands on it. Once upon a time, Rosalyn had been an organized person, almost compulsively so. Now, no matter how orderly she started out, things were soon topsy-turvy. Like everything else in her life.
She gave up after a brief search. She would look for the business card in the morning, after she figured out how to open the window and let some natural light into the room.
For now, images of Émile and Lucie’s meeting in her head, Rosalyn lay back down under the fluffy duvet and was finally able to fall asleep.
Chapter Nine
Lucie
Let me tell you about the house I grew up in: Villa Traverne.
The walls were made of the finest stone, a gold-veined travertine, and the wood throughout was mahogany, polished to a high sheen. It was four stories tall, with steep roofs of gray slate and tall windows made of blown glass that opened to delicate wrought iron balconies.
The grace of a ballerina combined with the sturdiness of a fortress.
Inside, the walls were stenciled and gilded, Art Nouveau and neoclassicism engaged in an uneasy truce. Columns topped with cupids studded the entry, elaborate mantels crowned every doorway, and carved stone fireplaces warmed each bedroom. Oak floors were inlaid with a Greek key design, covered in thick Turkish rugs.
My older sister, Marguerite, and I used to run through the wide halls, our little brother, Henri, limping behind. We would play hide-and-seek, or pretend we were characters in a novel. Our favorite was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; we would chase the white rabbit up and down the stairs, ducking into niches or behind curtains, ignoring our nanny’s attempts to curtail us.
It has been said that fortunate children take things for granted, and that certainly was the case for me. I didn’t see the beauty at the time, much less understand the indescribable pleasures of having enough to eat, a clean, warm bed in which to sleep. In truth, I was a spoiled child who did not appreciate the great privilege into which she was born.
When Marguerite was twelve, she fell ill with scarlet fever. I snuck into her death chamber, wanting to see her, talk to her, certain I could rouse her with a “fairy wand” made of a twisted beech branch that Marguerite had always insisted contained magic. The horrified adults shooed me out, and I never did get to say good-bye. But later from the pile of her belongings meant to be burned, I took a lace shawl I had always admired and wrapped it around me, thinking of Marguerite. I fell ill within a few days, but I did not die. I am quite sure I passed the sickness on to my brother; he, too, recovered, though it took him much longer. Henri had been frail ever since he was injured in a carriage accident at the age of five. I do believe I was responsible for that as well; he had been chasing me when he ran across the street.
Henri survived the fever, but ever after, his joints ached and he became forgetful and slow. He had to be cared for like a child after that.
* * *
One day a soldier arrived on our doorstep dirty, weary, and hungry, much like any other poilu.
But he was angry as well. It turned out he was Rémois, and this was the first time he had witnessed the destruction of our beloved cathedral. He had sought me out in particular, which made me think he needed nursing. But he looked whole enough, standing on what was left of our porch at the Villa Traverne. When I said so, he seemed confused.
“My name is Émile Legrand,” he said. “Your fiancé sent me.”
“My fiancé? Has he been wounded?”
“No, mademoiselle. He was well enough when I left him. He has been worried about your welfare.”
I held his gaze for a moment. His face was young under the whiskers and dirt, but his eyes looked a thousand years old. They were eyes of war, as I was coming to understand. Eyes that had seen too much. If only the ears were as expressive, for they had no doubt heard too much, the flesh felt too much . . . but it was the eyes that revealed the pain.
The understanding of things that should not be understood.
“You’d better come in out of the cold,” I said, inviting him into our once-fine foyer. The gilt ceilings soared twelve feet, but the winding staircase behind us, of course, was partially open to the sky, covered only in part by what tar paper and planks we could find.
Despite our devastated staircase, Monsieur Legrand was clearly unaccustomed to such a home, and paused, checking his boots for mud. I waved off his concern.
“Oh please, monsieur,” I said. “Come into the next room and you will see what we are dealing with every day.”
In the parlor-turned-sickroom, my mother was tending to a man with a leg wound infested with maggots.
I called to her to join us, and we moved into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a hunk of our last loaf of bread, with marmalade from the final jar put up last year. Most of the help had evacuated the city; we kept only one housemaid, Honorine, who now assisted us with the injured.
Monsieur Legrand held out a package. It was a gift from my fiancé.
A comb, I thought dully when I opened it. I would just as soon cut my tresses off.
“He would better have sent a wheel of cheese,” I said with bitterness, earning a sharp look from my mother. I sweetened my tone. “Please, monsieur, if you would be so kind as to wait a few moments, I’ll write a thank-you note.”
Monsieur Legrand nodded. Other than thanking us earnestly for the tea and toast, the poor fellow hadn’t uttered a word since he had entered the house.
