“Not with someone I love,” he insisted. Then Philippe moved behind Sara before allowing her garment to fall to the floor. He inhaled sharply, and his fingers, as soft as a feather, traced her spine from the nape of her neck to the dimples below her waist. He folded his arms around his bride and buried his face in her hair, murmuring, “So lovely.”
Touched that he understood her timidity, Sara turned to reveal what until then had been left to Philippe’s imagination. The need to press herself against his warm flesh overwhelmed Sara, yet she stood perfectly still, barely breathing. Philippe gently pulled her down onto the plush layers of sheets and quilts.
As Sara admired the flat muscles of Philippe’s chest and the long, graceful lines of his legs, her belly tightened with longing. Philippe’s hands explored her skin, and she reveled in the new sensations that charged through her body. But when he ran his hand down the inside of her thigh, Sara’s body rebelled and she pushed him away.
“I’m—sorry,” she stammered, mortified.
“What is it?” he asked with surprise.
Sara tucked the bedsheet under her chin; she didn’t know how to tell him. Was it always going to be like this? Bastien was dead, yet he still divided them. Sara’s spine tingled with fear when she thought of her sister’s abusive husband—Philippe’s brother—and how he’d attacked her the night they’d left France. She could still taste his sour tongue in her mouth, see the perverse pleasure flash in his coal-black eyes and feel the sting of his teeth piercing her delicate skin. The flood of memories paralyzed her.
“Sara,” he commanded. “Tell me.”
Sara couldn’t. Philippe knew the story, but their wedding night was hardly the time to remind him of what his brother had done to her and of Bastien’s death—the very reason why Sara and Philippe had parted two months ago.
Propped up against the headboard, Philippe stared at the door. Was he angry with her or with Bastien? She rested a tentative hand on his arm.
“I thought you stopped him,” he said, searching her face.
“I did, from doing the worst, but not before he had . . . you know, touched me.” Sara shuddered.
“Touched?” he asked skeptically.
“No.” She swallowed hard, determined not to think of Bastien’s assault on her most intimate parts. This is what Sara had feared: that Bastien would live on as a ghost in their marriage.
Philippe’s arms encircled Sara and the two lay locked in healing silence. He was the first to speak. “Do you trust me?” he asked lightly.
“I do.”
“Good. Then we’ll just start somewhere else,” he suggested, lowering his lean body over hers. He carried his weight on his elbows, careful not to crush her. Sara’s fingertips glided from his chest to the springy line of hair below his navel. He released a raspy, satisfied sound before his lips began a slow but insistent contemplation of Sara’s skin. “Remember what the priest said, my love,” he murmured, his blue gaze lifting to meet hers. “And the two shall become one flesh.” His smile twisted provocatively. He kissed the scar above her left breast, but did not linger. He moved on, circling her nipples with his thumbs. She gasped when he fastened his mouth on a pink tip and began to suck ever so gently.
This, Sara mused, is heaven on earth.
She was wrong. Heaven was what happened next.
Sara smelled strong coffee and bacon. Silver clanked against a tray, and she strained to pry her eyes open. Philippe sat down next to her, wearing a fresh shirt, vest, tie and trousers. She’d slept so soundly, she hadn’t heard him rise.
“Good morning, Wife. Breakfast?” He handed her a small tray. “We have a big day ahead of us.”
“Where are we going?” Sara sat up against the stack of feather pillows and settled the tray on her lap. Waking up with a man in her room was a bit startling, and she self-consciously raked her fingers through her tousled hair, trying to smooth out the knots.
Philippe didn’t seem to notice. He slathered butter on a croissant and devoured it in three bites.
“Mind your manners!” Sara chided, yanking the knife from his hand. He leaned in to kiss her. The taste of creamy butter on his soft lips reminded Sara of how his body had felt, moving against hers, only hours before. She pulled away from their embrace, and with considerable effort, flipped her mind back to the question at hand.
“Where are you taking me?” Sara bit into a crisp slice of bacon, savoring the sting of salt on her tongue.
“To meet my grandparents.”
“Your mother’s parents?” In the days before their marriage, Philippe had stayed overnight with his grandparents in Tours.
