The Winemaker's Wife Read online

  After a while, Liv got dressed and set out from the hotel headed south, away from the Place d’Erlon, not sure where her feet would carry her. Why was it that the first man to make her laugh in months—the first man who’d made her feel valued in ages—belonged to someone else? She wiped at her lips angrily, furious at herself. Had she led Julien on by confiding in him about her own troubles and giggling at his jokes?

  But even now, even with guilt sweeping through her, she felt a strange, shameful sense of emptiness. She had liked bantering with him. She had been at home with him. And when he’d kissed her, it had felt right. What did that say about her? She was apparently no different from Eric’s new girlfriend—except she was a decade and a half older and knew all too well the kind of despair and damage infidelity could bring.

  She slowed to let a group of tourists pass in front of her on the corner of the rue de Thillois, and as she did, she looked up and saw that she had paused just across the street from the Brasserie Moulin. She stood there, wondering if she had subconsciously come this way or whether it was a sign. But it didn’t matter. She was here, and she wanted the truth. She crossed the road and headed inside.

  “Bonjour, une table pour une personne, s’il vous plaît,” Liv said to the waiter up front, glancing again at the framed photo of her grandmother by the door. The waiter smiled, grabbed a menu, and began to lead Liv to a table, but she called out, “Wait!”

  He turned, surprised. “Oui, madame?”

  “Do you speak English?”

  He hesitated. “A little. What can I do?”

  “I just—I had a question about this photograph.” She pointed to the picture, and he returned to look at it.

  “Yes?”

  “This is going to sound strange, but I think the people in it might be my grandparents.”

  The man frowned. “These people, the Thierrys, they owned this brasserie many years ago.”

  “Yes.” Liv tapped the photo. “My grandmother is Edith Thierry. She brought me here to Reims this week.”

  “But the woman in the picture, she couldn’t possibly be alive, madame. She’d be well over one hundred years old, I think.”

  “Ninety-nine, actually, which would have made her nineteen in this photo. I’m just—I’m looking for answers. I was hoping I might find them here.”

  He still looked doubtful, but he nodded. “Let me show you to a table, and I will see if I can find Jean-Pierre Rousseau. He has been here for many years. Perhaps he knows some history. I will check.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  The waiter smiled as he led her to a seat. “De rien. I hope you find what you are looking for.”

  Ten minutes later, Liv was sipping a glass of Moët & Chandon brut and rereading the story of the brasserie’s history on the menu when an older man, perhaps in his late seventies, with gray hair, dressed in a shirt and tie, approached. “Excuse me,” he said in perfect English. “You are the young woman looking to speak to someone about the history of the brasserie?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Liv rose to her feet, but he gestured for her to sit back down.

  “Please, I will join you, if that is all right.” He pulled out a chair. “I am Jean-Pierre Rousseau. I manage the dining room.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Rousseau. I’m Liv Thierry Kent,” Liv said, extending her hand.

  “Ah, so you are a Thierry. That is what Jean-Marc thought you’d said. And you have some family connection to the Brasserie Moulin?”

  “I think my grandmother, Edith Thierry, is the one who owned the brasserie during the Second World War along with her husband, Edouard. Is there any chance you knew them?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been here only since the 1960s. But my father was here during the forties. He worked for the Thierrys.”

  “Your father?” Liv leaned forward. “Is he still around? Could I speak with him?”

  Monsieur Rousseau shook his head. “Oh, how I wish. My father died of a heart attack many years ago, when he was just fifty. But when I was young, he used to tell me some stories of the war, of his time here.”

  “Like what? Did he talk of the Thierrys?”

  “Yes, of course. He liked them very much. I see you reading the menu, and so you must know they were involved with the Resistance. But do you know how vital they were? The German officers who came here would drink very much—the bartenders were always pouring them free drinks—and they would say things they shouldn’t have. The Thierrys and their staff eavesdropped. In fact, my father once overheard a German lieutenant speaking of the imminent arrests of the leaders of a small Resistance cell operating here in Champagne, and he was able to get word, through the Thierrys, to Count Robert-Jean de Vogüé, who warned them. They disappeared before the Germans could get them.”

