The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

  They tinked their glasses in a silent toast, and Jérôme’s eyes never left Rosalyn’s face as she took a sip of the champagne.

  “You’re right,” she said. “This is very different from what we were drinking in the caves.”

  He nodded. “This is a blanc de blanc, which means it is made of only Chardonnay grapes. We have a lot of minerality in the soil here, which comes through, so there’s very little sweetness. It’s not to everyone’s taste.”

  “I like it. Very much.”

  “Not bad for champagne, eh?”

  She smiled. “Indeed.”

  “Good. Help yourself.” Jérôme picked up a sharp knife and started chopping mirepoix—the classic combination of onions, carrots, and celery that was the basis of many French dishes.

  “Speaking of adult conversations, I don’t think I’m telling anything out of school, but there are a lot of adults in town who would be happy to converse with you anytime,” Rosalyn said, taking a seat at the counter. “You seem to have developed a reputation as a solo act.”

  “It’s complicated. I left the town when I was barely eighteen, with very different plans for my life. It was hard to come back after . . .” He trailed off and let out a long breath. “After that. It’s not that I dislike the town or anyone in town—just that we don’t have much in common. There’s a reason I left in the first place; I wanted something else from my life. Not necessarily better, just . . . something different.”

  Rosalyn nodded. “I understand. What’s that old saying—‘Life is what happens while you’re making other plans’?”

  “Quite right. Plus, I despise gossip—and since, as I imagine you have heard, I have already provided the townsfolk with plenty to gossip about, however inadvertently, I’m determined not to give them any more.”

  “That sounds like something of a short-term plan.”

  “I’m not certain how long I’ll be around.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  Jérôme shrugged but did not elaborate, so she continued. “I take it the gated area next door is the infamous Comtois collection?”

  He nodded distractedly, rummaging through a shopping bag. “Damn. I forgot shallots. Ah well . . .”

  “You know, in America we have these places called convenience stores. . . .”

  “We have those here, too. Like Dominique’s.”

  “Yes, but our convenience stores are actually open when it’s convenient. Including saints’ days, and nights.”

  “That might be convenient for the customer, but not for the people forced to work on holidays.”

  “That’s a plus of being a nation of immigrants. A Hindu works on Christmas no problem, I work on Tet no problem, and so on and so on.”

  He gazed at her with a small smile playing on his lips. “Is that how it works?”

  “Theoretically.” She shrugged. “Although I suppose a lot of people do wind up working on holidays they’d rather be celebrating.”

  Laurent showed up clutching three books and a game of tic-tac-toe.

  “What have we here, eh?” Rosalyn asked. “I’ll have you know, my dear sir Laurent, that I am the Napa Valley tic-tac-toe champion.”

  “Really?” Laurent asked.

  She nodded. “Care to try me?”

  Rosalyn was able to lose the first game, but Laurent was a smart child, and after that, the best she could manage was to tie several games in a row.

  “Papa! Did you see? I won! I am the champion!”

  “Well played, Laurent,” Jérôme said, with a wink at Rosalyn. “Why don’t you be a good host and offer madame more champagne, and perhaps she will play another game with you?”

  “It’s a deal,” Rosalyn said.

  “It’s a deal,” Laurent echoed.

  Rosalyn then dealt out a deck of cards and taught him how to play war, a simple card game that she explained was la guerre. Each player took half a deck of cards, then placed their top card, facing upward, on the table at the same time. Whoever had the higher card won that round, and whoever had the most cards at the end of the game won the war.

  “J’ai gagné la guerre.” Laurent ran around the kitchen crowing upon taking Rosalyn’s last card. “J’ai gagné la guerre!”

  “In English, Laurent!” Jérôme called out.

  “I have won ze war! I have won ze war!”

  “I admit it. I am defeated, young sir,” said Rosalyn. “Now, how about you wash your hands before dinner?”

  “You have a way with children,” Jérôme said as Laurent trotted off.

  “I find a game of war almost always wins over the under-ten set.”

  Dinner was a slow, drawn-out affair. They began with a chicken liver pâté served with cornichons and a crusty baguette, followed by a saffron-based bouillabaisse, and blanquette de veau. Following this was winter salad with buttermilk dressing, and a plate of four cheeses alongside more bread.

  Laurent became fidgety and whined a bit toward the end of the meal, not wanting to linger at the table while the adults chatted about everything from literature to the Napa wine scene to the formation of the European Union. Rosalyn could hardly blame the child; she wondered if they ate this formally every night, just the two of them, and decided they probably did.

  Early training for a lifetime of Taking Dinner Seriously.

  Afterward, Laurent helped to clear the dishes; then his father sent him upstairs to brush his teeth. Rosalyn helped Jérôme clean the kitchen while classical music played softly in the background.

  When Jérôme excused himself to give Laurent his bath, Rosalyn sank into a comfy chair by the fire, enjoying the feeling of fullness and the slight tipsiness from the wine.

