Champagne: The Farewell Page 2

  June was Olivier’s favorite time of the year, when the vineyards started to look lush as the grapes were starting to ripen, and everything was potential. The wine growers planted right up to the rims of the villages, and Sourières was no exception. Jacques Marceau and his family lived in the family house where he had been raised. Most would describe it as a château but for the house to be called a castle the owner had to be descended from royalty, which the Marceaus were not. Though Jacques was a decade older, the two men had become good friends. Olivier admired the man who presented as formal and perhaps a little austere, but who was warm once he knew you. Jacques, like his father and grandfather before him, was a premier winemaker, and now in his fifties, a highly-respected man in the community.

  The wedding of Jacques’ daughter Chloé was to be Olivier’s first foray back into social life in the region since his divorce eight months before. As he entered the village he began to question why he chose to put himself through the stress of attending the same function with his ex-wife Diane and the horse trainer who had stolen her heart while Olivier was building his career in Paris. He and Diane Villiers both hailed from old Champenoises families, and since their teens it had been expected that they would marry. Yet he and Diane waited until their late twenties, and though he wasn’t in love with her, as with all aspects of his life, he honored his commitment. Only after they were married did he learn that Diane didn’t want to have children, and a year after that she bought horses, which had always been a stronger passion for her. She began commuting the hour and a half to Champagne on a regular basis, and he delved into his career with ferocity.

  “Putain!” he yelled out his window at the man in the SUV who was passing him on the narrow road, and realized it was the third time he had shouted an epithet at a carload of tourists on their way to Epernay to enter the ornate and gilded entry gates to the hallowed Champagne companies that could be misconstrued as port of call to the Elysian Fields. He took a sharp left into the porte cochère, an access for cars that was cut into the high stone wall that surrounded the Marceau property, shielding it from the gaze of passersby. He parked his Porsche Cayman off to the side of the grand house and maneuvered himself out of the car. He waved to the Marceau maid Mimi, who was setting a table for luncheon on the terrace. Such civility, he thought, relaxing into the vision of the emerald stillness below.

  Chloé Marceau came running toward him. “Olivier, Papa will be so happy to see you. He seems lost in a sea of women.” They exchanged baisers, the kiss on each cheek.

  “Are you having wedding jitters?”

  “Of course!”

  A handsome man of athletic build and charming smile raced up and held out his hand. “Olivier, you remember Marc,” Chloé said. They shook hands.

  “Of course I do,” Olivier said, though his response was slightly exaggerated, as they had met a couple of times at family gatherings but had never engaged in a one-on-one conversation. “You’re a lucky man,” Olivier said. “Have you two decided where you will start your new life?”

  Chloé said, “Tante Léa is training him to be…”

  “I’ll continue working at de Saint-Pern,” Marc interrupted, “and there is a possibility we’ll live on Léa’s estate. The small house that Bernard and Caroline are in.” Olivier smiled at the reference to the property, for Léa’s château was on a par with the great neo-Renaissance Château de Boursault, built in the early 1800s by the son-in-law of the famous young widow, Nicole-Barbe Ponsardin of Veuve Clicquot fame.

  “What will Bernard and Caroline do?” Bernard, Olivier knew, was a cousin of Léa’s late husband, and an officer in the company. If Olivier remembered correctly, the couple had lived there for years rent-free, and served as quasi-caretakers.

  “I can’t imagine those two turning over their little house to us,” Chloé said. “Léa suggested it, but knowing my aunt, she’s already forgotten.”

  Olivier watched Chloé out of the corner of his eye. Always unassuming, even shy, which he attributed to the typical parental protection of an only child, she looked, he thought, slightly chagrined by her fiancé’s attitude of entitlement. He recalled the last time they spoke that she was excited about moving with her new husband to Paris, or perhaps somewhere farther afield. The couple would have to be strong, he knew, to live alongside Léa de Saint-Pern, who was a force in their beautiful valley.

  “How is your Tante Léa?”

