“You’re from the States?” He popped an olive in his mouth. “Ah! Picholines, my favorite. Do you like them?”
She nodded, like Scarecrow without a brain, for all she wanted to do was place her hand on his chest, directly above his heart, and feel it beating. What was she thinking? Before they’d left the States, the papers were filled with news of a “date rape drug.” She’d keep an eye on her lemonade. She was relieved he was doing all the talking.
“I’m from Boston, but I graduated University in Strasbourg, and I’ve been traveling for the past year. You?”
“I?” She peeled her skirt from her thighs, shaking out the lemonade.
“I think you’ve only been here a month, maybe two?
“Uh, huh.”
“And you just graduated from college?”
He was a mind reader. “Yes, Pratt Institute.”
“Ah, you’re here for the fashion!” He struck a model’s pose, his arm up, wrist bent, making his fingers look like they belonged to a ballerina, and gazed down his nose as he pursed his lips and batted his eyelashes.
She burst out laughing, realizing she felt as comfortable with him as she did with Marti. She knew she should ask questions of him to get to know him better, but all she could do right then was enjoy him. Or was he just trying to get her into bed? She’d tell Marti never to leave them alone. Where was she anyway? She was probably spying, giving this man all the time he needed to charm her.
Despite her determination to be cautious, she drank him in like a chilled glass of Chablis. His humor and laughter were intoxicating. She could sit across the table from this man every day of her life and never tire of him. Oh, snap—what was she thinking?
Marti returned. “What’d I miss?”
Claire wanted to say,just my falling in love with a complete stranger, but resisted. That was the craziest thought she’d had in her lifetime. Her confession could wait until dinner and Champagne.
Marti pointed. “And you are?”
“I’m David.” He stood and pulled out Marti’s chair. “Enchanté.”
“Marti.” She sat and looked from Claire to him and back to Claire. Marti smiled conspiratorially, as if David and she had arranged this meeting.
The waiter arrived with three flutes sparkling with dark pink liquid at the bottom of the glass and Champagne floating in a layer above.
“Kir Royale. I hope you like them. I spilled your lemonades on Claire, and I feel I must make up for my calamity. Please forgive my intrusion.” He lifted his glass. “The French say, ‘Santé.’ To your health.”
Claire clinked her glass to his and then to Marti’s. “Congratulations on your new endeavor as a doctor,” she whispered.
After one sip Claire thought she might forgive David anything. “Delicious!”
She might forgive David anything? She plucked up a tissue and wiped the dust from the silver frame. The laptop dinged, jarring her. Hugging the photo, she sat down. The welcome login screen finally appeared. She and David shared their passwords, but she had enough trouble remembering her own, much less his. She typed in his email address and what she thought might be the password he always used, the unpronounceable town where they were married and that year:Riquewihr1997.
The screen blinked as thousands of emails scrolled. Pages upon pages of messages from Amazon and credit card companies and investment opportunities in third-world countries.
Once she’d deleted the junk, only three remained, all from David’s former boss, asking why he wasn’t answering his phone on the day David died. The memory of that moment sliced through her as clean and sharp as the moment she’d discovered him.
She searched his Sent Mail folder for any mention of Luca, Sophie, and Soltner. Nothing.
She put her face in her hands and didn’t fight the tears. The worst had happened. Why was she scared now?
She sat up. Because if David cheated on her, she’d lost him long before he died.
She didn’t want to believe David had been unfaithful, but if he was, she would have to face losing the life she thought they’d shared and lose him all over again. She didn’t think she could live with losing him twice.
Who was this woman, Sophie? Surely she knew David was married. Didn’t she? Had Claire the courage to accept the truth? The only person who knew that truth was Sophie.
She googled Sophie Soltner, Luca Soltner, and Château Soltner. No website, no phone number, no email address, no physical address, just a brief description of the vineyard, a list of its varietals, and a map locating the château outside Colmar in the Alsace region of France.
She blew out a slow hot breath. David, too, had lied. He had a son. A son who didn’t know his father. A son who was probably missing his father.
