“She is all right with you, is she not?” he said in French.
“Oh, come on, you seriously want to return to that dull party? Listen, Jérôme Comtois, of Comtois Père et Fils, I can tell just by looking at you that you know what it is to have been wounded. Like the Madonna there. Now, be a good man—open that bottle, and let’s have a drink.”
Jérôme hesitated for a moment, as though about to say something, then shrugged, took a seat on a barrel, and started twisting the wire off the champagne cork. After easing the cork out with a soft sigh, he held the bottle out to Emma. She took a big swig and passed the champagne to Rosalyn.
Rosalyn shook her head. “As you know, I’m not a fan.”
“In the immortal words of Bette Davis,” said Emma, “‘There comes a time in every woman’s life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne.’ Take a drink, sweetie. A big one.”
Rosalyn gulped some down, feeling the bubbles dance on her tongue. She passed the bottle to Jérôme.
Jérôme held the bottle in front of him for a moment, studying the label. Finally, he nodded, took a long pull on the bottle, and passed it back to Rosalyn.
“Try it again, Rosie. More slowly this time,” Emma said.
Rosalyn glanced at Jérôme.
“As you said, she is a force of nature,” he said. “We must accept this.”
She smiled despite herself and took another drink. Rosalyn was enough of a wine person to realize that most wines could not be appreciated with a quick swig. This time she closed her eyes and concentrated.
The champagne was silky, not heavily carbonated like a soda; rather, the bubbles were a shimmer on the palate. She rolled the wine around in her mouth for a few moments, trying to calm her mind, to let go of preconceived notions. Searching for a dominant impression, she concluded that the wine felt opulent and mature. Creamy and complex.
“Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who said that only the unimaginative can fail to find a reason for drinking champagne?” Jérôme asked Emma.
“I believe it was,” Emma said, holding the bottle up high for a moment before taking a big draft. “To you, sir, a gentleman and a scholar, and a man who knows his Oscar Wilde. I salute you.”
“What’s that?” Rosalyn said, pointing to a seam in the rear wall of the chalk cave. “It looks almost as though something was walled up.”
“It probably was.” Jérôme nodded. “There are hundreds of kilometers of tunnels and galleries and pits down here. The Romans dug it out to use the stone, so there was no particular rhyme or reason to the excavation—they followed the veins of stone wherever they led. When the caves were converted into wine cellars, some areas were widened, and some areas were closed up.”
“And some of the champagne houses walled up their best vintages to keep them out of German hands,” said Emma.
Jérôme let out a laugh. “Not just the Germans. They were the most despised, of course, as invaders. But French and Allied soldiers also used these tunnels during the war, and practically bathed in the stuff. You won’t hear the champagne houses complain about that because it was all for the cause, but it took years to overcome the loss of inventory during the wars.”
“Champagne makers are required to keep a certain amount in reserve, right?” asked Rosalyn.
Jérôme nodded. “It is important not to flood the market one yearand have too little to sell the next. And champagne is unlike other wines because the vintage—the year of production—isn’t a primary consideration; most champagne producers mix their vintages. The goal is to create a consistent product so that the Pommery house is known for a certain flavor and level of bubbliness, as is Taittinger, or Mumm, or any of the others.”
“Is that true for the smaller houses as well? Like yours?”
“Less so, but yes. Our flavors are drawn from the terroir, of course—the earth, the land, and the weather conditions—which means the grapes grown in one field taste different from those grown in another. The large houses mix grapes from many different areas to achieve a signature flavor, whereas my wine tastes only of my grapes.” He paused, took another sip from the bottle. “It can be like tasting the earth, imbibing of life itself.”
“Ever think about getting an investor for your winery?” Emma asked. “I’m filthy rich, you know.”
Jérôme looked surprised. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Have you even tasted my wine?”
“No,” Emma said. “But I like you. And knowing you as I do, I’m going to assume you make a good product.”
He chuckled. “You’ve ‘known’ me for all of half an hour.”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“That’s a frightening thought.”
They sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle around. Rosalyn took another sip, closed her eyes, swirled it in her mouth, thinking of the earth, the terroir. Now she noticed the soft tang, as well as notes of apricot and wild rose, fern and truffle. The minerality and... a note of burned toast?
Warmth flowed through her, despite the cool, damp walls.
