The Winemaker's Wife(82)

But Inès was no longer looking at Michel. She was looking at the woman who had been beneath him. “Céline?” she whispered in disbelief.

The other woman’s naked breasts hung huge and tender, her skin stretched pale and tight over her swollen belly as she groped around for blankets to cover herself. Inès could hardly believe what she was seeing. How could Michel betray her with someone she knew, someone who had pretended to be her friend? And all while Céline was carrying Theo’s child in her womb! It was unimaginable.

But then, in a terrible flash of clarity, Inès understood the truth in front of her. How had she been so blind? “Your baby,” she whispered to Céline, who looked stricken but still hadn’t said a word. “It is Michel’s, isn’t it?”

Michel was speaking now, as he fastened his trousers, but his voice sounded far away. Inès was alone in a tunnel of grief. She knew the answer in her bones before Céline said the words.

“Yes,” Céline whispered, tears coursing down her ruined face. “I’m so, so sorry, Inès!”

Inès couldn’t find the words to reply. Instead, she slowly backed out of the cave, and then she turned and ran. Their pleas for forgiveness echoed behind her and then faded into nothing.

? ? ?

It wasn’t until Inès was in the car, flying through Ville-Dommange in the moonlit darkness, that she began to cry. She had been in the house for ten minutes before climbing angrily into the Citro?n with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, and in that time—as she packed and threw clothing on—Michel hadn’t come after her. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t emerged from the cellars at all, and neither had Céline. Even when caught, even when cornered, they had chosen each other. And in a strange way, that hurt more than anything.

As the shadows of Reims came into view—sooner than they should have, for Inès was driving far too quickly—her grief had begun to crystallize into something darker: fury. Cold, hard fury.

She swerved to avoid a dead animal in the road and nearly careened into a ditch, but she managed to right the car at the last minute, the tires protesting on the dirt. By the time she rolled into the dark center of Reims, she was vibrating with the force of her anger.

She parked a few blocks from the Brasserie Moulin and ran there, hugging the shadows, hoping beyond hope that the place was still open. It was; Edouard was tidying things behind the bar while Edith tended to the only customers in the place, a long table of laughing German officers, some of them so drunk they were flopped onto the table, half asleep. Edith was leaning in close, listening to something one of the Germans was saying, when the door banged closed behind Inès. Edith’s head jerked up, and several of the Germans spun to stare at her.

Relief coursed through Inès—her best friend would know what to do—but the feeling was short-lived. Edith charged across the restaurant, her face frozen in anger, and grabbed Inès by the arm.

“Edith, I—” Inès said.

“What are you doing here?” Edith hissed, already dragging her toward the stairs in the back of the restaurant.

“I needed to see you, Edith, because—”

“Don’t you see that I’m in the middle of something important?” Edith said, glancing over her shoulder and flashing a fake, sunny smile in the direction of the Germans she’d just been talking to. One of them waved pleasantly and returned to his conversation.

“Please, Edith.” Inès was crying now. “Michel has betrayed me, and—”

“I want to talk with you, Inès, but I can’t right now. Those officers over there were just discussing battle plans. I need to hear what they’re saying. Go wait for me in the apartment.”

“But—”

“Now, Inès!” Edith hurried away, and Inès glanced at Edouard, who was glaring at her from behind the bar as he filled beers. A few of the Germans were looking in her direction, but they returned their attention to their drinks as soon as Edith hustled back over with a fresh tray. Inès continued to weep as she hurried up the stairs, letting herself into the apartment.

No one wanted Inès. She was a fool in everyone’s eyes, an unwelcome nuisance. She hated Michel right now, but she hated herself more. How had she been so blind? The minutes ticked by, and a hot ball of anger roiled in her stomach. Where was Edith? Hadn’t she seen how distraught Inès was? Surely she had collected whatever information she needed by now. Was Inès really so insignificant to her? The longer she sat on the tufted sofa in the center of Edith’s apartment, the more her frustration mounted until she was filled with it, inflated like a balloon ready to burst.

A half hour crawled by, and then another. From below, Inès could hear voices, laughter. The Germans were still drinking, still carousing, still spilling their secrets. It was becoming clear that Edith wouldn’t be upstairs anytime soon, and the loneliness was closing in. Inès stood up, a snap decision made. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she let herself out the back entrance and hurried down the stairs. She couldn’t go home, but if not to Edith, where else was she to turn?

There was just one person in the world who had actually wanted to be around her. And though he wasn’t a good man, he was a man who had seen her, even coveted her. Despite her misgivings, she needed to be seen now, by someone, or she would go mad. She would go to Antoine, just for tonight, and worry about the consequences in the morning.