  “She’s on her way here. She and I had lunch in Paris two days ago with her new American boyfriend that she’s been afraid to tell my parents about.”

  “Oh?” Olivier smiled at the notion of Léa being afraid of anything. A year older than he, she was, at thirty-nine, considered one of the most beautiful women in France. Olivier thought her wealth and beauty were detrimental, in that they had put her in the realm of the unattainable. It was no surprise, then, to learn from Chloé that Léa would go to the extreme of latching onto an American, which may have been precipitated by the news of her niece’s wedding.

  He had to admit that the notion of Léa being with an American gave him pause. He had overheard in private conversations too often the catch phrase, Ils sont cons, ces américains. The Americans are stupid. Paradoxically, someone would come up with, “If they’re so stupid, why have we adopted their music, their films, their clothing, and incorporated their language into ours? “Beneath the expected criticism hovered a thin layer of admiration.

  Jacques, seeing his friend, rushed over and shook hands. “Come have a glass.” Olivier nodded, picking up the flute Jacques had just poured and handing it to Chloé. “Non, merci. I’m off to pick up my friend from New York at the train station.” Halfway to the parking area, she called back, “Olivier! My friend is single!”

  Olivier chuckled as he turned back to Jacques. “So I’m being matched with someone for the wedding? An American at that?” He thought it prudent not to mention what Chloé had just said about Léa having an American boyfriend.

  “Chloé met Max when they were at the Sorbonne eight or nine years ago. I happen to like her influence on Chloé, but Marie-Christine worries that Max is a bit too assertive and confident.”

  “American, in other words.”

  “Is there a hint of prejudice in your comment?”

  Olivier knew he was teasing. “I wouldn’t be French if I didn’t have some prejudice, n’est-ce pas?” They sat in chairs on the terrace, which gave Olivier the chance to appraise the stately Marceau home that could be described as a French manor house. Constructed in the 1700s of pierre de taille, the same stone used on buildings in Paris, it was three stories high, with an abundance of mullion windows on the lower two floors, and with the traditional wooden shutters that opened and closed like the pages of a book. Large dormer windows projected from a rolled tile roof. A formal and graceful structure, with no hint of grandiosity.

  He shifted his attention to the array of flowers blooming in orderly fashion, and stood up to inspect the new varieties of peonies Jacques’ wife Marie-Christine had added. Glancing toward the house, he saw her approaching with a tray holding four glasses and a bottle of champagne and rushed over to take the tray from her.

  A black Aston Martin DB7 pulled in, and they turned to see Léa de Saint-Pern wave from the convertible. In a moment she had joined them, and the obligatory kisses were exchanged. “I offered Chloé my finest champagne for her wedding, but she may end up showing her devotion to her papa,” Léa said to Olivier. “We need an arbiter.”

  Olivier recognized the scent of Hermès Perfume 24 Faubourg, and closed his eyes for a second to allow the jasmine, vanilla, and orange blossoms to waft over him. Léa’s tawny hair was pulled loosely from her face, and when she removed her sunglasses, her eyes went from periwinkle blue to violet. She wore a simple black linen shift, and light fishnet stockings. An orange cashmere cardigan was draped casually around her shoulders. Olivier found the contrast
between the two sisters almost startling. Marie-Christine appeared to be far older than the nine years that separated them. He thought it had to do with her irritable disposition, for when she let down her defenses she was quite attractive. She had taken on the responsibility of her fifteen-year-old sibling when their mother died of cancer, and Léa had proved to be a challenge.

  “I’m going to check on lunch,” Marie-Christine said after greeting her sister.

  Jacques removed the cork with no drama, and poured the golden nectar into glasses. He smiled at his sister-in-law. “You look ravishing. A new lover, perhaps?”

  “I look tired and old, you silly man, and don’t think that a lover is the only thing that can make a woman look ravishing.”

  Jacques said quickly, “What else does? Tell me.”

  “A warm bath with lots of salts and fragrance, or, for a little contrast, a business deal where I come out on top can do it.”

