Page 41 of Love on the Vine
“I don’t think so. Not this car.”
“We’ll see. You might change your mind,” he said as he flipped on the radio to a French jazz station. As Django Reinhardt filled the air, I leaned my head back against the seat and sighed. There was something so right about old jazz, athermos full of hot coffee, and the rugged mountains rising on either side of us.
It was almost as breathtaking as that kiss.
* * *
Maybe it was the relief I felt at having broken through the initial awkwardness with Jake this morning, or maybe it was just the thrill of being with him, but the rest of the morning flew by. Conversation was never strained, and Jake seemed legitimately curious about my life. I told him more about my family—though we avoided talking about my mom—my trip with Callie and Levi, and the last few months at my soul-sucking job at the law firm.
He, as usual, dodged any questions about himself. I realized that I’d learned more about him from Jin, Lucie, and even my grandmother than I had from the man himself. He was like that mysterious bottle of wine I’d stumbled across in his cellar with just the winery’s name and a year scribbled in ink on a piece of scotch tape. It just made me want to discover what was inside. And I was determined to by the end of the trip.
When we reached Hermitage, I dug my wine atlas out of my suitcase to learn the composition and general character of the wine before we met with the producer. I was glad I did because, to my absolute astonishment, Jake told the winemaker that he was recovering from a cold and suggested I do the tasting.
“Are you sure?” I asked as we followed the winemaker into his tasting room.
“Yeah, you have an excellent palate. I trust you.” The compliment was so unexpected that I nearly tripped over the stairs. The added pressure made my hands shake as I went through the steps of tasting the six different vintages he’d set out: swirling (I still hadn’t mastered the freehand swirl), sniffing, sipping, and then spitting into a little silver bucket.
My initial self-consciousness subsided as I tasted each wine; some had notes of ripe blackberry and tobacco, others were more peppery and earthy. Even I could tell these were big wines, and when I placed the final order with the winemaker’s wife, the price per bottle only confirmed it. It wasn’t every day that I spent more than a year’s salary before noon.
Jake needed to sign the orders, so I went to look for him outside and found him in the vines with the winemaker, his tall, broad frame cut into striking relief against the slightly hazy white sky. The conversation was agitated—they almost seemed to be arguing—but when he came back to approve the order he was as cool and collected as usual. He didn’t even blink at the price of the order I’d placed.
On the way to Lyon though, he was quiet and unreadable. Then, once we’d reached the city limits, he seemed to shake off whatever dark cloud had been hanging over him and gave me a brief overview of the culinary history of the city. “I’ll take you on a quick tour after lunch,” he promised.
I’d already noticed that Jake didn’t drink much recreationally, and when he did, it was never wine. That was the case at lunch with Louis, a local wine agent with a large, pockmarked face and meaty hands. Louis ordered a bottle of wine to go with each of the endless plates of food he selected from the menu, but Jake never drank anything and barely touched the food.
I, on the other hand, more than made up for Jake’s lack of appetite. As Jake and Louis discussed business in a mix of English and rapid-fire French, Louis kept scooping food onto my plate and refilling my glass. Never once did I protest, inhaling a variety of pepperysaucisson, followed by frisée salad with poached egg and something calledcervelle des canuts—a soft farmer’s cheese speckled with fresh herbs. By the time I got tothequenelles, dumplings in a rich lobster sauce, I was convinced I was in a fever dream.
Through my food-induced haze, I eavesdropped on their conversation, which had turned to a new festival that was taking place that week. “If you’re going to be in the area, we would love to have you judge the sommelier competition. Thomas will be there.”
Jake tensed, his hand gripping his fork tightly. “No, that doesn’t interest me.”
“Nothing interests you anymore.” Louis laughed, slapping his big hand on the red and white checked tablecloth. “Be careful, my friend!”
“Fine. I’ll do it,” Jake said curtly, taking a drink of water.
By the time we left the restaurant, I was so full of wine and food, I could barely walk. When I stumbled over a cobblestone, Jake caught me and smiled wryly. “So much for tours, you don’t seem to be in any condition to walk.”
“I can walk,” I objected as I steadied myself on his arm.
“Okay, mademoiselle. How much do you want to bet you’ll be fast asleep, drooling against the window, before we get back on the highway?” Jake teased. Wrapping an arm around me, he let me lean into him as we walked back to the car.
“I’m not tired and I don’t drool,” I argued as he helped me into my seat. My eyelids grew heavy, but I was determined to prove him wrong.
* * *
I had no idea how long I’d slept. When I woke up with my head against the car window (not drooling, thankfully), we’d left the highway and were surrounded by rolling hills covered with rows upon rows of verdant vines.
“Oh, wow, what is that?” I asked, pointing to what lookedlike a medieval castle in the distance, its pointed turrets peeking through a line of trees.
“The Château de Savigny.” Jake’s deep voice rumbled through me, straight to my core. I clenched my thighs together. “How long was I asleep?”
“You were unconscious for over an hour, sleeping beauty.”
“Oh no, I wanted to see the scenery! What did I miss?”
“Not much. Just lots of highway.”
“It was all the food and wine.” I yawned and tried to stretch discreetly. “I wasn’t even hungry at the end but just kept eating.”
