The Winemaker's Wife Read online

Her heart sank. She had expected this, that at some point people would begin asking about her Jewish ancestry. She just hadn’t expected it to be Michel. Still, she lived on his property, and she owed him the truth. “Well, yes, my father is Jewish, and although my family wasn’t religious at all, of course I’m still considered—”

  “No, no,” Michel interrupted. Even in the darkness, she could see the color creeping up his neck and rising to his cheeks. “I’m sorry. That isn’t what I meant. I know you are half Jewish, Céline. I meant only to ask if you’ve had any word from your family. Are they all right? I’ve been worried and didn’t know the right way to ask.”

  To her surprise and embarrassment, she felt her eyes well with tears. She couldn’t speak over the lump in her throat, and when she looked up at him again, the deep sympathy and worry etched into his face released the floodgates. Suddenly, she was sobbing.

  After a few seconds, Michel inched toward her, tentatively at first and then all the way across the bench. He hesitated before slipping his arm around her, and she leaned into him, her tears drenching his shoulder. Then, she pulled back, mortified. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping her tears. “I—I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t apologize. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  “No. It’s not your fault. The truth is, I’m very concerned about them. I haven’t heard from them at all.”

  Michel sighed. “Oh, Céline. I was afraid of that.”

  “I know the communication is terrible right now, but—”

  “I have a friend,” he interrupted, his voice suddenly low and urgent.

  “What?”

  “I have a friend who can arrange to have someone check on them. If you’d like.”

  She blinked at him. He wasn’t meeting her eyes. “Well, yes, of course, but I don’t want to put anyone in danger.”

  He smiled slightly. “My friend is in danger all the time. But I know he would be willing to help.”

  She had a hundred questions, and perhaps a dozen reasons why she should say no, but instead, she whispered, “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.” Michel held her gaze. “We must all look out for each other, non?”

  Céline nodded and looked down. She could feel Michel’s eyes on her again, and she knew he was waiting for something, but what?

  “Theo, he is concerned for your family, too?” he asked after a while, and she looked up, startled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that sometimes, I worry he’s living in a bubble, that he thinks too much about the wine and not enough about what’s happening with the war.” Michel hesitated. “I hope you don’t think me rude for saying so.”

  Céline glanced at him and looked away. “The truth is, I suspect he doesn’t think much about the things that don’t impact him directly.” She felt disloyal for saying even that.

  “I think perhaps it is the same with Inès.”

  “She’s trying,” Céline said after a pause. The conversation she’d had with Inès that afternoon had stayed with her, and though she knew she would never have much in common with the other woman, she was beginning to understand her a bit more now. She owed it to her to stand up for her a bit, didn’t she?

  “I know. But perhaps she just wasn’t cut out for this life, and I’ve been foolish to expect her to change. I knew who she was when I married her, didn’t I?” He shook his head and looked at his hands. “I’m sorry. That must sound like a terrible thing to say about one’s wife. It isn’t that I don’t love her.”

  “I understand,” Céline whispered, and she did, for in some ways, it was just how she felt about Theo.

  A silence descended between them, but it felt comfortable, companionable, and that was reason enough to leave. “I must get back to Theo before he worries,” Céline said, standing. “But thank you, Michel. Thank you very much for your kindness.” It wasn’t just his offer to check on her family that she was grateful for, though; it was the feeling of being understood. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed it.

  “De rien.” He smiled at her, but his expression was sad as she rose to leave.

  “Good night, Michel.”

  “Bonne nuit, Céline. I will see you tomorrow.”

  Five minutes later, after ascending the stairs and making her way in the moonlight to her front door, she let herself in, preparing to explain her long absence to Theo.

  But when she slipped into their bedroom, she could hear him snoring softly. He was fast asleep, and as she climbed under the sheets next to him, he didn’t stir. She lay beside him in the blackness, staring at the ceiling until morning came.

  eight

  JUNE 2019

  LIV

  Already Paris was working its magic on Liv, and as she strolled down the Avenue Rapp late on a Tuesday morning with a fresh baguette, a hunk of Brie, and a saucisson tucked into her canvas shoulder bag, she found herself wondering why she hadn’t come back sooner.

