Vintage (34 page)

He pulled the page from the typewriter and laid it on the stack, which he lifted and shuffled, flipping it over and laying it gently in a manuscript box. The title page read
Vin Ordinaire
. He addressed the box to Sue Brown, his new editor in New York by way of introduction from Parker Thomas, who had been talking up Bruno's story. Parker had even done some copyediting on an early draft, and the critic's amiability puzzled Bruno until he realized that the problem had always been his own, not Thomas's.

Bruno had reunited with Harley after six months of the agent's pleading and an epic lunch at Cicchetti. He said he'd make it up to Bruno, and he did by securing a larger advance that hadn't been in the offing originally. The advance check, minus Harley's commission, now sat on the table next to the typewriter. Bruno had called his mother and Anna and suggested a meal to celebrate, though he didn't say why.

He grabbed a sack of groceries he'd prepared earlier and then locked the store and tucked the manuscript box under his arm, hoping he wouldn't be too late. The pages weighed heavy under his arm. What bothered him was twofold: Now that he'd taken over daily operation of the deli since Ma's retirement, he didn't think he'd have time to tour or promote the book. Also, there'd be expectations of a follow-up book. With his plans for expansion of the shop, he just couldn't see finding the time to write or travel, at least for a number of years. But was that really a bad thing?

The manuscript grew heavier still when he thought of Sylvie.
The normally reticent winemaker had been very open about her family's history while he'd been researching this final draft. They'd spoken for hours on the phone and she shared old stories, journals and photographs. Most of their conversations strayed from the business of the book, though, into the personal details of their daily lives. She talked of the weather and how the year's vintage had progressed after harvest. It'd been hot, and the acids lower than hoped. The wines would be bigger, more robust, but with less of the depth, layers and arability that she always sought. “The Americans will like it, though, so we'll sell it to them,” she'd said with a laugh.

Bruno talked about his daughters, his mother's retirement and how he took over the business to keep out of trouble and was finding it quite enjoyable.

But they'd always avoided the subject of what would happen after he published it. It would expose a number of details the reclusive Sylvie had shared in private. Old family wounds would be laid bare for the world to see. Publishing the book could change their relationship.

He stood wavering now by a mailbox. A taxi slid past on the road and the El train squealed around a bend a block away. He smelled the kitchen of a Thai restaurant across the street and his stomach growled its empty song. It had been a long day at the store and he dreaded the next morning, but it always felt good to lock the door and count the positive balance in the till. Anna had started doing the books and she said the balance sheet was looking good and the three-year financials looked even better. She said she'd help him work out the details with the bank when and if the time came for the expansion.

He pulled open the door of the mailbox and the package hovered above the abyss. There was always one more option.
He could shelve the manuscript and return to live with Sylvie in France. He missed her dearly, and she had left the door open for his return. But then, he could no more leave Anna and the girls than Sylvie would be able to leave her family's vines. He hoped she'd understand.

He dropped the manuscript in the box and it clanged shut. He trotted toward the El stop, an extra skip in his step.

At the house, all the women were in the kitchen, cooking. Bruno set the grocery sack on the counter. Carmen jumped in his arms and kissed him on the cheek. Claire ignored him.

He took the two twenties out of his pocket and stuffed them in a jar Carmen had decorated that read
My College Fund
. It was a relief to have all the transgressions and the penance so obviously displayed. Bruno's scarlet letter was a liberation rather than a burden.

Greta spotted him and came over wearing a grease-splattered apron. “Bruno, I need you to look at the duck for me,” she said, a worried tremor in her voice. She was still the better cook, but her confidence had been waning. He pulled the oven door open and poked the bird quickly with his finger. It glistened gold-brown, drips of fat rolling down its side, the pan sizzling.

“Look's perfect, Ma. Let's just give it a few more minutes.”

He hovered over Claire, who was making a yogurt dill sauce for the potatoes. He was going to suggest more black pepper, but then he bit his tongue. She could decide for herself.

He had a few minutes, so he snuck up to Claire's room to leave some postcards he'd collected on his last adventure in Europe as a surprise. The postcards were still a sore spot with Anna. He set them on her desk, and when he turned, Claire was standing in the doorway with her arms folded. She smiled and they hugged. She smelled like the kitchen.

They sat on the bed and Bruno took out the check.

“Can I open it?” She grinned.

He nodded and she ripped open the envelope. Harley had worked some of his magic on the back end, but it was modest. The publisher was being cautious. Still, Claire was impressed.

“My gosh, this is amazing!” she said, hugging him again and kissing his cheek. Then she snapped a picture of it with her cell phone.

“Hey, don't you put that on Twittergram or whatever.”

“I won't. Just want a picture of my first investment profit.”

“That should cover what you threw into the kitty and a little bit more. And if the book does well, who knows . . . ?” he said. With this check and what he'd been saving over the past few months, he was not only returning all of what he'd borrowed from Claire, but padding the college accounts for both girls as well. A weight was lifting from his soul. He took a pen from her desk. “Here, I'm going to sign it over to you, and you decide what to do with it. And maybe you should invest it a little more wisely this time around.”

“Goodness.” She held it in her hands, and he could see the wheels turning. “Maybe we could take that trip to Europe together, the one that we always talked about.”

“Your decision,” Bruno said, thinking that that was probably how he would spend it.

“Mom would kill us, wouldn't she?”

“Or at least stop talking to us for a while.”

Claire sighed and then brightened. “Oh, well, savings it is. Let's go show her.”

“Wait until I leave.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

They went downstairs and Anna asked Claire to help set the table. Carmen brushed bread with olive oil and slid it under the broiler while Greta sliced the duck.

