Chapter Ten
Rosalyn awakened with a jolt. After the initial shock of disorientation, she remembered she was in Gaspard Blé’s gîte in Cochet. She got out of bed and tried to peek through the tiny cracks of the metal shutters, but it appeared to be pitch-black outside.
It was also pitch-black inside. She groped around the bedside table but couldn’t find the light switch, so she grabbed her phone. It was blinking five o’clock. Disoriented, she wondered whether it was five in the morning or five in the evening. Probably morning, she thought. Europe used a twenty-four-hour clock to indicate time instead of a.m. and p.m., and her cell phone would have made the switch automatically.
Turning on the phone’s flashlight, she padded across the room to the switch for the overhead light by the door. Then she fiddled with the shutter over the window and finally, through pushing some combination of buttons, she managed to get it to scroll up halfway. Better than nothing.
She needed coffee.
Rosalyn grabbed her regular flashlight, put her coat on over the T-shirt and flannel pants she had slept in, pulled on the snow boots Hugh had insisted she take with her, checked the door code for the kitchen next door, and went out into the dark early morning.
The cold struck her like a body blow.
The chilliest nights in Napa were never like this. This was a cutting, painful frostiness that reached into her body, grabbed her bones, and shook her, the wind pummeling her face and head with tiny pinpricks of sleet. She shivered uncontrollably, the beam of the flashlight jumping spasmodically as she punched numbers into the keypad of the building.
The door opened onto a loading dock, which wasn’t exactly warm but was at least sheltered from the wind. The walls were stacked with hundreds of empty wooden crates, cases, and packing materials. A forklift was parked in one corner.
One unmarked door led to a utility closet; the next opened onto a divinely heated hallway, which led to an office area and then, just beyond, to a large tasting room that was separated from a full kitchen by a huge granite counter. Half a dozen round tables were encircled with chairs, leafy green plants enlivened the corners, and colorful framed maps of the Champagne region adorned the walls.
Dash had described how charming tastings were in France: They were usually held in tiny closetlike rooms in the sides of buildings, across simple wooden counters. You would drive down a gravel drive, perhaps tap the horn once or twice, or merely call out a greeting. An elderly man or woman—often a grandparent minding small children—would eventually emerge from a house and come pour tastes of the one or two wines the family produced. No money changed hands. In comparison, in Napa, tastings had become slick, orchestrated events where tourists happily shelled out ten or twenty dollars—or more—for a few sips of a flight of wine.
As Rosalyn cast an eye over this brand-new facility, it appeared to her that Gaspard Blé had built his tasting room for the American tourists.
Rosalyn had told Emma on the plane that she had come to Champagne for business, not in search of French country charm. Still, the newness and sterility of the facility were disappointing. Why take the time, and pony up the expense, of traveling to a faraway historic place when you could have the same experience at home?
Gazing about the tasting room, she was reminded of one of the worst arguments she and Dash had ever had. Dash had wanted to live in a new condo development, in a unit with wall-to-wall carpeting, top-of-the-line appliances, and a pool and a workout room on the premises. Rosalyn had had in mind a charming little bungalow with a small yard and a few shade trees, a home they could paint and fix up a little, make their own. Dash had won the argument, of course, and they had moved into the condo.
When Dash got sick, they ended up in exactly such a cottage, when Rosalyn, now in charge of their finances, learned they were deeply, desperately in debt. When Hugh found out they were on the verge of being evicted, he offered them the old caretaker’s quarters on his property. The cottage that housed the medicine cabinet.
She shook off the memory. Focus.
Blé’s tasting room might have been frustratingly modern, but it was deliciously warm and Rosalyn breathed a sigh of relief as sensation returned to her fingers. A quick tour of the kitchen turned up a loaf of bread and assorted fruit on the counter, and in the small refrigerator she found a bowl of pale brown and green eggs, small cartons of plain yogurt, a package of cured ham known as jambon de Paris, a large square of butter, a small glass bottle of cream, and an assortment of cheeses on a plate covered with a dome.
She opened yet another door to reveal a large pantry, where numerous tote bags and wicker baskets hung from pegs. The shelves were lined with jars of confiture, honey, olives, and nuts, as well as boxes of crackers. She didn’t see a coffeemaker, which was a disappointment, but she did find a box containing packets of instant espresso. It wasn’t what she had been hoping for on such a cold, dark morning, but it would do in a pinch. She filled the electric kettle with water and switched it on.
While waiting for the water to boil, she completed her inspection of the kitchen: bottles of oil, jars of spices, all the basic kitchen staples. And champagne. Bottles and bottles of champagne. In the fridge, on the counter, in the pantry—the sparkling concoction was everywhere.
Pity she wasn’t a fan; she could have had quite the party for one.
Rosalyn emptied two packets of the instant espresso into a sturdy earthenware mug and assembled a small plate of bread, cheese, ham, and fruit, covered the plate with a thick cloth napkin, and hurried back through the freezing predawn to her room.
Taking a seat at the table, Rosalyn opened her laptop and started checking e-mail, mindlessly taking bites of the food. Then the flavors hit her. The bread couldn’t have been terribly fresh, but the crust was crispy and the tender middle—what the French called the mie—was soft and chewy. She couldn’t even imagine how good this bread must taste straight from the oven; no wonder the French gorged on carbs. The jambon de Paris had just the right amount of saltiness, enough to satisfy but not so much that it overwhelmed the taste of the meat. And the cheese was a stinky, soft variety she had never heard of called Langres; it oozed over the chunk of bread, delivering a burst of intense yet mellow flavor that left her wanting more.
Even the clementine, which she had taken more as a concession to good health than from any desire for fruit, was amazing. As she peeled the small orange, its citrus scent perfumed the air, a hint of spring in the middle of winter. Tart but sweet, the juice ran down her chin before she could catch the drops with her napkin.
She sat savoring her meal for so long that her computer went to sleep.
Finally sated, she sipped her instant espresso—not great, and certainly not what she had hoped for in coffee-loving France, but she’d had worse—and returned her attention to her e-mail. None of the local producers had yet responded to her e-mails, but that was no surprise; many were out of town over the holidays.