“We both have,” he replied with conviction. They looked down at the throngs of tourists milling around the exhibition grounds. “We’re going home with a medal, Sara—I know it.”
She admired his self-assurance. “Maybe, but the competition is fierce. Thirty-six thousand wines represented, I’m told.”
“Yes, but probably only a hundred well-crafted ones,” he answered as he bit into a chunk of bread. “You’ve got to have faith, Mrs. Lemieux,” he teased her.
Sara kissed him lightly. “Faith in you.” Sadness flashed in his eyes—or was it regret?
The white beams spotlighting the Eiffel Tower brightened the evening sky. The colored lights of the Grand Waterfall danced on the sheets of water cascading from its crest to the basin below. The pair stood up to take in the glory of it all.
“Beautiful,” Sara murmured, leaning against the iron lattice.
“Sara,” Philippe entreated, “never lose faith in me.”
Struck by the urgency in his voice, she reached for his hands, locked securely around her waist. “Never.”
The wine-tasting competition had begun in the testing room of the Entrepôt Saint-Bernard, opposite the Place Jussieu. From nine to twelve each morning, twenty groups of five judges moved from table to table, swishing and spitting wine, and scribbling notes in brown leather journals. Their judgment would not be announced until every one of the thirty-six thousand samples had been tasted, probably several months from now. Then the prizes would be awarded: a grand prix, or a gold, silver or bronze medal. Most vintners would go home empty-handed.
Sara felt exhilaration and trepidation at the thought of presenting their wines to an international jury. Of the 101 jurors and alternates, 77 represented France and only 24 represented foreign countries. Sara knew Philippe was already worried about the bias most Europeans, and especially the French, held against American wines. He and the other winemakers were so concerned that they strove to make their bottles appealing to the foreign contingency, dressing their labels with European designs and listing the French name of the grapes used to make each wine. Luckily, the British and Canadian judges discerned wine quality as well as the French, but without the century-old bias of the Europeans.
On the nineteenth of June, Sara and Philippe were on hand with several other American vintners to watch as the American wines were prepared for tasting. Just as the last bottles were produced from the cellar, a messenger arrived with a summons for all the judges present to report to the jury room.
Philippe refused to step out for lunch before the men returned, fearing he might miss the news. When the tasting officials finally emerged late that afternoon, the face of Dr. Wiley, the only jury member Philippe and Sara had met, was livid.
“Is there trouble?” Philippe asked.
“The president of the exhibition has advised the jury to disqualify the majority of American wines from competition,” Wiley replied despondently.
“On what grounds?”
“They’re accusing us of exhibiting under false pretenses. They charge that the names we’ve chosen to use—Sauternes, Champagne, Burgundy, Chablis—denote the European origin of the grapes, and therefore deceive drinkers into thinking they are drinking European wines.”
Sara was appalled. “But each label clearly states the origin of the grapes, the name of the vintner and his address. It’s obvious to anyone who can read that these wines were made in America.”
Dr. Wiley shrugged, his face registering shock. “I explained all this, but I’m the only American on the jury. My voice was silenced by the majority.”
“We must protest this!” Philippe cried. The rapt crowd of Americans cheered in agreement.
Wiley raised his voice to be heard over the ruckus. “I plan to do just that, gentlemen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a formal complaint to lodge with the commissioner.”
Chapter 16
JUNE 1900, SAINT MARTIN
Desperate for a distraction, Sara and Philippe took the train south to Tours and hired a hackney to drive them to Saint Martin. Over the past two and a half years, Maman and Jacques had rebuilt a smaller version of the original Saint Martin home, one section at a time. The salvageable stones had been used to construct a small kitchen, located at the eastern side of the house, and they had purchased new stones and lumber to complete a dining room, parlor and water closet, and three upstairs bedrooms. Maman had sewn thick cotton draperies to keep out the cold drafts in winter, and crocheted down-filled cushions to soften the hard maple chairs. Layers of blankets, donated by her church’s quilting circle, warmed the beds at night.