“Are you sure you’re not injured?” I asked finally. “Your tongue, perhaps? We once had a man here, a poilu, with just such an injury. But that poor soul had also lost his nose.”
“No, of course not,” he said with a frown.
My mother gave me another sharp look, and suggested we open a bottle of champagne. Our cellar was nearly empty of preserves and jams, of the last canned peaches and cherries.
But we still had champagne, enough to share.
From the way his weary eyes lit up, I concluded Monsieur Legrand had gone far too long without tasting our beloved bubbly brew.
Chapter Ten
Rosalyn awakened with a jolt. After the initial shock of disorientation, she remembered she was in Gaspard Blé’s gîte in Cochet. She got out of bed and tried to peek through the tiny cracks of the metal shutters, but it appeared to be pitch-black outside.
It was also pitch-black inside. She groped around the bedside table but couldn’t find the light switch, so she grabbed her phone. It was blinkin
g five o’clock. Disoriented, she wondered whether it was five in the morning or five in the evening. Probably morning, she thought. Europe used a twenty-four-hour clock to indicate time instead of a.m. and p.m., and her cell phone would have made the switch automatically.
Turning on the phone’s flashlight, she padded across the room to the switch for the overhead light by the door. Then she fiddled with the shutter over the window and finally, through pushing some combination of buttons, she managed to get it to scroll up halfway. Better than nothing.
She needed coffee.
Rosalyn grabbed her regular flashlight, put her coat on over the T-shirt and flannel pants she had slept in, pulled on the snow boots Hugh had insisted she take with her, checked the door code for the kitchen next door, and went out into the dark early morning.
The cold struck her like a body blow.
The chilliest nights in Napa were never like this. This was a cutting, painful frostiness that reached into her body, grabbed her bones, and shook her, the wind pummeling her face and head with tiny pinpricks of sleet. She shivered uncontrollably, the beam of the flashlight jumping spasmodically as she punched numbers into the keypad of the building.
The door opened onto a loading dock, which wasn’t exactly warm but was at least sheltered from the wind. The walls were stacked with hundreds of empty wooden crates, cases, and packing materials. A forklift was parked in one corner.
One unmarked door led to a utility closet; the next opened onto a divinely heated hallway, which led to an office area and then, just beyond, to a large tasting room that was separated from a full kitchen by a huge granite counter. Half a dozen round tables were encircled with chairs, leafy green plants enlivened the corners, and colorful framed maps of the Champagne region adorned the walls.
Dash had described how charming tastings were in France: They were usually held in tiny closetlike rooms in the sides of buildings, across simple wooden counters. You would drive down a gravel drive, perhaps tap the horn once or twice, or merely call out a greeting. An elderly man or woman—often a grandparent minding small children—would eventually emerge from a house and come pour tastes of the one or two wines the family produced. No money changed hands. In comparison, in Napa, tastings had become slick, orchestrated events where tourists happily shelled out ten or twenty dollars—or more—for a few sips of a flight of wine.
As Rosalyn cast an eye over this brand-new facility, it appeared to her that Gaspard Blé had built his tasting room for the American tourists.
Rosalyn had told Emma on the plane that she had come to Champagne for business, not in search of French country charm. Still, the newness and sterility of the facility were disappointing. Why take the time, and pony up the expense, of traveling to a faraway historic place when you could have the same experience at home?
Gazing about the tasting room, she was reminded of one of the worst arguments she and Dash had ever had. Dash had wanted to live in a new condo development, in a unit with wall-to-wall carpeting, top-of-the-line appliances, and a pool and a workout room on the premises. Rosalyn had had in mind a charming little bungalow with a small yard and a few shade trees, a home they could paint and fix up a little, make their own. Dash had won the argument, of course, and they had moved into the condo.
When Dash got sick, they ended up in exactly such a cottage, when Rosalyn, now in charge of their finances, learned they were deeply, desperately in debt. When Hugh found out they were on the verge of being evicted, he offered them the old caretaker’s quarters on his property. The cottage that housed the medicine cabinet.
She shook off the memory. Focus.
Blé’s tasting room might have been frustratingly modern, but it was deliciously warm and Rosalyn breathed a sigh of relief as sensation returned to her fingers. A quick tour of the kitchen turned up a loaf of bread and assorted fruit on the counter, and in the small refrigerator she found a bowl of pale brown and green eggs, small cartons of plain yogurt, a package of cured ham known as jambon de Paris, a large square of butter, a small glass bottle of cream, and an assortment of cheeses on a plate covered with a dome.
She opened yet another door to reveal a large pantry, where numerous tote bags and wicker baskets hung from pegs. The shelves were lined with jars of confiture, honey, olives, and nuts, as well as boxes of crackers. She didn’t see a coffeemaker, which was a disappointment, but she did find a box containing packets of instant espresso. It wasn’t what she had been hoping for on such a cold, dark morning, but it would do in a pinch. She filled the electric kettle with water and switched it on.
