The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

  “I saw several on my way in,” said Rosalyn. “I liked the elephant standing on its nose. And the upside-down bouncy castle was . . . interesting.”

  Gaspard threw his head back and laughed. “Modern art, my dear. Not to everyone’s taste—I prefer the classic bas-reliefs, myself. But art seeks its own truth, does it not?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “You know, Rosalyn, Blondine mentioned you’re quite the artist yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m really not.” She felt herself blushing. “I just sketch and paint a little.”

  “I am sure you are too modest. Perhaps you will show them to me sometime. I would love to see the world through your eyes.”

  “Mmm,” she said noncommittally, taking a deep gulp of champagne. As ever, she would have preferred a nice glass of red, but the bubbly that was so adored around the world would have to do. “Is Blondine here yet?”

  “She’s on her way. She had to visit a few clients.”

  They mingled with the crowd, and Gaspard introduced her to still more new faces. In the world of champagne, there were two main groups: the growers and the producers. Sometimes those were one and the same, but most growers sold their grapes to the big houses, who then made the wine. Rosalyn exchanged business cards and did her best to remember names, but meet and greets had never been her strong suit, not even before Dash died. Her smile muscles started to ache.

  “And this is the famous—or should I say infamous?—Monsieur Jérôme Comtois,” said Gaspard. “Jérôme, this is Madame Rosalyn Acosta.”

  Accustomed to seeing the farmer in his work clothes, Rosalyn was surprised to see Jérôme Comtois in a well-cut suit and a tie, his wild hair more or less neatly combed. She wondered whether she would have recognized him immediately if they hadn’t been introduced.

  “Nous nous sommes rencontrés,” Jérôme said, then repeated in English: “We’ve met.”

  “Ah oui?” Gaspard raised his eyebrows.

  “A few times, as a matter of fact,” said Jérôme.

  Rosalyn smiled. “Monsieur Comtois was my knight in shining armor when I ran out of gas over the holidays. I have an American card.”

  “Ah yes, I’ve heard about the problem with the American card,” Gaspard said. “But I thought you and Emma wanted me to introduce you to Monsieur Comtois?”

  “Emma’s the one looking for an introduction. She’ll be here any moment, I’m sure.”

  Jérôme gave her a ghost of a smile. “No avoiding it this time, I suppose?”

  “Emma’s a force of nature,” Rosalyn said. “There’s really no avoiding her. I suggest you do as we do: Accept it.”

  “This is true.” Gaspard nodded. “Now, if you will excuse us for a moment, Jérôme, I must introduce Rosalyn to some others.”

  Jérôme raised his glass and nodded, and Gaspard continued ushering Rosalyn around the large room, making introductions, until she came face-to-face with Ritchie James, her competitor from Bottle Rocket Imports. Hugh had warned her Ritchie would be attending the gathering. He was a good-looking man, in a slick, too-much-hair-gel kind of way, with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes.

  “Well, if it’s not the lovely Rosalyn Acosta! How amazing to see you here,” Ritchie gushed in his unctuous way. He greeted her with a kiss on each cheek, reeking of aftershave.

  “Nice to see you, Ritchie,” Rosalyn said, and gestured to Gaspard. “Do you two know each other? Ritchie James, Gaspard Blé. Ritchie James is one of our biggest competitors at Small Fortune Wines, and I promise you, Gaspard, you’ll be sorry if you shift your business to him.”

  Gaspard let out another loud laugh. “She doesn’t beat around the bush, this one, does she?”

  Ritchie frowned. “Now, Rosalyn, you make me sound awful.”

  “Not at all,” Rosalyn said with an insincere smile. “But you’re no Hugh Small, either. We’ve done very well by Blé Champagne, and he by us.”

  Ritchie smiled and gave her an odd look.

  “Anyway, I suppose I should be more subtle, but I wanted to make that clear. I hope you enjoy the upcoming festivities.”