Maman and Jacques were overjoyed to see Sara and Philippe earlier than expected. Luc, however, balled his fists and stamped his feet, retreating to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, dears, he’s fine,” Maman said to Sara and Philippe in the adjacent parlor. “Just upset that he wasn’t invited to accompany you on your grand adventure.”
“He’s three. How does he know the difference?” Philippe teased.
“Four in August, and he’s hurt that you left him, that’s all,” Maman explained patiently.
“Surely he’s enjoying his stay with you, Maman. Besides,” Sara said loudly, “if my dearest Luc won’t greet his maman with a kiss, then how am I going to show him the colored postcards I brought him?”
When Sara spied a quick flash of his head and an inquiring eye from behind the doorjamb, she knew she’d piqued his curiosity. She rummaged through her satchel for the small bag of cards, crinkling the wax paper with her fingers, making it impossible for the boy to resist.
“Look what I have here: postcards from the Eiffel Tower. Do you know anyone who might like these?” She fanned them out. Luc ran to Sara, nearly knocking her over with the force of his embrace. Sara covered him with kisses. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him.
“May I see?” Luc’s cheeks were like two perfectly round apples, each with a dimple, accenting his grin. He clutched a postcard in each fist, waving them in the air.
Philippe pointed to the pictures. “This is the Eiffel Tower, almost as high as the summer sun, and this one here is the Palace of Engineering, chock-full of the newest and most fashionable automobiles.” He released Luc to stand on the floor, and then retrieved a beribboned box from his case. “For you.”
Luc unceremoniously yanked off the bow and opened the box. His nose crinkled with delight. Philippe knelt down and pulled out the treasure. “It’s a Mercedes thirty-five horsepower, the newest automobile! See, you drive it.” Philippe squatted down, rolling the tin car on the parlor floor. Luc’s face lit up when the moving wheels squeaked. The boy turned over the model in his hands, absorbing every detail.
“Papa?”
“Hmm?” Philippe was showing Luc how the hood lifted and the steering wheel rotated.
Luc’s brow furrowed and his head tilted. “Where’s the horse?”
They all laughed. Philippe tapped a finger on the glossy, hand-painted metal. “They shrunk the horse, and hid him right here, under the hood. Go on, see if you can find him.”
Before supper, Maman and Jacques peppered them with questions about the fair. When Philippe explained the disqualification to Jacques, he was incensed. “I’m ashamed that an international jury, composed mostly of our countrymen, would do such a thing, just to prevent the Americans from taking some medals from them this year. In a backwards way, I suppose it’s quite a compliment to you and the American winemakers.” Jacques waved his finger. “You’ve got ’em quakin’ in their boots! Maybe you actually have a chance.”
Philippe rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jacques.”
Jacques cackled and slapped Philippe on the back good-naturedly.
“To have traveled all this way, and incurred all this expense, for nothing? We’re a mob of muttonheads, aren’t we?” Philippe put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
Sara added, “Jacques, we can’t afford to stay in Paris much longer. We’re leaving next Sunday,
whether or not the jury has decided to include our wines in the competition. Who knows how long this could go on? The jurors could continue tasting for the next two months.”
“Hell’s bells! Two months?” Jacques’s chair creaked as he reclined.
“That’s extreme, isn’t it?” Maman spooned a thick vegetable stew into bowls, and set them on the table with chunks of crusty baguette.
“Yes. We want you to return with us for a few days, so you can see the sights. It’s the trip of a lifetime, to be able to experience all these innovations and cultures in one giant carnival.”
Jacques speared a hunk of meat and began chewing, before they’d even said grace. “Where would we stay?” he asked.
“We’ve already reserved you a room next to ours.”
Maman slid into the chair opposite Sara and smoothed her napkin over her lap. “We never did have a proper honeymoon, Jacques.”
Jacques answered with a wink and a playful smile.
“We’d love to come!” Maman replied enthusiastically.
Sara realized they must be desperate for fun. Maman and Jacques were already acting like schoolchildren at the picnic races. Luc was underwhelmed, having fallen asleep on the chaise, clutching his new toy car.
