Introduction

Decanted

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Excerpt

prologue

Montmartre, Paris June 1936

Marciel erased the asymmetrical portion of the figure model’s right breast and corrected it with his pencil. Though he’d been studying nudes since his first days at L’Académie, it still surprised him how few women had two bosoms that matched each other in size and shape. But the model’s anatomy wasn’t the reason he’d sent her away the previous day before her session had ended. It was rather that she lacked that special something—that elusive élément magique that would inspire him to take his sketch to canvas. Between touch-ups of the drawing, he checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past hour. Phillipe had assured him that his new model would be there at two p.m., and it was already half-past three. He decided to give her ten more minutes, before he’d pack up his pastels and easel and head to the Place du Tertre to take advantage of the waves of tourists that flocked to Montmartre in summer. His gift of capturing the outer beauty, as well as what lay beneath the surface of his subjects made him one of the more successful portrait artists on the hill. Those commissions put food on his table, but did nothing to further his chances of getting recognized by the only people that mattered to unknown artists like himself—the dealers at the galleries on Paris’ Rue Laffitte. Another look at his watch reminded him that while time was running out for the model, it was running out for him as well. He’d turned thirty last month and had yet to get one of his paintings up on a gallery wall. Picasso was a celebrated artist by age nineteen. Chagall made a name for himself in his early twenties.

Marciel had shown exceptional promise while a student at L’Académie. He received high praise by his professors for his painting style that, by adding in a tilt of the head or a smoldering gaze, could turn an ordinary looking woman into a mythological heroine, a sinister creature, or an object of unbridled desire. Then . . . maybe it was the ever-growing stench of human waste on the city streets, or his anxiety caused by the Nazi cloud that loomed over Europe, or perhaps the talent and creativity of his youth had passed its shelf life. Whatever the reason, the passions within him that had ignited the canvases of his earlier works seemed to have vanished over the past two years. And unless they reappeared soon, his only recourse would be to return to his family’s domaine in the south of France to join his father and sister in the cave making Grenache and Syrah. Gaining attention as an artist in Paris was becoming harder all the time as Montmartre continued to be a magnet for aspiring painters who flocked to the district with dreams of becoming the next Cézanne, Matisse, van Gogh, or Degas. It also made it harder to get suitable models who would take their clothes off for under ten francs. The ones in demand worked for artists with bigger names and fatter wallets, leaving the prostitutes and gypsies for those struggling like himself. The last girl Phillipe had sent him was as skinny as a chicken carcass pecked over by buzzards. The one before that was over forty and fat as a Yorkshire pig. But the agent had assured him that this girl, though young, would set his brush on fire. Now, he’d give his friend hell for her being a no show. He put the cork back in the bottle of the Burgundy he’d opened to use as a prop for the painting, and hoped the wine would keep its character for a few more days. While he returned the bottle to the shelf, there was a gentle rapping on his door.

New York City, three years ago

A dome of unyielding heat and humidity blanketed the Manhattan skyline, unseasonable even for mid-August. But as I sat with my friends at the dark mahogany bar of Spence’s Fines Wines & Spirits, the cool air that rose from the cellar below Columbus Avenue made that summer evening feel like a crisp fall morning.

“Here’s a wine well-suited to toast a grand lady on what would have been her ninety-sixth birthday,” Spence Walker said as he climbed up the cellar steps, emerging with a bottle in his hand. “A Tannat from Gascony.” He flipped the blade from his corkscrew and ran it around the lower lip of the bottle’s neck to remove the top of the tin capsule. After twisting in the screw and popping the cork, he poured the deep purple liquid from the grapes of Southwest France into four glasses. I rotated mine on the counter and raised it high in the air. “To Great-aunt Vivian! Who encouraged me to trust my instincts, to take chances, and to taste.”

“To Samantha’s Aunt Vivian,” Spence, Stephanie, and Cameron said as their glasses met mine then touched each other’s.

“Some great-aunts teach their nieces to knit and bake cookies. Mine taught me how to tell the difference between a Grenache and a Syrah,” I said before taking a sip. “Whoa!” I licked my lips to negate the intense drying sensation that had taken over my mouth. “She might have loved this wine, but it’s sure not my style.”

“Let it wake up a bit,” Spence suggested. “You’ll be surprised by how it develops. It’s bold, but Vivian once told me it has the power to take you to unknown places.”

“That sounds like my aunt,” I agreed.

“Yup. That lady had one adventurous palate,” Spence said. “Wasn’t she considered a bit of a rebel back in her day?”

“Yup. A rebel with a mind of her own.” I gave the wine another swirl. “After she finished high school in the 1930s, her parents assumed she’d attend Mrs. O’Grady’s secretarial school for women. Wrong! Instead, she took her savings and booked passage on the SS France bound for Paris. Thought she could make a living by selling her clay sculptures. When that bubble burst, she enrolled in art school with the money she earned as a life model.”

“A life model?” asked Cameron. “You mean a nude model? That little old lady was a nude model?”

“She wasn’t always a little old lady. You’ve seen her on that canvas hanging over my mantle. The artist who painted it thought her face and form expressed a complex range of characteristics that seeped onto the canvas: sexuality, innocence, bitterness, sweetness, softness, acidity—”

“Just like great wine,” said the willowy and beautiful Stephanie.

“Yeah, just like great wine. She told some radical stories about her life in Paris right before the war,” I said. “The nightclubs, the fashions, the artists and writers she hung with, the fear that their world was about to come crashing down. But it was strange that she never talked about her life when the Nazis took over the city.”

“It had to be a nightmare,” said Stephanie.

“I’m sure. I just know that after the occupation, she moved back here and became a stylist for Vogue. She also wrote a nationally syndicated column about food and wine.”

“That Vivian was quite the Renaissance woman,” Spence said as he took another sip of the Tannat and let it linger on his tongue. “And she sure knew her French wines.” While he spoke, he kept his eyes on the shop’s front window as if waiting for Vivian to walk in with her determined but abbreviated gait. “With just one whiff, she could name what was in the glass and where it was from, be it a Petit Verdot from Bordeaux, a Syrah from Provence, or a Chenin Blanc from St. Émilion.”

Though my great-aunt had died six months before, it was still hard to believe she was gone. When I graduated from college and took a job at Weatherhouse Accounting, Vivian invited me to move into her coop on the Upper West Side. I was soon making enough money to share a decent space with my friends in Bed-Stuy, but I just wasn’t comfortable with a lady that age living alone. The reality that she wouldn’t be around forever hit when she handed me a list of what would go to whom upon her death. The apartment she got for a steal in the 1970s would go to my parents, the funky art deco jewelry would go to my mom, and the furniture, the painting, and a case of some wine she’d been storing would go to me. Not long after, I got a call on my cell from the NYPD. Vivian’s heart had stopped beating while she was selecting her favorite salad mix of Russian kale and curly endive at the Seventy-ninth Street market.