  Rosalyn glanced at her phone; she had been at the party barely half an hour, but she was already exhausted from wearing the mask of the sociable American wine rep. She yearned for her little cottage in Napa, or her Chambre Chardonnay. She ached for solitude.

  Last night’s lightheartedness with Emma and Blondine was gone—the typical up-and-down roller coaster of grief. As the crowd grew, flowing around her, voices chatting in French and laughing, Rosalyn struggled to understand and to respond in kind. She understood French well enough when she concentrated, but forming the words herself was another thing entirely. In French she wasn’t witty, couldn’t make sly references or engage in the sort of repartee that distracted others from realizing that she was one of the walking wounded.

  More than once she caught Jérôme Comtois watching her from the other side of the crowded cellar. She barely knew the man, so why did she imagine such profound understanding in those light grayish green eyes?

  The crowd parted, and she again found herself near Ritchie James, who was absorbed in a discussion with a couple of the local vintners whom Rosalyn had yet to meet. Suddenly, she overheard one producer say, “Wait. Isn’t Acosta the name of an importer . . . ? What was his name? Lovely fellow, life of the party.”

  “Unusual name,” said another vintner. “Dashiell, went by Dash.”

  “Ah, yes. He went bankrupt, didn’t he? This was a few years ago—he never paid me for my shipment.”

  Rosalyn froze, scarcely breathing. She knew she had to say something, but this whole scene felt so otherworldly, and when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. Waves of heat seemed to radiate through her, but deep inside she felt ice-cold, and for a moment, she feared she might faint. Then she felt a presence beside her: Jérôme Comtois.

  “. . . a very important client I want to introduce her to,” he was saying, one arm lightly encircling Rosalyn. “À plus tard.”

  Rosalyn felt tears welling up and kept her gaze on the floor as Jérôme guided her away from the crowd, toward the entrance of an adjoining tunnel.

  “What happened?” Emma appeared, swinging nimbly on her crutches.

  “Someone mentioned her husband,” said Jérôme in English.

  “Oh, damn,” Emma said. “Divorce is the worst.”

  Rosalyn couldn’t bring herself to respond.

  “I do not think that is the problem,” Jérôme said in quiet French to Emma. “If Dashiell Acosta was her husband, he died a few years ago.”

  “He . . . ? Oh, good God. That explains a lot,” said Emma. She grabbed a bottle of champagne from a buffet table as they passed, and handed it to Jérôme. “C’mon, this way.”

  Ignoring the velvet cordon that signaled the tunnel area was closed, Emma led the way past another gallery and into a small chamber filled with racks of champagne, the bottles covered in dust, cobwebs, and grime. Just beyond the pupitres, they found a clearing hidden from view by the bottles. Half a dozen small barrels were arranged in a semicircle, and a few empty champagne bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor. The space was dim, the only light spilling in from the corridor.

  “This is where the workers take a break,” explained Emma, sitting on a barrel with a grateful sigh. “I spent some time here, a while ago. I’ll tell you the whole story one day.”

  At one side, in a niche that looked like a half shell carved into the chalky wall, stood a two-foot-tall Madonna. She was clad in royal blue robes, her hands pressed together in prayer, her serene countenance looking down at them in perpetual understanding.

  “That Madonna there?” said Emma. “She’s called the Virgin of Deliverance. According to the story I heard, she was taken by American soldiers during the Second World War, but they brought her back and installed her in that
niche.”

  “Why did the soldiers take her in the first place?” Rosalyn asked, glad for the distraction. She sat on a barrel and gazed at the little statue.

  “Maybe they needed a little extra virgin power,” Jérôme said. Rosalyn and Emma looked at him, and he shrugged. “Sometimes you need some Madonna energy in your corner. Anyway, I should return to the party.”

  “Why?” Emma asked.

  “She is all right with you, is she not?” he said in French.

  “Oh, come on, you seriously want to return to that dull party? Listen, Jérôme Comtois, of Comtois Père et Fils, I can tell just by looking at you that you know what it is to have been wounded. Like the Madonna there. Now, be a good man—open that bottle, and let’s have a drink.”

