The Winemaker's Wife(21)

“It’s a relief to have many of the men back,” Inès said to Michel over an early dinner on the Wednesday before the first grapes were to be picked. Since he’d returned from his short stint in prison several months earlier, speaking of de Gaulle and resistance, there had been even more distance between them, and she missed him, even when he was sitting right across the table from her. “Perhaps we will have a chance now to spend a bit more time together once the harvest is done.”

“Inès, that’s hardly the issue.” He didn’t even look at her. “These men were being forced to work for Germany, and now they’re home and safe. We should be thanking God for their freedom!”

“Yes, of course, I know.” Inès could feel her cheeks flaming. It seemed that everything she said these days was incorrect or somehow offensive. She scratched her arm. “I only mean that I was hoping we’d have some time to ourselves one of these days. We both work so very hard, and you’ve been so tired . . .”

“Inès, we’re at war. What do you expect?” Michel put his spoon down and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just worry sometimes that you don’t grasp the magnitude of what’s happening here.”

“I’m not an imbecile, Michel.”

“I know you’re not. But Céline understands what’s going on, and I can’t understand why you—”

“So you are comparing me to Céline.” Lately, whenever Inès dared comment on the way the Germans had impacted their lives, Michel seemed barely able to contain his annoyance, but whenever Céline spoke about the same matters, he paused and listened intently. It was a small thing, Inès knew, but it hurt her just the same.

“Of course not. It’s just that the weight on my shoulders feels very heavy right now, and—”

“Then let me help!” Inès blinked back tears, because she’d made the mistake of crying in front of him more than once in the past few months. His response was never to comfort her anymore; it was to turn away in frustration, and she didn’t want to lose him again right now. She wanted him to hear her, to understand that she wasn’t nagging him. “I’m your wife, Michel. I should be sharing the burden.”

He stood abruptly. “Excuse me, Inès. I have some things to attend to.”

“But . . . you didn’t finish your dinner,” Inès said in a small voice.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, though that wasn’t possible. The rations were getting tighter, the food quality poorer. They were lucky to live in the countryside, where they were able to grow some vegetables and keep a few chickens and rabbits, but still, there was never enough to eat. “I’m going to head back down to the caves. Don’t wait up.”

He was gone before she could say another word. In silence, Inès finished the rest of her soup, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, the rest of Michel’s, too. As she washed the dishes, Inès glanced at the clock on the wall, the inexpensive one the Germans had left behind when they toted away Michel’s generations-old grandfather clock. Five minutes before seven. It was still early, and Inès knew that with nearly an hour of daylight left, and with Michel likely swallowed by the cellars for the remainder of the evening, she’d once again be lonely. It wasn’t fair; he wasn’t the only one tortured by the war, worried about the fate of the business.

She put the dish towel down, smoothed her skirt, and made a decision. She would go into Reims for the night to see Edith. What harm could that do? Though the main city was only sixteen kilometers away, she hadn’t been there in months because the tasks around the champagne house were so never-ending and arduous, and because Michel didn’t like her to travel alone. But if he wanted to treat her as if she were useless, she wasn’t going to sit around and grovel. Besides, she missed her best friend terribly. More than that, she missed her old life, the one she’d had before Edith had met Edouard, before Inès had followed Edith to Champagne, before everything had become so difficult.

Without giving herself time to rethink the decision, she dashed up the stairs, threw on the first decent dress she could find—a red one with butterfly sleeves and a long A-line skirt that swished at her calves, which she’d bought in 1938 just before she’d left Lille—and added her black two-inch pumps, the soles of which had grown so thin that it was uncomfortable to be on her feet for more than an hour or so. But before she’d met Michel, they’d been the shoes that made men do double takes, and she wanted to be looked at like that tonight. She couldn’t remember the last time Michel had gazed at her admiringly.

She drew a line down the back of each calf with an eye pencil to mimic the seams of stockings, and swiped on black mascara and red lipstick, though her supplies of each were dwindling. Her hair was a lost cause, so she clipped it on each side. Grabbing her black handbag, she went downstairs and out the back door.

“Michel!” she called down into the entrance to the cellars. There was no reply, and she wasn’t going to waste time trooping around beneath the earth in search of someone who didn’t want to be found.

Five minutes later, after leaving a scribbled message on the dining table, Inès headed out the front door, the keys to the Citro?n in her hand.

“Inès?”