He slurped her scalding coffee. “Yes, François and Jacqueline LeBlanc.”
“Are you sure they want to meet me? They didn’t come to the wedding.” Even though it had been a small affair with only ten people in attendance, it would have been nice to see Philippe’s family there. Their first meeting was destined to be awkward.
“Yes, they do want to meet you,” Philippe assured her. “They didn’t come to our wedding because Pépère has an ailing heart. Mémère doesn’t like to travel without him, even the short distance from Tours. I promised we’d visit.” Philippe’s face lit up when he spoke of his grandparents. “When my mother was alive, we visited my grandparents every Sunday afternoon. My grandfather taught us how to thread a worm on a fishhook, how to set mousetraps, even how to ax a chicken from the henhouse for Sunday dinner.” Sara winced. Growing up, she’d left that chore to Papa.
Philippe shrugged, laughing. “We had to eat.”
Intent on changing the subject, Sara asked, “Have they always lived in town?” Fully satisfied by her meal of coffee, hot milk, bacon and petit pain, she set the tray aside.
“No, they moved here two years before I left for America.” Philippe hesitated for a moment. “You see, my father forbade us to see them.”
“Why?” Sara was appalled.
Philippe’s eyes narrowed as he struggled to explain. “It was strange . . . I suppose it was his way of controlling us while Mère was alive. But once she passed, he seemed to blame them for her death. Mémère and Pépère never lost hope. They mailed us letters and gifts on our name days, most of which my father gave away or destroyed.”
Sadness swept through Sara when she thought of Philippe’s fragmented family. Last night, her fingers had traced the rough ridges that ran the length of Philippe’s back.
“Philippe . . . may I ask . . . why did he beat you?”
Philippe released a sigh. “You’re referring to my scars?”
Sara nodded.
“On that particular day, my father accused Bastien of stealing money, but he’d only borrowed the ten sous to buy me a fishing pole. My father grabbed the strap, and I told Bastien to run. He whipped me instead. I was so weak after, I couldn’t stand.” Philippe’s voice didn’t falter once.
Sara blinked, trying to conceal her tears.
“Sara, look at me.” Philippe handed her the napkin. “Those days are long gone, and I’m a happy man now.” He kissed her and sank back onto a pillow. The corners of his mouth curled. Sara shot him a quizzical look.
“Don’t worry, I took my revenge. My father used to kick me in the rump, for sassing, for cursing, any reason at all. One day, when he wound up his foot and leveled the blow, I clenched my cul so hard that he broke his toe! The old man limped for a week.” Sara giggled, and Philippe laughed unabashedly at the thought of Jean Lemieux reaping his comeuppance.
Sara dressed in her woolen walking suit and feathered felt hat, both in a forest green that complemented her eyes. These town clothes were so different from the hand-sewn cotton dress and apron she usually wore on the farm, but Maman had insisted she purchase a costume worthy of her new station as Philippe’s wife. Sara felt as primped and pressed as Marie Antoinette herself, but she did want to impress Philippe’s grandparents. Maman, for all her motherly fussing, would have been pleased.
After losing Papa and Lydia, Sara und
erstood the fragile nature of earthly bonds. To find a true friend, a lover, in Philippe, was a stunning twist of fate. Sara flushed, recalling the urgency of their couplings the night before. With patient encouragement, Philippe had eventually moved Sara past her pain—over the edge into pure pleasure. Her senses were filled with Philippe now, and she would follow him to the ends of the earth.
On this sunny, cold December day, they strolled arm in arm, treading carefully along the cobbled streets. They admired the half-timbered, gabled houses and the splendor of Cathédrale Saint-Gatien, with its two imposing towers, ornamental façade and grand rose window—a prism of yellow, blue and red glistening in the midday sun.
Tours, named le jardin de France by its countrymen, was still the vibrant city Sara remembered from her youth, when she accompanied Papa to town to purchase new oak barrels. Tours was a town of silk merchants, clog-makers, wine merchants and guilds representing tradesmen of all kinds.
