Vintage (30 page)

“You’re never coming back to London, are you?” asked Lizzy then.

“I don’t think so,” Madeleine admitted at last.

“Well, I miss you madly,” Lizzy responded. “But I think you’ve made the right choice.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I know you always used to say that you didn’t care about this place, but it’s obvious that you do. It matters to you that you make good champagne here, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does,” said Madeleine.

“And I don’t think it’s just about showing your father what you’re capable of anymore.”

“Of course not,” said Madeleine. “He’s dead.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think he would have cared anyway.”

“That’s not true. He did love you, Mads. You know that too. Sometimes, when you and I were living together, when he called the flat and you weren’t there, he and I would have a little chat. He wanted to know everything that was going on in your life. He was so proud of you. I
know how it must have seemed after Georges died. Your father knew that was when things really went wrong. He wanted to bridge the gap between you but he didn’t know how to begin. Lots of men are like that. I think my father only ever used the L word once in his life, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.”

Madeleine nodded.

“But anyway, it’s not just about your father. This is your place now. You want to make great champagne for
you.
And I want to drink a bottle of it when I finally manage to drag some poor sucker down the aisle.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Madeleine.

As she went to bed that night, Madeleine recalled her conversation with Lizzy. Though she had said it with some authority—that she was going to be staying in Champagne—the strength of Madeleine’s assertion had surprised even her. It was as though until that moment, she herself had not known she’d actually made her decision. But she had. Watching her grapes go into the press had felt so natural.

For the first time in a long while, Madeleine found that she was able to fall asleep quickly. She wasn’t worrying about anything. The vendange had gone without a hitch and the second she tasted the raw juice, she knew that Henri was right: the grapes were more than good enough to make a Clos Des Larmes. Madeleine closed her eyes and for once she dreamed of opening a bottle of good champagne rather than drowning in it.

The following afternoon, Madeleine gave her friends a lift to the railway station in Épernay, whence they would catch a train to Paris. After waving them off, she parked her car and walked into the town to run some errands. She saw
Axel Delaflote coming out of a bank. She wasn’t certain he had seen her. He was talking into his phone. For a moment, Madeleine thought about hiding. She looked about her for an open shop to dip into. But she changed her mind. Instead she walked straight by him with her head held high. She had done it. The grapes were harvested. The juice was pressed. And Henri Mason had confirmed that they would make a Clos Des Larmes.

Catching sight of Madeleine heading straight for him, Axel tried to wind up his phone conversation. He put his hand out as if to stop her. But the person on the other end of the call would not stop talking. In any case, Madeleine didn’t even look at him. She kept on walking and thanked God that she’d washed her hair just that morning.

Madeleine Arsenault was a vigneronne. And this was going to be a vintage year.

I
n Napa Valley, the harvest was a little later than expected. An unexpectedly cold and rainy spring had set the season back. But a warm August had made up for the slow start, and finally, in the second week of September, Enrique, the vineyard manager, was satisfied that the pinot noir had reached its peak.

The Villa Bacchante had its own pressing equipment of course. Brand-new stainless-steel vats. The very best on the market. And new French oak barrels in which to effect a first fermentation. And Christina Morgan had more than
enough money to pay for a huge gang of the itinerant workers who drifted around California to bring the grapes home in a day. But Marisa had other ideas. She got out her BlackBerry and started to make calls.

A movie about a man who inherited a vineyard in France had instilled a somewhat romantic view of the grape harvest in the Hollywood mind-set. Add to that a promise of a party and soon the Villa Bacchante had no vacancies. The staff at the nearest private airport could not believe their luck as Marisa and Christina’s glamorous pals booked slots to land their Gulfstreams and helicopters.

“Are you crazy?” Christina asked. “Why do they want to come up here?”

“Because they care about you,” said Marisa. “And they want to help you. Let them help you, Christina. You don’t have to be so self-sufficient all the time.”

Enrique was only too pleased to have a bunch of actors and supermodels on his team, though he didn’t expect them to last a day.

In the end, they did quite well. Only one of the models begged off mid-morning, fearing unsightly sun reddening that could be a problem for a lingerie shoot the following week. But even that girl continued to help out, assisting the housekeeper as she set up a picnic lunch in the shade of some eucalyptus trees.

“When finally the first trickle of juice ran from the tap into a glass, Enrique handed the glass to Christina.

“For good luck,” he said.

Christina took the glass. Her friends waited expectantly. She made a big show of properly “tasting” the pale liquid inside. She held it up to the light to see the color and clarity. She sniffed the “bouquet.” Finally, she took a sip and swilled it around her mouth as though testing the
balance of alcohol and acidity. “Yes,” she announced finally. “That definitely tastes like grape juice.”

“Hooray!” Marisa led the applause.

“While Enrique and the other paid Villa Bacchante staff finished the day’s business at the press, Christina led her friends back to the villa. Her housekeeper had already laid a long table with a white tablecloth and set out plates and silverware. There were big bowls of crusty bread and, for once, it seemed that no one was counting their carbs.

Just far enough away that the smoke wouldn’t get into anyone’s hair, a barbecue was ready to go. Christina took up the tongs herself, taking the role that once was Bill’s. She placed the marinated chicken and steaks on the grill and flipped them expertly, all the while chatting to her guests and sipping a lovely pinot noir from a winery down the valley. The owner had harvested his grapes a few days earlier and was only too happy to help Christina with her own first harvest.

“Helping a fellow farmer,” he told her.

