At last the path widened in front of a large two-story house with small dormer windows in the attic. The thick stone walls and rusted ironwork made the house look ancient. To one side was a clutch of outbuildings that housed the tractor and other pieces of heavy farm equipment. She recognized the fruit press, a large device that crushed grapes to capture their juice.
The garden in front of the house was an overgrown and tangled mess, but when she looked closely, she realized it was laid out in a foursquare pattern, with a fountain in the middle. It would probably be beautiful in full summer.
A sign on a gate in a stone wall to the other side declared:MUSÉE DE VIGNE ET VINS, COMTOIS PÈRE ET FILS. Museum of vines and wines, Comtois Father and Son. Beyond the wall was a building the size of a small house.
Rosalyn pulled up behind Jérôme’s truck and watched as Laurent bounced out of the cab of the truck, carrying a tote bag with a baguette sticking out, and ran to open the front door of the main house.
Jérôme climbed out with two more shopping bags full of groceries. They passed several large rectangular boxes as they walked toward the house; Rosalyn could hear the buzz even at a distance.
“Are you a beekeeper as well?” Rosalyn asked.
“Yes, a lot of vintners are. It’s very little trouble, because the bees do all the work. They are important for the grapes, with the extra added benefit of producing honey. I also keep chickens, ducks, and goats, and we use the fertilizer.”
“Bienvenue chez nous, madame,”Laurent piped, holding the door open and inviting her in.
“Merci,”Rosalyn said.“Très gentil.”
“Actually, would you mind speaking English with Laurent? He doesn’t get a chance to practice as often now....” Jérôme trailed off. “It’s good for him to converse with a native speaker.”
“I’d be happy to. Much easier for me, anyway,” Rosalyn said, stepping into the foyer and taking it all in. The thresholds were high and the doorways so low that Jérôme had to duck to pass through them. Ancient artifacts and antiques were everywhere, from solid mahogany credenzas to a baroque gold-framed mirror so old, the silver was flaking off the back.
But in among the classic antiques, the décor had been playfully reimagined, with a chartreuse wall here and colorful modern paintings there, whimsical racks made of deer antlers and strings of holiday lights. It was charming, an eclectic mix of old and new.
She followed Jérôme into the kitchen, which was separated from the large living room only by a counter. A huge fireplace held pride of place along one wall. Jérôme crouched down to light the paper and kindling already laid out in the grate.
“This will take the edge off the chill soon enough.”
“I love your house,” said Rosalyn. “It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s quirky—I think is the best euphemism. It’s an old family home, and now a work in progress,” he said as he strapped on an apron and started extracting things from the fridge. “I brought some of my favorite art pieces from Paris. I’m no collector, but I enjoy the contrast of old and new.”
“May I help with dinner? Blondine’s got me well trained as a sous chef.”
He smiled. “At the moment, just take a seat and keep me company—if I need chopping, I’ll let you know. It’s nice to have an adult conversation.”
Jérôme lined several chilled bottles of champagne up on the counter. “These are my private labels. May I pour you a glass? Or would you prefer red?”
“I’d love to try your champagne,” she said. “At long last. So, where did Laurent go?”
“Up to his room, I’m sure. He’ll be back soon, carrying any number of books or games he’d like to show to you, unless I miss my guess.”
“He’s adorable.”
Jérôme nodded as he poured champagne into two flutes. “Six-year-olds are pretty cute.”
Theytinked their glasses in a silent toast, and Jérôme’s eyes never left Rosalyn’s face as she took a sip of the champagne.
“You’re right,” she said. “This is very different from what we were drinking in the caves.”
He nodded. “This is ablanc de blanc, which means it is made of only Chardonnay grapes. We have a lot of minerality in the soil here, which comes through, so there’s very little sweetness. It’s not to everyone’s taste.”
“I like it. Very much.”
“Not bad for champagne, eh?”
She smiled. “Indeed.”
“Good. Help yourself.” Jérôme picked up a sharp knife and started choppingmirepoix—the classic combination of onions, carrots, and celery that was the basis of many French dishes.