  Jérôme hesitated for a moment, as though about to say something, then shrugged, took a seat on a barrel, and started twisting the wire off the champagne cork. After easing the cork out with a soft sigh, he held the bottle out to Emma. She took a big swig and passed the champagne to Rosalyn.

  Rosalyn shook her head. “As you know, I’m not a fan.”

  “In the immortal words of Bette Davis,” said Emma, “‘There comes a time in every woman’s life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne.’ Take a drink, sweetie. A big one.”

  Rosalyn gulped some down, feeling the bubbles dance on her tongue. She passed the bottle to Jérôme.

  Jérôme held the bottle in front of him for a moment, studying the label. Finally, he nodded, took a long pull on the bottle, and passed it back to Rosalyn.

  “Try it again, Rosie. More slowly this time,” Emma said.

  Rosalyn glanced at Jérôme.

  “As you said, she is a force of nature,” he said. “We must accept this.”

  She smiled despite herself and took another drink. Rosalyn was enough of a wine person to realize that most wines could not be appreciated with a quick swig. This time she closed her eyes and concentrated.

  The champagne was silky, not heavily carbonated like a soda; rather, the bubbles were a shimmer on the palate. She rolled the wine around in her mouth for a few moments, trying to calm her mind, to let go of preconceived notions. Searching for a dominant impression, she concluded that the wine felt opulent and mature. Creamy and complex.

  “Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who said that only the unimaginative can fail to find a reason for drinking champagne?” Jérôme asked Emma.

  “I believe it was,” Emma said, holding the bottle up high for a moment before taking a big draft. “To you, sir, a gentleman and a scholar, and a man who knows his Oscar Wilde. I salute you.”

  “What’s that?” Rosalyn said, pointing to a seam in the rear wall of the chalk cave. “It looks almost as though something was walled up.”

  “It probably was.” Jérôme nodded. “There are hundreds of kilometers of tunnels and galleries and pits down here. The Romans dug it out to use the stone, so there was no particular rhyme or reason to the excavation—they followed the veins of stone wherever they led. When the caves were converted into wine cellars, some areas were widened, and some areas were closed up.”

  “And some of the champagne houses walled up their best vintages to keep them out of German hands,” said Emma.

  Jérôme let out a laugh. “Not just the Germans. They were the most despised, of course, as invaders. But French and Allied soldiers also used these tunnels during the war, and practically bathed in the stuff. You won’t hear the champagne houses complain about that because it was all for the cause, but it took years to overcome the loss of inventory during the wars.”

  “Champagne makers are required to keep a certain amount in reserve, right?” asked Rosalyn.

  Jérôme nodded. “It is important not to flood the market one year and have too little to sell the next. And champagne is unlike other wines because the vintage—the year of production—isn’t a primary consideration; most champagne producers mix their vintages. The goal is to create a consistent product so that the Pommery house is known for a certain flavor and level of bubbliness, as is Taittinger, or Mumm, or any of the others.”

  “Is that true for the smaller houses as well? Like yours?”

  “Less so, but yes. Our flavors are drawn from the terroir, of course—the earth, the land, and the weather conditions—which means the grapes grown in one field taste different from those grown in another. The large houses mix grapes from many different areas to achieve a signature flavor, whereas my wine tastes only of my grapes.” He paused, took another sip from the bottle. “It can be like tasting the earth, imbibing of life itself.”

  “Ever think about getting an investor for your winery?” Emma asked. “I’m filthy rich, you know.”

  Jérôme looked surprised. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Have you even tasted my wine?”

  “No,” Emma said. “But I like you. And knowing you as I do, I’m going to assume you make a good product.”

  He chuckled. “You’ve ‘known’ me for all of half an hour.”

  “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “That’s a frightening thought.”