Bruno thought through the final few pages of his book as they all bustled around him, feeling that he had finally arrived at a sort of wisdom. He wasn't a brilliant writer, or perhaps he was. Either way, it didn't matter much because of this meal that was coming together: five people from three generations with complex interrelations, rancor, love, desire, disappointment, hope, were all about to commune and enjoy a few moments of harmony amid the maelstrom of life. This is what food can do. This is what wine can provide. It gives you a moment, a fleeting instant that you can live within, if you choose.

Dear Claire and Carmen,
he had written.

I am learning that we not only eat for pleasure, but, like our Pleistocene ancestors, we still eat to survive. The only way we can ride out this mad, strange existence is by reaching out to one another, across the table.

Bruno helped Claire arrange the toasted bread on a platter while she chopped parsley for the presentation. She poured the yogurt sauce in a bowl and made a swirl on the top for effect. They carried it in and sat.

Greta brought in the duck, sliced and glazed, with spiral-cut orange peel on the side and a dusting of the parsley. Everyone applauded.

There is no more significant or intimate act than cooking for those you love.

As they sat, Anna rose to pour wine. A tiny splash for Claire, a bit more for Greta and a healthy pour for herself. It was an Alsatian Gewurztraminer, and Bruno could smell the citrus bouquet, the lemon meringue above a layer of spice and clove. It sparkled in the flame of the candles that Claire was lighting. Anna had only poured a little in Bruno's glass when he raised his hand. She seemed surprised, though she should have been growing used to his moderation by now.

I've come to learn that the best wine doesn't leap out of the glass at you. It doesn't knock you to the floor. It doesn't conjure a decadent collection of saccharine adjectives.

They raised glasses for a toast.

“So, Bruno,” Anna said. “What's this all about? You said you wanted to celebrate something.”

Everyone looked at him. Claire met his eyes and then looked away.

He smiled and thought. He hadn't mentioned anything about the book or the advance to Anna, or anyone in his family outside of Claire. He could make a triumphant announcement, but that didn't feel right. This wasn't about him. He thought of old Clement Trevallier. He raised his glass. “I just wanted to celebrate you, my lovely family.
Santé
.”

“Santé!”
They clinked glasses. Carmen swirled and sniffed her skim milk. They sipped, then attacked the meal.

And maybe the greatest wines are hardly even noticed at all. They are mere accompaniment.
Vin ordinaire.
They have the dignity to allow what's most important to take center stage during our brief spin on this great blue-and-green rock.

Carmen began telling a funny story about her class's rehearsal for the spring play, and everyone was smiling. Anna laughed. Bruno took a bite of the duck, his mother watching out of the corner of her eye, smiling and nodding, patting his forearm absently.

Great wine is the ordinary. It is the everyday. It is family. It's another meal. Another shot at grace. It's love. It is life. It is . . . forgiveness.

W
e writers often complain that ours is a lonely pursuit. But don't believe us! Any book is brought into the world with the aid of a small army of selfless people. In the case of
Vintage
, here are just a few: I'm grateful to my beautiful wife, Nancy, for being my first reader and overall foundation, and this book wouldn't be here without a solid quarter-century of her patience and encouragement; I thank my daughter, Bailey, for loving books and reading with me, the best part of every day; my parents, Don and Karin, and sister, Jill, all bookish people, ensured that I was always surrounded by stories; filmmaker Justin Smith helped me work out the plot, lending his cinematic take on the story; Angela Yeager, Kegan Sims and the talented actor Seth Allen all played a role in helping me find Bruno; Chef Jack Czernecki, Joseph Krause, Derek Whiteside and Scott Wright offered advice on truffles, French language, food, cooking and wine; so many teachers and fellow writers taught me to love language and want to make words and sentences happen, and a few of them include Suzanne Ryan, Carole Maso, Shelby Hearon, Patricia Ann McNair, Eric May, Randall Albers, Joe Moore, Lein Shory, Daren Dean and Nina Furstenau;
winemakers and wine people Alan Baker, Serena Lourie, Mike and Kendall Officer, Michael Amigoni, Jim Day, Mary Olson, Todd and Kelly Bostock, Jay Selman, Katherine Cole, Jimi Brooks, Janie Brooks Heuck and so many others have offered the inspiration of their passion, craft and celebration of the world's greatest beverage; far too many authors to name, dead and living, have been my heroes, beacons and silent friends, but I do have to thank Jim Harrison for writing so long and well with ferocious appetite, heart and spirit; my agent, Scott Miller of Trident Media, believed in this story from the start and found the perfect home for it; and last, but not least, everyone at Simon & Schuster and Touchstone who lent their professionalism and energy to this project, especially my editor, Etinosa Agbonlahor, who poured her enthusiasm, insight and passion for food and stories into this novel. Editors are the unsung heroes of literature, and our books would be sorry things without them.

   TOUCHSTONE READING GROUP GUIDE

Vintage

Bruno Tannenbaum desperately needs to save his marriage and career, but is it too late?

Ten years ago, Bruno Tannenbaum was a passionate food journalist with a respected newspaper column, a popular TV show, and a bestselling guide to relationships through food. These days, Bruno is living on his mother's couch, separated from his wife and their two daughters, eating his way through an ever-dwindling bank account, faced with the gnawing doubt that he'll never be the writer he once was.

Then Bruno stumbles onto the secret to a “lost” vintage of wine, stolen by Nazi soldiers during the Second World War, presumed lost to the world for good. Locating this bottle could be the key to restoring his decrepit career—maybe even writing his comeback novel—but when word of Bruno's finding gets out and Russian mobsters in search of the bottle start turning up in places too close for comfort, Bruno scrapes together his final resources, calls in favors he may ultimately regret, and sets off on a grand adventure.