“I sure hope I’m as spry as Miss Vivian was when I’m ninety-five,” Spence said while he held up his glass of the almost-black wine to look through it. “Fat chance of that though. My eating habits are awful. Coffee for breakfast, no lunch, tasting wine all day long, fast food for dinner. Did you know I used to surf? All summer long. But the only exercise I’ve done for the past twenty years has been shuffling cartons and stacking bottles on these shelves.”

“I can remember being in shape. Great shape, too.” I felt the waistband of my jeans cutting into my belly and silently cursed that new hire Austin for leaving those Krispy Kremes on the coffee counter each morning. “When I had time for a five-mile morning run, evening spin classes, TRX—”

“You still have a primo body for a girl who rarely sees the light of day,” the always supportive Cameron said. “And that face still looks pretty, even under those office lights. If I had even the slightest interest in the feminine sex, I’d never let you leave the house.” While speaking, he looked my way with eyes puffy from lack of sleep. Those bags and his ever-increasing slouch from being affixed to a computer made the 4 Decanted guy who was once the captain of his Varsity diving team look far older than his twenty-eight years.

“You’d never let me leave the house? That’s creepy, Cam. Creepy.”

“Where’s your sense of humor, Sam? You need to chill. Or what you really need is a good—”

“I know what I need. But who has time for sex after working from seven in the morning ’til eleven at night all week long? Of course, my mom neglected to mention that I’d be working these hours when she convinced me to major in accounting. I guess I’m just destined to look like an overweight cadaver after thirty-five.”

“Seems like it’s only a matter of time before we all look like cadavers after enough of these eighty-hour weeks crunching numbers,” added Stephanie, who was new enough at the firm to still have her sunny glow. She took another sip of the wine. “Spence was right about this getting yummier though.” While we were talking, she’d been entering her tasting notes on the Tannat into one of her favorite wine-sharing apps. Then she added a picture of the vintage’s label and tagged us as her drinking partners. I checked the time on my cell.

“Playtime’s over for me. Another late night awaits. Got that bear of a presentation tomorrow for the Bannex Box Company. I’ve already created thirty-two schedules and sixteen spreadsheets. Getting close though.”

“Wait. Isn’t Bannex Favia’s account?” asked Cameron. “She’s all over those folks.”

“Favia’s on vacation, so Van Ness gave the assignment to me. He likes what he’s seen with my plan to expand the firm’s reach. So instead of schlepping to Duluth and Cleveland to audit paper pulp and carton factories, I’ll be traveling to wineries in Sonoma and châteaux in France. It’d be a great way for me to parlay myself, and maybe all of us, into the wine industry. After all, how many times have we heard him say he wants his hires to think outside the box?”

“Only maybe . . . three times?” asked Stephanie. “A day, that is.”

“More like three times an hour,” Cameron said with a yawn.

“See you in the morning, guys,” I said.

“You go, girl! Knock the socks off those carton kings!” Cameron called out as he held up a glass of a crisp white from the Phelz region in Germany.

“Will do. Bye, Steph. Here, you take the Tannat, Spence. I shouldn’t be drinking tonight anyway,” I said as I slid my glass down the bar in his direction.

“Hey, Sam, I’ve got the distributor for Domaine LeMont in Beaujolais stopping in around seven tomorrow evening,” Spence said. “I haven’t carried their wines for years, but since Wine Snob named them the best in the region, I’ve been getting calls for it. So come on by. I’d like your young taste buds to try them.”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” I said as I unlocked the door and let myself out of the shop.

. . .

“To sum things up, we’re confident the offshore subsidiaries you’ll be creating can provide close to three hundred million in tax savings for Bannex by the year 2020. And with the way the codes read now, it’s all perfectly legal.” I had what I hoped looked like a sincere smile frozen onto my face as I stood at head of the Weatherhouse conference table in my serious dark suit with my wild mess of blonde curls blown straight and pulled back into a too-tight pony tail. On my right, our firm’s managing partner Michael Van Ness hung on my every word. “With no foreseeable end to the exponential increase of online sales, as Amazon continues to take control of the universe, your company will enjoy the same degree of unprecedented growth. And we’re taking our job of protecting your profits very seriously.” My wrap-up for my two-hour presentation received chants of “Hear-hear!” and a burst of applause.

When the meeting ended, Tom Bannex put his hand on my shoulder and turned to Michael Van Ness. “You do know this lady is worth her weight in gold, don’t you, Van Ness?”

Michael thrust out his chest and smiled at me like a proud papa. “Samantha is one of our brightest stars here at Weatherhouse. She’s an outstanding example of an accountant who really, as I like to say, thinks outside the box!”

“That’s rich!” Tom answered with a chuckle as he extended his hand toward me. “Samantha, it’s been a pleasure. My team will be in touch. Likewise, Van Ness,” he said to Michael as the two men shook hands.

After we saw the clients off in the elevator, Michael turned to me. “Need I say that you did a splendid job in there, Samantha?”

“Glad to be of service, sir.”

“Perhaps tomorrow you and I could have a chat about your future here at Weatherhouse and how we can best utilize your impressive talents.”

“Sure! I’ve already got some ideas about exciting new avenues for the firm to explore.”

“Well then . . .” He pulled out his phone. “Looks like ten a.m. would work for me.”

“Works for me too, Mr. Van Ness!” “My office? That good by you?” “That’ll be great! See you then. Have a nice evening, now.”

. . .

“Yes!” I cried out as the elevator doors shut and I began the fifty-twofloor descent to the lobby of the building called ‘The Box’ by those in the accounting industry. “I did it! He loves me! He trusts me! It’s gonna happen!” Over the past few months, I’d been planning my pitch, and was now perfectly primed to help take Weatherhouse Accounting outside of the box business and into the wine industry. When the elevator doors opened, I traded my heels for my running shoes, squirmed out of my wool suit jacket, and slid the clothes into my briefcase. Despite the ninety-five-degree heat and what seemed like one hundred percent humidity, I felt a surge of energy as I joined the throng of commuters, tourists, and locals, as they rushed to restaurants, subways, theaters, museums, and a million other places. I smiled, knowing that after working my butt off as an analyst at the most excruciatingly boring job I could ever have imagined, I’d be traveling to exciting wine regions like Napa and Sonoma. Walking up Central Park South, I patted the neck of one of the carriage horses as it waited to carry customers on a ride through the park. While I looked around for a fruit stand to buy the animal an apple, I got a text from my dad who owned a small PR firm in the city. He was leaving his office on West Thirty-third Street and would head to Aunt Vivian’s co-op. Even though it was technically my parents’ place now, it would always be Aunt Vivian’s to me. My folks were allowing me to continue living there provided I take care of the two thousand a month maintenance, which is why I had my eye out for a roommate to split the costs. But though finding someone to share a two-bedroom two-bath apartment on the tenth floor of an elevator building was easy, finding someone I could trust not to bring a string of hook-ups home, blast music while I tried to work, or leave dirty dishes in the sink, was hard. When I neared the front of the co-op, I saw the elderly lady who lived in 7C struggling to unlock the door while maneuvering her handcart filled with bags from our neighborhood grocery store. “Here let me help you with that, Mrs. Cranston,” I said.