  “Who was Count Robert-Jean de Vogüé?”

  Monsieur Rousseau chuckled. “You are familiar with the Moët & Chandon champagne house?”

  Liv glanced at her glass. “Of course.”

  “Well, de Vogüé was the head of that house, the largest one at the time. A very important man, you understand, and one whom the Germans treated with respect when they first arrived here, because he was so influential with the other houses.” Monsieur Rousseau leaned forward conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling. “He also was one of the people in charge of the Resistance in the eastern part of France.”

  “Wait, the head of Moët & Chandon was in charge of the Resistance?”

  “No one was who they appeared to be in those days, mademoiselle. The Thierrys seemed to be collaborators, for example, so who would have thought that they were actually working with de Vogüé to undermine the Germans? At Piper-Heidsieck, the owners were hiding guns. At Krug, they were hiding pilots.” He tapped the base of Liv’s glass and added, “This champagne represents history, my dear. Heroism. Bravery. The people behind these wines helped save France.”

  Liv stared at the hundreds of tiny bubbles racing from the bottom of her glass to the surface. “And the Thierrys? They were part of this?”

  “Mais oui. They were at the center of it.”

  “What happened to them? Do you know?”

  Monsieur Rousseau shrugged. “Perhaps if your grandmother is indeed the same Edith Thierry, you know more than I do. You see, after the war, people in town did not immediately understand that the Thierrys had been working with the Resistance. Many still thought they had allied with the Germans, and they were hated for it. I understand that Madame Thierry left while the war was still ongoing, and Monsieur Thierry left town soon after the liberation. The brasserie was closed for a while before it was purchased by the Bouchert family, and by then the town knew the Thierrys had been heroes. But they never returned.”

  “They survived the war, though?” Liv asked. “I mean, obviously my grandmother did, but my dad never knew his father. I always thought perhaps he had died during the war.”

  “No, they survived. But many around them did not. I do remember my father saying that Madame Thierry’s dearest friend was shot by the Germans for being a résistante. My father thought it strange because she’d had a paramour who was allied with the Germans, but who knows? Perhaps she was stealing information from him, too. As I said, no one was who they appeared to be in those days. It was around that time that Madame Thierry left, I think. My father always assumed Monsieur Thierry had eventually gone to join her. In any case, isn’t it extraordinary to think of all the everyday people who risked their lives for France? If you are right about who your grandmother is, madame, she is one of those heroes.”

  Liv swallowed hard. How had Grandma Edith never spoken of such tragedy? Was that why she kept everyone at arm’s length now? “Thank you, Monsieur Rousseau,” she said, standing.

  “It was my pleasure to speak with you. Young people today are not often very interested in the past. I hope you find what you are looking for.” He beckoned to Liv’s waiter and added, “I will ask your waiter to bring you a glass of Chauveau, on the ho
use, as you say in America. I don’t think our story would be complete without it.”

  “Chauveau?” Liv asked.

  “Why, yes.” Monsieur Rousseau turned to her waiter and ordered in French. Then he turned back to her. “You see, Edith Thierry’s best friend, the one who was shot by the Germans, was a woman named Inès Chauveau. She and her husband owned the Maison Chauveau, one of the finest houses in all of Champagne.”

  • • •

  After finishing the glass of Moët and then the glass of Chauveau, Liv’s head was spinning. Monsieur Rousseau’s story had only complicated things further. Liv still couldn’t understand why her grandmother had dragged her across an ocean to Champagne, only to sit in a hotel room and sulk in between darting out for mysterious errands, but if she had been involved in the Resistance—and had lost her best friend because of it—her caginess at least made a bit of sense. Perhaps Grandma Edith, who had never worn her heart on her sleeve, was still in mourning. Maybe that was why she was having so much trouble telling Liv whatever it was she had brought her here to say.

