The Winemaker's Wife(33)

“And what if the Germans came looking for me because of what you’re doing here?”

Michel didn’t answer. As she glowered back, something flickered in his eyes, and in that instant, Inès found herself wondering whether he loved her anymore. There was no warmth in his expression now, no forgiveness. He saw her as the enemy, a threat. She hadn’t been a perfect wife to him, but she deserved more than this.

“Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?” she asked.

“Inès, it doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course it does,” she said softly. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“I . . .” Michel hesitated. “It’s not that. It’s just—I can’t involve you in this.”

She took one last look at the rifles, and felt a strange sensation of pieces slipping into place, the future being locked in. “Well then, good night,” she said, then she turned away and retraced her steps into the blank, frigid night. Somewhere in the distance, a lone dog howled, and as the wind picked up, Inès could feel tears freezing on her cheeks.

? ? ?

In the morning, Inès slept late without meaning to. Now that they were in the dead of winter, the sun didn’t rise until well past eight in the morning. Most days, Inès was up much earlier, stoking the fire, readying the house for the day ahead, brewing ersatz coffee made from malt and acorn for Michel, scrounging up what she could for a small breakfast. But last night’s discovery had left her drained, and since Michel never returned to bed, there was no one to wake her.

She went to the window and peered out into the cold morning, but the footprints in the snow were long gone, all traces of the shadowy visitor and Inès’s argument with Michel already erased. She quickly dressed for the day, piling her hair into a bun and pulling on the sweater Céline had made for her. But it quickly felt itchy and oppressive, so she took it off and shoved it back into a drawer.

When she finally made it downstairs, she could hear sounds outside the window as she began to put away the dishes stacked on the counter. She recognized Michel’s voice, and then Céline’s high-pitched laughter. Something shifted in Inès, and she gripped the counter to steady herself. Michel was laughing now, too, the deep sound of it drifting in through the windowpane. Anger dug its spikes into Inès’s skin. She was the one who knew her husband’s secrets, who had agreed to bear the risks of his decisions, and he was outside entertaining Céline?

She pulled aside the curtain slightly. Michel stood just centimeters from Céline as he leaned in close to murmur something. Was Inès imagining something romantic between them? That was crazy, though, right? Inès thought she knew her husband well enough to say that he would never betray the vows of their marriage, but last night had proven that she didn’t really know him at all.

Céline laughed again at something Michel said and they stood staring at each other for a long moment. It was the kind of look lovers shared before they kissed. But then Céline pulled back, and Michel turned to go toward the caves. Still, Inès had seen enough.

She wouldn’t be made a fool of. She wasn’t going to sit here in sleepy Ville-Dommange, playing the role of the submissive wife, while he made dangerous decisions about their future and flirted with the wife of his chef de cave. She smashed the dinner plate she had been drying against the floor, and out the window, she could see Michel’s head snap in her direction. He started toward the house, but she was already turning away, heading for the stairs to pack a small suitcase.

She didn’t care anymore that Michel needed the car; let him catch a ride with one of his shadowy friends if he had to. If Michel had decided that Inès wasn’t enough for him, and that he needed to risk her life in order to protect Céline, then so be it. She was going to Reims.





thirteen


FEBRUARY 1942





CéLINE


After Michel disappeared into the main house, Céline wondered whether Inès had seen her talking to him and had misinterpreted the conversation. Had she been laughing too hard with him? Had her body language betrayed the increasing closeness she felt to him? Certainly she’d been feeling things she shouldn’t, but she hadn’t acted on them, of course. She would never do that.

In reality, Michel had only asked her whether she was quite well. “You look a bit under the weather,” he’d said, and she’d laughed, explaining that Theo had recruited her last night to taste a few different vintages of Chauveau, to make sure his 1938 was developing consistently, and that perhaps she’d had too much. Michel had still seemed concerned, though. “I don’t mean to pry,” he had said, “but if there is something weighing on your mind, you can always come to me.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she had replied. After all, what would she say—that his concern meant a great deal to her, because her own husband seemed not to care at all? That she felt lonelier than she ever had, and that sleeping next to Theo now felt like sleeping with a stranger? That she couldn’t bring herself to speak her fears about her father aloud to Theo anymore, because she knew he would react with a shrug and then change the subject to fermentation or the health of the vines? All of those things would be a betrayal of her husband, and so she merely shook her head and said, “I—I should begin work.”