The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  “Don’t you need me here to tend the vineyard?”

  “No, I need you beside me. Mac and Aurora can oversee things.” Sara’s heart rejoiced at the mere mention of Paris. To stroll through exotic exhibits, and have the chance to showcase Eagle’s Run wines to representatives from around the globe—how could she refuse?

  Sara’s thoughts turned to the long journey. What if Luc became ill on the train or the ship? What if they made it to New York, but one of them couldn’t make the crossing? What if? Her heart raced with anxiety, but she suddenly remembered Aurora’s words: when I stopped fearing death, I stopped fearing life.

  “Yes, yes!” Sara kissed Philippe hard on the lips, and he hugged her tightly. When she pulled away, she was smiling for the first time in months. She felt like her old self, charging back into life.

  Part II

  Chapter 15

  JUNE 1900, EXPOSITION UNIVERSELLE DE PARIS

  The city of Paris was a kaleidoscope of color, delighting visitors with its shifting shapes and stunning pageantry. Even its night sky was draped in deep indigo for the exposition, studded with stars sparkling like gemstones and lit by moving electric spotlights. The air was chilly, with an occasional burst of warmth rushing from the food wagons, carrying the sweet scent of freshly baked cinnamon cakes and exotic spiced meats. Paris was a marvel.

  Sara and Philippe pressed close together amidst a throng of visitors from all over the world as they walked through the vast entrance, the Porte de la Concorde. Its three-legged dome and minarets were bedecked with colored lights, reminding Sara of a frosted cake decorated with button candy.

  Once inside the gate, they stood speechless, absorbing the carnival that played out before them. Algerian and Egyptian dancers, draped in gold and silver dresses, swayed tantalizingly to the rhythms of harps, lyres and lutes. Devil dancers hid behind long painted masks with bulging eyes, and Spanish dancers twirled, clicking their castanets in time with the thumping of the drums. Their primitive movements, the sheer abandon of their dance, mesmerized Sara. The vibrations spread from their instruments to the ground beneath her feet, and traveled through the core of her body. She tightened her grip on Philippe’s arm, pressing her thigh to his. When he answered with a seductive smirk, Sara blushed. Had they not been in the company of half the world, she might have ravished him right then and there.

  The pavilions, or “palaces,” of the countries represented at the exposition rose along the edges of the Seine River, each with its own uniquely designed façade, and each with its own treasure trove of creations stashed inside. As they walked through the fairgrounds, down the Champs-Elysées to the Hôtel des Invalides, Sara was struck by the magnitude of the exhibits and the tiny part that they and Eagle’s Run would play. Every country seemed to be here, although the displays of French art, agriculture, technology and architecture dominated the fair. They’d never see it all before they returned to California.

  Sara scanned the exhibition map. The fairgrounds encompassed a large area of Paris on both sides of the Seine. They first visited the Grand Palais, with its immense leaded glass dome and winding wrought-iron staircase. Sara was drawn to the collection of modern sculpture they found there. The smooth musculature and lifelike rendering of these men, women, birds and animals, carved from marble or fashioned from bronze, fascinated her. The time and care it took to shape these intricate figures must be an inconceivable challenge for the artist, but the result was pure joy for the beholder. How did they choose the stone? What tools did they use? Sara could have spent all day examining the curves, faces and blank eyes of each sculpture, imagining a story for each one. Philippe, on the contrary, was eager to view the U.S. pavilion, across the Seine on the south bank.

  As they approached, Sara and Philippe craned their necks to see the U.S. pavilion’s immense white dome. An eagle was affixed high atop the structure, and its archway depicted a group of muscular men and women attempting to rein in the four wild horses that pulled the chariot of Progress. Inside the chariot, the triumphant goddess of Liberty glowed. Clearly, the Americans had spared no expense.

  “It looks like a Greek pantheon, doesn’t it?” Sara tilted her head, trying to decide if she liked the design. She admired the detailed planning that must have gone into it.

  “Yes,” Philippe agreed, “but don’t you think that a Manhattan skyscraper would have been more symbolic of American progress?”