“Thank you, dear,” she said in a voice worn thin by time. I took the cart and wheeled it into the lobby and pushed the elevator button for us both. “So nice to have young ones like you around to lend a hand to us relics from another era.”

“No problem, Mrs. Cranston. I always enjoy seeing you.”

She looked up at me through slightly watery eyes that drooped— the right more severely than the left. Arched lines above them created by a cosmetic pencil served as eyebrows. “I know you were a bright spot to your aunt at the end of her life. And time does march on, Samantha. It seems like it was only last week that I was a high-energy honcho like you. Catching a cab at the crack of dawn in my pantsuit and pumps. Coming home after dark with a briefcase full of memos that kept me occupied for the evening.”

“Sounds like me. Only a laptop is my briefcase.”

“Our secretaries did our typing on those IBM Selectrics. No email or cell phones either. Can you imagine?”

“I can, after watching Mad Men.” The elevator stopped on her floor. “Here, I’ve got this,” I said as I wheeled the cart out and started down the hallway to her apartment.

“Most of my entire younger adult life was just one big race to get to the finish line.” She sounded a bit winded as she sped up her step to keep up with me. “And now that I’m just a mass of arthritis and dissolving bones, all I’ve got is a mountain of regrets for not enjoying the ride.” We reached her door, and she opened the lock.

“Can I bring this in for you, Mrs. Cranston?”

“No, thanks. I can manage,” she said as she wheeled the cart through the door. “But you could do something else for me, Samantha.” “What’s that?” “You can make sure you enjoy your ride. Your great-aunt sure enjoyed hers.”

“I’m working on it, Mrs. Cranston.” I bounded up the stairwell that felt like a sauna and hit the switch on the air conditioning unit when I walked into the apartment. Then I changed from my skirt, nylons, and a silk blouse that had sweat marks under the armpits into a gauzy white peasant shirt and jeans that seemed to be getting tighter by the week. Just as I finally snapped them shut, the doorbell buzzed, followed by a “bam, ba bam-bam... bambam!”—mine and Dad’s special knock. “Coming, Dad! It is you, isn’t it?”

“It’s me, Sam,” he called out. “This is an impromptu vis ... it,” I said as I opened the door and saw that he had a suitcase in each of his hands.

“Hi honey! I was going to call first but wanted to tell you in person.”

“Tell me what, Dad?” “I prefer that you call me Greg. You’re an adult now.”

“No, that’s weird. You’re Dad, and that’s what I’m calling you. Now what’s with the bags? Is Mom coming to meet us?” I leaned out the door and looked down the hall toward the elevator.

“Can I come in and put these down?” He made his way through the door. I had that all-too-familiar feeling that my stomach was twisting into a knot. “Oh no. You cheated on Mom again, didn’t you?” His affair the year before had almost destroyed their marriage.

“No, I didn’t. Not really. But she threw me out of the house anyway. I think it’s for good this time.”

“What does ‘not really’ mean?”

“It means I can see how it looked like I was planning to cheat. But I wasn’t. I downloaded this app for networking. Our graphics guy Oscar was going on about it.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and showed me an app on the home screen. I took the phone from him. “I was curious to see what it was all about. They’ve got them for everything: job sourcing, finding golf partners, even scouting out wine-tasting friends. You say there are no interesting guys at work, maybe you should try—”

“This isn’t for networking, it’s for hook-ups,” I said as I tapped on the app. “Mom found this, didn’t she? How could you, Dad? After all the problems that crazy Deleenda woman caused for you guys last year? Making a scene in Mom’s store? Showing up at the house? And after Mom gave you another chance, you put something like this on your phone?”

“I know. It was stupid. There was no activity on it. I tried to show her, but she didn’t care. She wanted me out. Your mother will stay at the house, and I can move in here. At least for now. I’ll even cover the maintenance for the next few months. How’s that for a good roommate?”

“It’s terrible! I don’t want you paying my bills. I want you to stop breaking Mom’s heart. And I’m stressed out enough by my job without having you and your hook-up app living right under my nose.”

“I’m sorry to add to your stress, honey. But you’ve gotta find a better way to manage that anxiety. Are you still on those meds? That Lorazepan stuff?”

“I’m trying to cut back on the pills. They can’t be healthy. Plus, they make me drowsy.” 10 Decanted “Stress isn’t healthy either. You and your mom are two peas in a pod. Both type A. I couldn’t wait to get her out of the firm. She was great with the finances, but way too rigid.”

“I’m sure she ran a tighter ship than you’re running now.” “Maybe so. But morale is better without her. I thought the store would be the perfect project for her. Now she’s a nervous wreck about that.”

“All the small retailers are hurting, Dad.” “I know, but it’s no fun living with someone that tightly wound. She’s a totally different woman from that wild-and-crazy girl I married. She used to think I was the uptight one. Bet she never told you about that mooning-from-the-back-seat incident she got ticketed for in college.”

“Mom? Mooning? No, she sure didn’t.” “How about the fact that she subbed for the captain of our school’s streaking team sophomore year?”

“What? Mom? A streaker? Oh, c’mon!”

“Yup. She was quite the character. People change though.” He looked around the apartment. “Speaking of characters, I see you’ve still got that stuff from Aunt Vivian. That old nude of her. Plants are looking good. I’ll just put my bags in the other bedroom.”

“Please don’t get too comfortable here, Dad. You and Mom need to work things out.”

“Sure, honey. Hey, how about I pickup a bottle of wine later on and that Thai you like? We can watch one of those British mysteries and chillax.”

“Nope. Got a night of prep ahead of me. I’m headed to Spence’s place now. Be back in an hour.”

. . .

“How was your big meeting?” Spence asked when I walked into his shop. I’d tried calling my mom, but she hadn’t answered her phone. “Meeting? Which meeting?”

“The Bannex thing.” He furrowed his brow in concern. “You okay, Sam? Something wrong?”

“Only that my mom kicked my dad out of the house and in with me. Besides that, I’m fine.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. That must be upsetting for you.”

“Yeah. But back to Bannex. I got a score of . . . hmmm . . . 98 points? And from what the others in my department say, the boss is a pretty tough critic.”

“Congrats! Never a doubt on this end! Speaking of 98 points . . .” He handed me one of the bottles he’d opened that were next to a row of wine glasses on the bar.

“Here’s the Beaujolais we’ll be tasting.” The wine’s label was printed on what looked like ancient paper. There was a family crest with a design of a lion on a feudal banner above a pen and ink illustration of a stately château surrounded by vineyards. “The LeMont distributor had his samples delivered early this morning so they wouldn’t cook from shipping in the heatwave. He should be here any min—” Spence froze as he looked through the locked door of the shop where a man and woman stood. Spotting us inside, the man smiled and rapped on the glass. After taking a deep breath, Spence marched forward and opened the door.