  When Liv was a child, Grandma Edith used to call the magic that was uniquely Paris le grand soupir, the grand sigh, which used to make Liv laugh. But now she understood. Somehow the city made you breathe in deeply and exhale, and when you did, some of your troubles fell away.

  A long time ago, before she had met Eric, Liv used to imagine what it would be like to move to France, to fall in love, to find a reason to stay. It was a dream that had come more naturally to her than any other vision of her future, perhaps because she had spent every summer here with her grandmother, making it feel like the one constant in her life. After Liv’s father had died, her mother had had a new boyfriend every few months, a new husband every few years, which meant that Liv had moved a grand total of seventeen times during her childhood. So although Grandma Edith had never been particularly warm, it had been comforting to know that when everything else felt unpredictable, France would always be a place to come home to. Liv was surprised to realize that somehow, after all these years, it still felt just the same.

  After Liv had spent a few days in the City of Light, Eric no longer lurked at the edges of her every thought, but a new burden had replaced him. She was worried about Grandma Edith. Of course, the older woman had always been strange and a bit flighty, but she was jumpier than Liv had ever seen her, and she’d taken to gliding around the apartment in full makeup and a black silk dressing gown, looking haunted. Every time Liv asked her if something was wrong, Grandma Edith snapped at her to stop projecting.

  Maybe her grandmother was right, Liv thought as she took the elevator up to the spacious fifth-floor apartment and inserted the spare key into the ornate lock. When she pushed the door open, she saw Grandma Edith standing in the middle of the living room in a perfectly tailored pale pink Chanel suit, her gray hair newly slicked into a tight bun, her red lipstick immaculately applied.

  “Well? Where have you been?” Grandma Edith demanded.

  “Just at the boulangerie,” Liv said, holding up the baguette. “I thought we could—”

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Get your things. You can eat your bread on the train, if you must. We’re going to Reims.” She pronounced it Rance, and it took a few beats for Liv to realize that her grandmother was talking about one of the main cities in the Champagne region. Liv and Eric had once talked about visiting—it was only a forty-five-minute TGV train ride from the center of Paris—but they had decided against it for reasons Liv couldn’t recall anymore. Still, she’d never heard her grandmother talk of the place.

  “But . . . why?” Liv asked.

  “I have some business there.” Grandma Edith pursed her lips when Liv still hadn’t moved. “Olivia, the train leaves at 12:58 on the dot. Dépêche-toi! We mustn’t be late. I have a car waiting to take us to the station.”

  “Um, okay,” Liv said, confused. She started toward her room.

  “Wait!” Grandma Edith called after her. She walked over to Liv, removed her own scarf—white-and-gold vintage Chanel—and tied it around Liv’s neck, frowning as she
wrapped it just so. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “There. Now you look almost as if you might belong here.”

  • • •

  Less than two hours later, after taking the TGV through a landscape dotted with rolling grain farms, industrial windmills, and tiny villages nestled between hills, Liv found herself in a sumptuous two-bedroom suite in a boutique hotel on the rue Buirette, just a short taxi ride from the Reims train station. The carpets were a plush, spotless cream, while the furniture was ornate and gilded, with invitingly soft burgundy pillows piled everywhere.

  “You’ll be in there,” Grandma Edith said, gesturing to the bedroom on the left as a red-faced porter struggled with a heavy Louis Vuitton case behind her.

  “Looks great. So, do you want to go grab something to eat once we get settled?” Lunch would inevitably come with alcohol, and perhaps bribed by a drink or two, her grandmother would explain what on earth they were doing here.

  “Non. But you go, dear. I have a headache, and I need to lie down.”

  Liv was startled to realize how pale her grandmother had grown in the past few minutes, even under her layer of freshly applied blush. “Are you all right, Grandma Edith? What can I do?”

