“I had no ideala Champagnewas so full of drama.”
Emma snorted. “Wherever there are people, there will be soap operas.”
Rosalyn smiled and gazed out the window, pondering the irony of her landing in Champagne, of all places, the land of widows.
“But yes, it’s all about the widows here in Champagne,” Emma continued.
Rosalyn opened her mouth to tell Emma and Blondine that she, too, was a widow. It wasn’t a secret, exactly, so much as a private thing. But she hesitated. Her loss weighed her down like a stone, and it was relaxing not to have to think about it, not tobea widow, every moment of every day.
“I’m excited to see the house,” said Blondine. “But I remember there were rumors that the Bolze family collaborated with the Nazis during the war.”
“How old is Madame Bolze?” Rosalyn asked.
“She’s in her eighties now, which means she was just a child at the time. But still. What would it be like to know your wealth comes from such a history?”
“Today she’s just an old lady who might be able to help us with something. Anyway, there are always rumors about such things,” said Emma, and turned to Rosalyn. “There was a shortage of glass during the war, and it’s possible the Bolze bottle makers sold to some people they shouldn’t have. But the truth is, there’s always someone somewhere making money off war.”
“That’s sad but true,” said Rosalyn. “They say war’s great for commerce.”
“I’m not sure they can be condemned for cooperating with an occupying army,” said Emma. “What was the alternative?”
“My father’s uncle was a teenager during World War Two who was shot and killed for helping to blow up a German supply train,” Blondine said fiercely. “Thatwas the alternative. You Australians andAmericans have never been invaded and had to fight to freela patrie. You do not understand.”
“Girl’s got a point,” Emma said, and Rosalyn nodded. “But since we’ve arrived at our destination, may I suggest we set aside seventy-five-year-old innuendo and keep an open mind?”
Blondine turned onto a gravel driveway. Ahead of them, visible through ornate wrought iron gates, the Vieille Ruche house loomed. Surrounded by a large stone wall, it was four stories tall and built of multicolored stone in shades of red, ocher, and green.
A boy of about ten ran to greet the car as they pulled up. “Bonjour!You’re the friends of Madame Bolze?”
He opened the gates, and Blondine pulled through; then he closed them carefully behind them.
“She lets us come play here sometimes,” said the boy. “My mom does work for her.Bonne journée!”
Madame Bolze opened the door and stood in the threshold to greet them. She was short and round and unsmiling, with close-cropped silver hair. Dressed in pants and a tunic, she had the aura of a farmer’s wife more than of a grande dame.
Rosalyn helped Emma out of the car, then handed her the crutches. Emma swayed, supporting herself on the doorframe.
“Are you okay?” Rosalyn asked.
“Sure. Just a little dizzy. Got up too fast.” She gazed at the tall house. “Good thing I’m not the one who has to climb up there, right?”
Fortunately there were only three shallow steps leading to the front door landing.
“Bonjour, madame!”Emma called out. “We are your visitors—and we come bearing gifts!”
The basket of pâté, fruit, and fresh bread seemed to smooth over any awkwardness, as Madame Bolze spent a while inspecting the contents.
After introductions, she waved them in. “Come in, come in. It’s cold outside.”
They stepped into a cramped foyer with several doors, and one small hallway leading to a twisting staircase. A grandfather clock, two credenzas, and a coat stand crowded the space.
“Put your coats there.” She indicated an overloaded rack.
“Thank you so much for having us,” said Emma, gesturing with her crutches. “As you can see, I’m a little worse for wear, so I brought these two with me to be my legs.”
“Of course.” Madame Bolze opened a door to a large light-filled sitting room, fronted on one side by a glassed-in solarium. They were immediately enveloped in the heat of the radiators and the sunroom.
Everywhere were books and furniture and boxes of papers and photographs and miscellaneous items. Scattered on a small coffee table were postcards, baby photos, and documents with blocks of print and seals that looked like important legal papers. A mélange of abandoned craft projects cluttered a large round table, and knitting needles stuck out of half-finished sweaters and scarves. The walls were covered in religious icons, landscape paintings, and antique mirrors.
