“You have a way with children,” Jérôme said as Laurent trotted off.
“I find a game of war almost always wins over the under-ten set.”
Dinner was a slow, drawn-out affair. They began with a chicken liver pâté served with cornichons and a crusty baguette, followed by a saffron-based bouillabaisse, andblanquette de veau. Following this was winter salad with buttermilk dressing, and a plate of four cheeses alongside more bread.
Laurent became fidgety and whined a bit toward the end of the meal, not wanting to linger at the table while the adults chatted about everything from literature to the Napa wine scene to the formation of the European Union. Rosalyn could hardly blame the child; she wondered if they ate this formally every night, just the two of them, and decided they probably did.
Early training for a lifetime of Taking Dinner Seriously.
Afterward, Laurent helped to clear the dishes; then his father sent him upstairs to brush his teeth. Rosalyn helped Jérôme clean the kitchen while classical music played softly in the background.
When Jérôme excused himself to give Laurent his bath, Rosalyn sank into a comfy chair by the fire, enjoying the feeling of fullness and the slight tipsiness from the wine.
Fifteen minutes later Jérôme came down with Laurent in his arms, wrapped in a towel, to say good night. Rosalyn’s heart just about broke at the sweet sight: Laurent looking so young and vulnerable in Jérôme’s strong arms. A surge of anger took her by surprise:Of course Dash never wanted children. If they’d had a child, he would have had to share the spotlight, would no longer have been the center of her universe.
After she bade Laurent good night and Jérôme took the boy back upstairs to tuck him in, Rosalyn studied the three different Comtois Père et Fils champagnes, tasting them, one after another. The color ranged from straw yellow to antique amber. She took the time to swirl them around in her mouth, feeling the creamy, sumptuous fizz.
Yep.Rosalyn was definitely developing a taste for champagne. She wasn’t ready to abandon her heavy reds yet, but these honeyed bubbles were growing on her, no doubt about it.
But whatwasit with the French and their boring wine labels? The Italians, the Spanish, and the Australians had fun with theirs. Some California labels might have been accused of being downright silly, but they were memorable, and wasn’t that the point of a label?
“You’re enjoying the champagne?” Jérôme asked, startling her.
“Very much, as a matter of fact,” Rosalyn said. “I was just thinking to myself that I’m becoming a fan after all.”
“That would be quite a coup, to bring a Californian red wine lover to worship champagne.”
She let out a bark of laughter. “Not sure I’d carry it that far. But I’m definitely appreciating it like never before.”
“Not the highest compliment I’ve ever heard, but I’ll take it,” he said, and started to prepare some dessert.
“Oh, please, none for me.”
“Just a little fruit tart? My mother made it. It goes great with champagne.”
“Twist my arm.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s an expression. I’d love a small slice. Thank you.” She smiled and allowed herself to sink into the warmth of the home. The looseness inspired by the champagne. To embrace the openness she so rarely felt anymore.
“Any specific thoughts about the champagne?” Jérôme asked.
“Mostly about the labels.”
“What about them? I think they’re very simple, very classy.”
“They are classy, yes. And there’s a place for that.”
“But...?”
They carried their dessert plates to their seats at the table.
“But Americans like something pretty, a bottle they can stick a candle into.”
“Excuse me?”
“The French labels are very elegant, which makes them perfect for special occasions. But otherwise they’re a little... stiff.”