  When Liv let herself back into the hotel room, Grandma Edith was reading a newspaper at the table, a glass of champagne beside her, a bottle chilling in a bucket. She glanced up as Liv entered. “Where have you been, dear?” she asked.

  “Out.” Liv still wasn’t sure how to address what she’d just learned.

  “I’ve just opened some champagne. Would you care for a glass? I’d like to talk with you.”

  “I just had nearly half a bottle, actually,” Liv said, and Grandma Edith raised her eyebrows. “I’d better not.”

  “Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud,” her grandmother said. When Liv hesitated, Grandma Edith rolled her eyes. “It’s rude to let someone drink alone, dear. There’s a glass right there for you. Come now, pour yourself some.”

  Liv reached for the bottle and pulled it halfway out of the ice before stopping abruptly. “You’re drinking Chauveau?”

  “Yes,” Grandma Edith said evenly, but she didn’t meet Liv’s gaze. Liv felt a surge of pity for her grandmother and the best friend she had apparently lost more than seven decades earlier.

  “You knew the people who owned that champagne house, didn’t you?” Liv asked carefully.

  Grandma Edith blinked a few times. “Yes.”

  “Is that what you want to talk to me about?”

  “No. Now, are you going to pour yourself some or not?”

  Liv filled her glass halfway, took a small sip, and sat down opposite the older woman. Bringing up the Maison Chauveau hadn’t elicited much of a reaction, but she wasn’t sure that mentioning Grandma Edith’s old friend Inès Chauveau would work, either. So instead she took another sip and told herself to be patient. Grandma Edith seemed to be searching for the right words, and Liv had the feeling she was about to reveal something important.

  “Olivia, dear, I was hoping to clear something up,” she said at last.

  “Good,” Liv said. “Is it about the brasserie? And your involvement with the Resistance?”

  “What? No.” Grandma Edith looked startled. “It’s about Julien.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Olivia, wherever did you get the idea that he was married?”

  Liv stared at her grandmother in disbelief. “Well, from him! He told me all about his wife, Delphine, and his daughter, Mathilde. He was honest about that, at least.” Liv could feel herself getting angry. “And you know what? After the first time I met him, I actually felt better about my future, because I thought it was clear how much he loved them. It made me feel hopeful, like maybe I could meet someone like that one day, too. And then he tried to cheat on his wife! With me! I mean, is that it? Are there even any good guys out there anymore? Or are they all dogs? Is that the lesson here?”

  “Are you quite done?”

  Liv glared at her grandmother, who was coolly sipping her champagne. “What could you possibly say to justify any of this?”

  “Delphine is dead, Olivia. She died six years ago.”

  Liv’s breath caught in her throat. “Wait, what?”

  “In childbirth. There was a complication while she was delivering Mathilde, and the doctors couldn’t save her. It was devastating for poor Julien, but he has soldiered on, because he had to.”

  “No, that can’t be right.” Liv spun through their conversations, all the mentions of Delphine, the wedding ring on Julien’s finger. “He told me so much about her, and . . .” But he had only spoken of her in the past tense, hadn’t he? “Oh my God, Delphine is dead,” she whispered.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you yesterday,” Grandma Edith said. “And according to his grandfather, he hasn’t gone on a single date in the past six years. You, it seems, are the first woman he has had an interest in. And clearly that has worked out quite well for him.”

  “Oh God.” Liv put her head in her hands. This changed everything. Or did it? What could come out of a flirtation with a man who lived some four thousand miles away from her, especially one who hadn’t dated at all after the loss of his wife?

  Still, she owed him an apology. “Would you excuse me for a minute?” Liv asked weakly. “I think I have to call Julien.”

  Grandma Edith checked her watch. “His business card is on your nightstand, in case you need his number.”

  Liv nodded and hurried into her room, where she dialed the cell number listed. But the call went to voice mail after a single ring, and she felt like an idiot.

