“You studied marketing, apparently.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offer unsolicited advice.” Rosalyn hiccuped and set down her glass of champagne. “’Scuse me.”
“Not at all.”
“You know, I don’t know Emma all that well, but everything I’ve seen indicates that she’s the real deal. If she’s offered to invest in your winery, you might consider it. It might be the influx of cash you need to turn things around. And one thing I love about SmallFortune Wines is that Hugh wants to keep a viable business, sure, but he’s also truly interested in keeping small family wineries afloat, and... sorry. More unsolicited advice.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Rosalyn looked away. She wondered if a part of Jérômewantedthe winery to fail, so that he could walk away with a clear conscience and return to his life in Paris.
“As I’m sure you’ve gathered,” said Jérôme, “my family has a bit of a fascination for the old—the ancient, actually.”
“And you don’t share their passion for history?”
“I do, in fact. Quite a bit. But I prefer to live in the modern world, appreciating the beauty and innovation of the past but staying firmly planted in the ethos of modernity. So, what about you? You mentioned the ‘crossroads in your life,’ I think was the phrase you used.”
“I hate my job.” Whatwasit about being around Jérôme that inspired her to blurt out the truth? “I mean, I don’thateit. It’s a good job....”
“But you don’t enjoy sales.”
She shook her head.
“You said you studied marketing?”
“I was more of a branding person, dealing with the design side of things. My true love is painting.”
“So you’re an artist.”
She felt herself blushing. “I wouldn’t go that far. I had hoped to be, but...”
His gaze did not move from her face. She let out a shaky breath and continued. “Then Dash died. I discovered the life we were living was a sham, our land was mortgaged, and the business was underwater. I’m still trying to dig my way out of debt.”
“And art doesn’t pay the bills.”
She shook her head. “Not my art, anyway. And the truth is... it’s hard to explain, but I haven’t wanted to paint since Dash died. I know everyone thinks an artist would find refuge in her art after something like that, but for me it’s too...” She trailed off.
“Too close.”
She nodded, not fighting the tears.
They sat there for a long time, in comfortable silence.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Come,” Jérôme said after a while. “Please follow me down to the cellars, to theinfamous collection of Comtois Père et Fils.”
They ducked through a low door and descended to the cellars. Jérôme flipped on switches, revealing several low, broad, arched tunnels that branched out in different directions.
Rosalyn understood why he was reluctant to let the public in here: The electricity was not working in several sections, there was obvious water damage in others, and in one area the roof was caving in altogether.
The caves were lined with barrels and baskets, bottles and wineskins, massive wooden winepresses and smaller corking machines. There was old wine-making equipment, a bottle-glass-blowing exhibit, and a woodenpressoirfrom the seventeenth century so large, Jérôme told her they had to remove a wall to get it in. One entire room was dedicated to a display of carvings made from the twisted remains of vines, and another held corks: lots and lots of different kinds of corks.
Despite the air of abandonment and neglect, Rosalyn liked being in the cellars. It felt like being privy to a secret.
“Did people hide down here during the shelling, like they did in Reims?” she asked.
“It wasn’t as bad here. Reims definitely had it worse. But still... it was good to have the shelter. The Germans invaded the village during World War Two, and my great-grandfather had to construct fake walls to save at least some of the wine. The Germans do love their champagne—I should say, they loveourchampagne.”
At long last, Jérôme led the way into a storage room, deep in the bowels of the earth. He switched on a light, and a bare bulb glowed in a wire cage overhead.
