“Very pretty.”
“I’m Emma Kinsley, by the way, from Coonawarra. Do you happen to know it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Would’ve been shocked if you did. Australia. Tiny town, really, located somewhere between Adelaide and Melbourne. And you?”
“Rosalyn Acosta. Nice to meet you.”
“Sheesh, I’m such a drongo,” said Emma, watching as Rosalyn gathered whatever papers she could reach without unbuckling her seat belt.
“Drongo?”
“Klutz, I should say. Look at this: History is scattered at our feet. There’s a metaphor in there, wouldn’t you say, Rosalyn?”
The papers appeared to be an assortment of handwritten letters, yellowed with age. Some were still in envelopes; others were loose; most were written in French, a few pages in English. But Rosalyn barely glanced at the correspondence. Instead, her heart fell at the thought of spending the next ten hours or so in forced companionship with a chatty seatmate.
I should have traded in the first-class ticket for an empty row in coach so I would have had privacy,Rosalyn thought.
It wasn’t that there was anything particularly off-putting about Emma; it was just that, deep down, Rosalyn didn’t want to chat. With anyone. At all. Perhaps ever.Anyone else in my situation would be happy,Rosalyn reminded herself for the thousandth time. As everyone from Rosalyn’s mother to the mail carrier had remarked, an all-expenses-paid trip to Champagne—with a couple of days in Paris, no less—sounded like a dream come true.
But lately stories of recluses had been resonating with Rosalyn: Emily Dickinson and Emily Brontë, J. D. Salinger and Henry Thoreau; various hermits in the history of numerous religions—therewere a number of hermitic saints in Christendom, she knew, though she couldn’t put names to them. Rosalyn certainly wouldn’t describe herself as a person who emulated the saintly in any way, yet she would be willing to take the vow if it meant she could hide away somewhere in harsh monastic silence. No questions, no comments, no advice.
And yet here she was.
“So, tell me,” Emma continued as Rosalyn handed her the last of the letters she had been able to gather. “What’s waiting for you in France, Rosalyn? Business or pleasure?”
“I... I’m going on business,” said Rosalyn.
The plane achieved altitude, the seat belt light pinged off, and a flight attendant came over and smoothly gathered the rest of the dropped papers, placing them in a messy stack on Emma’s tray.
“What kind of business?”
“I work for a wine importer based in the Napa Valley. I’m going to Champagne to—”
“No!”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to Champagne, too!”
“Oh. How about that?”
“What a coincidence! Maybe we should commandeer the plane and make it land a bit closer to our destination. Don’t you justdespiselanding after a long flight and then having to driveanothercouple of hours, with jet lag, no less? How are you getting there?”
“I have a rental car reserved.”
“You should ride with me! I’ve got a driver picking me up: a very tall, dark, handsome man, not that I notice such things. But the Champagne region isn’t that big. I’m sure we could drop you off with no problem.”
This is a nightmare,Rosalyn thought. But then she checked herself:not a nightmare, not really, not in comparison with so much. Still, it was awkward. But as Dash used to say,“Awkward never killed anybody.”
“I wouldn’t want to be any bother,” Rosalyn began. “I—”
“Nonsense. You’ll come with me, and I’ll drop you off.” Emma started paging through the letters, shaking her head and muttering. “Just look at this mess. I had these in order by date, and now I have to start all over again. What a pain. So, where exactly are you headed?”
“A small town called Cochet, but—”
“Cochet?GoodGod, what’s in Cochet?”