  Both men chuckled. Marie-Christine rejoined them, the maid Mimi behind her with another tray. Jacques said, “We were talking about what makes a woman appear ravishing.”

  Marie-Christine’s lips puckered, and her expression announced that she didn’t have time for such foolishness.

  “There’s another thing that can make a woman glow,” Léa said. “I’m pregnant. Three months.”

  Her three listeners stopped and stared. Léa had dropped a bomb. When no one said anything, Léa said, “The father is the American blogger, Ted Clay. The one I asked you to invite to dinner and to the wedding. I know this is a shock, but if not now, when?”

  “But who is he, and what is a blogger?” Marie-Christine asked.

  “I don’t know how to describe him. Tall, gangly, funny, charming.”

  “This says nothing at all,” Marie-Christine sniffed. “And blogger?”

  “Bloggers keep a running internet commentary about a myriad of things, usually focusing on a particular subject or two of their choosing. Somewhat like a columnist on the internet instead of in a newspaper. Ted writes about Paris and wine and being an ex-pat. It’s fun.” When no one responded, she said, “He and Max went to university together.”

  “Mon Dieu! He’s young!”

  “I was right, then,” Jacques said, a smug look on his face.

  All Olivier could think was that Léa was sounding more American than French and that it had to be the influence of her new American lover. “Congratulations.” He lifted his glass. Marie-Christine and Jacques refused to raise their glasses. In the spirit of compromise, they took a quiet sip.

  “Oh, dear, the soufflé has dropped,” Marie-Christine said. Mimi had left a salad and a plate of various cheeses. Olivier assured his hostess that it would be fine. The repast was, in fact, delicious, though he noticed that he was the only one eating with relish. “The kids will be back shortly, and there will be no conversation after that. Léa, I must speak to you about what I read in the paper about Baptiste Dupuis buying up shares as fast as he can in your company.”

  “I suspect someone in my company is telling him who’s vulnerable. He’s being predatory, but he doesn’t have a chance unless I die.” She smiled at her sister’s contorted face. “Or sell.”

  “Sell? Why now?”

  Too late. They heard a car drive in, and from the parking area came peals of laughter, enough to cause Marie-Christine to focus her disapproval onto someone else. “Chloé changes around her American friend. She becomes l’idiote.” Jacques and Olivier exchanged a smile.

  “She’s too serious,” Léa said. “And so is Marc. Let her be.”

  Marie-Christine, putting her hand over her sister’s, said, “It’s hard to imagine what our mother would be thinking if she were here today, Léa.”

  Léa looked impatient. “The question is, what do you think?”

  “Change frightens me. You know that.”

  “And the baby?”

  Olivier saw the vulnerability in Léa’s eyes. She would need her sister this time. Marie-Christine said, “It’s the biggest change of all, but I will try to adapt. You are approaching forty and I can’t blame you for wanting a child. I only wish the father was French.”

  Chloé and Marc were upon them, followed by a tall woman with short, platinum blond hair and a wide grin that lit up her face. “Hi,” she said enthusiastically, going over to exchange kisses with Marie-Christine, and giving her a strong embrace that made the older woman flinch slightly. Jacques was next, and he stood, and, obviously amused, bestowed kisses on the foreigner.

  Then, fixing her gaze on Olivier and Léa, she said, “Max Maguire,” and stuck out her hand.

  Olivier stood. “Olivier Chaumont,” he said, extending his hand, noticing her ample lips. He also noticed a stain on her white shirt, which she didn’t bother to hide.

  “Oh,” Marie-Christine said, “Your shirt.”

  Max laughed. “My dad and I stopped and chased three guys on the way to the airport. They’re sitting in jail now.”

  Léa smiled up at her. “That makes you a heroine. Or with a name like Max, a hero. Is it a nickname?”

  “My parents couldn’t agree on a name. My mother claimed she was reading the poems of Maxine Kunin at the time, but I think my father thought I was being named after his uncle.”