“Wanting to inveigle himself into the social circle of a supermodel, more like,” Marisa muttered. “You know he asked me whether I carry my agency’s book in the car?”

Whatever his motivations, the guy from the farm next door looked very happy as he chatted to Paulina, a Polish model Christina had met back in New York when they were both just starting out. Paulina’s career hadn’t taken off in quite the same way as Christina’s, but she had garnered two
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit editions before she married the hedge-fund manager who was now her ex-husband.

Paulina was very much in demand. When Christina’s winemaking neighbor skipped off to find her a drink, Ronald Ginsburg, who had flown in that day to offer Christina his support, took his place.

“I’m here to keep an eye on my investment,” Ronald explained to Paulina. “I have to make sure Christina’s wine is tip-top. I’m backing her in a wager and my reputation is at stake.”

“Your reputation?” Paulina was confused.

“Yes,” said Ronald.

Paulina looked at him blankly.

“As a wine critic,” said Ronald, realizing with a sinking feeling that she didn’t know who he was. Neither did she look that impressed.

“That’s nice,” she said, as she accepted her drink from Christina’s neighbor.

Ronald got up and went in search of easier prey.

Another model manqué, Michelle, an English girl who had married a Hollywood producer, was helping Christina with the barbecue.

“Do you remember that interview in the
New York Times
where you said that modeling is hard work?” Michelle asked. Christina cringed at the memory. That throwaway comment had followed her around like Linda Evangelista’s infamous assertion that she didn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day.

“Well,” Michelle continued. “I used to agree with you until today. We had no idea!” she added with a laugh. “Felt good though.”

Everyone seemed very pleased with the way the day had gone. When Enrique returned, Christina proposed a toast.

“To the man who really knows what he’s doing!”

Enrique accepted his employer’s praise shyly and was persuaded to stay for a glass of wine and a steak. Three hours later, Enrique was still there and leading the dancing.

One of the guys had retrieved an acoustic guitar from
the back of his Porsche and was making a pretty good job of a Gypsy Kings cover. “When he got tired of playing, Marisa put some dance tunes on the garden stereo. Christina took off her apron and joined Enrique for a turn around the courtyard. Soon everybody was on their feet, suddenly finding new energy.

“I am having the best time of my life,” was the frequent refrain.

“May I have this dance?”

Christina found herself passed from Enrique into the open arms of Greg Stroud.

“Greg.” Christina smiled up at her old friend. “I’m so glad you’re still here. I can’t believe I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all day.”

“You’ve been busy,” Greg acknowledged. “But I have you now.”

He whirled her around dramatically. Christina gave a little shriek, though she knew, somehow, that Greg was not the kind of guy who would drop her.

Regaining her balance, Christina wrapped her arms around Greg’s neck and they continued to sway to the music.

“I haven’t seen you in … ”

“Five years,” said Greg.

“Is it that long?”

Christina was surprised and slightly embarrassed, wondering if the long gap was somehow her fault. There had been a time in her life when she saw Greg Stroud just about every day. They’d both been living in New York at the time. She was just starting out as a model, he in TV.

Greg was dating Christina’s roommate, Angelica, a model from the Czech Republic. Greg had married the girl but—green card in hand—she’d moved on to an investment banker. In his grief, Greg had left New York for
Los Angeles, buried himself in work and rocketed to the top of a cable network.

They’d been good friends back in the day, though. When Greg heard that Angelica was sleeping with someone else, it was Christina he came to for consolation.

Over a decade later Christina remembered that night in her apartment very well. She remembered Greg’s face, drawn and tired. He hadn’t slept for a couple of days. Angelica had confirmed the rumor via telephone. She was in Milan. Greg was in Helsinki. Greg had offered to fly to Italy to talk things through. Angelica said there was no point. She was flying directly to St. Tropez to join her new lover. So Greg flew back to New York and drove straight from the airport to Christina’s apartment.

Christina tried hard to be sympathetic, but what she really wanted to do was dance around the apartment. The thought of Greg without Angelica was too wonderful.

Greg got his divorce. But a month after it came through, he was dating another Czech model. Christina decided that she simply wasn’t Greg’s type and started dating Rocky Neel instead.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling a girlish flicker of pleasure when Greg told her she was looking great.

They danced to three songs before Greg said, “I’ve got to go. It’s way past my bedtime and I have to fly to LA first thing.”

Christina planted a kiss on his cheek before she let her arms drop from around his neck.

“Promise you won’t leave it so long next time,” she said.

“Just try and keep me away,” said Greg. He departed with a wink.

Eventually the flames in the fire pit began to die down. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote yipped, as if to say
“Shut up.” Enrique retrieved his hat and muttered something about another early start. Those guests who had homes to go to did. Those that were staying at the villa retired to their rooms.

And so the longest working day in Christina Morgan’s life was over. She smiled to herself as she remembered the conversation by the barbecue that night. Had she really said that modeling was hard work? She’d had no idea. Getting up before dawn, harvesting a vineyard and getting the grapes into the press before nightfall—that was hard work. And boy could she feel it in her muscles. But what a great day. She hadn’t realized quite how many good friends she had.

With her guests safely in their bedrooms, Christina went upstairs to her own suite. She hadn’t had any involvement in the design of the Villa Bacchante; Bill’s PA, Teak, had overseen the renovations. By the time Christina arrived on the scene, the place was almost finished. Including the bathroom off the master bedroom suite. It was fabulous. Every time she walked in Christina offered her silent thanks to the young PA who had irritated her so much during her short-lived marriage.