We sit in silence after that, broken only by the soft rustle of wind through the trees.
It feels good. Maybe the start of something.
CHAPTER 23
Ember
The wine cellar at the chalet is chilly like you’d expect it to be to keep the wine, hundreds of bottles, safe to age and mellow, each one tucked lovingly into its cradle.
The collection spans years—vintages from the early 1900s all the way back to dusty, green bottles marked with wax seals, some likely procured by the first Count Rousseau when he was still trying to impress a Parisian opera singer with a taste for Burgundy. Or so the story goes.
The count was rumored to be a bit of a manwhore.
Papa had the cellar redone so it also functioned like a tasting room with a long table that could easily accommodate ten people.
Once we’re all seated, Papa’s voice booms and he announces, with full theatricality, “Tonight,mes amis, we drink only French! And only the good stuff.”
A cheer goes up.
I take a seat at the far end of the table. Ransom is right next to me. I’ve figured his trick out. He waits until I sit and then settles himself. Always close enough so I can smell his cologne and feel it in my heart, and in between my thighs.
Thomas is on my left, legs swinging beneath the bench. Across from him, Anika peers curiously at the ten empty wine glasses and note cards lined up in front of each adult. Only she and Thomas have a single small tasting glass each. More ceremonial than serious.
“You’re going to drink ten wines?” Anika asks, perturbed.
“We’re going to taste ten wines,bébé,” Papa corrects her.
“How come I don’t have ten glasses?” she enquires.
“Me, too.” Thomas raised his hand, his lips thin and mutinous because of the unfairness.
“’Cause you’re not drinking,” Latika admonishes.
“Only one sip forles petits.” Papa points a stern finger at Thomas, who giggles.
Latika sighs and mutters, “Bunch of alcoholics,” under her breath.
“Now, Latika, we’re not alcoholics,” Mama says regally, and then adds on a laugh, “but weareheavy drinkers.”
“I want to try the red one.” Thomas points at a bottle of Loire Chinon Cabernet Franc.
“Me, too,” Anika agrees.
Papa drops a small amount, barely half a sip each in their glasses.
Thomas drinks like a tiny aristocrat and declares, “It tastes like old socks.”
“You know what old socks taste like?” Latika chuckles.
“I can guess.” He smells the wine and wrinkles his nose. “Smells like old socks, too.”
“That’s actually on the money,” Ransom tells him. “Cab Franc does taste like…old socks.”
“What’s a cab franc?”
Before someone can explain about grape varietals, Anika says, “It’s like jam…but mean.”
Latika’s eyes sparkle as she wraps an arm around Aksel’s waist. “Your children are either going to be sommeliers or rebels.”
