Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 18
Tristan set the old table with a new green tablecloth and the cheap white dishes. The priest had examined him for injuries and exclaimed over the lack thereof. A little stiffness, a little swelling, that was all. Pascal was invited to dinner too. He went home and returned, showered and in American blue jeans, his curls dripping on a chamois shirt, carrying a bottle of Bordeaux, a cru bourgeois but very fine according to him. Only seven euros, he told her with a wink. “You must improve your taste buds.”
“What is cru bourgeois then?” she asked, holding the bottle. “The workingman’s version of grand cru?”
“If it were only so easy,” he said. He ticked them off on his fingers. “There is Premier Grand Cru, Deuxieme, Troisieme, and so on. Second, third, fourth, fifth. Then, Cru Grands Exceptionels, Grand Bourgeois, Cru bourgeois, Bordeaux Supérieur. And that is just for the Médoc and the Graves. For each classification specific techniques must be used in the making. Only a few are Grand Cru, from the old houses.”
Albert beamed at him. “Your father taught you well, Pascal.”
“Papa had a keen taste for the grape,” Pascal said quietly. “Too keen, some might say.”
Tristan’s mood improved with the company of men, Merle noticed. He so needed a man in his life again, even if it was someone as part-time as his father had been. She hadn’t told him about Courtney and Sophie yet. She hated to burst the shining image of Harry that his son carried in his heart. It seemed cruel, yet it also seemed inevitable. Pascal mimicked a boxing match and made him laugh.
“I have a special wine I want to share with you tonight.” Merle had taken the three bottles from the wine cave up to her bedroom, stashing them in her suitcase under the bed. She ran up, pulled out the Château Pétrus, and carried it downstairs. She had to know if it was spoiled. And what better time to see, and to share it, than with friends who know wine.
Pascal looked stunned. He examined the bottle, rubbed the label, showed it to Albert who shrugged. “Where did you find this?”
Tristan opened his mouth and she kicked him under the table. She said, “We don’t have to open it. It’s probably spoiled. Let’s drink yours.”
“Not so fast. It looks — well — possible. If it was stored properly, and the cork kept its integrity — ” He sniffed the lead and raised his eyebrows. “You never know until you open it.”
Tristan handed him the corkscrew.
They held their breaths as Pascal carefully peeled off the lead and tapped the cork with his fingertip. The lip of the bottle was gray with mold.
“Good?” Merle asked. His eyebrows wiggled in anticipation. He positioned the corkscrew and gently pressed down as he turned it. When it was down as far as it would go, he gripped the handle, his elbows in the air, and looked wide-eyed.
“Go on, Pascal. I don’t care if it crumbles,” Merle said.
He pulled it out slowly, carefully. With a low, mellow pop the cork came out, all in one piece. Pascal beamed as they clapped. “Well done,” Albert said. “Smell it.”
He unscrewed the cork from the screw. Albert’s sniffer was a huge Gallic nose like Harry’s. Pascal’s was more proportionate and possibly, after that mini-lecture about levels of quality, educated. He sniffed the cork then nodded.
“Seems — okay.” He picked up the bottle and put it to his nose. His eyes closed as he breathed in and smiled as he handed it reverentially to Merle. “Pour it.”
She poured the wine for the three of them, in small juice glasses. At home she would be bothered by her lack of appropriate stemware, but here it didn’t matter. Wine was one of the four food groups. Pascal raised his glass then stopped. “No wine for the mighty warrior?”
Albert cried, “He is a man, isn’t he?”
Tristan grinned, manfully. Another glass appeared, and the circle was complete at four. They held their glasses high. “To Tristan who may never fence like a Musketeer but can fight like a man,” Pascal said. Merle shot him a warning look that he ignored. He kept his glass high and added, “And American friendliness.”
“And French friendliness, wherever you may find it,” Merle said.
