“Good, then. We’ll be marching with the Cochet growers.”
“Marching? What marching?”
“It is adéfilé... a parade. But everyone marches, so there are very few to witness the parade. We carry a small statue of Saint Vincent on a frame—a... stretcher, I think you call it.”
“Like you would carry an injured person on?”
“It is better than it sounds. But in any case, thedéfiléends with a grand feast. You know what they say about theChampenois: We work hard, but we love to celebrate.”
“You’re wearing a costume, too, right?”
Jérôme gave her a crooked grin and ducked his head. “I’m told I look very good in tights.”
Chapter Forty-four
When she returned to the Blé Champagne compound, Rosalyn found André taking a smoke break at the edge of the parking area.
“I wanted to thank you for the paint set,” Rosalyn said.
“It was Emma who bought it, not me.”
“But she told me it was your idea, and that you sought out a special one. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. Thank you.”
“I admire your drawings. I can only imagine them in color. I hope you will share what you paint.”
“Only if I produce something halfway decent. But again, thank you.” She paused and then said: “By the way, I know you don’t want to break a confidence, but I’m worried. Is Emma okay?”
His hesitation said more than his words. “You must ask her directly.”
“I will. Is she around?”
He nodded. “In the tasting room, with Blondine.”
She kept André company while he finished his cigarette; then they walked together toward the buildings.
Rosalyn stopped byChambre Chardonnayto pick up Lucie’s letter to Doris with the news of Émile’s death. Blondine and Emma were in the tasting room, laptops open, surrounded by some of Émile’s letters as well as books and photocopies from the archive in Reims.
Rosalyn took a deep, shaky breath. “I have to read something to you both. It’s a letter from Lucie to Doris, about Émile. It’s not good.”
Emma and Blondine listened intently as she read Lucie’s letter aloud.
He lies beneath one of the millions of horrifying white crosses marking the final resting places of too many young men, studding the land in a painful mockery of the vines.
Blondine gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.“Mon Dieu...”
“I take it you never read this one?” Rosalyn asked Emma.
“I never got that far,” said Emma, shaking her head, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “I started reading from the beginning.Damn. I knew it was likely Émile didn’t survive, as so many did not. But...damn.”
Rosalyn finished reading them the rest of the letter just as Gaspard came into the tasting room from the office. Upon seeing the women surrounded by papers and books, he made a disparaging sound. “Are we becoming an archive ourselves now?”
“It’shistory, Papa.”
“That’s the problem with this country,” Gaspard groused as he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. “There’s no room for the here and now. Everything’s focused on the past. I thought you had more sense than that, Blondine.”
“I’d love a coffee. Thanks,” said Emma, though he hadn’t offered.
“I really... I just can’t believe it.” Blondine sniffed loudly.
