Ellen Crosby - The Bordeaux Betrayal

For Tony and Belinda Collins

St. Thomas Aquinas once said sorrow could be alleviated by good sleep, a bath, and a glass of wine. Lucky him, if thats all it took.

Hector died shortly before Labor Day, the last event in a tumultuous summer weighed down by heat straight out of hells waiting room. Hed been like a father to me, managing the crew at my familys vineyard in the foothills of Virginias Blue Ridge Mountains for the last twenty years. His death came hard on the heels of my second auto accident in the past three years, when the front end of my old Volvo collided with the back end of a large buck. And that event had been preceded by Hurricane Iola, whose wicked ways wreaked havoc just as we were about to harvest our white wines. If the month of August had been a fish, I would have thrown it back.

Fortunately autumn arrived in a kinder mood. The withering temperatures receded and the low-slanted sunlight washed everything in softer colors, blurring the sharp edges of the shadows. The air no longer smelled as though it had been boiled and the relentless metallic sound of the cicadas began to wane. Tonight, on an October Indian summer evening, the bullfrogs serenade sounded plaintive.

Id invited Mick Dunne, my neighbor and a man with whom Id had a white-hot affair last spring, to dinner and a lecture on wine at Mount Vernon. Though wed only just arrived, hed glanced at his watch three times in the last fifteen minutes. Each time, I pretended not to notice.

When Joe Dawson, my cousins fianc, had given me the tickets, I figured asking Mick would be a good way to let him know Id moved on since last spring and that we could still do things together as friends. Besides, hed just planted thirty acres of vines on land adjacent to mine. We needed to get along.

Right now, though, unless George Washington himself turned up to offer Mick a tour of the place or told him they could nip down to the whiskey distillery, I already regretted the evening. Though Mick tried to mask his restlessness with well-bred feigned interest as only the British can, I knew he was bored.

We walked along a shady path that bordered an expanse of lawn known as the bowling green. Washington had planted some of the larger treestulip poplars, white ash, and elmshimself. I reached for Micks arm to keep from stumbling on the uneven terrain. Ever since a near-fatal car accident three years ago left me with a deformed left foot, I needed a cane to keep my balance. Mick glanced down as I slid my arm through his. Another opportunity to peek at his watch.

I gave it one more try. Theres a fabulous view of the Potomac River from the other side of the mansion. Wait until you see it.

Really? How marvelous. It sounded like Id just offered him a cigarette before he got the blindfold.

Theres also a sundial in the middle of the courtyard. Too bad its nearly sunset or you could check the time there, too, I said.

There was a moment of stunned silence before his laugh erupted like champagne fizz. Sorry, love. Im distracted tonight. His arm slid around my waist. I didnt mean to be rude.

Love. Had the word slipped out, or was it intentional?

Why did you come tonight, if youre not interested in this lecture? I asked.

His arm tightened. I am interested. But not in some woman giving a dull talk.

My face felt warm. Joe said shes supposed to be riveting.

She was also Joes friend. I moved out of the circle of Micks arm.

Not many people here, he said. She cant be too riveting.

Thats because its a select audience. Im sure shell be fascinating.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned like Id said something amusing. Have you read her book?

I havent even read the newspaper since August weve been so busy with harvest.

Then lets have dinner and slope off. Come on, Lucie. Who cares if we stick around?

Joe cares. I promised him wed stay for the whole evening. Anyway, I think her book sounds interesting. She followed Thomas Jeffersons voyage through the European vineyards when he was ambassador to France.

I got another gun-to-the-head look from him. Why isnt she at Monticello if she wrote about Jefferson? Whats she doing here?

Because Jefferson bought a lot of George Washingtons wines for him. And she is going to Monticello. I think Joe said shes going to wrap up her book tour in Charlottesville. She just finished traveling around California. Now shes doing the East Coast.

We had come to the ivy-covered colonnade connecting Washingtons servants quarters to the main house. In the distance the river gleamed like dull pewter. I led Mick to the embankment where the ground fell away, leaving a view of the Potomac that stretched to the horizon. In the dusky light, the riverfriendlier to pleasure boaters and fishermen where it snaked ribbonlike past Washingtonlooked vast and depthless here at Mount Vernon.

We stood in silence until finally he said, You were right. Its an incredible view.

I had not expected him to sound wistful. I thought youd like it.

Those cliffs remind me of Wales. His voice was soft with nostalgia. We used to go up from London on summer holiday when I was a boy. My Lord, how I loved it there. On the north coast, the castles are perched on the bluffs just like this, except its all rocks to the Irish Sea.

I believe that it is possible to miss a place you love so much that the ache is physical. Id read that Washington pined terribly for his home when he was away from itwhich was oftenfulfilling his duties as commander in chief of the Continental Army or in Philadelphia as the first president. Staring at his cherished view, which had changed little since he and Martha looked out on it centuries ago, I knew I, too, would be homesick for this breathtaking place, just as Mick sounded homesick now for the north coast of Wales.

A bell rang behind us and I turned around. The western sky was the color of liquid gold and the mansion appeared to be sitting inside a rim of fire. Silhouetted figures began to converge on the columned piazza.

The tour must be starting, I said. I wonder where Joe is.

Hell turn up. Micks arm slid around my waist again and this time I let it linger. As we reached the house, I saw a man and woman framed like a cameo in one of the colonnaded archways. Lantern light from the east courtyard illuminated his face as he leaned close to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. The woman tucked a strand of shoulder-length blonde hair behind one ear. Then she reached up and pulled his head down for a long, slow kiss. I couldnt stop watching them. The man was my cousins fianc, Joe Dawson. I did not know the woman, but she sure as hell wasnt Dominique.

Come on, Mick said. The crowds moving. Well miss what the guide is saying.

Either he hadnt seen what I just witnessed or else he didnt recognize Joe.

Coming.

I had taken this tour so often over the years I could practically give it, but Mick, who had moved to Virginia six months ago, had never been to Mount Vernon. We began in the dining room, the largest room in the house, which had been restored to its original colorstwo eye-popping shades of Washingtons favorite green. I was glad to see Mick interested in the docents talk, but I couldnt stop thinking about Joe and that blonde.