Jérôme raised his glass and nodded, and Gaspard continuedushering Rosalyn around the large room, making introductions, until she came face-to-face with Ritchie James, her competitor from Bottle Rocket Imports. Hugh had warned her Ritchie would be attending the gathering. He was a good-looking man, in a slick, too-much-hair-gel kind of way, with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes.
“Well, if it’s not the lovely Rosalyn Acosta! How amazing to see you here,” Ritchie gushed in his unctuous way. He greeted her with a kiss on each cheek, reeking of aftershave.
“Nice to see you, Ritchie,” Rosalyn said, and gestured to Gaspard. “Do you two know each other? Ritchie James, Gaspard Blé. Ritchie James is one of our biggest competitors at Small Fortune Wines, and I promise you, Gaspard, you’ll be sorry if you shift your business to him.”
Gaspard let out another loud laugh. “She doesn’t beat around the bush, this one, does she?”
Ritchie frowned. “Now, Rosalyn, you make me sound awful.”
“Not at all,” Rosalyn said with an insincere smile. “But you’re no Hugh Small, either. We’ve done very well by Blé Champagne, and he by us.”
Ritchie smiled and gave her an odd look.
“Anyway, I suppose I should be more subtle, but I wanted to make that clear. I hope you enjoy the upcoming festivities.”
Rosalyn glanced at her phone; she had been at the party barely half an hour, but she was already exhausted from wearing the mask of the sociable American wine rep. She yearned for her little cottage in Napa, or herChambre Chardonnay. She ached for solitude.
Last night’s lightheartedness with Emma and Blondine was gone—the typical up-and-down roller coaster of grief. As the crowd grew, flowing around her, voices chatting in French and laughing, Rosalyn struggled to understand and to respond in kind. She understood French well enough when she concentrated, but forming thewords herself was another thing entirely. In French she wasn’t witty, couldn’t make sly references or engage in the sort of repartee that distracted others from realizing that she was one of the walking wounded.
More than once she caught Jérôme Comtois watching her from the other side of the crowded cellar. She barely knew the man, so why did she imagine such profound understanding in those light grayish green eyes?
The crowd parted, and she again found herself near Ritchie James, who was absorbed in a discussion with a couple of the local vintners whom Rosalyn had yet to meet. Suddenly, she overheard one producer say, “Wait. Isn’t Acosta the name of an importer...? What was his name? Lovely fellow, life of the party.”
“Unusual name,” said another vintner. “Dashiell, went by Dash.”
“Ah, yes. He went bankrupt, didn’t he? This was a few years ago—he never paid me for my shipment.”
Rosalyn froze, scarcely breathing. She knew she had to say something, but this whole scene felt so otherworldly, and when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. Waves of heat seemed to radiate through her, but deep inside she felt ice-cold, and for a moment, she feared she might faint. Then she felt a presence beside her: Jérôme Comtois.
“... a very important client I want to introduce her to,” he was saying, one arm lightly encircling Rosalyn.“À plus tard.”
Rosalyn felt tears welling up and kept her gaze on the floor as Jérôme guided her away from the crowd, toward the entrance of an adjoining tunnel.
“What happened?” Emma appeared, swinging nimbly on her crutches.
“Someone mentioned her husband,” said Jérôme in English.
“Oh,damn,” Emma said. “Divorce is the worst.”
Rosalyn couldn’t bring herself to respond.
“I do not think that is the problem,” Jérôme said in quiet French to Emma. “If Dashiell Acosta was her husband, he died a few years ago.”
“He...? Oh, goodGod. That explains a lot,” said Emma. She grabbed a bottle of champagne from a buffet table as they passed, and handed it to Jérôme. “C’mon, this way.”
Ignoring the velvet cordon that signaled the tunnel area was closed, Emma led the way past another gallery and into a small chamber filled with racks of champagne, the bottles covered in dust, cobwebs, and grime. Just beyond thepupitres, they found a clearing hidden from view by the bottles. Half a dozen small barrels were arranged in a semicircle, and a few empty champagne bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor. The space was dim, the only light spilling in from the corridor.
“This is where the workers take a break,” explained Emma, sitting on a barrel with a grateful sigh. “I spent some time here, a while ago. I’ll tell you the whole story one day.”
At one side, in a niche that looked like a half shell carved into the chalky wall, stood a two-foot-tall Madonna. She was clad in royal blue robes, her hands pressed together in prayer, her serene countenance looking down at them in perpetual understanding.
“That Madonna there?” said Emma. “She’s called the Virgin of Deliverance. According to the story I heard, she was taken by American soldiers during the Second World War, but they brought her back and installed her in that niche.”
“Why did the soldiers take her in the first place?” Rosalyn asked, glad for the distraction. She sat on a barrel and gazed at the little statue.
“Maybe they needed a little extra virgin power,” Jérôme said. Rosalyn and Emma looked at him, and he shrugged. “Sometimesyou need some Madonna energy in your corner. Anyway, I should return to the party.”
“Why?” Emma asked.
