“A, um, champagne producer offered me use of hisgîte.”
Gîteswere vacation rentals—sometimes a small cottage, sometimes a room in a house. Wine producers in France often kept accommodations for visiting buyers, or rented them out to tourists for a little extra cash. They had done so long before the advent of Airbnb.
“Tell me we’re not talking about Blé Champagne, as in Gaspard Blé.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. You know him?”
“Ha! Blé’s a... How should I say it? An associate of mine. Be careful with that one. Gaspard fancies himself quite the ladies’ man, if you know what I mean.”
“Is he really that bad?”
“Not actually.” Emma waved her hand and chuckled. “He’s charming. He’s just a bit of an old-school-style rake.”
“How do you know him?”
“I’ve been investing in the region for a while. Gaspard and I go back a ways... even had a brief fling, once, if I recall.”
Rosalyn’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Every once in a while a little Neanderthal energy can be fun in the bedroom.” Emma gave a knowing smile. “Anyways, I’m worried about you! There’s absolutelynothingin that little town. One little store and that’s it. Not even aboulangerie, and who’s ever heard ofa French village without aboulangerie? It’s not even particularly charming—most of the older buildings were destroyed during the wars. In fact, as a general rule in Champagne, you won’t find the kind of delightfully medieval villages that characterize the south of France.”
“I’m not looking for charming villages. I’m going on business.”
“Huh.” Emma stared at her for a long moment. Rosalyn found her steady gaze disconcerting. Intelligence shone in Emma’s dark eyes, and there was a level of perception beyond the norm that belied her casual words. “So what will you be doing there?”
“I’m supposed to be making some connections for my boss, Hugh Small, from Small Fortune Wines.”
“Oh! You know who you should talk to? Comtois Père et Fils. Do you know them?”
“I don’t know anyone yet.”
“Jérôme Comtois is now thefils, the son, of Comtois Père et Fils. French to the core, though I imagine he speaks English well, thank the heavens. Used to be a professor of English literature at the Sorbonne, as a matter of fact.”
“And now he grows grapes?”
Emma nodded. “Long story involving a rascal of an older brother who was supposed to take over the family business but instead ran off to be a beach bum in Thailand. At least that’s the way I heard it. The whole thing was one big mess because the father had run the place into the ground, but since it’s been in the family for generations, it carries the weight of history. So when his brother abandoned the family, Jérôme felt compelled to step in and take over. His wife at the time—an American like you, by the way—didn’t like country life and returned to Paris. Rumor has it she had been having a fling with the older brother, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least, but you didn’t hear that from me. I’d hate to spread gossip.”
Rosalyn realized that she was listening with rapt attention, her mouth hanging open. Chagrined, she closed it. “Is he... Do you know him well?” Rosalyn asked.
“Who?”
“Jérôme Comtois?”
“Oh, no, never met the man.”
“Then...?”
“You’re wondering what his story has to do withme. Thing is, he inherited this collection of wine-making paraphernalia that his parents, grandparents, andgreat-grandparents had acquired over the years—according to what I’ve heard, there are ancient winepresses and old corks, a million things stored down in those cellars. I hesitate to call it a museum, but that’s what the sign says—though last time I checked, Jérôme had taken the sign down. Supposedly there’s also an old library chock-full of books and documents, including some items salvaged after the wars. I’ve been in touch with a historical archive in Reims, and the archivist suggested I take a look at the Comtois collection. I’ve tried to get Jérôme to give me permission to look through the place, but so far, no luck.”
“Why do you want access?”
“Because of these letters.” She held up the messy stack and let out a dramatic sigh. “I had everything organized by date.”
Despite herself, Rosalyn was becoming intrigued by Emma’s convoluted story. “So who are the letters from?”
“A French soldier in World War One, named Émile Legrand. His family had a farm on the outskirts of Reims, which I’m sure you know is the capital of Champagne.”
Rosalyn noticed that Emma pronounced Reims in the French manner, which sounded likeRance.
