“Oh, great. Thank you. So... what do you think?” asked Rosalyn, anxious to hear Blondine’s opinion of her artwork on the walls.
“What do I think about what?” Blondine asked, setting the croissants out on a plate.
“The walls.” said Rosalyn. “I’ve been painting your walls.”
Blondine looked up. “Oh! I didn’t even notice! You see, this is why I can’t be in charge of decorating. Oh, Rosalyn, this is—”
“Pas mauvais?”
Blondine laughed. “Pas mauvais, truly. Not bad at all. In fact, I love it. Look at the glasses of champagne. They’re dancing! And the vine border, and the grapes and birds—it is enchanting.”
“I hope you mean it. If not, it won’t hurt my feelings if you want to paint over it. I had a lot of fun doing it.”
“I love it, but now you must paint Emma’s room. Speaking of whom, has Emma seen it yet? She should be up by now.”
Rosalyn felt a pang of fear as Blondine went to bang on Emma’s door, requesting her presence inChambre Chardonnay. But soon enough she heard Emma yelling at Blondine to “hold your horses, already.”
Dominique arrived not long after, smelling of cigarettes. She admired the painted walls, but then asked, “What happened to the poor ornament?” gesturing to Rosalyn’s cracked ornament in its evergreen nest.
“She likes it that way,” said Emma as she joined them. She popped the champagne and poured it into four flutes.
“It’s true. I like it that way,” said Rosalyn, relieved to see Emma looking whole, if tired.
“If you like broken ornaments, there are plenty more where that came from,” said Dominique. “I have two cats, and they have a way with Christmas trees.”
Emma handed them each a flute of champagne, which they held high in toast.
“In answer to a question Rosalyn posed long ago, today’s the day we all drink champagne for breakfast!”
For the next hour, the women chatted, feasted on croissants, drank champagne, and helped one another to don the traditional dress of this area of Champagne: long red skirts and red capes fastened by gold clasps at the throat. The white bonnets were trimmed in lace, with long sides that fell to the shoulders, and reminded Rosalyn of van Gogh’s paintings of peasants in Brittany. Rosalyn’s skirt was a snug fit—too many croissants?—but the cape hid a multitude of sins.
“Do all the women wear the same costume?” Rosalyn asked.
“No, of course not,” said Blondine. “Some wear more white, some green. I have even seen some brocade.”
“Rebels,” murmured Emma.
“We’re all cheating, though,” said Dominique. Her robust form looked surprisingly at home in the traditional outfit. “If we were really committed, we’d be wearing wooden shoes.”
“I tried that one year, andaye-yi-yi,” said Blondine. “I’d rather wear high heels. They must have developed calluses or something; I can’t imagine working in the fields in those wooden shoes.”
“You aren’t going to be a stickler about me rolling around in a wheelchair, are you?” said Emma. “Because I suppose my crutches are more traditional, but my armpits will never last the whole day.”
As Rosalyn adjusted her bonnet in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that, she realized that for the first time in a very long while, she cared about her appearance. She wasn’t about to construct a false shell as she once had. But as she swept on a hint of mascara and lip gloss, she was glad to see that a glow had returned to her cheeks, and now that she was sleeping more, the dark circles under her eyes had receded.
Jérôme seemed happy to take her as she was, but still—she wanted to look nice for him. And also for herself.
And when her date arrived to take her to the festival, she learned he was a man of his word: Jérôme really did look good in tights.
Chapter Forty-nine
Lucie
Here’s what I remember: climbing out of our hole into the blessedly fresh air of the vineyard, treading lightly to muffle the sound of our wooden shoes on the rungs, handing up the baskets.
I remember the hills glowed in soft silvers and golds, and even the ugly barbed wire was painted in lunar light. I remember the stars twinkling on that crisp, clear night. My little Topette, smelling of the lavender sachet my mother had given her to wear around her neck to shield her from the foul smells of the caves.
I remember breathing deeply of the aroma of dusk, feeling the warmth of the dissipating heat, the smells of earth and leaf andles raisins, the sweet grapes. The children stole a few of the little jewels, popping them into their mouths as though the grown-ups did not notice.
