Page 57 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
She looked down and rubbed her nose suddenly, as if emotion had swept her away. “He was an amazing man, and it’s nice to know he’s remembered as such. I hope that remains the case.”
Mysterious, he thought, but Mathieau appeared with two glasses of champagne. When he’d departed, Dean lifted his glass. “To the people who inspire us.”
Her mouth bloomed into the perfect rose of a smile—yeah, he’d been reading poetry after Sawyer had shared that Marlowe quote about kissing. The thought only made his gaze fall to her lips. She noticed, of course, and gave a seductive smile that had his temples starting to sweat as she took her first sip. Nodding, she took another and then leaned back in her chair. He missed her touch immediately.
“I know you mentioned continuing your career here and doing something with wine, but we haven’t discussed the details.” He extended her the bread basket, remembering what she’d said on their last date. “Are you looking for a new restaurant to work for?”
“I’m taking a break, I hope, from the restaurant side.” She clutched the stem of her glass. “But that is a bitcompliquéat the moment.”
His skin tingled. “How so?” he asked casually. “You know…if you share what’s happening now, we’ll have the rest of the night to make you laugh. You might even feel better for unburdening yourself.”
He could feel the tightrope under his feet, his body bobbing on the line as he fought for balance. Guilt made him teeter. He wanted to know her, the way Nanine had said, but he wished he could learn these details under a different circumstance. She took another drink, tapping the table with a fingernail. He knew that move from Brooke. She was weighing whether to share. He held his breath.
“My father’s widow passing away recently set some things into motion,” she answered tightly. “I have an older half sister. We do not get along. My father had a long-term affair with my mother—a relationship his wife was aware of and sanctioned.”
“The French way,” he commented, assembling the picture he’d already begun to construct from research.
“Yes, I suppose. The younger generation isn’t as interested in doing things that way. Perhaps because they were the children of such marriages. Also, divorce is more common now, not that everyone is getting married. Many people don’t see the necessity, but I digress. Anyway, when my father died, his legal wife took possession of things as I was abroad—like Pierre—and that was fine with me as things were in stasis, of sorts. But now that she has died, my half sister is dispensing the entire estate. That is why I was forced to rush back.”
Shit. This was bad. Really bad. “That’s horrible!”
“With me in Hong Kong and unaware of how ill her mother was, she was able to set some things into motion. It was only from a family friend that I learned she had died. Obviously I was not close to my father’s wife. We never met. Outside of my home, I rarely saw my father anywhere but at the restaurant.”
No wonder she loved wine so much. She’d bonded with her father over the restaurant and its treasures, like the cave and Pierre.
“I’m trying to figure out how to address the situation legally.” She rubbed the tension between her eyes. “Since my father has a legal heir, my claim is uncertain as he died without a will. He thought it was bad luck to have one. He also wouldn’t have expected my half sister to dispose of Pierre so badly or make plans to sell both his restaurant space and his cave without involving me.”
Dean felt out of his depth. Jean Luc might have some thoughts on this subject, but he’d have to wait to ask. “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he said since he didn’t know what to say.
She bit her lip, sadness filling her eyes. “Thank you. Sometimes I think…perhaps Papa was naïve. I only encountered my half sister at the restaurant a few times, and it was clear she hated me, while I was deeply jealous of her. Maybe he did not wish to see the enmity he had created with his choices.”
God, this sounded downright tragic. He wondered how he would have felt if he’d discovered his father had another kid. Dean knew he’d cheated on his mother. He shook his head and reached for her hand. “Children often suffer from their parents’ choices.”
“Yes.” Her voice had an edge now. “He wanted me to have the cave. He’d always made that clear, but my half sister’s hatred for me is more powerful than her devotion to fulfilling his wishes. I wonder if my father’s widow shared her hatred, and that is why she left no will. I fear my half sister will sell every bottle of wine my father ever bought in his cave before I can find a legal way to stop her. Courts in France are notoriously slow.”
His mind was spinning. If they bought the cave from her half sister, then they’d be cutting Jacqueline out of the equation. She’d be devastated. He would be to blame, being part of the group that had bought it. He took a drink to wet his dry mouth before asking, “What do you plan to do with the cave? If you can find a way to…”
She set her champagne flute down carefully and folded her hands. “I plan to start an online shop that sells excellent vintages to discerning collectors. My father’s cave is my beginning. A chance to combine my love of wine with my appreciation for its historical value and my memory of him.”
That radiant glow was around her again, lighting up her brown eyes. God, that cave was her dream and her last link to her father besides Pierre. His insides jumped. “You would be very good at that.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “There’s a global market of people who want to know more about a wine’s story.”
“You know, I’ve been having some thoughts on this subject too, especially after researching what wine I wanted to bring to our picnic, which was way harder than it should have been.”
Her mouth curved. “No, it shouldn’t be difficult, and yet the market is oversaturated with many bottles and producers, and people don’t know anything more than the kind of wine they’re buying from the label. When I was in Hong Kong, one of my best patrons told me he opened every business dinner with a story about the wine they were drinking, one that tied in with the challenges he and his colleagues were facing. It’s not only about its flavor anymore. Wine is richer than that. Those are the kind of people I want to work with in my business.”
He thought of Nanine and how she’d spoken of the memories wrapped up in the bottles she’d bought with Bernard. A wine they’d first sampled in Burgundy when they’d been on a trip for their tenth wedding anniversary. Special bottles…
The hair on the back of his neck started to rise again.
“I’m not totally new to wine, having lived in San Francisco, but I’m discovering it’s a lot more complex than I thought.”
“Wine is life,” she said passionately, lifting her glass and taking another drink. “And forgive me for saying it, but San Francisco’s most serious wine lovers don’t have the deep French soul for wine. But they want to, which is why they hire sommeliers like me to work in their restaurants.”
He coughed out a laugh. “So you’re a wine snob.”
“Absolutement,” she said with a wide smile, one from her soul. “I hope that doesn’t change your opinion of me, because I’m really growing to like you.”