Turning left off the rue des Halles, Sara and Philippe walked to the Basilique Saint-Martin, pausing to observe its surviving towers. Despite these scars from the Revolution and the German occupation of 1870, this region of châteaux, vineyards and orchards persevered. Sara enjoyed watching the Tourangeaux bustle about town, delighting in the warmth of the winter sunlight.
Sara and Philippe crossed the nearby square, arriving at a four-story medieval building with hand-carved corbels supporting each of its three overhanging floors. The first floor was occupied by a crêperie, and Sara’s mouth watered when she caught a whiff of the freshly grilled pancakes. Philippe pounded on the black lacquered door to the right of the crêperie entrance.
A slightly stooped man with a shock of gray hair answered the door. “Philippe!” he cried, his arms opening wide to embrace his grandson. When he pulled away, he grasped Philippe’s shoulders with his hands, his face glowing with affection. “Ah, my boy. Congratulations!”
Behind him, a slender, elegantly dressed woman scrutinized Sara. Her white, chignoned hair, dark eyes and long nose reminded Sara of a snowy owl. The woman inched forward and pulled Philippe to her. When she broke away after several moments, she waved them into the warmth of the foyer and again shifted a keen eye toward Sara.
“Mémère, Pépère, allow me to present my new wife, Sara Thibault Lemieux. Sara, François and Jacqueline LeBlanc.”
Sara opened her mouth to speak, but Madame LeBlanc cut in. “Philippe tells us you killed Bastien, but he still loves you. Why is that?”
“Mémère!” Philippe reproached her. “Must you say such things?” Although Sara felt the familiar sting of regret, she squeezed Philippe’s hand to reassure him that she was fine. He wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her near.
Madame LeBlanc gave a half-shrug. “I’m old and incapable of idle chatter, Philippe. Besides, judging from what you told us, I think your new bride can speak for herself.”
Sara figured a straight answer was her best defense. She pressed her shoulders back and replied with the small speech she’d rehearsed. “I had no choice but to defend myself against Bastien’s assault. I am sorry for your family’s suffering, but I love your grandson and intend for us to be happy.”
Madame LeBlanc stared at Sara in silence. Monsieur LeBlanc chimed in, “You and your family have also suffered.” He rubbed the deep lines above his brow. “Poor Bastien never had a chance. Any warmth or compassion our daughter instilled in the boy was beaten out by his barbaric father.”
Sara cringed upon glancing at Philippe, whose spirits were obviously deflated. She was about to introduce the happier subject of their thriving adopted son, Luc, when Madame LeBlanc cleared her throat. “Bastien chose his own path,” she said, clutching Philippe’s hands. “Ah well, my dear boy, I suppose we have to bid adieu to the past so we may embrace the future.” Turning to Sara, she motioned toward the narrow staircase behind her. “Madame Lemieux, welcome to our home.”
The foursome climbed the dimly lit stairwell and entered the sitting room. Sara was surprised to see expensive furnishings of silk, velvet, and glossy mahogany and cherry. Most striking was the far wall, decorated with shelves of shiny brown, emerald and translucent medicine bottles of all shapes and sizes, some embossed and others smooth. Sara marveled at the curious sight. Philippe must have seen her eyes widen, for he leaned in and murmured, “Pépère was an apothecary for many years. This collection—and growing herbs—are his hobbies now.”
Philippe and Sara sat on the gold brocade settee while the LeBlancs sat in the wingback chairs opposite them. A maid appeared with a tray of small sandwiches, brioches, a silver coffee service and four glasses of muscadet.
As Madame LeBlanc poured the coffee into ivory Limoges teacups stenciled with tiny pink roses, Philippe’s grandfather sipped his wine, smiling warmly at Sara. “Tell me, madame, how do you enjoy the California vineyards? Are they much different than those of Touraine?”
Sara’s thoughts flashed to the verdant landscape of Carneros, where she’d worked with Philippe for seven months. She hesitated, trying to find adequate words to describe the vastness of California in comparison to the Loire. “I find southern Napa’s fertile soil, its rolling golden hills and modern cities so beautiful. The conditions for growing grapes in Carneros are very different than here. Carneros grapes grow in a cool climate; the rains fall mostly in winter. The clay soil, the ocean, the Mayacamas Mountains and even the morning fog and afternoon breezes off the San Pablo Bay all lend a unique flavor to the grapes. Wouldn’t you agree, Philippe?”
