7
HENRIETTE
I stared out the window of the car. René’s driver was kind enough to take me to the local tailor. There, a custom suit was waiting. A suit custom made for Tristan. Beautiful, I’d handpicked the fabric myself two weeks ago. Tristan didn’t know it, but he was coming here long before the jet picked him up yesterday.
I couldn’t deny my attraction to him. The question was, how long could I keep up my charade? I’d long ago cast off the notion I was a woman who could disguise her feelings. Even my father always said my demonstrative facial expressions were a dead giveaway to my true thoughts. He thought it unhelpful around the chateau to allow everyone to see my flagrant animosity for Pierre—including René. But I was the type of person who wanted to know where I stood with someone. If they didn’t like me, I wanted to know. And in return, if I didn’t care for them, they would certainly know. But when it came to Tristan Lebleu, my acting abilities were sorely tested. I couldn’t keep up the farce around him much longer.
I’d thought of him most of my life as the boy turned man who was always beyond my reach, and now as he constantly stared in my eyes, I was finding it harder and harder not to be myself.
I got out of the car and hurried into the store. Enzo, René’s tailor for years, was waiting for me.
“I have it ready for you, mademoiselle Tribolet. And the shoes came from Paris just yesterday.”
“Merci, Enzo. Merci.”
“The suit is impeccable. I do hope he will enjoy it. I’ve enjoyed working on it.”
“I’m sure it will be perfect, Enzo. Everything you tailor is perfect.”
Enzo turned his face from me. He was getting older, but it was his father who’d always tailor made René’s suits to perfection, beginning when René was only a mere boy. Whenever I made it a point to tell René how handsome he looked in a suit, he quoted his own father who said that wearing a suit defined the man. And in matters of dress and life, details mattered.
“Please let me know if he is pleased.”
I was unsure as to whether Enzo meant Tristan or René. Still I replied, “Oui, Enzo. Merci.”
Out the door with the suit bag in one hand and the bag containing his new shoes and socks in another, I handed everything to Jean-Luc and gave him a wink. “I need a coffee. How about you?” I asked. “As long as you have time. My treat?”
“Oui Henry,” he replied.
Since René’s illness had escalated, Jean-Luc didn’t have much to do around Chateau Lebleu. Pierre had his own driver and everyone else was on their own. The only reason I didn’t drive today was because I was on official business for René. When I was working for him, he required me to ride, and not drive my own car.
“Put these away,” I said. “And I’ll meet you at the café.”
“Bon.”
Waiting for a car to pass, I lingered on the street corner. Épernay was bustling more than usual and I glanced across the street at the outdoor café, hoping I could spot an empty table. I wanted to sit outside and enjoy the afternoon air. I needed a moment to savor the day—to sift through my thoughts. With Tristan in town it seemed there was too much rush, rush, rush. He was so American. No time to waste, and never enough time in the day. He could learn a lot by staying in Épernay. Here, we were about cherishing each moment for the gift it was—not hurrying through all of them with no sense of awareness in order to get one more thing done in the day. I knew I was just the woman to teach him these things. Whether or not he was a willing student, I’d yet to determine.
I’d lingered so long at the street corner Jean-Luc caught up with me.
“Outside?” he asked.
I smiled at him, letting out a sigh of comfort in the familiarity of our plans. “Absolutely.”
We crossed together, Jean-Luc pointing out an empty table in the sun. The closer we got, the more I noticed around me. Pierre was sitting at the table farthest from the door and in the darkness of the shade.
“Is that monsieur Lebleu?” Jean-Luc asked.
I didn’t answer, but moved in closely to see with whom he was meeting. Older, I surmised by his dark grey ill-fitting suit, his unruly gestures and his coffee order—café filtré—he was not French; he was American. Turning to Jean-Luc, I replied. “It’s best we don’t disturb him while conducting business.”
But I knew Pierre was engaging in nefarious behavior. It was his one talent. There were no meetings about Champagne Lebleu that took place off the grounds. He was up to something. And I wanted to know what it was.
Sitting, Jean-Luc and I both ordered café serré—a strong espresso. I watched Pierre lean in and speak. It was uncharacteristic of him. Pierre usually wanted everyone to know how important he was, speaking loudly everywhere he went—even at a local café.
When they stood to leave, I stood. I’d only seen the back of the American’s head, and could report nothing to René. I needed details. If I could describe him, perhaps René would know the man, even if I didn’t.
Just as they were about to part ways, I walked into their conversation. Pierre’s neck began to twitch—his nerves on display. “Pierre,” I began, looking between the two men but focusing on the American. “I didn’t know you were coming into town. We could’ve driven together.
“I’m busy right now, Henry. We can speak when I return to the chateau.”
I stared into the face of the American. Gray hair, he was tall but not too thin. He looked as if maybe in his younger days he’d been a man of great strength, but a desk had given him the small pot belly he now had.
I waited patiently for one of them to introduce me. Neither did. “I’m Henriette Tribolet. Pierre and I work together at Champagne Lebleu. Are you a buyer?”
“No ma’am.”
I was right. He was American and not only that, he had a southern accent much like the one that slipped across Tristan’s lips from time to time.
“My mistake. I’m sorry to intrude.”
Pierre shot me a look of death. I knew he wanted to strangle me for horning in on whatever meeting he was taking outside of the champagne house. He also knew I’d report back to his father, giving him as many details as I had.
When the American got in his rental car and drove away, I waited for Pierre to come back to my table and yell in front of the crowd at the café. That was truly his style—a show of force in a crowd. But Pierre did no such thing. Instead, he climbed inside his red Lamborghini Aventador—the car door opening up instead of out, and sped off.
When I returned to my seat, Jean-Luc was visibly worried. “Do you think that was such a good idea?”
I watched Pierre’s sports car motor down the road, turning my attention back to Jean-Luc. “Probably not.”