The next morning on her walk, Rosalyn again spotted Jérôme Comtois in his fields, this time on a tractor. He wore a scarf and heavy gloves, dirty jeans, and muddy boots, and was topped by an army green parka-length jacket.
Owning a vineyard sounded like fun, but Rosalyn knew that the reality was one of hard, constant toil. Grape producers were farmers, pure and simple; they spent long days tending to the earth and the plants, enveloped by mud, sun, and wind. They might clean up for a wine tasting, but at their cores were farmers.
As Rosalyn watched Jérôme, she decided he was more rugged than handsome. She found it hard to picture him teaching in a classroom at the world-famous Sorbonne, so perfectly did he fit working in his fields. He put her in mind of the Frenchmen who had gone to California in search of gold, back in the day, and left their mark with such place names as French Creek and French Canyon, and, of course, the French wineries of Napa.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour, madame.”
“I owe you money,” she said in French, reaching into her pocket to extract the envelope she had been carrying around in case she saw him.
“It is not necessary. I told you not to worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it. But I still want to pay you back. Rumor has it you already don’t think highly of my people, and I don’t want to give you more cause to dislike us.”
He pressed his lips together, turned the engine of the tractor off, and climbed down. He pulled off one glove, accepted the envelope with a quick nod, and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he started fiddling with a knob on the side of the tractor.
“So,” Rosalyn said, “I hear you have a museum.”
“Yes,” he replied in English. “But we are only open to tourists during the summer.”
“Actually, I’m here on business. I represent a small American champagne importer.”
He didn’t reply but for a moment ceased his incessant fidgeting. The dawn air was so cold, their breath left traces of mist before them; Rosalyn watched his hands, amazed that he could feel anything with his bare fingertips.
“You should speak to the co-op,” he suggested. “I make only a very small vintage.”
“I’m aware of that. I’ve been told it’s excellent.”
He straightened, placing his hands on his hips and studying her. “Why is an American importer here at this time of year?”
“I got here a little early, I guess. I didn’t realize everything would be closed. It’s... a little different where I come from.”
“Where is that?”
“Napa, California.”
He nodded. “I’ve been there. It was a long time ago.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Oh. Well. I...” She trailed off, unsure how to respond. The French could be so very blunt.
“Madame—”
“Rosalyn,” she said, thrusting out her hand. “Rosalyn Acosta.”
He gazed at her hand for a moment before grasping it and shaking. “Jérôme Comtois.”
“Enchantée.”
“Madame Acosta—”
“Rosalyn, please.”
“Rosalyn,bon. I am sorry to sound impatient, but I have much work to be done.”