Pascal held up his free hand. “Wait. You must look the person you toast in the eye as you touch glasses. If you don’t it is an insult. Do it again.” They laughed, clinked again, then stared pointedly at each other as instructed. “To friends, wherever you find them,” he said as he looked into her eyes.
Merle put her nose over the lip of the glass and breathed in slowly. She remembered the proper way to taste, and swirled, sniffed again. The flavors began to change, to move up through the midnight black wine. They each took a small sip the dark, thick liquid from the old bottle as if it might poison them. Merle felt the flavors slide over her tongue: oak, berry, anise, tarragon, limestone, apple, a whiff of lemon. She closed her eyes and refused to swallow, buoyed, caught by the viscous essence. The moment lingered, the fluid thick as motor oil, as complex and layered as an autumn breeze. It sank down her throat reluctantly.
Pascal’s breath, close to her ear, whispered, “Ooh la-la. You have hit the wine jackpot.”
Book Three
Winging it
Chapter Twenty-Six
Smoothing her skirt Merle felt the sun on the back of her neck, a warm breeze drying her skin, the unexpected pleasure of the haircut. It had been a sudden decision, of the moment. Having the same hairstyle for twenty years wasn’t a reluctance to face change, now was it? No, it was a terror of it. She felt almost giddy, this dangerous pleasure, this haircut, then felt ridiculous and immediately took it back. What would Annie say? Don’t get your prayer flags in a twist.
She looked over the crowd milling around the door to the tasting room, a little nervous, counting heads; they were still waiting for two tourists to show. So, new haircut, new job. She took a deep breath, almost afraid of what she might do next.
She touched her bare neck. The haircut was a symbol, of something. A new life, a new phase, an imperative that sent her flying madly across the ville. Preparations for whatever happened next. She’d be ready, if only because her hair was up-to-date. All her life she never gave her hair a thought until the very last moment, until her mother rolled her eyes, until her sisters dragged her to a salon, until Harry dragged her to a formal party. Then there was no time for changes, for new directions. This was different. This time a change seemed deeply, deeply necessary. She looked at the trees blowing in the wind and nodded to herself: yes, this is vain, shallow, and — and yet. It felt right.
The morning Albert drove Tristan to the train she felt lost, as if she’d never see him again, that he was still that baby tearing away from her breast to live on his own, without her. He stood hunched at the front window, frowning out at the cobblestone street. He was off to camp in four days. She finally had screwed up her courage to tell him that she couldn’t fly home with him because of the murder. Who was she, he asked. What happened? She gave him the short version: a woman fell from the cliff, she lived in this house, their house, and she didn’t want to move. He groaned when Merle made him promise not to tell his aunts, uncles, cousins, or grandparents. A hard secret to keep: your mother under the steely eye of the French police.
She made him a list, of course, all the instructions, the tickets, the directions. He had to find the train, find the right terminal at the airport, go through security alone, go through immigration, find his gate, his seat, fly the wide Atlantic, do customs on the other end. All by himself. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was almost a man. Her little boy. He waved to her from the car, then he was gone.
Tristan the child had been gone for a long time. He had gone where children go, slipped away into manhood as if he’d never fit into her arms, never cried on her shoulder, never run to her with a skinned knee. He was his own person now, not a child but independent, free to make his own choices — or would be very soon. Even though her heart hurt it was everything she wanted for him.
She’d burst into the tiny, upstairs beauty salon on a side street over a florist, holding a magazine photograph of a woman in a short page-boy, bangs, dark-haired, no gray. Audrey Hepburn, without the swan neck. And that was how she walked out. She had been a little breathless the rest of the day. What would the workmen say? Would Albert notice? Would Pascal exclaim about her new look? But the roofer, her roofer, never came, not that day or the next or the next. Albert didn’t know where he was.