  When they entered, Sara was disappointed to see that the American pavilion was rather banal on the interior, with linoleum floors and unadorned walls. The four stories, which one could navigate easily using elevators and stairways, offered its visitors recreation rooms, waiting rooms, writing desks and general information bureaux.

  Of course, it was mid-June, and the exhibits were not yet complete. Sara followed the exquisite melody of a string quartet down a wood-paneled hallway. She stopped suddenly at the open doorway of a grand salon, holding out her hand to prevent Philippe from bumping into her while his nose was wedged between the pages of her guidebook.

  The windows of the salon were draped in ivory silk, and the walls were adorned with crystal sconces, but the most brilliant decorations were the diamonds, pearls and turquoise dangling from the necks, wrists and earlobes of the American women inside. Such wealth in one room! As Sara stood awestruck, she couldn’t help but stare at their costumes. The silver-gilt, golden satin damask and sapphire silk gowns amazed Sara, and she stood mesmerized by a woman fluttering a folding fan made of painted silk, feathers and mother-of-pearl.

  Philippe tried to hurry Sara along, but she wouldn’t budge. This was the closest to American royalty that she’d ever come. With steamship prices as high as they were, most of the women attending from America would be either wealthy, or exhibitors like her, here on their own pinched dime.

  Sara hushed Philippe, dragging him behind a tall potted fern to better conceal them as they watched the fine crowd. He rolled his eyes and made a beeline to the bar further down the hall. Sara didn’t care a whit. When would she ever have this opportunity to observe wealthy, wine-drinking women in their element? Sara counted the number of women who held goblets of wine, and made a mental game of deciphering their ages, whether they drank red or white, and even how fast they drank it—all just part of her ongoing effort to understand the appetites of potential customers.

  Sara and Philippe must have walked four miles that evening, and they had not even seen half of what the fair’s one hundred forty hectares had to offer. Tomorrow, they would begin to create their display and wander over to the Champs de Mars to visit the theatres, restaurants and carnival rides on the river’s edge.

  The pair fell into bed at one o’clock in the morning, and slept until ten. They never slept past five-thirty at home. To Sara, it felt like being on their honeymoon again.

  Sara was certain that Luc was enjoying his long visit with Maman and Jacques at Saint Martin. Her only reservation in leaving him was the concern that Jean Lemieux would arrive and demand a visit with his grandson. But this morning, she shook off her anxiety, and reminded herself that she was supposed to be sightseeing in Paris.

  After consuming a pot of coffee, steaming milk, rolls and butter in their room, they paid a cab driver to take them from the Hôtel Le Meurice, in the rue de Rivoli, to the U.S. exposition commissioner’s office. Philippe greeted the clerk there in English. He just yawned, pushed his glasses up and tapped the form Philippe was to complete and sign. After Philippe scribbled down their information, the clerk handed him their exhibitor credentials. Sara squeezed her husband’s arm covertly, and he winked in return. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought it might burst out of her chest. They would submit the Eagle’s Run 1897 cabernet and chardonnay to the tasting tables next week—for the world to judge.

  Sara and Philippe’s driver dropped them off at the Palais d’Agriculture, where Sara was determined to design the most attractive booth at the Fair. Sara clutched her satchel, which contained the exquisite lace tablecloth Maman
had insisted she borrow, along with the elegant leather book Sara had created to describe the Eagle’s Run vineyard, its history and wines. Under her right arm, she pressed a silver tray, polished to a mirror shine, and in her hand, she held her Guide de l’Exposition Universelle as if it were her Bible. Philippe carried the toolbox he’d borrowed from Jacques.

  They entered the 4,500-square-meter annex and walked between the rows of displays, past the cotton, hemp and wool, and through the impressive agricultural machinery, until they finally spied the displays of the Beringer Brothers and the California Wine Association. Eagle’s Run, they found, would occupy one of the tables between them. Sara and Philippe would also have to contend with Boone Sumter, whom they discovered would be their neighbor for the duration of the exposition.

  “Of all the rotten luck,” Philippe whispered to Sara after reading the name plaque.

  “Yes, but aren’t you the one who says it’s better to keep your enemies closer than your friends?”

