The Bordeaux Betrayal

“Ah, but it was an incredible time when friends helped friends. America built much goodwill in the world with its generous wallet and kind heart. A respected nation the whole world once emulated.” He paused. “So much has changed since then.”

I thought he’d emphasized “once” ever so slightly. We were driving along Route 28, farmland until high-tech businesses moved in and transformed it into a busy industrial corridor near the airport. A large American flag snapped from a pole in front of a mirrored glass and stone building belonging to a company that designed computer programs used in the defense industry. I watched Pépé’s eyes follow the flag as we passed.

“I guess the world is a lot more complicated now,” I said.

His eyes were no longer smiling. “Indeed it is.”

I thought I could persuade my grandfather to rest before dinner once we arrived at Highland House, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Instead he wanted a tour of the house, which he hadn’t seen since I’d restored it after the fire. I showed him the furniture I’d salvaged—possessions he and my grandmother had given my mother from the small château they owned outside Paris so she’d have furniture from home for her new life in Virginia. But he also admired the newer things I’d added to replace what had been destroyed—the hand-colored prints of Virginia wildflowers, the Shaker chairs, the carpet handmade by a woman in Georgia.

“The house has your charm and your stamp on it now, ma belle. Chantal would be proud of what you’ve done here, especially the way you are running the vineyard.”

Pépé didn’t often speak of my mother ever since her death seven years ago when Orion, her horse, inexplicably threw her as she and my sister Mia jumped one of the low stacked-stone walls on our farm. I knew he still grieved deeply.

“We could visit her while you’re here, if you’d like,” I said. My mother’s grave was next to Leland’s in the family cemetery. I’d also placed a small cross at the site where she died.

He laid a hand on my shoulder and for the first time since he arrived I felt his fatigue. “I would like to go there,” he said.

We did not speak about her again, but later I saw him take a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket, when I’m sure he thought I wasn’t looking, and dab his eyes. My heart ached for him.

On our way to dinner at the Goose Creek Inn I told him about Joe and Dominique calling off their engagement, betting my cousin hadn’t mentioned it. He looked startled. She hadn’t.

“They have been engaged for such a long time,” he said. “What happened?”

“I think her workaholic habits finally got to him,” I said. “But I suspect there’s more to it because Joe started going out with another woman right away. A few days ago his new girlfriend’s car went off the road into Goose Creek and she died. Somebody removed the lug nuts from one of her tires and she apparently lost control of the car. The sheriff is investigating but so far they haven’t arrested anyone.”

“Do they suspect Dominique?” Pépé asked.

“Good God, no! I never even thought of that. But I know they’re talking to Joe. He, uh, spent the night with the woman—Valerie Beauvais—before she was killed.”

“How is your cousin handling all this news?”

“Not well,” I said. “And, to be honest, I’m not sure she knows yet about Joe staying with Valerie.”

“Then we must protect her,” he said.

“And you must act like you don’t know anything until she tells you.”

“Ma puce,” he said, “I have spent my entire career in the diplomatic service. I have pretended ignorance in front of kings and generals and dictators when it was necessary. I can handle your cousin.”

I smiled. “I’m sure you can.”

But he did look predictably annoyed when Dominique fussed over him as we arrived at the restaurant, fretting that he looked too tired to be out so late and promising we’d be served immediately so he could go home and right to bed. The first chance he got when she wasn’t looking, he rolled his eyes at me and winked. Then no sooner did she bring us to her table and seated us when she flew off to solve a crisis in the kitchen.

“She needs a holiday,” Pépé said to me. “She will kill herself if she doesn’t take some time off. I don’t think she looks well at all.”

“She’s chain-smoking again. I think she started when she and Joe broke up.”

We ordered after she returned to the table. Dominique handed our grandfather the wine list.

“Are you going to choose a Burgundy, Pépé?” she asked, smiling.

In the 1930s two Frenchmen from the town of Nuits-Saint-Georges in Burgundy founded a society known as the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin—the Brotherhood of the Knights of Wine- tasters—in order to help the wines of that region survive an economic crisis. After the war my grandfather had become a member of this elite group and he knew his wines.

“I think we’ll have a Clos de Vougeot with dinner,” he said after consulting with us about our main courses. “And une coupe de champagne as an aperitif.” He glanced at Dominique over the top of his reading glasses. “Dinner is on me.”

“It’s my restaurant—” Dominique said.

“I know that. But I am taking you both out to dinner.”

“You can’t—”

I kicked her under the table. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind. We’re delighted to accept.”

He beamed. “My pleasure. I don’t often have the opportunity to dine with my beautiful granddaughters any more.”

Ryan Worth showed up as the sommelier arrived to uncork our dinner wine.

“Evening, all,” he said. “Celebrating something? Excellent choice of wine.”

Dominique introduced Pépé, who stood and shook Ryan’s hand. “My grandfather, Luc Delaunay,” she said. “Visiting from Paris.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt a family gathering,” Ryan said. “I’m here to have dinner with Shane Cunningham and that delicious-looking California wine buyer he’s going out with.”

“I saw her when she came in with Shane,” Dominique said. “She’s stunning.”

I looked from Dominique to Ryan. “You’re talking about Nicole Martin?” My voice rose and the couple at the next table stopped talking to stare at us. Dominique touched a finger to her lips and frowned. I lowered my voice. “She’s a wine buyer?”

“Since you seem to have met her, I’m surprised you didn’t know,” Ryan said. “She’s in town to buy the Washington bottle.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” He looked puzzled. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. She’s a private buyer for über- rich collectors, mostly from California. Some client with pockets all the way to China told her not to come home from your auction without it. She’s quite the barracuda when she goes after something from what I hear.” He straightened his tie, suddenly self-conscious. “Shane said she’d like to pick my brain about that bottle.”

“I bet she would,” I said.

“Sorry to dash, but they’re waiting. Excuse me, folks.” He switched to French and said to Pépé, “You seem to have excellent taste in wine, sir, so perhaps you’d be interested in knowing that I’m the wine critic for the Washington Tribune. It’s one of our better-known American newspapers. My column is syndicated in more than two hundred papers throughout the country. A connoisseur like yourself might be interested in some of my reviews.”

I avoided making eye contact with my grandfather. Dominique had a brief fit of coughing.

“I’m sure I would learn a lot from you, Mr. Worth,” Pépé said. “I’ll ask my granddaughters for copies so I can read them while I’m here.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll pull together a few recent ones and give them to Lucie. She can pass them along to you,” he said. “At the risk of sounding immodest, they’re quite good.”

He left and Dominique and I grinned. “You were very polite,” Dominique said. “You’ve probably forgotten more about wine than he knows.”

“I hope his reviews are better than his French,” Pépé said. “Il parle français comme une vache espagnole.” I covered my smile with my hand at a uniquely French insult. He’d said