“Bonjour, mon ami! Comment vas-tu?” the man, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, exclaimed as he embraced Spence and gave him a kiss on each cheek.

“Hello, Henri! I didn’t expect to see you. Thought the rep was stopping by,” Spence said before he slowly turned toward the woman. She looked close to his age, was slim with wavy dark hair and a heartshaped face.

“Change of plans,” Henri said. “We flew in last night. I’m joining Patrice for a week’s worth of appointments in the next three days. And you’ve met my maman before, no? She joined me on the trip to see some friends and family.”

“Nice to see you, Sara,” Spence said after a moment’s pause. The woman moved to embrace him, but he abruptly offered his hand.

“Great to see you, Spencer.” She took his hand and held it for a moment. “It’s been a long time.”

“So it has,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

“Seems things haven’t changed much in here though.” She looked around at the mahogany shelves lined with bottles of wine from France, Germany, Italy, Portugal, Spain, Argentina, Napa, and Sonoma. Then she pointed to the bare wall next to the register. “And you never did put those pictures up.”

“Nope. The roll of film is still in that camera.” He took his hand from her and turned to Henri. “So, how’s this year’s crop looking? You’ve had a nice rainy winter.” Spence’s dismissive attitude toward the woman stunned me. Here was a guy whose impeccable manners were key to the success of his business while he opened amazing bottles for influential wine critics, legendary chefs, and celebrity clients. His extensive knowledge of the industry and his engaging personality were a major reason New York Magazine had named his shop one of Manhattan’s ten trendiest wine stores for the past three years. But now, his indifference toward the mother of an acclaimed wine producer was making me cringe.

“Yes, our grapes are looking beau,” Henri said, showing no notice of the slight to Sara. “And who is this beautiful lady?” He walked over to me, picked up my hand, and kissed it.

“Oh, jeeze! Do they still do that in France?” I asked through my giggles.

“They do when meeting a woman so magnifique as you,” he said, fixing two blue eyes on me that had flecks of lavender sprinkled through the irises. Though the guy dressed beautifully and was quite handsome, he was coming on too strong for my tastes.

“This is Samantha Goodyear,” Spence told him. “She keeps me current on what the millennial generation likes to drink.”

“Enchantée, Henri!” I attempted a playful curtsey. Then I caught Spence’s eye and tilted my head toward Sara for an introduction.

“And this is Henri’s mom, Sara,” he said. “She used to live in New York. In fact, she’s from Larchmont, same as you.”

“Sure am,” Sara said with her blue eyes twinkling. “Grew up in one of those old Tudors near Manor Park.”

“Wow . . . from Larchmont to Beaujolais.” I loved meeting people from my tiny hometown that was a short commute from Manhattan. “Did you go to Mamaroneck High too?”

“Yup! Good ole MHS! Then to college here in the city. Did a semester abroad at the Sorbonne in Paris where I met my husband and bid New York adieu. Though I sure do miss it.” Her eyes shifted toward Spence, who was showing Henri around the shop.

“Spence is going to tour me through his underground cave before we taste,” Henri told his mother. “Do you care to climb down with us?”

“Nope, you go ahead, baby. I’ve been hoofing it all day to those appointments. Maybe Sam will keep me company. We Larchmont girls have to stick together.”

“’Cause we’re the coolest!” Sara met my fist bump as we took a seat at the bar.

“So, tell me, Sam . . .” She slid her bar stool closer for our tête-àtête. I loved her energy and enthusiasm. She seemed like a free spirit compared to my mom. “Is ‘Blinky’ Warnakey still at the high school?” she asked. “The tall assistant principal with the tic? He used to hide behind cars in the parking lot and jump out when he caught us smoking during lunch.”

“Ha ha! Is that what you called Mr. Warnakey? Blinky? Oh, that’s mean! He was our head principal when I graduated, but that was seven years ago. And he sure couldn’t do much jumping by then.”

“I can’t believe he got promoted,” Sara said, shaking her head. “He was always the butt of our jokes. Poor man. For a senior prank, some kids trailered in a cow from God knows where, led it up the stairs and left it in his office overnight. Besides the piles of poop, the animal wouldn’t go down the stairs, and they had to hire a crane to lift it off the roof of the building! We were all outside having conniptions while the cops blocked traffic and the school officials stood fuming!”

“Oh, my God! You guys were evil! They must have been happy to see your class go!”

“If you two can stop your chatter for a moment, we’re ready to taste,” Spence told us. His stern expression again surprised me as he gave each of us a pour from the bottle labeled Old Vines Designate. While I twirled the dark, cherry-colored wine in the long-stemmed glass, I looked at Sara, then at Henri, and felt a tingle of excitement in my belly to be sampling the wine made from grapes grown in their vineyards, crushed in their cellars, and aged for over a year in their wooden barrels. I closed my eyes as the aroma of the bouquet floated up and transported me to a region where the sun, the rain, and the earth came together to create this offering. When I took a sip, and rolled the liquid across my taste buds, the realization struck. I didn’t want to work in a job that was just somehow related to wine . . . I wanted to make wine someday. No matter how long it would take me. No matter where I had to go to learn my trade . . . I wanted to create something as beautiful as the wine in that glass. Still reeling from the impact of my epiphany, I vaguely heard Spence telling Henri that the wine was lovely, and the finish was silky soft.

“What’s your take on it, Sam,” Spence asked. “Sam? Sam? Sam? Earth to Sam!”

“Huh? Oh, sorry Spence!” “I was asking for your thoughts on the wine.” “Well . . .” I began, hoping not to sound foolish to the experts. “I taste violets, red berries, and an aura of black tea. It’s flavorful. Incredibly flavorful. And it’s got a bright acidity too.” I took another taste and looked up at Henri and Sara. “Congratulations to you both on producing an amazing and delicious wine!”

“Oh, no,” said Sara, waving me away with her hand. “I had nothing to do with it. The wine is all Julien’s baby. He’s—”

“My brother Julien is our winemaker,” Henri interrupted. “He’s in charge of the cellar and has taken our wines in some new directions. Some say he’s breathed new life into a very old domaine.”

“A very old domaine in a very beautiful region,” Sara added. “Hey Sam . . . if you ever come to France, would you pay us a visit? We can do some more reminiscing about growing up in Larch—”

“Better yet, how about joining us for dinner? Here in Manhattan? Tonight?” Henri asked. “Or joining me for dinner? I think my maman has plans, oui, Maman?”

“I don’t, but maybe Spencer has time for a bite at that little Mexican place around the corner. Is it still there, Spencer?”

“Yes, it is, and no, I don’t have time,” Spence said.

