“Dash went to France many times,” Hugh pointed out. “He loved it there.”
Rosalyn felt the usual sharp stab in her gut at the sound of her husband’s name. Still, she appreciated that Hugh never hesitated to speak it aloud. It muted the pain, ever so slightly, each time someone talked about Dash as though things were normal; as if invoking his spirit, inviting his presence into this world. Most people tried to avoid any reference to him, or acted chagrined, as though they’d done something awkward and embarrassing by bringing him up.
“I like it right here,” insisted Rosalyn, gazing out the window at the twisty grapevines that marched along the rolling hills, their undulating lines interrupted only by an occasional oak tree. The sight of the parallel rows was soothing, as if a Zen master had pulled a giant rake through sand. “I defy anyone to come up with a more beautiful place than Napa.”
“There’s nothing wrong with seeking a refuge for a while, Rosalyn,” said Hugh, his voice dropping, its gentle sincerity grating on her nerves. “But it isn’t a life plan. If you decide to settle in Napa, it should be just that: a decision. Not an attempt to hide from life.”
Rosalyn’s eyes stung; nausea surged at the base of her throat. One hand fiddled with the silver locket that hung around her neck while the other reached for the travel dossier as she pretended to study the itinerary, hoping to distract herself, to stem the tears, to quell the incipient panic.
Breathe, she reminded herself. Ten slow, deep breaths . . .
“As you can see,” said Hugh, his voice regaining its cheery tone as he pointed to a few items highlighted in bold script on the agenda, “you’ll be representing Small Fortune Wines in Champagne for the festival of Saint Vincent, patron saint of vintners, which is held on the twenty-second of January. Until then, you’ll meet with vintners, make nice, tour the caves—”
“Like I need to see any more wine caves in my life.”
“You do need to see more wine caves in your life, Rosalyn,” Hugh insisted. “The champagne caves are unlike any you’ve seen before; there are two hundred kilometers worth of crayères under Reims alone. An entire city, underground. Do you know the French moved whole schools and businesses down into the caves during the First World War?”
“Fascinating,” Rosalyn said. “But is that why you want me to go? To attend a wine festival and tour some caves? That doesn’t sound terribly cost-effective to me.”
“No, no, no, you’re also going to sign some new, smaller producers. It’s the foundation of my vision.”
“Your . . . what, now?”
Hugh returned her smile. “My vision to get people to stop thinking of champagne as a luxury, get them to drink a glass with appetizers as they do in France. Americans equate champagne with the big, expensive houses, Mumm and Taittinger. I want you to find and sign a few of the small champagne houses, the ones that don’t charge a fortune for their wine. Step one is reconfirming our commitment with Gaspard Blé—you’ll be staying at his vineyard. I’ve known Blé for years, but I heard through the grapevine—get it?—that Bottle Rocket’s sending someone to the festival. I wouldn’t want to lose Blé to the competition.”
Bottle Rocket was the Big Bad Wolf, Hugh’s biggest competitor for the products of family-run French wineries.
Rosalyn nodded. Of course she would go to represent Small Fortune Wines in Champagne. She couldn’t refuse Hugh anything; she owed him too much. Besides . . . maybe he was onto something. Maybe a change of pace was what she needed to pull out of the tailspin. Nothing else seemed to be working.
“So, how’s Andy doing? And his wife?” Rosalyn belatedly thought to ask. “Is the baby out of the NICU yet?”
“Baby and mamma are doing just fine,” said Hugh. “I brought them a gift basket yesterday, signed the card from all of us.”
“That was nice of you.” Rosalyn cringed inwardly. She used to be the one who bought the gifts, sent the cards, visited friends in the hospital. The Rosalyn-That-Was thought of other people, organized impromptu parties, never forgot a friend’s birthday. Another unexpected indignity of grief: It had rendered her self-absorbed.
“It was no problem—any excuse to buy baby things,” said Hugh. “Those little outfits are so tiny; hard to believe a human can come in a package that small, isn’t it? Did you know they arrive in this world complete with teensy fingernails?”
Rosalyn smiled at the note of wonder in his voice. “I’ve heard that.”
“Anyway, Andy’s not happy that he’s missing out on this trip—that’s for sure.”
“I’ll bet. I’ll give him a call and check in before I leave.”
Hugh tilted his head and fixed Rosalyn with a look. “Make the most of this, Rosie. Seriously. Sometimes a trip can shake off the cobwebs, open your eyes to new possibilities.”
“I just got back from Paso Robles, remember?”
“Paso has its charm, but it’s not exactly the French countryside.”
“And yet Paso Robles has 7-Elevens, which, contrary to their name, are open twenty-four hours. That’s a true gift to humankind, if you ask me.”
“Champagne’s the ticket, Rosie. Dash loved it there; I have a feeling you will, too.”
Chapter Two
Damn Hugh, anyway.
The airplane seat belt sign had not yet turned off when, in a confetti-like explosion, the woman sitting next to Rosalyn dropped a folder full of papers and swore a blue streak that made the temporary denizens of the hushed first-class cabin turn their heads and stare. Even the perfectly coiffed, ever-poised AirFrance flight attendants were given pause.
“Let me help you with those,” Rosalyn said, straining against the tight grip of the seat belt to pick up the yellowed papers scattered at her feet.
“Oh, crikey—yes, please. I can hardly move with this damned cast.” The woman gestured in front of her to the leg sticking out, bound in an enormous cast that was brightly decorated with colorful swirls and interlocking paisley designs, done in a childish hand with Magic Markers. She was tall, probably fifty-something, with short, spiky peroxide blond hair. The woman spoke with a broad inflection that Rosalyn couldn’t quite place: it sounded British, but not quite. “The kids in the pediatric ward decorated it for me. Not bad, eh?”
“Very pretty.”
“I’m Emma Kinsley, by the way, from Coonawarra. Do you happen to know it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Would’ve been shocked if you did. Australia. Tiny town, really, located somewhere between Adelaide and Melbourne. And you?”