The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(20)

Du Monde put a hand on his wife’s arm. “Come now, ma petite. You know Madame is retired now. Monsieur Martel is dedicated to working the vineyard on his own terms. He’s a man of science. He even believes he can measure the precise moment when the sugar in the grape is at its peak.”

“But of course he can.”

“Yes, but he tests it by reading the color on a piece of paper.”

Gerda scrunched her nose at her husband. “Is it a form of scrying? I’ve never heard of it before.”

“It’s not magic, it’s a . . . what do you call it?”

“It’s called a pH test, a way to measure the acidity in the grape to determine the best time to harvest.”

“Ach, quatsch,” she said, her native language bleeding through. “What does science have to do with wine? The only way to know if a grape has reached its proper ripeness is to taste it, feel the juice run in the mouth, grind the bitter skin between the teeth, check the color of the seeds. After that it’s a matter of intuition. There’s only so much vine work Mother Nature can bear without the assistance of a witch. We’re the midwives of good wine, from conception to delivery.”

Jean-Paul was just forming a retort in his mouth when Madame returned carrying a bottle of wine from the cellar. He held back his remark and then shrank a little inside, worried she might offer his most recent vintage out of some misguided sense of vineyard hospitality. He knew it was an inferior wine unfit for the palate of the great vigneron of Domaine du Monde. Madame uncorked the bottle, a sly smile forming in the corners of her mouth. He understood the old woman’s stubborn pride in thinking Chateau Renard was still one of the great vineyards in the valley, but he appreciated the enormous gap that stretched between his best effort so far and that of the man sitting across from him. And yet, as Madame well knew, etiquette demanded he offer Renard wine to his guests, so he must swallow his sour grapes with humility.

And then he recognized the faded label on the bottle.

She poured the garnet drink into crystal glasses, and he sat up a little straighter. The wine danced and sparkled in the glass as it passed from host to guest in front of the lamplight. Gerda accepted the wine graciously, a slight wrinkle forming between her brows. It deepened when her nose passed over the top of the offering. She gave the wine a swirl, and Jean-Paul knew if there was ever magic in the world it was in that glass of perfectly blended seven-year-old pinot noir. Madame knew it, too, as her perceptive eyes watched for the reaction.

Gerda took the wine into her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed slightly as her tongue slid back and forth, tasting. An average customer sipping the wine for the first time would commonly raise his brows in surprise at this point and remark about its uncommon smoothness. A connoisseur would sniff and then describe the robust and complicated layers of velvety plums, smoke, and currants on the tongue. But the self-proclaimed vine witch said nothing. Not in words anyway. Yet her face betrayed that first moment of insecurity one feels when they know they’ve been outdone. If she could have spit it out, he believed she would have spewed the contents on the rug. She swallowed instead, as if it were a tadpole in her mouth rather than one of the finest wines ever produced in the valley. He was witnessing the taste of envy.

Du Monde, on the other hand, approached his wine as a man forced to take his medicine. But as he swallowed, his tongue most certainly pressing against the soft palate in his mouth to be sure of what it had just tasted, he sheepishly avoided looking at his wife, as if he’d just been caught kissing another woman. He did, however, glance at Madame, who confirmed his suspicions with the slight upward flick of her eyebrow.

“One of Chateau Renard’s finest vintages, madame.” Du Monde raised his glass in a gesture of admiration. He took another sip, nodded approvingly, and then set his glass down. “Thank you for serving this particular wine. In truth, it makes what I’m about to propose even more significant.”

Madame straightened, holding her head at a tilt. Jean-Paul, too, tensed slightly, drawn in by the curious phrasing.

“Monsieur Martel, as I’m sure you are aware, I am a businessman as well as a winemaker.” He paused to formulate his next words. “Perhaps providence stranded me outside your door today. You see, I remember this vintage distinctly. It bested my first solo entry in le Concours des Vins. That was the first time I understood what it meant to create something truly magnificent and have the world take notice. And, if I may be brutally honest, it may have been the last time Chateau Renard produced such an exquisite vintage.”

“Bastien . . .” The word came out as a growl of warning in Madame’s throat.

“Monsieur Martel, you are a lawyer by trade, if I’m not mistaken. A man who understands the art of negotiation.”

“Please, call me Jean-Paul.”

“Of course. Now that we have shared wine, we can be direct with one another. You have been in the wine business for three years, have you not? And in that time you have had, shall we say, three years of disappointing harvests.” Du Monde gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Surely we can agree it is not a forgiving trade for the novice.”

Jean-Paul squirmed in his chair, wishing to defend his efforts at the vineyard but knowing in his heart the man across from him was telling the truth. He only wished the wife didn’t stare at him so intently. He swore he could feel her thoughts pressing in on his own.