  When the beep came at the end of his outgoing message, she plunged in. “Julien, it’s Liv. Liv Thierry Kent. My grandmother just told me about Delphine, and I’m so, so sorry. I don’t even know where to begin. I—I’m obviously a total idiot, but I thought from the way you’d talked about her that she was still alive, and well, you can imagine what I must have thought when you kissed me. But obviously I was wrong, and now I owe you a huge—”

  The phone beeped again and disconnected before she could finish her sentence. “Apology,” she muttered to herself. She stared at her phone, willing it to ring, but it stayed stubbornly silent. After five minutes, when it was clear that Julien wasn’t going to call back, she got up and returned to the parlor.

  “Did you reach him?” Grandma Edith asked.

  “I left a message.” Liv sighed. “A stupid, convoluted message that—” She was interrupted by the ringing of their hotel room phone, and for an instant, as her grandmother reached for it, Liv let herself hope that it was Julien.

  “Oui, nous allons descendre tout de suite,” Grandma Edith said, and as she hung up, Liv looked at her hopefully. She had said they’d be right down; was it possible Julien was here? But Grandma Edith merely shook her head and said, “Come now, there’s no time to mope. We must get going or we’ll miss the last tour of the day.”

  “The last tour? What? Where?”

  “The Maison Chauveau.”

  “The Maison Chauveau?”

  “Well, you asked me about it, did you not? So I’ve just booked us a tour. Don’t tell me now that you’re not interested.”

  “No, of course I am.” Did this mean that Grandma Edith was finally about to reveal the reason she’d brought Liv to Reims?

  “Well, then, let’s go. We don’t have all day.” And with that, her grandmother whisked out of the room, leaving Liv no choice but to follow, a thousand unanswered questions swirling in her wake.

  twenty-one

  JANUARY 1943

  INÈS

  After the cold October night that Inès had come home to Michel, things had been different. Inès had recommitted herself to their marriage, and promised herself that she would make love to her husband at least once a week until she could feel him returning to her. One day, his responses might even be filled with passion rather than just dutiful obligation. In the meantime, she deserved his coldness.

  But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to return to Reims to tell Antoine it was over, and she knew that was cowardice on her part. She suspected he wouldn
’t take the news well, and that he’d be angry, which felt dangerous given his connections. Perhaps if she just avoided Reims altogether, Antoine would simply forget about her. Surely he had other women who held his attention, too, like the Marie whose name he sometimes called out. Maybe he wouldn’t give Inès a second thought.

  But then, one afternoon in early January, just after the snow had started to fall, Edith showed up at the Maison Chauveau while Inès was preparing dinner. Michel was holed up in the cellars with Theo, tasting small sips of vins clairs and jotting down notes about the quality and flavors they found in the young wines from each of the different vineyards. Their notebooks were filled with words like tart berries, bread dough, gravel, smoke. It was beyond Inès how they managed to taste such nuance when she could only taste fermented grapes.

  “Edith! What are you doing here?” Inès had cried, throwing her arms around her best friend. “I’ve missed you so much.” She regretted now that she’d made so many trips to Reims only to see Antoine, avoiding Edith on purpose because she knew Edith was judging her. Now it felt foolish, a waste of time. How had she allowed the pursuit of a man’s affection to get in the way of a dear friendship?

  “I’ve missed you, too,” Edith said, disentangling herself from Inès’s embrace.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Not exactly. I come bearing a message from a friend.” Edith sounded as if she might choke on the last word. “One of our best customers, a Monsieur Picard, has been wondering where you’ve been and would like to arrange a meeting.”

  “Oh.” Inès could feel the heat on her face as she pulled Edith inside the house and drew her over to the hearth so that they could warm themselves. “Edith, I know what you must think of me, and—”

  “It is not my business,” Edith interrupted. “But Monsieur Picard, he has allied himself with some very powerful men.” She hesitated. “They are not good people.”

  Inès didn’t trust herself to speak, for what could she say? That she already knew of Antoine’s allegiance to the Nazis? That she had somehow managed to reconcile it in her mind? Edith would hate her.