“I think they’re waiting for you and Maurice to go first.” Madame Passepartout bridled. Maurice seemed to be hypnotized by something in his cassoulet.
Max called across to Charlie, “Madame here is dying to know if your intentions are honorable,” and was rewarded by a blush from Christie and a broad beam from Charlie. Translations didn’t seem to be necessary.
It was almost five o’clock before the evening chill set in and guests began to disperse. Christie and Charlie put on sweaters and went for a stroll in the vines. Others went down to the village, to recover in the cafe; or to nurse their stomachs in front of the television; or, in Roussel’s case, to take a nap before dinner. Max waved the last of them good-bye and went inside. He lit a fire in the kitchen and put on the Diana Krall CD that Fanny had bought him as a memento of their first dance on the night of the village fete. As he was rolling up his sleeves and contemplating the mountains of post-lunch debris, he heard footsteps behind him and felt Fanny’s arms slip around his waist.
He had to tilt his head to hear the whisper in his ear. “I don’t think you’re going to do the dishes.”
“No?”
“No. You’re going to do something else.”
He turned so that they were face-to-face. “Well, we could dance.”
Her hands moved slowly up his back. “That would be a start.”
A Note About The Author
Peter Mayle’s enthusiasm for wine dates from the time, many years ago, when he wrote advertising copy for a firm of London wine merchants. Naturally, a considerable amount of research was involved, and one bottle led inevitably to another. A devout supporter of the French Paradox, he now lives in Provence with his wife and their three dogs. This is his ninth book, and his fifth novel, to be published by Knopf.
