The Sauvignon Secret

few years ago, for memory’s sake, the only year their house was on the annual spring garden tour, and many times as a child when my mother was alive.

In those days, Juliette and my mother would spend endless mornings strolling through the weed-choked remnants of gardens and scrubby lawn left to seed of the Thiessmans’ new home. I remember them holding bowl- sized cups of café au lait between their hands as though they were praying, while I became invisible as children do when adults are totally absorbed in some project. Even now I can still hear their voices and the musical trill of their laughter, passionately considering, discarding, then reconsidering plans for sweeping, many-hued perennial gardens that would bloom year-round, climbing roses twining around a graceful bower, a vista of flowering cherry trees, a pergola, a wisteria-covered bridge over a yet-to-be-built lily pond surrounded by rustic garden benches. Juliette’s vision was to re-create Monet’s Giverny gardens in Middleburg, calling it “Mon Abri,” or “my refuge.” My mother, who revered Thomas Jefferson’s Garden Book as the set-in-stone bible of what to plant in Virginia, warned her that unless she planned to throw a net over the entire yard, the deer would call it “my dinner.”

Over the years some of my mother’s advice obviously had prevailed, as we drove past dozens of white blooming crape myrtle at the entrance to the circular drive where the house sat on a knoll surrounded by now- mature dogwoods, as well as masses of azaleas, rhododendrons, hydrangeas, and rioting flower-filled gardens. A valet took the keys to the Mini and drove it off to a nearby field to park it among the Mercedeses, Jaguars, Lexuses, BMWs, and Porsches of the other guests. What had surprised me was that nearly all the license plates seemed to be from D.C. Not a gathering of neighbors, then.

“I thought this was going to be an intimate get-together with a few friends,” I whispered to Pépé as we climbed the steps to a columned veranda and a butler opened the door.

“Moi aussi,” he said. “At least, that’s what Charles said.”

Inside it looked like the house had been redecorated since my childhood days—the garden tour had been outdoor only. In the foyer, Juliette had duplicated the exuberance and lush abundance of Giverny with sun-drenched glazed yellow and ocher paint on the walls and brilliant floral fabrics splashed on two settees and the cushions of a couple of rush-seat chairs. Bright red geraniums potted in brass urns sat on either side of doorways leading to a library to the right and a formal living room to the left. Colorful botanic prints lined the walls of the staircase to the second floor. An enormous vase of tuberoses with greens tucked among them sat on a pedestal table in the middle of the marble floor, their fragrance lightly scenting the room.

Juliette, white hair swept up into a chignon and wearing a gold and white gown that looked vaguely Greek, found us before Charles did, catching her breath as the fingers of one hand fluttered over her heart when she saw my grandfather. I thought her cheeks became pink under her perfect makeup as her eyes lighted on Pépé, a warmth and affection in them that struck me as more than casual friendship. Then she saw me and froze. Her lips moved, and I knew she was murmuring “Chantal,” since I am the portrait of my mother at this age, or so I’ve been told.

With the courtliness that I love so much about him, Pépé reached for Juliette’s hand and kissed it, bowing lightly and breaking the awkwardness that had fallen like a spell over the three of us. “Juliette, ma chère. C’est tellement bien de vous revoir.”

My grandfather had known her for decades, but he still used the formal vous with Juliette. Tu implied an intimacy to someone of his generation that I was somehow glad he didn’t feel was appropriate between the two of them.

Juliette withdrew her hand and touched Pépé’s shoulder like a caress. “It’s good to see you, too, Luc,” she said in French. “And Lucie. For a moment, my dear, I thought I was looking at a ghost of Chantal … I don’t know why. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I take it as a great compliment.”

Her smile seemed strained. “Please, both of you make yourselves at home. Get a drink. The waiters have champagne, but there is a bar outdoors by the swimming pool where there is anything you wish. It’s just through the library and out the door to the back terrace.”

The doorbell rang again. Her eyes strayed past us as the front door opened and closed and more guests arrived.

“We’ll find Charles,” Pépé said, “and leave you to your duties as hostess.”

“Thank you. We must catch up later … so many things to talk about,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Charles is terribly anxious to talk to you, Luc. Both of you, in fact.”

As she walked by us to greet the new arrivals, I’m sure I heard her say in a voice meant for my grandfather’s ears only, “Tu me manques énormément.”

I miss you terribly. She didn’t use vous. She had used the intimate tu with Pépé.

Pépé accepted two champagne flutes from a waiter as we walked into the library. He handed one to me without bothering to ask what I wanted to drink as he usually did, and I knew what Juliette had said had disturbed him.

In contrast to the vibrant foyer, the library was dark and masculine. Though it appeared to have none of her lighthearted decorating joie de vivre, Juliette’s presence still overwhelmed the heavy furniture, floor-to-ceiling shelves of gilt-edged leather-bound books, and antique maps because of a frankly sensual oil portrait that hung over the fireplace. I recognized her instantly, in spite of the fact that it must have been painted when she was a young woman about my age, some forty or more years ago. She had posed in a shaded garden or a wooded setting of mottled pale and fierce greens, head thrown back just a little as she sat languidly in an oversized rattan chair. Barefoot, her long dark hair carelessly pinned up as though she were hot and wanted it off her shoulders, she wore a strapless silk gown the color of a sultan’s rubies. The dress was so low cut that the French word for it is osée, something between daring and risqué. I found it impossible not to stare at Juliette’s décolleté, her ethereal beauty, the contrast of milk white skin against bloodred fabric, and the laughter dancing in her dark eyes as she watched someone or something out of view that amused or entertained her.

“Did you know Juliette in those days?” I asked my grandfather. His eyes flickered briefly at the portrait. “Yes.”

“Do you know where it was painted?”

“In France.” With uncharacteristic abruptness he said, “We should find Charles.”

I saw Charles on the other side of the swimming pool seated at a long stone table lit by flickering votive candles and talking to a group of men and women, all of them holding drinks. The withering heat had vanished as predicted, clearing out the humidity. A cool breeze rustled an arrangement of ferns and ornamental grasses growing in a planter set above a waterfall that spilled into the pool. Stone urns filled with more scarlet geraniums sat on pedestals at each corner of the octagonal pool and on either side of the waterfall. Someone had already turned on the lights so the water glowed celadon and turquoise like a tropical lagoon and the underlit plants threw swaying shadows on the white stucco wall behind them.

Charles, like Juliette, fixed his stare immediately on Pépé and me, getting up and excusing himself to his other guests. He was dressed like an aging matinee idol or Hef at the Playboy mansion—bottle-green velvet smoking jacket with silk lapels and cuffs, collarless open-neck white dress shirt, navy ascot and pocket handkerchief, charcoal trousers, black patent leather shoes.

Though my mother had been fond of Juliette, she had never warmed up to Charles, whom she considered a cold fish. Even now, I saw something steely in his dark eyes as he joined us, shaking hands first with Pépé and clapping him on the back, greeting him in flawless unaccented French. He extended a hand to me, clasping mine warmly in his.

“It’s been a long time, Lucie,” he said in English. “So glad you both could make it.”

I smiled and said nothing. Charles had invited us tonight for a reason. How long would it take him to get down to business and tell us what he wanted? I hadn’t seen him for years, yet he seemed well steeped in the details of my life and my business. How else could he have pulled puppeteer strings to get Mick to persuade me to site-sample some fabulous California wine, with the bonus and perfect timing of accompanying my elderly grandfather on his trip to the West Coast?

“I spoke to a couple of friends who flew out to the Grove today for the opening ceremony tomorrow, Luc,”