“I have to say,” said Rosalyn, “this champagne isn’t half bad. I’m liking it more and more.”
“No wonder. We drank the whole bottle,” Jérôme said.
Emma brought out her phone. “I’ll call André and have him bring us more.”
“Phones don’t usually work in the caves,” Jérôme warned.
Sure enough, Emma wasn’t able to get a signal.
“Allow me, ladies.” Jérôme stood and wiped the dust off the seat of his pants.
“Why can’t we just drink one of these?” Rosalyn asked, reaching over to the stack of hundreds of bottles hiding them from the gallery. “You suppose they’d notice if one went missing?”
Emma laughed. “These bottles are not ready. They still have the sediment and lack thedosage.”
“Brut is great,” said Jérôme. “But nottoobrut. I’ll be back.”
The women watched as he disappeared behind the bottles.
“You think he’ll come back?” Rosalyn asked.
“Oh, I have a sense he will. We’re a lot more interesting than that party.”
“Don’t you want to find where Lucie and her family were living down here?”
“Of course I do. You know, I used to think I was strange to be so intrigued by Émile’s letters, but now I see it’s contagious. I think you might even be more obsessed than I am. You certainly know the letters better than I do, at this point. Maybeyoushould write the book.”
Rosalyn laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not a writer, Emma.”
“Are you sure? Judging by your e-mails, you have a flair for the written word—and you studied marketing, right? So you probably know how to write copy, at least.”
“You flatter me. But I think you need a historian to do thoseletters justice. I don’t know enough about the context of what was going on in the world at the time.”
“Maybe. But you see, there are these things called ‘history books’ that you can read to fill in some gaps. And we’re not talking about writing a textbook—it’s a story.” She nudged Rosalyn with her elbow. “Maybe the story needs a littledosageto sweeten it up, give it thatje ne sais quoi.”
Rosalyn smiled. “I’ll be happy to work with whomever you select to write the book, when the time comes. But I’m a wine rep, not a writer.”
“No offense, Rosalyn, but if your performance back there at the party was an example of your wine-repping skills, you might want to look into a different line of work. Successful salespeopleenjoygoing to parties, socializing, getting to know people. They like nothing better than working the room—like that sleazy Ritchie James fellow.”
“You think he’s sleazy?”
“He’s a sales guy, just not my style. But my point is, being a wine rep is damned hard work, but a true salesperson loves it—and you clearly don’t. It’s your life, of course, but I don’t see that this is a profession that plays to your strengths.”
Rosalyn shrugged.
“Do you know that in all this time, you haven’t asked to taste the champagne from my vineyards?”
“You told me you were already represented in the U.S.”
“I am, but that fact wouldn’t have stopped someone like Ritchie James, is all I’m saying.”
Just then Jérôme returned, saving Rosalyn from having to respond.
“Success,” he said, holding three bottles—two in one hand, one under his arm—and three flutes hanging from the fingers of his other hand.
