The Winemaker's Wife(83)

She hugged the shadows as she traced the familiar route to the rue Jeanne d’Arc, just two blocks away. She hadn’t seen Antoine since January, two months ago, and she hoped he hadn’t replaced her with a new ma?tresse.

But his apartment was dark and silent, and when she knocked again and again, no one came to the door. He wasn’t there. She sagged into herself and began to turn away when she realized something. She still had his key! Was it still tucked into the lining of her handbag, where she’d kept it hidden from Michel?

She fished around, tearing the fabric aside, until her fingers settled on something small and cold. She closed her eyes and exhaled in relief. She withdrew the key and turned it in the lock, letting herself into the apartment. Though she had hoped for some comfort from Antoine, she realized as soon as she closed the door behind her that she was grateful to instead find herself alone. In the dark loneliness, there would be no one to judge her, no one to ignore her, no one to reject her.

She lit a lamp she found near the door, and immediately the light glinted off the small collection of bottles Antoine kept in the corner for entertaining. She wondered with a surprising surge of jealousy whether he’d had other women drinking with him since she had departed. Pushing the voices in her head away, she headed for the bottles and poured herself a large snifter of cognac. She swallowed it down in one large gulp, the brown liquid burning her throat, searing warmth into her belly. A few minutes later, the magic had reached her brain, and all of a sudden, the things that had seemed so terrible a little while ago were more manageable. She poured herself another drink and, taking the bottle with her, went to sit on the sofa in the parlor. The more she drank, the more it felt like things might just be all right.

? ? ?

Inès awoke sometime later to the scratching sound of a key in the lock, laughter and voices outside the apartment, a creaking door, and then silence. “Who’s there?” Antoine’s voice cut through the darkness, and beneath it, the murmurs of a woman.

Inès struggled upright. Her head throbbed. She’d lost count of how many snifters of cognac she’d had, how long she’d been sitting in the dark. Now the room came slowly into focus, and Inès could see Antoine glaring at her from the doorway while the rail-thin, heavily made-up blond woman behind him—clad in towering heels and a silk dress—gaped at her.

“Inès?” Antoine said, breaking the heavy silence. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” Inès said. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

He cursed under his breath and stared at her for another minute. “Wait here,” he barked, then slammed the door, shutting her in and taking the blonde with him. When he returned ten minutes later, he was alone, his expression furious.

“Who was that?” Inès asked in a small voice.

His face purpled with rage. “You can’t possibly be serious. You have no right to ask that. You ended things between us two months ago, Inès. And now you stand here in my apartment, questioning me? How did you even get in?”

“I still had your key. I—I thought you’d be alone.”

“What, you thought I was sitting around pining for you?” He sneered at her. “I forgot you the moment you left, Inès. What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?”

She opened her mouth, ready to unload on him, but what came out instead was a single, exhausted sob. “I need you,” she whispered, trying—and failing—to pull herself to her feet. “I didn’t intend . . . I mean, I . . .”

“Are you drunk?” Antoine asked, recoiling in disgust. “What is wrong with you?”

“My husband,” she mumbled. “He was sleeping with the wife of the winemaker, who’s pregnant, but it turns out that the baby isn’t her husband’s, and that my husband got her pregnant, and I think he’s actually in love with her, and . . .” She trailed off, no longer sure of where she was going with this.

Antoine stared at her, and she couldn’t tell whether the look in his eyes was one of revulsion or pity. “Christ. Come to bed, Inès. You’re a wreck. You can tell me in the morning.”

“But in the morning, nobody will love me,” Inès moaned, the words running together. A yawn swallowed the rest of what she wanted to say, and Antoine all at once looked very tired.

“You need to sleep,” he said, but she was already drifting off into the blackness as he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

? ? ?

When she finally opened her eyes again, it was too bright. She squinted at the clock in the corner of the bedroom. Noon? She sat up abruptly, which made her head spin. How had she slept half the day? Michel must be worried sick. But then, in an instant, it all came rushing back—Céline, the baby, her midnight flight to Reims—and she sank back into the pillows, horrified. Had she really let herself into Antoine’s apartment last night, poured cognac down her throat until she could hardly see, sobbed to him about Michel? Her head throbbed, reminding her that the answer was yes.

A key turned in the lock, and Inès heard footsteps in the apartment. The door to the bedroom cracked open, and Antoine stood there. He was dressed in a suit, and he looked dashing, victorious, his silver hair slicked back and his eyes gleaming. “Ah, she’s finally awake,” he singsonged. He strode into the bedroom and opened the drapes all the way, sending far too much sunshine pouring into the room. Inès put her hands over her eyes, but Antoine just laughed. “You had quite a lot to drink last night, my dear.”