  Fifteen minutes later Jérôme came down with Laurent in his arms, wrapped in a towel, to say good night. Rosalyn’s heart just about broke at the sweet sight: Laurent looking so young and vulnerable in Jérôme’s strong arms. A surge of anger took her by surprise: Of course Dash never wanted children. If they’d had a child, he would have had to share the spotlight, would no longer have been the center of her universe.

  After she bade Laurent good night and Jérôme took the boy back upstairs to tuck him in, Rosalyn studied the three different Comtois Père et Fils champagnes, tasting them, one after another. The color ranged from straw yellow to antique amber. She took the time to swirl them around in her mouth, feeling the creamy, sumptuous fizz.

  Yep. Rosalyn was definitely developing a taste for champagne. She wasn’t ready to abandon her heavy reds yet, but these honeyed bubbles were growing on her, no doubt about it.

  But what was it with the French and their boring wine labels? The Italians, the Spanish, and the Australians had fun with theirs. Some California labels might have been accused of being downright silly, but they were memorable, and wasn’t that the point of a label?

  “You’re enjoying the champagne?” Jérôme asked, startling her.

  “Very much, as a matter of fact,” Rosalyn said. “I was just thinking to myself that I’m becoming a fan after all.”

  “That would be quite a coup, to bring a Californian red wine lover to worship champagne.”

  She let out a bark of laughter. “Not sure I’d carry it that far. But I’m definitely appreciating it like never before.”

  “Not the highest compliment I’ve ever heard, but I’ll take it,” he said, and started to prepare some dessert.

  “Oh, please, none for me.”

  “Just a little fruit tart? My mother made it. It goes great with champagne.”

  “Twist my arm.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s an expression. I’d love a small slice. Thank you.” She smiled and allowed herself to sink into the warmth of the home. The looseness inspired by the champagne. To embrace the openness she so rarely felt anymore.

  “Any specific thoughts about the
champagne?” Jérôme asked.

  “Mostly about the labels.”

  “What about them? I think they’re very simple, very classy.”

  “They are classy, yes. And there’s a place for that.”

  “But . . . ?”

  They carried their dessert plates to their seats at the table.

  “But Americans like something pretty, a bottle they can stick a candle into.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The French labels are very elegant, which makes them perfect for special occasions. But otherwise they’re a little . . . stiff.”

  “Stiff?”

  “Stuffy.”

  “Stuffy?”

  “I know you take your wine seriously, and for good reason. But if you ever do want to sell your wine to the U.S. market . . . Well, I know a little about marketing. Most customers in the U.S. don’t know much about the different regional characteristics of wine, that sort of thing—though at least with champagne they understand the designation better than usual. But in the end, a lot of people buy wine because of the label.”

  “A nonstuffy label.”

  She nodded.

  “So you can put a candle in it,” he continued around a bite of tart.

  She nodded. “I mean, you said you’re not interested in branching out to the U.S. market, and you might not even be here for much longer, so maybe I’m just wasting my breath. But if you ever change your mind, I suggest you invest in some original art for your labels, like you did for this house. It could still be classic and elegant, but with a pop of something new. Personally, I’ve never understood why every French winemaker doesn’t have a beautiful Art Nouveau–style label, since that’s such an iconic style and it never goes out of fashion.”

  He pushed the crumbs of his tart away, leaned back in his chair, and fixed her with a gaze. “Fascinating.”

  “Also, you might include your personal story.”

  He frowned, and she was beginning to understand where those worry lines came from between his brows. “What about my personal story?”

  “For the back of the label. In California, anyway, more and more wineries are owned by big corporations out to turn a profit.”

  “We make a profit as well. At least, that’s the dream.”

  “Of course it is, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m talking about how to sell the wine so you can make that profit. A family winery, handed down through the generations—from a marketing perspective, that’s pure gold.”

  “It’s not gold of any sort. My father, I’m sorry to say, drove this place on the ground. He cared more about his bloody museum than the business. Didn’t notice when the American ‘champagnes’ started gaining a foothold in the market, displacing the French wines.”

  “Yeah, sorry about the encroachment on the champagne designation.”

  “The only thing worse than inheriting a family winery you don’t want is inheriting a family winery you don’t want and then running it on the ground.”

  “Into the ground.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The expression is ‘running it into the ground,’ not on the ground.”

  “Thank you. You see, it has been a while. I am losing my English.”

  “Your English is remarkable. Prepositions are always tricky.”

  They lapsed into silence for a moment. Chopin played softly in the background; the candle burned down. Flames crackled in the giant fireplace, keeping the living room warm and cozy.

  “You mentioned you spent time in the U.S.?” Rosalyn said.

  “I taught at NYU for a semester on a faculty exchange, and spent a summer touring California a little. But I did most of my studies in England.”

  “If you study English literature, it’s the place to be.”

  “There’s nothing quite like walking the moors, following in the path of Heathcliff or Jane Eyre.”

  She smiled. “So you’re a romantic, underneath it all.”

  He stuck out his chin and gave a little Gallic shrug. “I do enjoy the Romantics. But I would say I’m more of a modernist.”

  “I don’t know much about literature.”