  They sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle around. Rosalyn took another sip, closed her eyes, swirled it in her mouth, thinking of the earth, the terroir. Now she noticed the soft tang, as well as notes of apricot and wild rose, fern and truffle. The minerality and . . . a note of burned toast?

  Warmth flowed through her, despite the cool, damp walls.

  “I have to say,” said Rosalyn, “this champagne isn’t half bad. I’m liking it more and more.”

  “No wonder. We drank the whole bottle,” Jérôme said.

  Emma brought out her phone. “I’ll call André and have him bring us more.”

  “Phones don’t usually work in the caves,” Jérôme warned.

  Sure enough, Emma wasn’t able to get a signal.

  “Allow me, ladies.” Jérôme stood and wiped the dust off the seat of his pants.

  “Why can’t we just drink one of these?” Rosalyn asked, reaching over to the stack of hundreds of bottles hiding them from the gallery. “You suppose they’d notice if one went missing?”

  Emma laughed. “These bottles are not ready. They still have the sediment and lack the dosage.”

  “Brut is great,” said Jérôme. “But not too brut. I’ll be back.”

  The women watched as he disappeared behind the bottles.

  “You think he’ll come back?” Rosalyn asked.

  “Oh, I have a sense he will. We’re a lot more interesting than that party.”

  “Don’t you want to find where Lucie and her family were living down here?”

  “Of course I do. You know, I used to think I was strange to be so intrigued by Émile’s letters, but now I see it’s contagious. I think you might even be more obsessed than I am. You certainly know the letters better than I do, at this point. Maybe you should write the book.”

  Rosalyn laughed.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m not a writer, Emma.”

  “Are you sure? Judging by your e-mails, you have a flair for the written word—and you studied marketing, right? So you probably know how to write copy, at least.”

  “You flatter me. But I think you need a historian to do those letters justice. I don’t know enough about the context of what was going on in the world at the time.”

  “Maybe. But you see, there are these things called ‘history books’ that you can read to fill in some gaps. And we’re not talking about writing a textbook—it’s a story.” She nudged Rosalyn with her elbow. “Maybe the story needs a little dosage to sweeten it up, give it that je ne sais quoi.”

  Rosalyn smiled. “I’ll be happy to work with whomever you select to write the book, when the time comes. But I’m a wine rep, not a writer.”

  “No offense, Rosalyn, but if your
performance back there at the party was an example of your wine-repping skills, you might want to look into a different line of work. Successful salespeople enjoy going to parties, socializing, getting to know people. They like nothing better than working the room—like that sleazy Ritchie James fellow.”

  “You think he’s sleazy?”

  “He’s a sales guy, just not my style. But my point is, being a wine rep is damned hard work, but a true salesperson loves it—and you clearly don’t. It’s your life, of course, but I don’t see that this is a profession that plays to your strengths.”

  Rosalyn shrugged.

  “Do you know that in all this time, you haven’t asked to taste the champagne from my vineyards?”

  “You told me you were already represented in the U.S.”

  “I am, but that fact wouldn’t have stopped someone like Ritchie James, is all I’m saying.”

  Just then Jérôme returned, saving Rosalyn from having to respond.

  “Success,” he said, holding three bottles—two in one hand, one under his arm—and three flutes hanging from the fingers of his other hand.

  Emma gave him a broad grin. “Just how much of a party do you think we’re having?”

  “Never hurts to have a backup,” Jérôme said, taking a seat on his barrel, setting two bottles on the floor, then removing the foil wrapping from the neck of the third. “We can always take a bottle home with us.”

  “Sure,” Emma murmured, “because there’s no champagne to be found there.”

  Rosalyn watched, intrigued by the grace of his calloused hands, as Jérôme skillfully untwisted the wire and removed the cap. He pointed the bottle away from them and pushed on the cork with his thumbs, resulting in a satisfying muted pop. A little mist escaped from the bottle, but the precious wine didn’t spew out in a frothy explosion of bubbles. He poured them each a glass.