The Winemaker's Wife(76)

But Inès wasn’t looking at the still form of Richter; she was staring in horror at Céline. “My God! You’re covered in blood. What did he do to you? Did he . . . ?”

“You got here before he did what he came to do.”

“So the baby . . . ?”

Céline closed her eyes and placed her hand on her belly. She could feel the familiar wingbeat of motion in her womb as the baby shifted within her. “The baby is safe, thank God. But Inès, we have to move quickly. We have to make sure he can’t come after us.” Céline tugged her skirt back down and squatted at Richter’s side, her hands supporting her belly. She glanced at Inès, who still had the bottle hoisted high, a weapon if they needed it. With shaking, blood-slicked hands, Céline reached for Richter’s neck, moving her fingers around until she felt a faint pulse. “He’s still alive,” she said, backing up quickly, as if he might awaken at any time and finish what he’d started. She looked up at Inès. “You—you saved me. How did you know?”

Inès finally turned her attention to Richter. “I saw him from the window, dragging you toward the cellars. I knew you were in trouble.”

“Thank you.” The words were woefully inadequate. “But what now?”

Inès was still focused on the crumpled German officer. “If he wakes up, we’ll all be executed.”

“Yes,” Céline whispered.

“So we cannot let him wake up. That is all there is to it.”

“But what do we do?”

“We wait,” Inès said. She bent beside Richter and carefully pulled his handgun from his holster, then she stood again, the gun trained directly on him. “We wait for Michel to come home. He will know what to do.”





twenty-six


JUNE 2019





LIV


Julien arrived at the Maison Chauveau just before the five o’clock tour began, leaving barely enough time for him to kiss both Liv and Grandma Edith on their cheeks before disappearing to purchase a ticket.

“I had forgotten,” Grandma Edith said as she regarded Liv with amusement, “just how silly people act when they are in love.”

Liv realized that she was still touching the spot on her face where Julien’s lips had been, and she hurried to put her hands behind her back. “I’m not in love, Grandma Edith,” she protested, aware that her face was probably flaming. “It’s just a crush.”

“Crushes are for children,” her grandmother said, raising an eyebrow. “And you are most certainly not a child.”

Julien rejoined them just as a college-aged man moved to the front of the waiting area and called out, “Everyone for the English-language tour, please assemble here! We’re about to get started.”

Grandma Edith herded Liv toward the tour guide, and Julien followed. “English, can you believe it?” Grandma Edith said to Julien. “The sacrifices I make for my granddaughter.”

“I heard that,” Liv said.

The older woman rolled her eyes at Julien, who laughed.

“Welcome, everyone, to La Maison Chauveau, the House of Chauveau, a world-famous champagne house here in Ville-Dommange, France,” the tour guide began as the group—two middle-aged couples in addition to Liv, Julien, and Grandma Edith—edged closer. “My name is René, and I grew up not far from here. In fact, when I was a boy, my father worked in the cellars here at Maison Chauveau, so you could say I grew up with the legends of this place. I will begin by telling you a bit about the history, and then we will visit the cellars.”

Liv’s mind wandered as René began to talk about the Chauveau family founding the house just after the French Revolution, and growing it in the middle of the nineteenth century along with their pioneering neighbors to the south, the widow Clicquot and Jean-Remy Mo?t.

Liv glanced at Grandma Edith, who had a stricken expression on her face. “What’s wrong with her?” Liv whispered to Julien, who frowned and shook his head. “Is this because she was friends with the woman who owned this place? The one who died?” Liv continued, earning her a glare from one of the tourists in their group, a middle-aged woman wearing too-tight leggings and running shoes.

“Shhhhh,” the woman hissed, and Liv narrowed her eyes.

“I think your grandmother is okay,” Julien said in a low voice, and Liv turned her attention back to the tour guide.

“Along with the rest of the Marne, Ville-Dommange was nearly destroyed during the First World War, and the Chauveau family, along with many others in the region, lost almost everything,” René was saying. “The Marne suffered more damage than most other French departments. As for the grapes, forty percent of the vineyards of Champagne were ruined during the war, and it took many years for the region to recover. The Chauveaus were one of the families hardest hit, and it is said that this strain contributed to the early death of the house’s owner, Maurice Chauveau, in 1935. His wife, Jacqueline, died the same year, and the maison was taken over by their only son, Michel Chauveau, who was then just twenty-one years old.”

Grandma Edith made a choking sound, and then she began to cough violently, doubling over as Liv rushed to her side. René stopped speaking, his forehead creased in concern, and while the legginged tourist continued to glare at them, Grandma Edith finally straightened and held a shaking hand up.