  “You studied marketing, apparently.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offer unsolicited advice.” Rosalyn hiccuped and set down her glass of champagne. “’Scuse me.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You know, I don’t know Emma all that well, but everything I’ve seen indicates that she’s the real deal. If she’s offered to invest in your winery, you might consider it. It might be the influx of cash you need to turn things around. And one thing I love about Small Fortune Wines is that Hugh wants to keep a viable business, sure, but he’s also truly interested in keeping small family wineries afloat, and . . . sorry. More unsolicited advice.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Rosalyn looked away. She wondered if a part of Jérôme wanted the winery to fail, so that he could walk away with a clear conscience and return to his life in Paris.

  “As I’m sure you’ve gathered,” said Jérôme, “my family has a bit of a fascination for the old—the ancient, actually.”

  “And you don’t share their passion for history?”

  “I do, in fact. Quite a bit. But I prefer to live in the modern world, appreciating the beauty and innovation of the past but staying firmly planted in the ethos of modernity. So, what about you? You mentioned the ‘crossroads in your life,’ I think was the phrase you used.”

  “I hate my job.” What was it about being around Jérôme that inspired her to blurt out the truth? “I mean, I don’t hate it. It’s a good job. . . .”

  “But you don’t enjoy sales.”

  She shook her head.

  “You said you studied marketing?”

  “I was more of a branding person, dealing with the design side of things. My true love is painting.”

  “So you’re an artist.”

  She felt herself blushing. “I wouldn’t go that far. I had hoped to be, but . . .”

  His gaze did not move from her face. She let out a shaky breath and continued. “Then Dash died. I discovered the life we were living was a sham, our land was mortgaged, and the business was underwater. I’m still trying to dig my way out of debt.”

  “And art doesn’t pay the bills.”

  She shook her head. “Not my art, anyway. And the truth is . . . it’s hard to explain, but I haven’t wanted to paint since Dash died. I know everyone thinks an artist would find refuge in her art after something like that, but for me it’s too . . .” She trailed off.

  “Too close.”

  She nodded, not fighting the tears.

  They sat there for a long time, in comfortable silence.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Come,” Jérôme said after a while. “Please follow me down to the cellars, to the infamous collection of Comtois Père et Fils.”

  They ducked through a low door and descended to the cellars. Jérôme flipped on switches, revealing several low, broad, arched tunnels that branched out in different directions.

  Rosalyn understood why he was reluctant to let the public in here: The electricity was not working in several sections, there was obvious water damage in others, and in one area the roof was caving in altogether.

  The caves were lined with barrels and baskets, bottles and wineskins, massive wooden winepresses and smaller corking machines. There was old wine-making equipment, a bottle-glass-blowing exhibit, and a wooden pressoir from the seventeenth century so large, Jérôme told her they had to remove a wall to get it in. One entire room was dedicated to a display of carvings made from the twisted remains of vines, and another held corks: lots and lots of different kinds of corks.

  Despite the air of abandonment and neglect, Rosalyn liked being in the cellars. It felt like being privy to a secret.<
br />
  “Did people hide down here during the shelling, like they did in Reims?” she asked.

  “It wasn’t as bad here. Reims definitely had it worse. But still . . . it was good to have the shelter. The Germans invaded the village during World War Two, and my great-grandfather had to construct fake walls to save at least some of the wine. The Germans do love their champagne—I should say, they love our champagne.”

  At long last, Jérôme led the way into a storage room, deep in the bowels of the earth. He switched on a light, and a bare bulb glowed in a wire cage overhead.

  “There’s just about everything down here,” he said with a shake of his head. “But no correspondence from an Australian woman.”

  “You looked?”

  “Of course. The first time Emma wrote and asked about it, I searched to see if I had anything of use for her. But while my grandmother enjoyed collecting books, I didn’t find historical documents. My family members weren’t archivists. I think my father’s ultimate goal was to own the largest, most difficult-to-move winepress of all time. And he accomplished that much, at least.”

  “Is your father still with you?”

  “He passed away last year—died of a heart attack, down here in the cellars, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded. “We had a difficult relationship. He found me . . . disappointing, I suppose is the best word for it. When I was a child my nose was always in a book, not the wine making, or this collection. I was always closer to my grandmother. She was a teenager in World War Two, but she used to tell me stories of her own father, who was a veteran of the Great War. This stuff lives on around here.”

  “I love that sense of history,” said Rosalyn. “It’s harder to find where I’m from. But I’m sorry you and your father weren’t able to reconcile before he died.”

  “As I said, he found me a disappointment. But then, I found him disappointing as well. I suppose he would be happy to see me now, covered in mud, tending the fields and even more so his ridiculous museum.”

  “You’d rather be in Paris?”

  He let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “If you’d asked me even two months ago, I would have said oui without hesitation. But . . . the land gets to you after a while. I was raised here, and as much as I tried to escape it, it’s hard to think about letting it go, allowing a stranger to tend to it.” Jérôme shrugged and flipped off the lights as they left the collection and started to climb the flight of stone steps. “Maybe my father was right. Maybe it’s in my blood.”