  “I’m fine.” She handed a few coins to the porter, who hurried away with a mumbled merci. “Please. Go have a coupe de champagne, Olivia. Enjoy yourself.” She gave Liv a small smile and then turned and walked into the bedroom on the right, closing the door behind her.

  Liv bit her lip. Should she knock, make sure Grandma Edith was okay? Then again, that would likely only result in more accusations about what Liv was doing wrong with her life. Still, she didn’t feel right leaving her grandmother alone if she wasn’t feeling well.

  She pulled her suitcase into her room, which featured a large, polished mahogany, four-poster bed with a crisp white duvet and a pile of pillows matching those in the parlor. The heavy drapes were open, and light spilled in from windows overlooking a street punctuated by long, rectangular fountains, shops, and hotels. Narrow chimneys poked up from angled rooftops, and buildings made of centuries-old stone shared space with large, blockish structures that couldn’t have been built more than fifty or sixty years ago. Above the buildings, Liv could see the twin towers of a cathedral that looked like Paris’s Notre-Dame. A block away stood a soaring, ornate fountain topped with a winged woman cast in bronze.

  As Liv gazed down at the little red awning of the café just below her window, her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID: Mom. She groaned and considered ignoring the call, but her mother would only keep trying. She picked up, bracing herself for a barrage of questions about her divorce. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie,” her mother chirped. “I’m heading up to New York tomorrow with Stan. Just wondering if you want to meet us for dinner. We have theater tickets on Thursday, but I said to Stan, ‘You have to meet my daughter.’ ”

  Temporarily stunned that her mother hadn’t asked about Eric, Liv said, “Um, which one is Stan, again?”

  Her mother laughed. “The lawyer. Owns the condo at the Ocean Sun in Boca?”

  “Oh. Right.” Liv was fairly sure she’d never heard of Stan—or the Ocean Sun in Boca—but that would be par for the course with her mother. “Actually, Mom, I’m not in New York right now. I’m visiting Grandma Edith.”

  “In Paris?”

  “In Reims, actually. About forty-five minutes east of Paris.”

  There was another beat of silence. “Well, what on earth are you doing there?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea. She hasn’t been acting like herself.”

  Liv’s mother laughed. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Mom, I’m serious. I’m a little worried about her. She seems, I don’t know, depressed.”

  “Honey, I’m sure it’s nothing.” Liv’s mom plunged immediately into a story about something that had happened at the pool at Stan’s condo complex the day before, but Liv was no longer paying attention, because out the window, she had just spotted a familiar figure clad in pink Chanel hurrying out the hotel’s front door, turning left without hesitation, and slipping into pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. It was Grandma Edith, but where was she going? Hadn’t she just told Liv minutes earlier that she was feeling too unwell to leave the room?

  “Sorry, Mom,” Liv interrupted. “I have to go.”

  Her mother began to say something else, but Liv was already hanging up and heading for the door.

  Outside the hotel, still panting from running down six flights of stairs, Liv turned in the same direction she’d seen Grandma Edith disappear, but she already knew finding her would be futile. The streets were crowded with people fixated on their cell phones, couples holding hands and leaning into each other, locals walking dogs, children giggling and dashing a few steps ahead of their parents. Liv walked three blocks, then doubled back, turning into the plaza anchored by the fountain she’d seen from her window. She peered into every storefront, every restaurant, but her grandmother had vanished. Puzzled, she turned slowly and walked back toward the hotel.

  She tried calling Grandma Edith’s mobile phone, but as it often did, it went straight to voice mail. There was nothing to do now but wait for her return. As she turned onto the rue Buirette, she reminded herself that Grandma Edith lived alone and obviously went out by herself all the time. Surely there was no reason to worry.