  “Not at the next table,” he grumbled.

  Sara chuckled. “With any luck, we’ll continue to miss him. Besides, the Beringers are a vast deal more entertaining.” The two brothers, Jacob and Frederick, had sailed from Mainz, Germany, and purchased Los Hermanos in 1875. The vineyard in St. Helena was one of the first in the Napa Valley, and Sara considered them to be winemaking pioneers.

  Sara and Philippe worked through the afternoon. They had shipped crates of their finest wines, and goblets, and found that they’d arrived intact. They were lucky—others’ wines had congealed en route aboard the steamships and trains and were declared unfit for competition.

  The red sign displaying the Eagle’s Run name and the names of their wines, painted in gold, had arrived in one piece but was scratched on its lower edge. Sara would have to find supplies and repaint it tomorrow. Philippe hammered it onto the side of the French oak barrel they’d brought from Saint Martin.

  They straightened the lace tablecloth, placed four goblets and a wine opener on the tray, and assembled the bottles in a crescent shape around them. Sara placed the beautifully bound black book on the table next to the tray. She scribbled tomorrow’s to-do list on the inside cover of her guidebook: buy flowers, a guest book, a fine-tipped pen and red paint.

  A smartly dressed woman stopped Sara to ask if she could take a photograph. Sara and Philippe posed beside their newly decorated table as she snapped her Kodak. The moment would be etched in Sara’s mind forever.

  Sara stepped away from the table to borrow some twine and scissors from another vintner. When she returned, Philippe was chatting with a gentleman she didn’t recognize right away, whose back was turned toward her. At first, Philippe was smiling and nodding, but then a shadow passed over his face. Was it something the man had said?

  As Sara neared, she heard them speaking French. The short, gray-haired man looked over his shoulder, directly at Sara, with squinched eyes. She recognized him immediately—it was Bastien Lemieux’s old friend and fellow debaucher, Gilles Bellamy. He owned a vineyard near Tours. Knowing it was too late to slink away, Sara stood tall and marched forward.

  Philippe’s tone sounded a warning to Bellamy. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Sara Lemieux.”

  Bellamy glared at her, then at Philippe, his face contorted with disgust. “What the hell were you thinking?” Bellamy’s words slurred and he grabbed Philippe’s arm. “For Christ’s sake, man, she murdered your brother!” he shouted.

  Ashamed, Sara stepped back, fearing his next move.

  Philippe slid between Sara and Bellamy. “You’re drunk, Bellamy. Why don’t you go sleep it off.” Philippe put an arm around his shoulders, trying to guide him in a straight line toward the door. Bellamy would not be thwarted. He swung around, stumbling.

  “I bet she’s a tasty bite of tart, ain’t she, Lemieux?” he spat.

  “Don’t, Bellamy.”

  “Oh, I see,” he emitted a wheezy laugh, “you two were in cahoots all along, weren’t you? Now that Bastien’s dead and gone, you get Saint Martin too!”

  Sara reeled as her husband smashed a right hook into Bellamy’s jaw, sending him spinning to the floor. When he landed with a thud, Philippe yanked him up by his right arm, twisted it behind his back, and escorted him out into the street, where he dropped Bellamy on the gutter cobbles. Philippe straightened his waistcoat, smoothed his hair and walked back to Sara.

  Sara’s eyes darted from left to right. Everyone, including Boone Sumter, was staring.

  Her cheeks burned, and her eyes stung. She wondered if the onlookers had heard all of Bellamy’s accusations, or worse, if they believed them.

  “You all right?” Philippe said softly.

  “Fine,” she lied. “You?”

  Philippe massaged his knuckles. “Better now,” he said, flashing a wide grin. She laughed nervously at his bravado and gratefully took the arm he offered her.

  Philippe tipped his hat to the bystanders, who stood agog with disbelief, and led Sara out the door. Both took great care to step around Bellamy’s rumpled mess, still lying in the street.