Seeing the labyrinth of exhibits meant walking several miles each day as they toured the fair, so they often rode the new trottoir roulant, a raised electric moving sidewalk, to travel from one end of the exposition to the other. Philippe, Sara and Luc preferred the stomach-churning Ferris wheel. Sara had worried that Luc would be frightened of its tremendous height and spinning motion, but Philippe insisted that he try it. They were rewarded with Luc’s shrieks of glee, which proved contagious.
Luc especially loved the ship made of chocolate and life-sized cows sculpted from butter. Sara, for her part, was mesmerized by the five-meter-tall bottle of Moët et Chandon, decorated with gold-leaf foil. When it lit up, seven dancing girls emerged—one from out of the cork!
Philippe and Jacques, with Luc sitting high on Philippe’s shoulders, visited the Canadian lumber and mineral exhibits, while Sara and Maman meandered through the educational exhibit. Perhaps because she felt a kinship with the underdogs of society, Sara spent time learning about the advances in education for handicapped children. With their adoption of special accommodations for wheelchairs, and innovations in feeding implements and physical strengthening exercises, the Canadians seemed committed to creating opportunities for all of their country’s citizens. She could only hope that America would soon follow suit.
The women discovered a futuristic world at the Palace of Electricity. Someday Luc might be able to simply pick up the telephone receiver and talk to her from halfway around the world. He’d also be driving a car rather than a horse and buggy! All this had been inconceivable to Sara until now.
Maman was enamored with Vieux Paris, with its actors in medieval dress milling about the streets, speaking to the crowds as though they were truly from that time. When the family visited the Russian exhibit, Luc was entranced by their “ride” on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. As they sat in a replica carriage, scenes of wild Siberia rolled by the windows on a long painted canvas. Actors posed as natives in Siberian and Chinese vignettes. At the end of the “trip,” a Chinese attendant walked through the cars serving tea and shouting, “Last stop, Beijing!”
Two days before they planned to leave Paris for Saint Martin, the international wine jury amended its decision. The headline was splashed across newspapers worldwide: American wines would be included in the Paris competition.
After searching the length of the warehouse, Philippe found Dr. Wiley and shook his hand vigorously. Sara, too, beamed with relief. “How did you manage it?” Philippe asked.
“We wrote a formal letter to the French commissioner-general, expressing our outrage at the snub. We reminded him that at the Paris Exposition of 1889, the very same wines bearing the same labels were not only examined, but awarded many medals. The jury’s decision was inconsistent with past precedent. The French had no choice but to capitulate.”
“I’ll be damned. Wiley, I’m sending you a case of red, as soon as we return home.”
Wiley nudged him. “You mean your prize-winning red, eh?”
As hard as it was to leave France, Sara and Philippe had to head back to California if they were to arrive in time to make the most critical decision of a vintner’s year: when to harvest the grapes.
Back at Saint Martin, with two days left until their departure for New York, Sara hung socks by the fire, preparing to pack their belongings. The vineyard at sunset was empty of workers, the house was quiet, and she could smell the savory aroma of roast turkey and currant buns cooking in the new oven. She’d just stepped into the kitchen to ask if Maman needed help when two shots erupted outside.
Sara ran to her mother and pulled her to the ground. “Stay down!” she hissed. Philippe had taken Luc for a walk behind the house, where Luc loved to dash through the honeycomb caves, his voice echoing through the warm summer air. Sara listened but could not detect any sounds through the open windows in the back of the house. She had crawled to the front door when she heard a man’s strangled shriek outside.
Just as she slid the bolt into place, Jacques came bounding down the stairs behind her, clutching a loaded Colt. “It’s Lemieux. Damnation!” Jacques ducked beneath the foyer window.
Jean Lemieux’s cry echoed off the cave walls fifty meters away. “Bastien! Bastien!” The old man’s keening for his dead son was steeped in pain. Sara peeked out the window and watched as Philippe’s father, gripping an old Enfield, sank to his knees. “Where’s my son?” he wailed, arms flailing.
Jacques murmured, “Poor bastard thinks Luc is Bastien.”