While waiting for the water to boil, she completed her inspection of the kitchen: bottles of oil, jars of spices, all the basic kitchen staples. And champagne. Bottles and bottles of champagne. In the fridge, on the counter, in the pantry—the sparkling concoction was everywhere.
Pity she wasn’t a fan; she could have had quite the party for one.
Rosalyn emptied two packets of the instant espresso into a sturdy earthenware mug and assembled a small plate of bread, cheese, ham, and fruit, covered the plate with a thick cloth napkin, and hurried back through the freezing predawn to her room.
Taking a seat at the table, Rosalyn opened her laptop and started checking e-mail, mindlessly taking bites of the food. Then the flavors hit her. The bread couldn’t have been terribly fresh, but the crust was crispy and the tender middle—what the French called the mie—was soft and chewy. She couldn’t even imagine how good this bread must taste straight from the oven; no wonder the French gorged on carbs. The jambon de Paris had just the right amount of saltiness, enough to satisfy but not so much that it overwhelmed the taste of the meat. And the cheese was a stinky, soft variety she had never heard of called Langres; it oozed over the chunk of bread, delivering a burst of intense yet mellow flavor that left her wanting more.
Even the clementine, which she had taken more as a concession to good health than from any desire for fruit, was amazing. As she peeled the small orange, its citrus scent perfumed the air, a hint of spring in the middle of winter. Tart but sweet, the juice ran down her chin before she could catch the drops with her napkin.
She sat savoring her meal for so long that her computer went to sleep.
Finally sated, she sipped her instant espresso—not great, and certainly not what she had hoped for in coffee-loving France, but she’d had worse—and returned her attention to her e-mail. None of the local producers had yet responded to her e-mails, but that was no surprise; many were out of town over the holidays.
Hugh had sent a chatty note asking how she was doing, attaching a photo of Andy’s new baby, and updating her on several of her accounts. He ended with: “By the way, thanks to you I’m $5 richer. I made a bet with Andy that you wouldn’t make it to Paris! In any case, enjoy Champagne. I know you will.”
Rosalyn shut the computer and turned to Émile’s letter.
She really should unearth Emma Kinsley’s business card and let her know she had one of Émile’s letters, but she was strangely reluctant to part with it. Maybe she had been too hasty in refusing Emma’s offer of short-term employment. Had Emma been serious? Was she really willing to hire Rosalyn to track down more letters, and maybe to start translating the rest of them?
First, Rosalyn had been sent to France to sample and buy champagne, a wine she didn’t even like, and then she had been offered a job searching for fascinating old letters. Rosalyn felt as if she were in a play with an oddball script, one in which the world had gone off its axis.
But then, that was nothing new. Once upon a time, she had set up her easel among rows of grapevines, where she was visited by hummingbirds, tiny spirits come to sanctify her. She remembered looking up at the sunset-streaked skies and feeling grateful that God, or the fates, or whoever was running things, had sent such beauty and grace her way. She used to relish opening her paint box, sorting through the pigments: phthalo blue, red lake, pale ocher. She s
tood among the vines in her linen apron, a floppy hat on her head to ward off sunburn, trying to capture the scene on canvas over different seasons: the lush fruit in summer and fall, then the leaves turning yellow and brown, falling off to display the twisted cane, vulnerable-looking and yet so very strong. In the evenings, she would make dinner while Dash opened a bottle of wine and exclaimed over her latest paintings, talking about the art show they would put together when she was ready.
Rosalyn had believed—she had known—that she was blessed, that she was living a fairy-tale life.
Then came the diagnosis, and then Dash started vomiting up his pills and falling on the floor, and finally she had betrayed him by fleeing from his hospital room, unable to witness his final departure, unwilling to bear the moment the magic left this world just as surely as the light left his eyes.
She hadn’t painted since. The color had been leached out of her life.
Outside, it was still dark. Rosalyn glanced at the clock: six in the morning, and she was wide-awake. How strange that jet lag should affect her this way. California was nine hours behind France, so her body should think it was nine in the evening. Probably she’d be dead on her feet in a few hours, just as the French were beginning their workday.
What now? Going back to bed was out of the question; in fact, she felt strangely energized.
Rosalyn bundled up in layers and her big coat, hoping to ward off the cold. She wound a scarf around her neck and head, then pulled her orange wool hat down over her ears. The hat had been knitted by one friend, the scarf and her gloves crocheted by another. As she pulled them on, she thought to herself—not for the first time—that painting was surely the least useful of all the arts. Knitting and crocheting made it possible to give the tangible gift of warmth.
The Vineyards of Champagne Page 6