  Back in the suite, she grabbed a book from her suitcase—a mindless thriller she’d picked up at the airport in New York—and settled onto the sofa in the living room to wait. She had checked her emails, scrolled through a few news stories on the New York Times website, and read the first few chapters of her book when there was a knock on the hotel room door. Liv sighed in relief; her grandmother was notorious for misplacing things and had probably lost her room key. Liv got up and swung the hotel door open, fully expecting to see Grandma Edith rummaging around in her purse, back from her mystery errand.

  Instead there was a man there, leafing through a weathered leather briefcase. He looked up with a smile, and his forehead wrinkled in confusion when he saw her. “Oh, excusez-moi, ce doit être la mauvaise chambre,” the man said quickly, shoving some papers back into his bag as he began to turn away.

  Liv quickly translated the French in her head; she was better at understanding than she was at speaking. “Attendez! Um, cherchez-vous ma grand-mère? Edith Thierry?”

  “Oui.” The man looked at her more closely, then his eyes lit up. “Wait, you are Olivia?” he asked, switching seamlessly to English. “But of course you are Olivia! Your grandmother has shown me many pictures.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I should have introduced myself straightaway.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Julien. Julien Cohn.” He was about Liv’s age, maybe a few years older, with thick, gray-flecked dark hair that looked like it needed to be trimmed, hazel eyes framed by laugh lines, and a strong jaw dusted with salt-and-pepper stubble.

  Liv shook his hand. “And how do you know my grandmother?”

  “She is a client of mine. I am here to drop off some paperwork she requested.”

  “Paperwork? What kind of paperwork?”

  “Well, I am one of her attorneys. She mentioned she would be arriving today, and I arranged to come by this afternoon, but perhaps she forgot.”

  Liv just looked at him. “But why does my grandmother have an attorney in Reims?”

  “I suppose that’s a question you’d have to ask her.” Julien’s smile was almost charming enough to distract her from the mystery of his visit.

  “Well, you can leave the papers with me if you want. She should be back soon.”

  Julien frowned. “I’m terribly sorry, Olivia, but I cannot. They’re sensitive papers; you understand.”

  “Oh. Right. Of course.” She hesitated, a little stung. “And it’s Liv.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I go by Liv.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” There was that smile aga
in. “Your grandmother has called you only Olivia.”

  Liv rolled her eyes. “She refuses to recognize nicknames. She says they’re for children and pets.”

  Julien laughed. “Yes, that does sound like your grandmother.”

  “You know her well?”

  “I do. She’s been with my family’s firm for, oh, seventy years. Not that I’ve been around that long, of course.”

  “Seventy years?” She blinked at Julien, completely lost. “Here in Reims?”

  He nodded and raked his left hand through his hair. It was Patrick Dempsey hair, John Stamos hair, the kind of hair normal men didn’t get to lay claim to. In the brief silence that followed, Liv found herself glancing at his ring finger as he lowered his hand. His wedding band was thick and gold, claiming him for someone else. She looked up and realized, to her embarrassment, that he was watching her—and that he had clearly noticed what she was doing. He smiled slightly, and she could feel her face heating up.

  “Well,” he began at the same time she said, “So . . .”

  They both laughed, and Julien reached out to shake her hand once again.

  “I was just going to say that it was nice to finally meet you, Liv,” Julien said, taking a step back. “I’ll look forward to perhaps seeing you later in the week.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we’re staying very long.”

  “Vraiment?” His forehead creased in confusion. “Are you sure? Because I think your grandmother might have a different idea in mind.”

  nine

  SEPTEMBER 1941

  INÈS

  The harvest was about to begin, and all of Champagne was abuzz. The grapes this year appeared to be merely average in both quality and quantity, but that was an improvement over the previous year, which was cause for celebration. Beyond that, though it had begun to seem as if Herr Klaebisch’s primary purpose as weinführer was to make the lives of the Champenois miserable, he had come through on at least one count: returning a few hundred able-bodied men from labor camps to the vineyards, where they would assist in the harvest and the wine production. De Vogüé’s argument that the 1941 vintage would be as poor as the previous year’s without enough workers had apparently succeeded.