“You prefer red.”
Rosalyn nodded.
“Huh. Champagne is famous the world over.”
“I realize that.”
“But the bubbles... It is lively and effervescent.... It is liquid gold.”
“Champagne is very beautiful,” Rosalyn agreed, blushing and wishing Emma had kept her big mouth shut. “It’s celebratory and all that. I’m just more of a red wine fan.”
Blondine let out a long, loud sigh and turned back to rolling out dough on the counter. “There is a rack in the pantry with some Bordeaux, if you prefer.”
Rosalyn widened her eyes at Emma in awhat the hell?look, to which Emma responded with a shrug.
“We like what we like, right? Nothing wrong with that,” said Emma, “though it’s a good idea to stay open to new things. You never know when your tastes might change.”
“That’s true. So,” Rosalyn said in a blatant bid to change the subject, “have you tracked down any descendants of Émile or Lucie?”
“Not so far. I’ve been making phone calls, and found two Legrands outside of Épernay, but neither of them knew of an Émile from that era. No nibbles on Lucie Maréchal yet, though it’s tougher because women change their names with marriage.” She poured herself more champagne and downed a couple of pills, then gave Rosalyn a wink. “I always take my vitamins with champagne.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Rosalyn with a smile.
Emma held her glass up in yet another toast. “Here’s to locating the descendants!”
Rosalyn and Blondine joined in the toast, and for the next half hour, the women focused on preparing the evening’s meal, accompanied by the strains of classic French ballads, the tattoo of rain on the roof, and the occasional rumble of thunder. Emma recounted a funny story of a standoff with a cranky kangaroo during an ill-advised foray into Australia’s outback, and Blondine waxed poetic describing her recent trip to Mallorca. Rosalyn mostly listened. She didn’t want to talk about Napa, and certainly not about Dash. She felt buoyed at the chance to set aside the burden of grief for a few hours, like an ant dislodging a load several times her weight.
For the moment Rosalyn was living in a parallel world where she was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill wine rep cooking an Epiphany feast with friends.
“Forgive my ignorance, but I wasn’t raised Catholic,” Rosalynsaid when there was a lull in the conversation. “What does the Epiphany celebrate, exactly?”
“It is the day the wise men came to find Jesus and offer him presents,” said Blondine. “Traditionally this was when children were given gifts, though now most people celebrate on Christmas morning or eve. But we still like to mark the day with thegalette des Rois.”
“I saw those in the store the other day,” said Rosalyn.
“Dominique will bring one tonight, but not one of those from her store. She should have made it herself. It is tradition, but she’s no baker. She’ll buy the cake from the Boulangerie Julien. I insisted. It is a wafer cake, with frangipane inside, very good.”
“She’s leaving out the best part,” said Emma. “When the cake is served it is customary totirer les rois—decide who is king for the day. A porcelain charm calledla fèveis baked into the cake, and whoever gets the slice withla fèveis declared king—or queen, in our case—and guaranteed a good year.”
“Also they have to bring thegalette des Roisthe following year,” said Blondine.
“Well, that seems like a good system,” said Rosalyn.
Blondine pulled the hot crab brioches out of the oven just as Gaspard arrived accompanied by two men, a father and son from Spain, whom he introduced as Raúl and Augustín Santiago. The Spaniards were cork makers in town selling theirbouchons. From Blondine’s startled reaction, Rosalyn realized Gaspard’s invitation must have been a spur-of-the-moment decision and she took more salad out of the smallfrigo.
“I’ve always wanted to see an actual cork tree,” Rosalyn said. The main character from her favorite children’s book,The Story of Ferdinand, used to sit under just such a tree, smelling the flowers. In her child’s mind, the tree had consisted of hundreds of actual corks, stuck together.
“Then you must come visit us in La Mancha,” said Raúl, the elder Santiago. He was plump and short, with the dark sloping eyes so common among the Spanish. “It would be our pleasure to show you how we make ourbouchonsfrom the bark of the cork trees.”
Rosalyn passed the tray of brioche and salami to the men, who had gathered at the counter, trading tales with Emma and drinking freely of champagne. Spirits were high, the music was playing, and André had rejoined them and helped himself to champagne.
It was after eight, and dinner was nowhere near ready. Rosalyn’s stomach growled, and she snuck another brioche. Blondine didn’t miss much.
“You are accustomed to eating earlier in the U.S.,” she said flatly.
“I am, yes. But I’m more than fine with this brioche.”
“I hear Americans eat as early as six in the evening!” said Gaspard. “How are you not too hungry in the morning?”