  Olivier was intrigued by how Max appeared to be in perpetual motion, even when standing still. Léa glanced over at him, and then back at the American. He could tell she was amused by her. Marc picked up Max’s suitcase. “Which room?”

  “I’ll show you,” Chloé said, and they ran off.

  Max sat in the chair next to Léa, who slid her flute of champagne in front of her, then focused her attention on Olivier, “Will you please come with me to the airport to pick up a gentleman who is coming in from Germany?”

  “Who?” Marie-Christine demanded.

  “It’s my last wild card of the day. I’m going to use him to rebuff any further offers from Baptiste Dupuis.”

  Marie-Christine eyed her sister suspiciously. “I can’t imagine this business deal taking precedence over our wedding weekend.” Léa pouted. “And he is not invited to the wedding. The seating arrangements are done.”

  “He’s flying in and out in his own plane, and is due to arrive shortly. Thank you, chérie.” Marie-Christine didn’t respond, except to get up and march indoors. Léa gave Olivier a beseeching look, and he stood, a little reluctantly. It seemed rude to leave the newly-arrived detective, who had sat quietly listening.

  He turned to her and raised his glass slightly. “A votre santé. You must speak French if you studied in Paris?”

  “Un peu,” she said. “I’m afraid I was more interested in partying than learning. But I can read Le Petit Prince in French.”

  Léa glanced at her watch impatiently. “On y va, Olivier. I’m late.”

  “My apologies,” he said to Max, and realized he was lingering. Max smiled, and fluttered her fingers at him.

  Once they were out of earshot, Léa teased, “Do I notice a flirtation, or am I imagining things?”

  “Since when did a simple question turn into flirtation?” He liked bantering with Léa.

  “Did Chloé tell you Max is a detective?”

  “I assumed something of the sort after her story of chasing criminals.”

  They both lowered themselves into the little car. “I think she’s just the dalliance you need. Someone who strikes me as uninhibited, and she’s obviously in good shape. Much better shape than you’re in, I have to say. I can recommend a gym.”

  “That helps my recovering ego.”

  Léa laughed and blew the horn spontaneously, motioning for Max to join them. Max leaped up and jogged over to where Léa and Olivier sat in the little convertible.

  “Jump in.”

  Before Olivier could open his door, Max had lifted a long
leg over the side of the car and hoisted herself into the back seat. Léa peeled out the driveway. Was there a female conspiracy afoot, Olivier wondered.

  Chapter Three

  Max had to lean forward to hear what Olivier and Léa were saying. She was curious to see if she could follow their French before joining in. Occasionally a worker in the vineyards would wave, and she would stick up her hand. The car slowed as Léa followed the directions on her GPS, then she spoke to Olivier in French, “Hans Keller is coming with the determination to purchase de Saint-Pern. I might consider his offer and move to California with Ted.”

  “That counts as two wild cards. I hate to sound like your sister, but aren’t you going a little too fast?”

  Léa laughed, “Are you referring to my car or my life?” She grew more serious, “Maybe being on the verge of forty has something to do with it. Now that you’ve cut the strings from Diane, don’t you have a desire to be a little wild?”

  Max’s ears pricked up.

  “Wild? Bordeaux will be a change.”

  “Oh, Olivier, I’m not talking about a move like that. You need somebody to loosen you up. The way Ted is teaching me to be more casual. To have fun.”

  “I never realized that was a problem for you.” She turned a hard stare on him, but her face softened when she saw that he meant no harm. She wheeled into the area designated for private planes and stopped. “That has to be him,” she said, looking at the tall, slender man speaking to an airport employee. He turned and put up his hand.

  Léa said to the backseat in English, “Sorry for all the French. We’ll be switching to English.” Max knew they had assumed from her Petit Prince remark that she was completely ignorant of French, but being the nosey woman that she prided herself on being, she thought she might carry this on a little longer. Hank had emphasized the importance of using the senses, the way an actor would. Eavesdropping on strangers’ conversations had become a hobby. Olivier and Léa would never have spoken so freely had they known she understood what they were saying.