“Well, thanks for your offers, Sara and Henri,” I said, trying to break up what was fast becoming an uncomfortable silence. “But I’ve got a long night ahead of me and a big meeting tomorrow. I’d love to visit your domaine sometime though. I want to learn everything I can about wine and making wine.”

“Hold on!” Sara said. “Our harvest begins next month. Is there any way you could escape your job for a few weeks? It’s not at all glamorous and can be pretty labor intensive. But if you’re serious about what you just said, many excellent winemakers have learned or honed their skills by working harvest with Julien.”

“No, maman, don’t even suggest. This beautiful young woman is not a vendangeur to slave from the dawn ’til the dusk in the damp air and the blistering sun while breaking her backside lugging baskets of grapes up hills, pushing pulp into tubs, and sleeping over the cellar. And even if she was crazy enough to do that, Thierry can’t issue checks to non-EU residents without prior approval from the Ministry.”

“I know that, my love. And I wasn’t suggesting—”

“You don’t have to pay me!” I said with heart racing. “I could use a break from the city. Seeing sunrises that aren’t blocked by buildings, waking to chirping birds instead of screaming sirens, inhaling fermenting wines instead of fumes from city buses. That wouldn’t be work!”

“But hey, Sam. I didn’t mean for you to be busting your pretty butt like a field hand or a cellar rat,” Sara said. “I was inviting you as a guest. To stay in the château where you’ll be comfy and can dabble at whatever suits you.”

“I don’t need to be comfy. I want to get down in the trenches and learn what making wine and working a vineyard is all about!”

“The reality is that working harvest means long days,” Henri said. “I work long days now.” “Long days and very hard work,” he added. “So perhaps you’ll come out when I return to the domaine after Beaujolais Nouveau Day. Then the work will be done and I can be a proper host.”

“That’ll be too late. Harvest will be over,” said Sara. “Sam’s telling us she wants to—”

“The problem is . . .” Henry began. “The problem is, I don’t recommend you going into the cellar with my brother. Though he has great skills, he is what we call a coureur de jupons—a skirt chaser. He takes every advantage of the ladies who come to work harvest, and the groupies that follow our nation’s acclaimed young winemakers.”

“Oh, Henri, that’s rubbish!” Sara scoffed. “You’re just jealous that Julien’s younger and prettier than you! And when are you two going to stop acting like you’re still—”

“Tsk-tsk,” Henri clucked with a shake of his head. “You can see my maman prefers her baby boy to me. To her, he is still as pure, as kind, and as innocent as the—”

“Well, whatever he is, it’s all a moot point anyway,” I said, now returning to reality. I had a good-paying job that others would kill for, and I couldn’t risk losing it. “Because I can’t take any more time off work. We have to put in for vacation in December, and I took my two weeks in April. But the good news for me is that I’m planning to take another route into your industry. That is, if tomorrow’s meeting goes well. So I can’t accept your dinner invite. Thanks, Henri. Thanks, Sara.” I offered my hand to mother and son. “I really love your wine.”

“Please, take my carte, and let me know if you can spare a moment for a glass of Champagne or a café au lait before Thursday. Then I go to Chicago, Texas, Colorado, North Carolina, California, and wherever our sales force needs my help,” Henri said as he handed me his business card.

“Here’s my cell number. Keep it. You never do know!” added Sara. She jotted her number on a napkin. “And friend me on Facebook. I’ve posted some silly high school shots!”

“Will do! And it was great meeting you both!”

“Au revoir, Samantha!” Henri gave a salute. I turned to Spence. “I’ll be stopping by tomorrow night with Cam and Steph to grab a bottle before closing. We’re doing a picnic in Riverside Park.” “I’ll be here,” Spence said as I opened the door and walked out into the still-light night.

. . .

“Here she is, the brightest new star of our century-old firm!” Michael Van Ness boomed as I walked into his office on the fifty-fourth floor of The Box.

“Good morning, Mr. Van Ness! And thanks for fitting me into your busy day.”

“Good morning to you too, Samantha! And you’re most welcome! Please take a seat.” He got up from his desk and motioned for me to sit at his conference table, where I opened my laptop to pull up the spreadsheets I’d created to show the projected growth of the wine industry over the coming decade.

“I’ll begin by saying that I always have time for those who show initiative,” he continued. “It’s important that we’re all fired up about what we’re doing here. To channel our creativity and passions into what could be just another job. That’s why you might have heard me say that I want my hires to think outside the box, if you’ll pardon the pun!”

“Ha ha! Yes, I have heard that!” I said. “Now to give you a bit of background, I’d like to mention that I’m a bit of a wine geek. I love reading about the role of wine in civilizations throughout the ages, how it’s a must for every tradition and celebration, and most important to our business, the way wine consumption is exploding across the world, resulting in a steady increase in sales year after year. So, what I’m proposing is for Waterhouse to consider setting up a division that specializes in catering to wine producers. I’ve been poring through the codes for these businesses . . . they’re extremely complicated and they’re in constant flux. Most of the financial folks for the wineries I’ve contacted have said that the relatively few firms that specialize in the field are too busy to take on new customers. And we’d be the only one of the big four—”

“Excuse me, Samantha, if I may interrupt? What exactly does this have to do with boxes? Maybe you’re talking about going after the companies that manufacture wine boxes? That might prove to be an avenue worth—”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about, sir, not at all.”

“Labels then? Wine labels? Let’s go after those folks! There must be hundreds of firms making auxiliary products that can slip into our model and take us out of the box! I’ve read about several companies in the Midwest specializing in Styrofoam inserts! And is 3M the only company that makes cellophane shipping tape?”

“No labels, no plastic shipping supplies! I’m talking about servicing the people who make wine! The beverage made from grapes!” My chest started heaving, and I felt short of breath.

“I appreciate your efforts on this, Samantha. I do.” He gave an apologetic smile. “But wineries are way too far in left field for us to go after anytime soon. They’re subject to an entirely unique set of laws. Now, if you’ve got any other makers of non-perishable shipping- related goods besides boxes to suggest, I’m all ears.” Like I said, “I want our hires to—”

“I know, I know . . . to think outside the box.” The image of Mrs. Cranston’s unevenly drooping eyes started flashing before me. Then my own eyes watered as I looked up at the florescent lights in the ceiling and envisioned spending the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of the month, the rest of the year, the rest of my life, underneath those pulsating electrons. A surge of anxiety exacerbated by a lack of sleep and a plethora of frustration sent my heart racing as the walls of the office started closing in on all sides of me. I stuck my hand into my bag and fished around for my meds, but remembered I’d left the vial of Lorazepan on my bathroom sink. It’s just a minor panic attack, Sam. Breathe slowly . . . in and out, one, two, one, two. Visualize a babbling brook, picking grapes at dawn, marching up green mountains, tasting the new wines of harvest. Then I heard a voice echo up from my larynx and felt my jaw move and say those words. “In that case, I’m submitting my resignation from Weatherhouse, sir. I’m happy to stay two more weeks to tie up any loose ends. And I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to work for this wonderful company.”

