Page 43 of Love on the Vine
Squaring my shoulders, I headed downstairs where Clémence, Claire, and Olivia were sitting on the narrow chintz sofa—the one that I’d slept on too many times to count during past harvests—giggling over a leatherbound photo album.
“This was about fifteen, no seventeen, years ago. Look at that haircut!” Clémence pointed at one of the photos.
“What are you doing?” I asked, frowning. Stepping into the room with its mustard-colored wallpaper and garish knickknacks on the old oak bookshelves was like time traveling back to the 1980s. The décor was hideous, but I loved it.
“Jake! I’m so happy to see you!” Claire cried, jumping up to throw her arms around me. Claire was a slightly older version of Clémence with the same short, blonde hair and mischievous laugh. They both smoked like chimneys and had warm, gruff voices as a result.
“We discovered some incriminating photos of you from your first wine harvest,” said Olivia, turning the album toward me. “Here it is. Proof that you used to be fun.”
“I’m still fun,” I said, with mock offense. Was I though? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed myself, not really. I slid down on the couch next to Olivia to see the photo in question: twenty-year-old me in a grape-stained T-shirt and jeans laying down in the dirt with Thomas and two Australian tourists whose names I’d forgotten. We had huge grins on our faces. I’d forgotten what I looked like freshly shaven and with shorter hair.
“You look like a boy band. Wine Direction, or no, New Kids on the Vine,” Olivia teased. “You were so cute!”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Cute?”
“Yeah, like a puppy. Lucie was right.”
“Oh, you know Lucie?” Claire asked. “There must be some photos of her in there as well.”
Their voices faded into the background as memories of those days came flooding back to me. The September sun on our backs, the aches and pains that followed a day bent over the vines, but also the incredible sense of community and purpose of having contributed to something larger than myself. My labor was part of centuries of similar work all connected to the strange alchemy of sun, soil, and sweat, distilled into bottles that would one day bring someone intense pleasure. That was what had first drawn me to a life in wine. I wished I could get that feeling back but didn’t know how.
“I would love to help you during a harvest sometime,” Olivia was saying to Claire when I finally resurfaced.
“You’re welcome to, if you’re still here this fall.” Claire nudged me. “Maybe you can even convince Jake to join you. We’ll save you a room.”
I ignored Claire’s blatant attempt to find out if I was sleeping with Olivia. “I see you know all about each other now. What other secrets did you share while I was passed out upstairs?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Clémence winked.
“I got a private tour of the domaine.” Olivia beamed. “I’ve met all the animals—Mimi the donkey, the chickens, the goat, and the geese. Stéphane, even showed me how to drive the tractor.”
“You don’t waste any time.” Making friends was something that had never come easy to me and she did it so easily. “Who’s Stéphane?”
“One of our workers, he and Kévin, help us over the summer. They live down the road. You’ll meet them at dinner,” Claire said. Leaning over to me she whispered, “I think they’re both already in love with Olivia.”
I tried to ignore the small stab of annoyance in my gut when, at that exact moment, two twenty-somethings in cargo pants and sweat-stained T-shirts came through the door. Their eyes glued to Olivia, they removed their muddy boots in the hallway then nodded through introductions. It was only after they sat down in armchairs across from us that I realized I had draped my arm possessively over the back of the sofa behind her.
“Dinner’s ready!” called Clémence. When we all stood and headed for the dining room, Stéphane and Kévin practically raced to the table to sit next to Olivia. She didn’t seem to notice, and I was annoyed that I had.
Despite my initial irritation, as we ate around the old wooden table where I’d sat through so many communal suppers, I actually began to enjoy myself. That is until Stéphane brought up Thomas.
“He’s a great guy. He knows everything about wine, really. You’d like him,” Stéphane said to Olivia. He speared a potatoand then laughed as if remembering some private joke. “So funny.”
“Oh, sacré Thomas! He came by last week,” admitted Clémence when I turned to her in surprise. “He helped Stéphane with pruning. Apparently, he made a good impression.”
I stabbed my roast chicken with my knife, wondering how Stéphane would remember me. Probably as the guy who glared at him all evening and refused to speak.
“He didn’t stay long, but he seems to be doing well,” Claire added.
“Good,” I said, wanting to put an end to the subject. A tense silence followed as I continued to saw at my food. When I looked up my eyes met Olivia’s curious stare. I had no doubt that someone—probably Jin—had already filled her in about my relationship with Thomas.
“You sure you don’t want to try the wine? That’s so unlike you,” Clémence asked me as she poured another glass of last year’s vintage for Olivia. All eyes turned to me.
“Not right now. I have a headache from driving all day.” My excuse seemed to appease Clémence, but Olivia’s concerned gaze lingered on me. And once again, my already dark mood began to plummet and stayed that way until the end of the meal.
“We’re going to the bar in Savigny to watch the match,” Stéphane announced later as we cleared away the plates. “Do you want to come, Olivia?”
My fingers twitched. There was no way in hell I would let her go off with these two clowns. But before I could tell them to get out of here, she replied, “No, thanks. I’m tired and, anyway, I don’t know much about soccer—er, football.”