“It’s true.” He beamed.
“Philippe’s first cabernet and zinfandel vintages, bottled this past summer, are exquisite,” Sara announced proudly.
“Sara’s not taking enough credit. She helped me craft the ’96 and ’97 vintages.”
“So the grafting worked? You’re producing a decent yield now?” Philippe’s grandfather leaned forward. Observing his fine-pored skin, red silk tie and trimmed nails, Sara noted that he was quite handsome for a man of his age.
“Yes, and we picked 550 tons of grapes this past fall. No mildew, little dry rot and, thankfully, no new phylloxera. Napa yielded a bumper crop this year.”
“As you may know, Philippe has secured a contract with the archdiocese to provide most of its sacramental wine. Also, we plan to diversify the farm by expanding the orchard,” Sara added. “We want to guard against prohibition.”
“Is that still a concern?” Monsieur LeBlanc asked skeptically.
Sara was about to elaborate when Philippe interjected. “The prohibitionists are losing their hold on the state. Even Lady Somerset, an early champion of the movement, has thrown up the sponge and defected. I’m more concerned about the price war.”
“How so?” Monsieur LeBlanc inquired.
“Eastern demand for California wines is growing, but labor costs were sky-high this year. The growers are demanding ten dollars per ton, but the California Wine Association is only offering them five. I’m guessing the average price for a gallon of wine will drop from ten to six cents by next year.”
“Why?” his grandfather gasped. “Here in France, a gallon fetches close to twenty cents.”
“With the ’97 vintage, there’s an oversupply of California wine, and the dealers won’t pay what the winemakers are asking.”
“Where does that leave you?”
Philippe laced his fingers together. “We ship our wines east with Carneros labels, directly to the wine merchants. Sensible people, who don’t believe that a French label makes a wine, appreciate fine California table wines.” Philippe glanced at Sara and continued, “We hope to fetch ten cents a gallon—not nearly what it should be, but more than the California wine dealers are offering.”
“Where are you selling?”
“San Francisco, Los Angeles, Sacramento, Boston, Chicago, New York and hopefully New Orleans. Sara and I were planning a trip to Louisiana on our way home, but it’s still gripped by yellow fever. We’ll visit Boston instead.”
“And what
of the Saint Martin property? Didn’t it burn to the ground?” Madame LeBlanc stirred her coffee innocently, but Sara knew what she was implying. Sara glanced at her husband, hoping he wouldn’t mention that Jacques Chevreau had set fire to Saint Martin to hide the evidence of Sara’s crime and obscure what had happened between her and Bastien that awful night.
“Mémère,” Philippe said gently, “Sara did not set fire to her ancestral home, if that’s what you’re asking. The house was destroyed, but the grapes survived.”
“We plan to graft the infested vines to a phylloxera-resistant American hybrid rootstock. In three years, those vines should flourish with fruit,” Sara added pointedly.
“Ah,” Monsieur LeBlanc said, nodding thoughtfully. He turned back to Philippe with a question about the grafting costs.
“Madame,” Philippe’s grandmother whispered to Sara, “may I show you our winter garden?”
“Oh, do go and admire all the work they’ve done,” Philippe encouraged her, patting her knee. Sara reluctantly left the safety of his side.
Madame LeBlanc guided Sara down a wide hallway to the south-facing side of the apartment. Double doors opened onto a small kitchen. The tang of rosemary and seared beef greeted Sara. She stepped closer to the hot oven, hoping it would chase the chill from her bones.
A wide gleaming bay window lined with potted herbs was centered on the scullery wall. “Voilà, our little treasures,” she announced. “I like to cook, and François grows these for me in winter. In the south-facing window, we have the plants that require the most sun—sage, basil, oregano and . . . ah, smell that rosemary. Here, in the eastern and western corners, we have bay leaf, chives, thyme and some exotic plants that Philippe’s uncle Arnaud brought back from Spain, whose names I can never remember.”
The California Wife Page 2