  Exhausted and famished from the day’s drama, Sara and Philippe sank into their chairs at the Restaurant de la Terrasse on the boulevard Montmartre. They shared a supper of filet of beef, potatoes, haricots verts, cheese and cake, for four francs each. They skipped the claret, opting instead for bottles of Saint Galmier, the safest water in Paris.

  Philippe was unusually quiet. Sara tried to lighten his mood, feigning a calm she did not feel. “So, what’s left to do?” she asked lightly, awaiting his answer while nibbling on her chocolate cake. The rush of sugar revived her.

  “You tell me. I saw you recording every little detail.” Philippe smiled brightly, but as he stabbed the last morsel of cake off her plate, he looked tired.

  “Paint, flowers, and a guest book and pen.”

  “Are you going to ask them to record their addresses?”

  “Of course. What’s the point in having them record their names if we don’t know how to reach them? Everyone who passes by is a potential customer, even if they purchase our wines in a restaurant. People are more likely to purchase a bottle if they’ve met us personally, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely.” His response was hollow. Philippe was saying all the right things, but his mind was elsewhere. Sara sipped her coffee, considering whether she should ask him plainly. These doubts, if left unanswered, would build a barrier between them.

  “Philippe?”

  He clanked his cup down on its saucer. “Hmm?”

  Sara’s voice was whisper-soft. “What were you thinking when you punched Bellamy?”

  Philippe raised an eyebrow. “I can’t say what I was thinking, but he had it coming.”

  “Because of what he said about me?”

  “Because of what he said about us.” Philippe laced his fingers through Sara’s. “Our marriage is not wrong. It’s the holiest of unions. It was born out of forgiveness and grit . . . yours and mine. Our union was hard-won, and it’s forever.”

  A long speech for Philippe. Sara raised her other palm to touch his cheek. He pressed her cold fingers against his heated skin. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll finish things up, but before sunset, I want to take you somewhere special.”

  “Where?”

  “Have you ever climbed the Eiffel Tower?”

  The sky over Paris was sunny and cloudless as Sara and Philippe climbed to the third and highest platform of the Eiffel Tower on Tuesday afternoon. They sacrificed dinner for a view that cost them five francs each, but Sara managed to smuggle up a demi-baguette, a wedge of Brie and a butter knife in her satchel. Philippe, for his part, concealed in his jacket a pocket flask of the finest Beringer brandy, bartered from his friends.

  When the crowd thinned, Sara and Philippe stood at the southeastern end of the platform, looking down the Champs de Mars to the Grand Waterfall. The waterfall, constructed especially for the fair, was an immense grotto with electrified fountains. They could see for thirty
miles. Paris was breathtaking.

  Philippe broke the spell, offering Sara a nip. She sipped the brandy sparingly, feeling the liquid warmth wash down her throat. Looking around, they discovered they were the only people left in their corner of the platform. Sara sat on her shawl, secured the baguette on her lap, and smeared it with the soft cheese. Handing it to Philippe, she sighed and said, “You asked me if I’d ever visited the Eiffel Tower, but I never answered you.”

  “No, you didn’t,” he answered, watching her face.

  “My father brought me here when I was ten years old. The tower was newly built for the 1889 fair. We couldn’t afford tickets to walk up, but when I stood underneath it and stared up at its enormous spire, I remember wobbling on my feet and falling backwards. Papa caught me, laughing.” Sara smiled at the memory of Papa’s deep chortle. “It was a wonderful day.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “The best of men,” Sara corrected him, struggling to remember Papa’s chocolate-brown eyes.

  “I’m glad we could come here together.” Philippe grinned, and tucked a flyaway tendril behind Sara’s ear. She ripped off a bite of bread. She missed the simple things from her former life: the soft, earthy chèvre from the Vouvray creamery, the scratch of Papa’s evening stubble and her sister’s round, rosy cheeks.

  “The wind is picking up,” Sara said, sniffling as she faced the easterly breeze. A cool blast of air nudged the teardrops from the corners of her eyes, unfurling them like streamers down her face. Philippe draped a sympathetic arm around her shoulder.

  “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve lost,” he said, giving her a handkerchief.

  Sara dabbed her cheeks with the soft cotton square. “I’ve gained a lot, too.”