Now she pressed her lips together. A strange feeling, lipstick and new hair, way too grown-up. She smiled, praying for the lipstick to stay on lips, not teeth. There were a few flecks of paint on her thumb, remnants of the last three days of high-speed decorating. It had seemed important to kick things up a notch, cross items off the list. She painted her bedroom that hopeful sunrise yellow, sweet, innocent color before tainted with the harsh banalities of noonday, counted the wine bottles again ( two-hundred-and-one), caught six more mice. She mixed up a batch of cement and rocked up the plumbing trenches across the bathroom. Her back had a sore spot.
And now she was a tour guide, a job which apparently required only the decent mastery of the King’s English and the ability to pour lightly. The fact that Odile and Gerard, the owners of the winery, would never know what she told the tourists took some pressure off. Still she wanted to do well, it was her nature.
She straightened her back and rubbed the soreness out. The group included ten or eleven wine lovers, Americans — two couples traveling together — and three groups of Brits. The Americans she could spot for miles, the women with gold jewelry and faces frozen with botox. The Brits were less dressed and smiled more.
Tristan had called her from Stasia’s, through Albert, when he got back, tired but happy, and packing for camp. Stasia said they’d been over to the house to get his sleeping bag and backpack and everything was fine. Elise was keeping the pool clean. As if that had been a major worry.
It all seemed so far away. She’d been in France almost a month. The rat-race of the suburbs, of Manhattan, was another world. Here the grass grew tall in the ditches along the road. Two fat ducks flew up from the pond. Roses bloomed in a riot. She had a new haircut, and she was on her own, making her own decisions. Was she the same person she had been in April — full of pain and confusion, kicked out of her job, at sea without her not-so-loyal husband, the woman who dreamed of magic pearls to save her from despair, and wrinkles?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” She waited for them to stop talking and pay attention, just like jurors in court. That’s the way to think of them. Speak just loud enough that they had to be quiet to hear. Impress and persuade. The only thing they were likely to be persuaded was that wine was cheap and plentiful. She smiled again and felt her teeth go dry.
“My name is Merle and I’ll be your guide today for the tour of the cellars and vineyards of Château Gagillac. We’ll start our tour in the state-of-the-art fermenting facility built two years ago for over four million euros.”
As they filed inside the dim cavernous building one of the Brits, a gray-complected man with amazingly bad hair and small, intense eyes, asked her how the alcohol content in the wine changed from the beginning to end of the fermentation process.
“I’m sorry, this is my first week here,” she explained. “I’m still learning. I could ask —”
“Quite all right,” he said, smiling. “Anthony Simms.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Merle. You’re doing a good job.”
“I have a lot to learn.”
“If you — ” He waved a hand apologetically.
Despite her first impression he seemed dull but nice, with warm brown eyes and an upper crust accent. It was nice to have a conversation with a true English-speaker. A tour guide had to find good qualities in everyone, she told herself. She turned to him and said, “Are you offering lessons?”
The other tourists wandered off, poking their heads into the empty vats and running their hands over the stainless steel.
“I shouldn’t presume.” He stopped, looking pained. “I’m on a prescribed holiday. My friends made me come.”
“Oh.” He did look sad. Pathetic really.
“I’m keeping you. Please.”
The group filed through the dim, cool space. Merle showed off the huge stainless steel vats, explaining the controlled mix of various grape types, the computerized control room. She was brisk and efficient, and didn’t ask if they had questions because, well, factoids were thin on the ground. She felt a little embarrassed not knowing the answer to Mr. Simms’s question and vowed to study more about winemaking. She showed them where the grapes were dumped, how they were crushed and separated, where the liquid was strained off.
Leading them outside she pointed out the intricately pruned vines and the grapes hanging under their leaves. She explained about the concept of terroir, one of the things she’d read up on and found most interesting about winemaking, the way everything worked together to make wine. She scooped up a handful of reddish soil for the tourists. Earth, sun, rain, clouds, hills — just like Annie’s prayer flags, this terroir business. Very karmic, grapes. The day was cooler than it had been, with clouds, but still the soil felt warm to the touch, its rocky base holding heat through the evening to release it in the cool night air, keeping the vines toasty and coddled.