. . .

“Michael Van Ness called me a bit ago, Miss Goodyear. He said you’ve given us your resignation and wanted you and me to have a brief chat about that.” I’d been organizing my umpteen files of schedules, records, and tax forms to ease the transition for my replacement when I got the call from our regional vice-president, Steve Bowen. Though it had only been an hour since my meeting with Michael Van Ness, I’d already messaged Sara and Henri LeMont to tell them I’d decided to take Sara’s offer of working harvest at their domaine. Both had gotten back to me within minutes to express their delight and to give me a link to follow for details. And now, I was sitting in Steve’s office to explain why I was quitting the company. “Michael said you did a bang-up job with the Bannex team yesterday,” Steve continued. “He says you’re resourceful, hard-working, and have gotten top reviews from Favia Moss since you started here. If you need a little recharge after the Bannex pitch, I’ll be happy to get you a req from HR to take a few personal days.” He scanned through my personnel stats on his laptop screen like a physician reviewing a patient’s chart. “And you seem to be thriving here from what I see. You’ve got a nice little start on your 401K plan, and you’ll be up for your three percent merit increase by year-end.” He snapped down the screen of his computer, took off his reading glasses, and looked me in the eye. “So, what’s the problem, Samantha? How have we as a firm failed you?”

“You haven’t . . . the firm hasn’t failed me, Mr. Bowen. I will say that I didn’t do well this morning in my meeting with Mr. Van Ness. I’d had the idea of Weatherhouse setting up a division to take on wineries as clients, but he had absolutely no interest in my plan. And that frustrated me.”

“First of all, Samantha, you must understand that Michael doesn’t have the authority to make that call. Even I don’t have the authority to make it. Neither does my superior, our East Coast President, Josh Hardy. The only person who has the power to submit a proposal like that to Chairman Morton Drydock would be our President of Worldwide Operations, Brett Newmark. And Brett’s made it clear down the line that Weatherhouse will never veer from its core business of servicing the makers of shipping-related items. But that shouldn’t be the reason for you to just walk away from a promising future with a solid company.”

“It is the reason, Mr. Bowen. Because I’m determined to get into the wine industry. I’m thinking that I could even make wine myself someday. And if I had even a sliver of hope that my plan to service wineries might come to fruition, I’d have stayed and worked my butt off to make that happen. Because if I’m going to spend twelve hours a day here, I want to be working on something I’m passionate about. So, I’m putting my accounting career on hold to work harvest in France, and learn everything I can about wine and making wine.”

He paused for a moment, then rocked back in his tufted-leather swivel chair and folded his arms across his chest. “So . . . you’re just chucking everything you’ve built here to run off and chase a dream. Is that it?”

“I don’t see it as chucking everything, Mr. Bowen. I’ve got some serious business experience under my belt, and I believe I’ve made some good contributions to the company in the time I’ve spent with you all. Now, I hope to get some quality experience in Beaujolais.”

He returned the chair to its upright position, and his eyes lit up with interest. “Beaujolais, huh? Home of the Gamay grape, Beaujolais Noveau, wines like Louis Jadot, Morgon, Paul Janin, and the producers on Mont Brouilly.”

“Sounds like you know your wines, Mr. Bowen!” He stood and walked over to a credenza near his desk and opened its doors to reveal a row of wine bottles and several glasses. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to open this Fleurie from Le Vissoux.” He set two glasses down on his desk and uncorked the bottle. “I admit I’m a bit of a wine geek myself. Been on some buying trips to Burgundy and Bordeaux. Can tell a Malbec from a Merlot,” he said as he poured the wine into the glasses.

“Then maybe you could put yourself in my shoes and try to understand why it’s time for me to take the leap.” “Understand? Understand?” He picked up the glasses and handed me one. “Not only do I understand you. I envy you!” He clinked his glass against mine. “And I’ve gotta toast you for having the guts to get out of this fucking boring-as-hell prison to follow your dreams! ’Cause if I wasn’t forty-seven years old with three kids in private school, skyhigh real estate taxes, and a wife who wears fucking Fendi to Whole Foods, I’d do exactly that in a heartbeat! Best of luck to you, young lady!” He touched my glass with his again and took a sip of his wine. “And be sure to keep me posted on your endeavors.”

“I sure will, Mr. Bowen!” I breathed in the floral aromas of the wine and took a sip. “Thanks for everything. Including the wine. It’s really elegant and should pair well with whatever you’re having for lunch.”

“I think it will.” He took another sip. “And please . . . put me down for a case of your wine when you start making it.”

. . .

“You look happy, miss!” the security guard told me when I waltzed through the sliding glass exit of The Box that evening. I sailed down the steps of the building toward Fifth Avenue, pulled off my suit jacket, and felt the stress that had been balled up inside me drift away Linda Sheehan 21 in the warm summer breeze. All my life I’d done as I was told. Get good grades in high school, major in accounting in college, take a job at a big four firm, work as many hours as needed to stay on schedule. Now, the only voice I was listening to was mine. Quitting Weatherhouse was a risk. I had twenty-five thousand dollars in savings. And with no idea of where I’d be going or how to find my way in the wine industry after my harvest stint, that money could be my sole support for a long time. But I knew that if I was ever going to take the leap, I had to do it then. After crossing Fifty-eighth Street and navigating my way through the swell of Asian tourists snapping selfies in front of the glorious Plaza Hotel, I pulled out my phone to make the call I’d been dreading. “Hi, Mom! How’re you holding up with Dad being such an asshole?”

“So, he told you what I found on his phone, did he?” “Yeah. That was childish of him. But he swears he only downloaded that hook-up app to see what that guy Oscar was talking about.” “It wasn’t that hook-up app,” my Mom said. “It was those hook-up apps. Four of them. He’d also filled out his profile on one. On the line that asked what nationalities he was most interested in, he checked Indian, Laotian, Punjabi, Filipino, and Mongolian. On the line that asked if he was interested in a low, moderate, or high level of experimentation, he checked high.”

“Dad did that?” Again, that stomach clench. “Wow!”

“So besides boring the hell out of him all these years, I’m also from the wrong side of the world.”

“Maybe he was just messing around with his friends at work, Mom.”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, Greg’s the least of my problems.” Her voice sounded like a taut cello string about to snap. “Business is awful! For all the retailers in town, not just us. Customers come in and try on every size and color of our garments before they toss them inside out on the benches of the dressing room. Then they walk out the door, or even stand in the shop, and order the same clothes on their cell to save ten bucks. Used to be I couldn’t keep enough inventory in stock. Now the shop’s overflowing with stuff I can’t sell. And I’m stuck with a fiveyear lease here! My only solace is that you’ve got a steady job with a healthy firm. Especially one that has all those box companies as clients.”

I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and spoke at a rampedup pace. “Actually, I just quit my job, Mom. I’m going to France to work harvest in three weeks to learn everything I can about making wine. That’s what I want to do with my life. And I know Aunt Viv would approve.”

