“Then we were going to stay here,” said Marlow.
“Ah,” said Guillaume. “Vrécourt is not so close, and I wonder how you will get there, and back for that matter, tomorrow. Have you already paid?”
“No,” said Sabine. “It was just a reservation.”
“I don’t live far. You must be exhausted. Come. Be my guests for the night.”
“You’re too kind, but …” Marlow trailed off. There it was again—her WASPy upbringing internal voice, urging her to politely reject help to save face. Show she was independent. In control. What was so bad about letting others see you were making things up as you went? Wasn’t everyone jury-rigging life?
Screw pretension. “That would be really nice,” she said.
The minibus was gone from the Nenier lot. Guillaume put their luggage into his trunk and held open the door for Sabine, who folded herself into the small back seat. Then Marlow got in, but the seat was so low, it caught her by surprise, and she flopped into it inelegantly.Great. Look like a fool in front of the hot French guy. Just perfect.
Guillaume got in and off they went. Someone else was in the driver’s seat. Thank God.
It was a ten-minute drive through a valley of hamlets, farms, and fields, to gates next to which was a sign on a wine barrel that readChampagne Fortin. Marlow couldn’t believe it. This guy was a champagne maker.
“Let me see where Madame Klein is in dinner preparations,” he said as they turned into the driveway.
“We don’t want to be a bother,” said Marlow.
“It is no bother. We often have impromptu guests. In the meantime, I can take you on a tour to distract you from your jet lag.”
They should just stay here the whole trip. Why not? It was perfect. A dream. Better than a dream, because it was real.
Guillaume took them across a courtyard to a church-like building, beyond which acres of vineyards splayed out in long rows.
“My family bought this property from monks several generations ago—this was their abbey. I told you about the phylloxera problem which devastated our wine industry. It has been so hard to rebuild in this region, my closest colleagues are an hour away. Even we were forced to start from scratch, and if it were not for my family’s deep pockets, we might not have made it. We want this area to be known for its champagne. And if we can continue to build back the business, it would help with jobs, and we would have less need for …”
“One-euro programs?”
“I mean no offense. You are welcome. I will do anything for this community.”
Upstairs in the abbey was a showroom where they sold champagne and gave tastings; below were cellars with stone, arched ceilings, filled with bottles on their side, row upon row.
“Once the wine is bottled, it undergoes a second fermentation, turning it into champagne. This we callprise de mousse—capturing the sparkle.”
Ever the gentleman, he moved to the side so Marlow and Sabine could step through a low, arched passage first.
This man sure captures some sparkle, thought Marlow.And this place, too.
“We add aliqueur de tirage—a mixture of still wine, sugar, and yeast. This makes the bubbles. Then the bottles are kept here, protected from light, ready to mature. There is a process called riddling: turning the bottles.Les remueurs—the bottle turners—turn the bottles a little at a time, marking them with chalk to keep track. Goodremueurscan turn forty thousand bottles in a day, for four to six weeks, twenty-five turns each.”
“What does the turning do?” asked Sabine.
“You see how the bottles are tilted downwards?” he said, running his fingers along the bottles as though they were parts of him. His signet ring made a little clinking sound against the glass like a wind chime in the breeze. “The sediment, small and bigger, settles in the neck through this process of turning. Then, it is disgorgement: we remove the sediment and prepare for the next stage of the process. Eventually, it is champagne. Come. We will drink some with dinner. I think Madame Klein will be ready.”
“Do you run this vineyard by yourself?” asked Marlow. “It’s so much work.”
“I run the day-to-day business, work on the company vision, consider expansion, make sure we uphold the family name. My sister, Lise, a vintner, used to run the winery, but now mostly travels. And my brother, Paul, takes care of the financials from his house in Paris. My parents are in Paris as well—they’re too old to run it now—but they watch over what we do with a bald eagle eye.”
Sabine smiled. Guillaume caught it. “Did I make a mistake? It’s not bald eagle eye?”
“You can just say eagle eye.”
“Your English is very good,” said Marlow, “despite what my rude daughter might say.”
“I learned it at Harvard where I went for my MBA,” said Guillaume.
