She finished the glass of wine and fell onto the bed, hoping she was jet-lagged enough to sleep. She would learn many things in the morning, and she needed to find the courage and fortitude she didn’t possess.
Chapter 8
Thetaxispedbyrolling hills dusted in snow and valleys covered in rows of grape vines, brown tangly things without color, fruit, or leaves—barren. She massaged the base of her thumb. How would she tell Sophie about David’s death? She didn’t want Sophie or Luca to witness her grief—but how could she hide it? Grief still gnawed at her heart.
She shook the tension from her fingers. She had to get David’s medical records to Sophie so Luca could be tested and live a very long life. If David had been a donor, she would ask Sophie the name of the clinic where he donated, so Claire could give them his medical records, and they could notify other families.
If there were other families who’d received David’s donations, would she also want to meet those children?
Trying to calm the brawl in her gut—roiling with anxiety, trepidation, nervousness, despair, an odd sense of hope that David had been a donor, and the terror of him having had an affair—she concentrated on the dazzling stream curving its way down the valley, crystalline ice capping boulders. Frost framing the windows of cottages, snow-dusted pine boughs, smoke curling like ribbons from chimneys. Little wonder the Alsace region claimed to be the Christmas capital of the world.
She had always loved the holiday season. At the sight of a white steeple in the distance, she wondered if she could find the tiny stone church in Riquewihr, where they were married. Or the former mill made into a guest house they stayed in prior to the wedding—where a bat had made his home amongst the eighteenth-century rafters. She laughed, remembering David, holding a towel over his head while snapping another at the poor creature to chase it out the window, all while she cowered under the bed.
She would have to figure out how to say the unpronounceable Riquewihr; David had tried to get her to say it, but was itRIke-veer? Or REEK-vir?She had laughed too hard to pay attention.
The taxi turned and climbed a hill to a building surrounded by vineyards. Sunshine glared off an ice-coated stone roof at its pinnacle. Slowly, a butter-colored château with blue shutters and trim appeared beneath the roof. A waist-high, stone-walled well with an ornate pulley system above it stood in the center of a courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the château.
“Voila, Madame.” The driver flicked his hand toward the house.
“Please wait.”
“Bien.”
She took that for an OK and got out. Pine perfumed the crisp air, reminding her of the frigid night breezes that drafted into her dormitory at her Vermont boarding school. She pulled her purse strap onto her shoulder and cautiously stepped onto the icy gravel path and headed to the front door. She forced her lips to smile, but fear shivered through her. Her whole idea of her marriage could come crashing down around her ankles, and on top of that, she had to deliver terrible news and a potentially threatening medical report.
A rustling of bushes and a woofing stopped her, mid-step. A dog the size of a bear bounded, his black and brown curly fur flouncing, his tail vibrating. She reached for the well, but her hand slid on the icy stone wall.
The force of the beast knocked her flat on her back, and the weight of him sitting atop her kept her there. Her chest ached. He slurped her face with his surprisingly soft tongue. He seemed to smile at her. Drool dripped from his chops onto her coat.
“Remy! Vien ici!”
The dog turned, looked at a man, who she took as his master, and whined, as if to say,But I’m having so much fun.
The man clapped his hands, and the bear-of-a-dog pressed his paws further into her chest, practically cracking her ribs, before bounding off.
“Madame!” The dog’s master knelt at her side speaking French at the speed of light, his tone kind, concerned. “Désolé!”
Sparks circled her vision as she blinked. The man was about her age, salt and pepper hair in need of a good cut and styling, and a matching shaggy moustache. His eyes were bright blue-gray and deep laughter lines curled across his weathered cheeks.
She sucked in air, enabled by the absence of the beast. “I…I don’t…parlay French.”
“You’re American.” His tone was accusatory. The laugh lines disappeared as a frown pleated his forehead.
“Is that a crime in France?”
“Non! No, no, no, no, no.” He offered his hand. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so. Just had the wind knocked out of me.” She pushed herself up on her elbows. Pain zagged across her shoulders.
He scrunched his eyes. “The wind?”
“It’s an idiom.” She patted her chest. “My breath.”
He nodded, held her hand, and gripped her arm as he pulled her to her feet.
She welcomed his help, stood, and caught a scent of pine and…bergamot, perhaps?
He gripped his hands in prayer. “Désolé. I mean, sorry. Remy is terribly friendly. He didn’t hurt you?”