“What? What? Are you crazy? And who cares if the family kook would approve?”

“She wasn’t a kook, Mom. Aunt Viv was a very accomplished woman.” “Whatever! You just march yourself right back into HR tomorrow morning. Tell them you didn’t mean it. Tell them you were just overtired. Tell them you have your period! Just do it!”

“No. I’ve made my decision. And you sound like a wreck. Maybe you should play more bridge. Weren’t you going to try some yoga to help you relax?”

“Nothing can relax me. Especially with this news. Oh, good God! I’m feeling some chest pain.” “Just take some deep breaths, Mom. Maybe pop a Lorazepan. Better yet, have a glass of wine. I’ll be out to see you this weekend.”

. . .

Cameron and Stephanie had beaten me to Spence’s shop to buy a bottle for our picnic in the park and were sitting at the bar typing emails. “So, you’re getting out of Dodge, are you?” asked Cam when I walked in.

“I am, and I’m sure you’re both welcome to join me. If not at Domaine LeMont, plenty of other wineries in France are happy to accept harvest help, from what I’ve seen online.”

“I’d go in a heartbeat if I had your courage,” Stephanie said. “And if I wasn’t saddled with thirty-plus years’ of student loans.” She put her elbow on the bar, rested her chin on her palm, and let out a deep breath. “I’ll be past menopause by the time I’ve paid them off.”

“It’s a colossal risk for me too.” I said. “As my furious mother just reminded me. And with all those accounting majors trotting around with degrees from the Ivies, I may not be able to get back into Weatherhouse, or any other big firm, if I go bust.”

“They’ll take you back. They love you there,” Cameron assured me.

“But here’s something weird. Henri LeMont, who sells the family’s wine, warned me about his brother, Julien, the winemaker. Said he didn’t recommend me going into the cellar with him. Called him a coureur de jupons—a skirt chaser.”

“Oh my, that’s not good,” Cameron said. “If you think sexual harassment is a problem here, just—”

“Could be bogus info though,” I said. “Sounds like those two guys have some major sibling rivalry going on. And Julien’s a serious winemaker. Not a playboy.”

“Yeah, but we’re talking about France,” Cameron said as he checked his phone. “Let’s see . . . Julien LeMont images . . . he we go. Julien LeMont, Paris Match. Oh boy! He looks like a young French Hugh Hefner.” He held the screen up for Stephanie and me to see a photo of a twenty-something guy with dark curly hair, an impish smile, and three very young, very hot blondes draped over him at what looked to be a restaurant.

“Looks like he’s got some other interests going on there besides making wine,” Stephanie said. “And he sure is cute.”

“Well, I’ll just make it clear from the get-go that I’m there to learn— not party.” I looked over at the bag of wine on the counter. “So, what’d you two pick out for us? Some nice bubbles to help me celebrate?”

“Spence suggested we try something new from Napa. It’s a sparkling rosé,” Stephanie said as she rose from her bar stool and picked up the wine from the counter. “Thought we’d grab some fresh oysters, cheeses, and maybe some prosciutto to pair with it. Our treat since you’re about to be unemployed.”

“Thanks, guys. And how ’bout you, Spence?” I called out. “Can you close up early and join us?”

“Don’t think so,” he said while slashing the top of a carton with a box cutter. I walked closer to where he’d surrounded himself with cartons as he restocked his shelves.

“Hey, you’ve been awfully quiet today, Mr. Walker. Was it something I said?” I’d texted him along with Stephanie and Cameron to tell him my big news, and he surprised me when he hadn’t responded right away like the others had. In fact, he hadn’t responded at all.

“It’s just been a busy day. I’m kind of beat.” He didn’t look beat to me. He looked sad.

“You guys go ahead,” I told my friends. “I’ll meet you in the park in a few.”

“Okay. By the marina. Same as last time,” Cameron called as they walked out the door. I turned to Spence when the other two were gone. “I know you never talk much about about your personal life, but—”

“It was thirty-three years ago,” he cut in as he turned toward the bare wall by the register. “From the back of the shop, I heard the jingle of that bell over the door. It took me a minute to come out, but when I did, I saw the most beautiful girl my twenty-two-year-old eyes had ever seen.”

“I had a feeling this was about Sara,” I said.

“She was staring at that wall with a bottle of Negretti in her hand. When she heard me come near, she said, ‘You need to fill this spot.’ ‘Excuse me, miss?’ I asked. She didn’t turn around. Just kept talking. ‘How about three large photos? Black and whites. Maybe an establishing shot of a French vineyard? A closer shot of the vines with grapes? Then a close-up of purple berries?’ She turned and gave me that smile . . . those two dimples . . . that heart-shaped face. ‘Sorry if I seem kinda pushy,’ she said. ‘I’m really into art and interior design.’”

“She had some good ideas,” I said. “Why’s the wall still bare?” “I told her I’d run it by my boss. Then I looked into those bluegreen pools she had for eyes and suggested that she and I go to France together to take the photos. Told her I had a decent camera. She cocked her head without saying a word at my indecent proposal. Then she let out a laugh of pure joy. I hope she still has that laugh after all these years.”

“So, what happened? Did you go?”

“We did. A year later. And we took a slew of photos. I never got them developed. Never even took the film out of the camera. Seems like we just got back when she returned to France for her junior year abroad. I’d already bought my ticket to visit her. Was packing my bag when her letter dropped through my mail slot. She’d met and was marrying the heir to the LeMont kingdom.” He reached over toward the bar and picked up an empty bottle of the LeMont Beaujolais that he’d left there. “I bet she did a bang-up job restoring that castle,” he said as he stared at the label.

“Was she the reason you never married?” “She was. She still is. When you’ve been drinking something as elegant, as complex, as subtle and surprising as Romanée-Conti, anything else tastes like Two Buck Chuck.”

“I liked her from the get-go,” I said, now understanding why Spence, who met lots of cool women in his shop every day and wasn’t bad looking for an older guy, was still single. “Last night was the first time I’d seen her since she left,” he said. “I’ve carried the domaine’s wine from time to time over the years, which is how I know Henri. I’ve never met the other son, the winemaker, though I’ve heard he’s very talented. I’m glad you’re going, Sam. And when you see Sara, please apologize to her for my rudeness.”

Montmartre, Paris June 1936

Marciel pulled the door of his garret open and wondered why the young woman was standing there. In a white lace blouse, a red gathered skirt cinched with a wide leather belt, and with hair held taught in a thick braid behind her back, she reminded him of one of those tiny dancers that spin on top of a child’s music box. “Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle?” he asked while he shoved a pile of shaggy brown hair away from his eyes. He’d hoped that the model he’d been waiting for had finally shown up. Instead, he’d have to waste precious moments giving directions to another tourist searching for the garret of some distant relative they planned to meet up with on their pilgrimage to Paris.

