The Bordeaux Betrayal

“Why?” Claudia looked puzzled and distressed. “What they do is savage.”

“This isn’t England,” I said. “They rarely kill the fox and when they do it’s usually because the animal is old and diseased, or has rabies. It’s more like fox chasing. It’s not a blood sport in this country.”

“I do not understand how you can condone it.” Stuart had switched to what I assumed was the courtroom voice he used to eviscerate an unfriendly witness.

I flinched and he saw it. He pressed on.

“I don’t like making threats.” He smiled in a way that said he relished it. “But this could escalate into an unfortunate situation and I’m sure neither of us wants that to happen.”

Meaning I didn’t want it to happen. He looked smug, but Claudia still looked shocked. Maybe I had a chance if I tried explaining things to her.

“George Washington went foxhunting in this valley.” I looked her in the eyes and ignored Stuart. “So did Lord Fairfax. Foxhunting began right here in the earliest days of our country. We are, at heart, a farm community. Nature takes its course and hunting is part of it. I’m sure coming from Manhattan it must seem totally alien to you, but hunting and racing are an integral part of life and the culture of our region. You’ve only just moved in. Why don’t you spend some time learning about your neighbors before you judge and criticize us?”

Stuart reached for his wife’s hand and leaned over to whisper in her ear. I heard him anyway. “She’s hopeless, sugar pie. Forget it.”

I reached for my cane and stood up. Claudia looked upset but I’d just baited Stuart and the ugly expression on his face said he planned to come out swinging next round. They stood as well.

“For the record,” I said, “I don’t hunt.”

“You’re going to regret this, Mrs. Montgomery,” he said. “I promise you.”

We’d moved back to formal names. “I doubt that very much,” I said. “And it’s ‘Miss.’”

Claudia looked at me with pity. “That explains a lot,” she said. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Frankie walked inside as the door to the villa slammed behind the Orlandos. My face burned. The spinster remark stung.

I swung around to Frankie. “You were eavesdropping.”

“You bet I was,” she said. “He’s despicable. Unfortunately, she’ll do whatever he tells her.”

“He threatened me,” I said. “I don’t like that.”

“I don’t think he threatened you,” Frankie said. “I think he just declared war.”

Chapter 9

I told Frankie to close up early and take the rest of the afternoon off.

“Where’s Quinn?” she said. “He hasn’t been around here all day.”

“He came down with a bug so he stayed home.”

She frowned. “And missed harvest? What’d he have? Bubonic plague?”

“I don’t know. Look, I’d better get going. My grandfather’s plane arrives at Dulles at half-past four and you know what a bear traffic is.”

She nodded. “Your nose is growing, Pinocchio. See you tomorrow.”

My face was still red. She’d probably drop by Quinn’s on her way home to find out if he’d recovered from his mysterious ailment and then she’d know. I wasn’t sure why I made up that lie and didn’t tell her outright—or maybe I was.

It was just after three o’clock. Was Quinn still sleeping it off or did he get lost for the day like he’d done in the past? I detoured by his cottage on my way to the airport.

He’d parked the El Camino at an odd angle in front of his porch. The blinds on the front windows were closed. He was probably still sleeping. Manolo had promised me earlier that he and a couple of the men would punch down the cap this evening, so it didn’t matter whether or not Quinn showed up in the barrel room today.

Punching down the cap was a chore that lasted as long as the wine continued to ferment, and not anybody’s favorite task. The “cap” was a ten-to twelve-inch-thick layer of wineskins and pulp that floated to the top of the fermenting vats and congealed into wet purple concrete. It was a product of the chemical process that occurred as the yeast that was added to the grape juice converted the fruit sugar to alcohol—so everything bubbled like the witches’ brew in Macbeth.

Twice a day we needed to break up the sludgy mass and submerge it in order to give the wine its tannins, taste, and color. The larger vineyards handled this mechanically but we still did it the old-fashioned way, using paddles, Eli’s old baseball bat—and our hands. Each vat contained a ton of wine so it was a physically demanding task that involved being submerged in wine up to our armpits and pushing against a solid purple block that didn’t want to give way. My shoulders always felt like they were coming out of their sockets and my fingernails remained stained for weeks. I got out of performing the chore today because I needed to go to the airport, but my turn would come soon enough.

Pépé’s flight from Paris arrived on time. I waited in the cordoned-off area of the international arrivals terminal and watched the lighted board blink with information on which flight had landed and when the passengers moved on to customs. My grandfather finally came through the automatic double doors, pushing a luggage cart, staring straight ahead, a slightly puzzled and bemused look on his face as though something about the eccentricities of my country had already tickled his fancy even though he’d barely set foot on American soil.

I called to him and waved from behind the low metal barricade. His well-lined face lit up and he waved back. When we met, he kissed me three times and murmured my name. I hugged him and took in the smell of Boyards and a whisper of his familiar old-fashioned cologne. But what I mostly smelled were the memory scents of the things I loved—and missed—about Paris. Years ago my mother told me I was my grandfather’s namesake—his first name was Luc—and it was an open secret in the family that I was his favorite.

He refused to let me push his luggage cart and I didn’t bother to argue. My grandfather came from the generation where chivalry and gallantry were as instinctive as breathing. Luckily I’d managed to park near the terminal so we didn’t have far to walk. He insisted on stowing his suitcase in the Mini, also without help, though when he sat next to me in the car, he seemed winded by the exertion.

“Tu vas bien?” I asked.

“Oui, oui.” He flicked his hand, brushing away my concerns. “Un peu fatigué, c’est tout.”

“You can rest when we get home,” I said.

“Mais non. We’re having dinner this evening at the Goose Creek Inn with Dominique.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “So you see, I did call your cousin.”

“You sly old dog. I knew you’d come round.”

“Ma belle,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Certainly not ‘old.’”

I laughed. “Certainly not. You still haven’t told me the reason for this visit. Not that you need one.”

He folded his hands in his lap. “Eh, bien, a reunion. Les vieux amis. My colleagues from the war.”

He meant World War II.

“The colleagues you worked with on the Marshall Plan?” I said.

The plan had been the brainchild of Secretary of State George C. Marshall back in 1947, a massive humanitarian aid project conceived to help a shattered Europe rebuild after the devastation of the war. The stipulation for receiving aid, however, was that the European countries needed to draw up a unified plan for how they would use the money—acting as a single economic entity rather than a fractured group of nations. Pépé had been the lead member of the French delegation and one of the major European architects in forging the union the Americans sought. He’d spent more than a decade from the mid-1940s to the mid-1950s as a counselor at the French embassy in Washington.

“We still meet once a year,” he said, “usually in Paris at a dinner and lecture at the American embassy. But every so often we come back here to Washington where it all began.”

“I think it’s incredible you still get together after all these years,” I said.