Lunch was slabs of still-hot bread, smothered in butter, and bowls of steaming borscht with a dollop of sour cream topped with fresh dill.
Fedir was almost bald, clean-shaven, polite, sinewy. Suspenders held up his pants. He smiled a lot but did not speak much English and had broken French, so Lali translated for him.
“We bought this house on a moment,” said Lali. “I read about the one-euro program at a medical conference in Italy, and when Putin invaded, Fedir left his job as a civil engineer, Yakiv left his good school, we took out as much money as possible, closed the door on our apartment, and left.”
Yakiv climbed into Fedir’s lap, leaned into his chest, and played with his father’s earlobe as his eyelids drooped. Marlow’s father had always been rushing off to work, or, if at home,Report on Businessin his lap instead of a child. She stole a glance at Sabine who also watched Yakiv fall asleep on Fedir. Sabine had not had a father at all.
“Your reasons for buying this house are way more important than mine,” said Marlow. “You seem to have your act together in pretty much every way.”
“Thank you, but I am working on things also,” said Lali. “I may never be a doctor again—even though I studied in Poland, I cannot afford to get my license in France. So I threw away my career—Fedir’s, too. I left my parents behind. Every day I ask, did we do the right thing?” Lali let that go with a sigh. “So. Maison Perdue. Where do you begin?”
“I need to clean up outside. Get the electricity turned on. Repaint. Replace the broken windows and shutters. Redecorate, I suppose, with a nothing budget …”
“There are stores in Neufchâteau,” said Lali. “Fedir can borrow a truck from the winery.”
“That’s very kind,” said Marlow. “So Fedir works for a winery?”
“Yes, Maison Fortin. They are the big employer in the region.”
“We know Guillaume,” said Marlow. “He has been a massive help.”
“Guillaume has helped us, too. Sometimes, after tastings, Guillaume offers Fedir the open bottles to bring home. We take a table, food, and the champagne to the top of the hill and pretend we are a royal family, eating in our castle, and that all the valley is our kingdom. It is Yakiv’s favorite game. You and Sabine must come.”
“We’d love that,” said Marlow. “I will find something for us to contribute. I am not a cook, but I am very talented at buying pastries and pretending I made them myself.”
“Then between you pretending you cooked, and us pretending we are rich enough to drink champagne, we will make the best neighbors.”
She offered more borscht. Marlow, feeling at home, couldn’t resist.
“I’m sorry you will leave in September,” said Lali. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”
“How could we? I have a whole life to pay for in Toronto.”
“But if you bought a house for one little euro, that takes care of so many expenses, no?”
Maybe Lali had a point.
CHAPTER NINE
This time, dinner at the Maison de Champagne was inside, in a beautiful dining room. Sabine eyed the floor-to-ceiling antique armoire of fancy dishes and crystal glasses against one wall and wondered if this were the kind of cabinet-making that was once the local industry here, as Guillaume had said. Another wall was all window, giving onto the vineyard. A huge chandelier hung over the long table, which Madame Klein had laid perfectly.
She served them an appetizer of mussels in white wine sauce. Sabine felt deflated that Aubin wasn’t there. Which made no sense, because she had no hold on him, or he on her. But just as they started, he raced in, apologized for being late, and sat in the chair next to Sabine. Her heart skipped a beat.
“My nephew loses track of time,” said Guillaume.
“True,” said Aubin, “but when something is really important, I am there.” His hand brushed Sabine’s under the table. She felt a wave of something pass through her. What was it—anxiety? No … Excitement? Not exactly. Something fluttery. Attraction? Yup, that was it. Mixed with shyness and a dose ofdisbelief. Sabine really didn’t want to believe that intoxicating mixture was what she was feeling.
“Sabine is the same,” said Marlow. “Well—half. She never loses track of time, but, for instance, I did this crazy thing, buying Maison Perdue, and she just took it all in stride, helping us get here to sort it out. Too bad our fate is in my evil boss’s hands. Who knows what’ll happen next.”
“I’ll fill you in later,” Sabine said to Aubin. Her mum had sent the email to Oscar about staying for the summer, but he’d freaked out, had said he’d talk to HR and would get back to her.
They discussed the ways Oscar could implode their plans to get out of this alive, or at least with their bank account intact, and ate steak andfrites—far from the meals she and her mother usually cobbled together and ate standing at the kitchen counter. Then, after the cheese course, Madame Klein offered a galette—a ridiculously good flat cake topped with apples.
“What did you two do today?” asked Guillaume, looking at Sabine and Aubin.
There it was. Sabine had hoped to escape dinner before conversation turned to them. What she’d done today was kiss Aubin—a lot—but only because she’d thought they wouldn’t still be here in a week. Now she was confronted by the very real possibility of facing him until September. Or she could go home Sunday. But what did she want?
If she were being honest, she wanted Aubin’s hand to brush hers again, under the table. The thought of it made her flush.