The girl hesitated and handpicked her words before speaking. “S’il vous plaît, excusez-moi pour le désagrément, monsieur.” “What are you doing here, little lady?” he asked, recognizing an American accent through her too formal French. Probably wandered away from her tour group, he thought. Mummy and Daddy, or Gran and Poppi, must be frantic!

“I’m Vivian. Vivian Goodyear. The model,” she answered, relieved that the artist, though visibly annoyed, spoke good English. Though she’d been working hard on her French and had aced it at her high school back in Brooklyn, becoming conversational was harder than she’d expected.

“The model?” the artist barked, his annoyance now bordering on anger. Nothing seemed special to him about this girl.

“Yes. And please, I’m sorry to be late. It won’t happen next time. You are Marciel Duprée, I trust?” She now wondered if Phillipe had jotted down the wrong address in his haste. But one glance through the door told her that this was the painter whose work she’d fallen in love with during her art classes at L’Académie. “Phillipe did tell you I’d be here, oui?”

“Oui, mademoiselle, but he said two o’clock. And he knows I require an experienced figure model.” “Yes, monsieur, and I apologize again for the delay. Now, may I please come in?” the girl asked while she stepped through the doorway and inhaled the smell of the oils, pigments, and solvents that had been a staple for the generations of artists that had occupied the space over the past two centuries. Taped to the walls and spread out on a drafting table were dozens of penciled sketches of one woman in different degrees of undress. But none of the sketches appeared to have made it onto a canvas. And though Vivian recognized Duprée’s unique style in the drawings, she wondered why the fire that sent her heart pounding in the paintings of his she’d seen on the walls of L’Académie was nowhere to be found in these works. She pointed to a privacy screen that had a red robe slung over it. “I suppose I should change into the cover-up, monsieur?”

“I suppose,” he said, wondering if it would be just as well to send the child away. She went behind the screen and kicked off her walking boots. Then, trying to ignore the pangs of fear that gripped her belly, she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, removed the belt, stepped from her skirt, shimmied out of her camisole and knickers, and wrapped the silk garment around her otherwise naked body.

“Now where will you position me?” she asked with a voice cracking from nerves. “Over there. In the corner.” He pointed to a chaise upholstered in purple velvet. She reclined on the piece and forced the corners of her mouth to turn upward, like a child following orders from a parent to smile for a photograph. The stuffy old chaise smelled like mothballs. Her eyes went to the wretched-looking man behind the easel who hadn’t yet touched his pencil to the paper. “Shall I keep the robe on?” she asked.

“Might as well,” he said, having little interest in what lay beneath it. Another night wasted, he thought. It was already too late to make it up the hill with his paints and easel before twilight. He walked over to where he’d left the bottle of wine, uncorked it, poured the Burgundy into a glass, and took a long sip.

“Would you pour me a glass, monsieur?” the girl asked, hoping that the wine would relax her. Her audacity shocked him. He’d already wasted good money on her fee and Phillipe’s commission. He wasn’t about to waste excellent wine.

“No, I won’t. It’s only for me to consume. Anyhow, I hear it’s illegal to drink before twenty-one in the States.”

“I’m eighteen and change. More than old enough to drink wine in Paris. But I don’t want the glass for drinking.” She rose from the chaise and walked to the room’s large window that opened to the Arènes de Montmartre garden. “Could I suggest an alternate pose? If you don’t like it, I’ll go back to the chaise.” “Go on then.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. The girl’s impertinence seemed to have no limits. She positioned herself on the window’s wide ledge. After sliding her arms from the robe, she pulled the fabric through a loop created by her fingers, and fashioned it as a drape that meandered through the peaks and valleys of her form, revealing the mounds of the breasts but masking the nipples, exposing one of her hips and a portion of her belly, before it floated down between her legs that were bent at the knees. Then, she undid the braid behind her head to release a torrent of auburn curls that tumbled around her shoulders. “That glass of wine might add a nice element to the pose,” she told Marciel. “What are your thoughts?”

“My . . . my . . . thoughts are . . .” he began as he felt a good portion of the weight that had encumbered his spirit over the past year lift from his shoulders. “My thoughts are that you might be right.” He poured a second glass of the wine and brought it to her. “And do taste it. To make the image more real.”

She cradled the glass in her hands as if holding an injured sparrow, and took a sip. “What is this wine?” she asked as she heard the laughter of children playing in the park and felt a warm breeze come through the window and caress her shoulder. “I’ve never tasted anything so enchanting.” Though alcoholic beverages had held no interest to her before, this wine was a life changer.

“It’s from the vineyard of Romanée-Conti. Considered by many to be magical. Let’s hope it can add some of its magic to our picture.” The artist took a seat at his drafting table and shaved his graphite pencil with a razor blade. Moments later, he put the pencil to the parchment and outlined the shape of the girl’s head, the swan-like neck, the wide shoulders, and the pear-shaped breasts caressed by the silken garment. Then he moved down to sketch the tight waist, the hips, and the long legs, before moving back up to the arms, and the hands holding the glass of wine. Next, he worked to capture the features of the face. Though not classically beautiful, they evoked an aura of strength and sexuality he’d yet to see in one so young. The glow of that aura intensified when the model was bathed by the rays of the late afternoon sun as it wove its way through the branches of the horse-chestnut trees lining the streets of Paris. Marciel was relieved that though the girl had shown an assertive personality, she said nothing to interrupt his focus. She didn’t prattle on about the high cost of bread, the increase in automobile traffic, or badger him to add a few extra francs to the agreed upon fee. While working to recreate the sparkle of her green eyes, Marciel felt the beginning of a strangely familiar sensation. It started with a quickening of the pulse, a heightening of mood, and an increase in energy. After perfecting the shape of the plump and rosy lips, he stood back to look at the drawing. The eyes in the face seemed to penetrate his soul, filling him with a newfound lust for life, as they sent his creative juices flowing like the lava from Mount Vesuvius. He now thought that Paris was never so beautiful and became confident that the German people would vote Adolf Hitler out of office before the lunatic could gain any more power. After staring at the sketch for several minutes, he grabbed it from the table and ripped the paper in half, which caused the girl to startle.

“What’s happened, monsieur?” she asked with a furrowed brow. “You seemed so intent on your task. Did I somehow spoil your drawing?”

“You spoiled nothing,” he said as he crumpled the paper, threw it into the waste bin, and set a blank canvas on his easel. “I’m ready to paint.” view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. What is the significance of the title Decanted as it relates to the story?

2. What did you learn about wine and the winemaking process from the book?

3. Has this book changed the choices you might make when purchasing wine and tasting wine?

4. Who was your favorite character in the book? Why?

5. How did the ending make you feel? Do you think that the main character made the right decision?

6. Do you think that the story of Aunt Vivian tied in nicely with the main story?

7. Do you think that Julien really loved Samantha, or was he more interested in having a partner to keep his family's business flourishing.

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