“I value André much too highly to subject him to anything quite as dangerous as toting my not-insubstantial self up four flights of stairs,” Emma said. “But fortunately, there’s a work-around—my good friend Rosalyn. What say you, Rosalyn? Care to explore with me?”
Rosalyn smiled. “I’d be happy to.”
“It’s settled, then,” Emma said. “More champagne!”
As Rosalyn was about to take another bite of her cake, she noticed something nestled within the layers of pastry. It took her a moment to realize: She had been served the piece withla fève.
“Look what I found,” she said, holding up a little figure of a baby.
“Voilà, you are king for the day!” said Gaspard.
“And you must bring the cake next year,” said Dominique.
“Do you have any royal edicts, as king?” asked Bonnet.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Rosalyn. “Tonight, the men do the dishes, and no more smoking indoors.”
The group dissolved into laughter as Rosalyn stood to help Blondine clear the table, and the others lit their cigarettes.
Rosalyn teased that as king, she would have their heads cut off for their impertinence.
Chapter Twenty-four
By the time Emma, André, and Rosalyn headed back to their bedrooms at thegîte, the storm had passed, but the fallen rain had frozen. The courtyard looked like something out of a movie: icicles hanging like Christmas ornaments from branches and eaves, a thick sheet of ice frosting every surface. Gaspard threw handfuls of rock salt on the walkway, but they still practically skated all the way back, arriving intact only with André’s considerable help.
After several effusivebonne nuitsat her door, Rosalyn slipped intoChambre Chardonnay. She caught a whiff of evergreen from the sprigs she had placed on the table, in the little nest for the shattered ornament. She leaned down and put her nose to the branches, inhaling deeply. The scent reminded her of Dash. Or, more precisely, of Dash’s cologne, which she had noticed the very first time she got close to him. It was subtle but intoxicating.
When she came home from the hospital that last time, after running from his room, Rosalyn had thrown the bottle against the wall, where it shattered, spewing glass shards and its fragrant contents on the carpet.
More than two years later, the cottage still smelled of him.
Rosalyn positioned a chair in front of her one big window and looked out over the sparkling scene outside, an enchanted landscape painting come to life. As a native Californian, she was fascinated by the winter weather—especially since she was safe and warm, inside looking out.
Wind buffeted the window, stirring frozen branches thattinked together, sending icicles crashing to the ground. What would a storm of this intensity have meant for the soldiers in the trenches? Would they have been exposed to all the elements, desperate for new wool socks? At least those living in the caves under Reims were protected from changes in the weather; it was a constant, cool temperature down in the bowels of the earth, hovering around fifty-five to sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect for champagne. Chilly for humans, though nothing a good wool sweater couldn’t fix.
Rosalyn fiddled with thefèveshe had found in her slice of Kings’ cake. She had experienced a childish surge of giddiness upon discovering the tiny baby figure nestled in the layers of pastry. It was just a silly tradition, but Rosalyn had never wonanything. No Girl Scout lottery, no premovie drawing, rarely even a card game. Dash used to tease her that she was “unlucky at cards, lucky at love.”
Not so much, in the end.
She stared at the tiny baby, thinking of what Lucie had said about the youngest refugees carrying their dolls. Feeling the familiar pang, deep down. Rosalyn had wanted to start a family. Dash’s response was “someday, all in due time,” but Rosalyn had known that “someday” meant “never.” She’d briefly considered allowing herself to get pregnant “by accident,” but decided that would be unfair and underhanded, a thorny premise on which to invite a new life into this world.
Dash liked children—but he enjoyed other things more. He wanted to go out to dinner and dance, to remain unencumbered by the needsof little ones. It was the same reason he didn’t want Rosalyn to get a full-time job; she taught a few art classes to children, but mostly she painted and played house during the day, remaining free to join Dash at the drop of a hat. He wanted to hold impromptu parties, to hop into the car and drive wherever, whenever the whim struck. Up the coast to Timber Cove, down the coast to Santa Barbara. One weekend he and Rosalyn took off to London, just for fun; other times, they flew to Mexico or Hawaii. Theirs was a life others had envied: a whirlwind of fine dining, four-star hotels, the best wines, and the liveliest company.
Until it wasn’t.
Rosalyn sometimes tortured herself, wondering: Had Dash made himself sick, somehow? The drinking, the rich food, the indulgent lifestyle. During the day while she was painting in the vines, lost in sweet oblivion, he attended to business but also lingered over three-hour lunches with clients and potential investors.
Later, when the terrible truth set in, that their lifestyle was built on credit, that he—thatthey—were deeply in debt, Rosalyn realized that Dash had not been attending to business after all. At the very least, not well.
She had wanted to believe him when he said he had everything under control; she trusted him to handle their finances while she spent her days among the rows of vines, reveling in her palette of sap greens and raw siennas and hints of vermilion. Dave’s gray and phthalocyanine, viridian green. Lost in the shape and form of the hills, the blue of the sky, the fluff of the clouds outlined in gold.
She had given her life over, part and parcel, to Dash.
Now, as she slippedlafèveinto the locket, where it was a snug fit, and turned back to Émile’s letters, Rosalyn tried to remember: Had he even asked for it?
March 27, 1915
Dear Madame Whittaker,