Sara stared at Jacques in horror. “What?” Jean Lemieux was the man Sara held responsible for her father’s death, and now he was a gun-wielding madman hunting for her son. She swallowed hard. “Are you going to shoot him?”
“Before he shoots me? Yes.”
Lemieux’s head jerked to the right. His eyes were fixed on something near the corner of the house, hidden from Sara’s view. Her chest tightened when Philippe stepped into her sightline, holding Luc and walking straight toward his father. Jean Lemieux lifted his firearm with trembling hands, and pointed the gun at Philippe and Luc.
What was Philippe thinking? She would have to throw herself between Luc and Jean Lemieux. Sara lunged for the door, but Jacques tugged her back. She tried to twist free, but Jacques stopped her.
“If Lemieux sees you, he’ll kill you. You killed his son, and he doesn’t care about why, understand? Philippe knows what he’s doing, so you calm down and stay put,” Jacques ordered. Against every instinct she possessed, Sara heeded his advice. Jacques released her and raised his Colt, aiming to fire out the half-shuttered window.
Peering out again, Sara was shocked to see Philippe gingerly remove the rifle from his father’s hands. Philippe must have pacified the old man somehow. Jean Lemieux’s face crumpled, his whole body heaving with sobs as he now embraced his grandson.
Maman rushed from the kitchen to Sara’s side. Jacques signaled to them to stay indoors, secured his Colt in his belt and slipped out the front door. He walked cautiously toward Philippe and took the rifle from his hands, leaving him free to rescue Luc from Jean Lemieux’s grasp. The boy bounded into Jacques’s arms and Philippe’s father fell to the earth, clutching his head with talon-like fingers.
Back at Jean Lemieux’s home, Philippe studied his father as he helped him into bed. He’d thinned since Philippe had last visited with Luc, two and a half years ago now. His blue eyes were dim, his hair sparse and white, his skin a sickly gray. But his forehead was smooth, his face peaceful, if only in sleep.
Had Bastien’s death been the tipping point for his father, or had he always been a bit mad? Perhaps he’d hidden it better when he was younger. Maybe the beatings, the anger, even his egocentricity and the tight control he wielded over all of them had been signs of
a deep-seated malaise.
While his father slept, Philippe emptied the gun closet of three rifles and four revolvers, storing them beneath the woolen blanket in his wagon. In his childhood home, old papers, empty wine bottles, dirty dishes and clothing covered the tables, chairs and floor. Apparently, no one had given the place a thorough cleaning since he last visited. Philippe sighed. His father had his faults, but he was ailing, and Philippe had shirked his responsibility to care for him.
The stench in the small parlor was so potent that Philippe opened all the windows to let in the cool summer breeze. He inhaled the fresh air deeply, trying to summon the courage to organize his father’s affairs and decide what should be done.
He started making piles of laundry and garbage. Once the floors and tables were cleared and items stacked, Philippe rummaged through the kitchen for cleaning supplies. He found olive oil, lemon, and soda cleanser, a mop and some old rags. He began to scrub the sticky, soiled kitchen table, but even though he scoured until his fingers were raw, he couldn’t remove all the decades-old stains that tainted its surface.
Once he’d finished washing and drying the dishes in the kitchen, Philippe warily eyed the laundry. He would have to hire a washerwoman, for the dirty clothing was piled waist-high. In his father’s study, he was surprised to see columns of paper piled against the bookshelves that housed his father’s simple collection. Philippe saw the candles on the desk and shuddered at the thought of an open flame in this firetrap. Too tired to think anymore, Philippe sank into the threadbare wingback in the parlor. His chin dropped, and he dozed off.
At the sound of his father’s screams, his eyes flew open and his body tensed. He rushed toward the bedroom door, but before he reached it, the shot rang out, pulsating in his ears like a blast of dynamite and halting him in his tracks.
With his heart pounding and lungs clamoring for air, Philippe threw open the hallway window, and took several long breaths. The sting of the night air jarred his memory: he’d forgotten to take his father’s loaded handgun from beneath the mattress.
The California Wife Page 11