She showed them the barn-like chai where the oak barrels aged the wine. They were happy as she filled their glasses in the tasting room. She was exhausted; she hadn’t spoken this much or this loudly in months. She had sweated through her blouse and underwear, feeling the slick rubbing of her thighs.
Odile split the cash and thanked her with a nod. The tourists had bought several jugs of wine. The money couldn’t have made a big difference to the winery. A hundred euros was nothing for a big operation like this.
Anthony Simms leaned against a small white Peugeot in the parking lot, his arms crossed on his chest, trying to look nonchalant. His brown-going-gray hair was parted too far to one side and his shirt collar was frayed. The tour hadn’t improved his looks but he did, after all, have a car. When he saw her he smoothed his shirtfront like an anxious suitor.
“I want to apologize,” he began. “For taking time away from your tour. Occupational hazard when you vacation alone. Latching on to attractive women for company.”
“That can be dangerous.”
“Very.” He smiled guiltily. Or maybe he thought sexily. “If you would let me take you to coffee to make it right? Unless your husband would object.”
Thinner than she’d first thought, he was not as old either. That hair had to be a rug. So he was bald. Maybe he was ill, on chemo? Was that why he was on a prescribed holiday? She chided herself for being so judgmental.
“He might if he was still alive. He died this spring.” Still strange to say, but better. Getting better all the time, as John and Paul would say. She had been playing the Beatles full blast while she painted, singing whenever the mood hit her, which was surprisingly often. So smart of Annie to think of sending the CDs with her. Those old songs made her feel young again.
Anthony winced as if she’d punched him in the guts. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I do know how it is. My mother passed away only a month ago. I don’t know why it hit me so hard.”
“I’m sorry. Was she elderly?”
“Quite. A blessing, I guess. But still.” He looked off, biting his lip. A little dramatic, she thought. “Can we commiserate over dinner then? It would be so pleasant to have your company. And I might — I don’t know, help in some way?”
Assessing her frame of mind, she thought not. She wasn’t in the mood for moping, or sharing death stories with this odd person, this stranger. But the sun had come out. The afternoon was hot and sticky and her feet hurt. “I could use a ride back into town.”
Simms brightened, springing into action, opening the door of his little rental car. The air conditioning felt luscious and her feet cooled. He babbled about his vacation, some caves nearby with prehistoric drawings of bison, his brave old mum, his friends who urged him to get away from England after he had spent a week sifting through eighty years of belongings.
“That week almost killed me,” he said. “What do you do with your mother’s girdles, for godssake?”
Ick. A musty bachelor, devoted to old mumsy and her undergarments. So why was he interested in women? She glanced at him. Harder to tell with Europeans. “Where do you live, Anthony?”
“In London, rather north. Do you know London?”
“Um, no. Turn right here.” She pointed at her street.
“Can I make a reservation for dinner then? There’s a delightful bistro a block the other side of the plaza.”
Someone was sitting on her step. “At the end on the left. You can turn around.” He pulled the car into a U-turn at the crumbling wall and stopped. Pascal looked up.
“I’m sorry. I appreciate the ride. But I have a workman here.”
He squinted at Pascal, annoyed. “Well, I know where you live. Maybe another time? You’re all right then?”
She stepped out. Anthony waited a few beats before driving away, as if he might have to jump out and defend her honor.
But Pascal only stood up and stretched. “Bonjour, Merle.”
She moved around him to unlock the door’s shutters, then the door. France was like Fort Knox, or Brooklyn. She arched an eyebrow at him. He wore clean jeans and another black t-shirt, his usual attire. His nose was sunburned. “Are you here to finish the roof?”
“I got called away to another job — ”
“You don’t have to explain. No one else does.”
The air in the front room rushed out, cool and soothing. She threw her bag on the oak table and kicked off her shoes. She wasn’t used to wearing dress shoes, or walking a mile on poor roads. This morning she’d had to jump into the ditch when a truck carrying chickens passed so close his side mirror might have knocked her flat.
