The Winemaker's Wife(18)

“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.