The Orchid Shroud (16 page)

“I say screw the lot of them.” She looked murderous. “The French wine industry is going down the toilet anyway. We’re being out-marketed and underpriced by New World wines. Well, Coteaux de Bonfond isn’t getting flushed with the rest of them. If marketing is about brand recognition and giving consumers what they want, that’s what we’ll do. Right now, we depend on local consumption. In five years, I want us in every top restaurant from New York to Hong Kong. This isn’t just about a new pavilion and your landscaping, Julian. This is about shaping our product to international tastes.”

Julian thought about Antoine de Bonfond. A genius winemaker, but a man with soil under his fingernails. “What does your father think of all this?”

Denise shrugged. “As long as quality isn’t compromised, Papa has no problem. Always provided,” she added darkly, “the effort pays for itself.”

“And will it?”

“It has to. We’ve invested everything we’ve got in remaking
Coteaux de Bonfond. If replanting was phase one, going international is phase two. And if Cousin Christophe spoils it for me”—she paused, breathing hard—“I’ll have his entrails.”

Abruptly, she turned to look out over the valley. Julian studied her curiously. From some angles she looked hard and haggard. How old was she? Late thirties? Early forties? From others, she appeared vulnerable and just a little bit scared. In that moment, Julian felt he understood her. She cared passionately about the winery, the success of Domaine de la Source. Her father had spent a lifetime building the label, and she was prepared to take on the world to sell the name. He wondered if she had much of a life outside the business. He already knew from Christophe that both she and Pierre still lived at home in the big family house at the edge of the winery. Neither was married. Where Pierre was concerned, it figured. Who would want him? But Denise? She was stunning, electric, intensely sexy. Also rude and undoubtedly ruthless, but Julian suspected she could be very nice when she wanted. Then he recalled the dynamics between brother and sister and wondered if they behaved as nastily to each other in private as they did in public. Was there a mother? Maybe they fought over Antoine’s favor and who would eventually control the winery. For a moment he almost felt sorry for the Mouth-Breather.

M
ara was feeling guilty and irritated. Guilty because Julian had sounded hurt when they had last parted. Irritated with herself for feeling guilty.

“It’s not like there’s any commitment between us,” she complained aloud to Jazz as she drove out of Bergerac. She’d had a fairly successful morning, procuring an old set of cupboards that, with some retouching, would do fabulously for one client, and lining up another stonemason to finish off Christophe’s project. The only trouble was, the man couldn’t start until next month.

“Nor is there likely to be, the way we’re going,” she added grimly. Jazz sat in the passenger seat, enjoying the scenery, perfectly unconcerned.

She made the decision to swing north toward Sigoulane on the spur of the moment. She would stop by to see how Julian’s work at Coteaux de Bonfond was going, suggest dinner that evening, his choice of restaurant, her treat. Eating out was a necessity rather than an option. Mara, although she did many things well, was an awful cook.

Sigoulane Village was drowsy with midday heat. In the little square, a dog slept in a narrow strip of shade at the base of a monument honoring Sigoulane’s heroes of the Resistance. Mara drove through the village, past the smallholdings of local growers, and into the expansive terrain of Coteaux de Bonfond. Across the valley, the new pavilion, an imposing structure of glass and stone, winked in the sun. She turned off the main road toward it and pulled up in front of the entrance, where a man was replacing a window and someone else was scrubbing down one of the exterior walls.

Bernard appeared from the side of the building. Mara knew Bernard as Julian’s helper, but mainly in another capacity, when he served with surprising agility as
garçon
on busy weekends at Chez Nous. She got out of her car.

“Ça va, Bernard?”

“Salut.”
He shook her hand and waggled a finger at Jazz.

“Julian around?”

“Sure.” Bernard gazed around him, as if this would produce his
patron
. “Thing is”—the young man clawed in a leisurely fashion at his right armpit—“he was. But he went off a couple of hours ago. With her.” He jerked his chin, signifying a spot somewhere to the north.

Mara frowned. “Her? Who?”

“Her of the winery. Denise. Brought a picnic, she did. Foie gras, crab mousse, champagne. Sexy chick,” he added as an afterthought.

“Oh,” said Mara, as a yellow car came racing up from the main road. It came to a rocking halt near them. A slim, dark-haired woman jumped out on one side, Julian the other.

“Ah, Mara,” Julian called, looking surprised and uncomfortable. “Er—meet Denise. Denise, Mara Dunn. She’s doing Christophe’s—”

“I know, sweetums,” Denise broke in, sizing Mara up. With a slow smile and great deliberation, she turned to Julian.

“Lovely afternoon,
chéri,”
she murmured softly but loudly enough for Mara to hear. “Let’s do it again sometime soon.” Then she embraced him with a display of intimacy that made Mara instantly reconsider her offer of dinner. Before Julian could free himself from Denise’s stranglehold, Mara was back in her car and roaring away in a cloud of dust.

WEDNESDAY EVENING, 5 MAY

T
hat night a wolf expert was interviewed on the eight o’clock news. Professor Lise Voisin had studied wolves for thirty years and headed a group of wolf rights activists known as Le Cri Sauvage, Call of the Wild. She was a grizzled woman past middle age with a long, deeply lined face, rather resembling a wolf herself. The male interviewer, a popular television personality with large white teeth and a widow’s peak, addressed his broadcast audience:

VOISIN: “Utter nonsense. The bite marks are definitely that of a very large canid.”

INTERVIEWER: “In your opinion, could a wolf be behind these attacks?”

VOISIN: “That, too, is highly unlikely. First, there are no wolves in the
Dordogne. In fact, there are pitifully few wolves left in France. Those that survive are confined to the eastern alpine arc of the country. Second, the behavior is uncharacteristic. Whatever it is clearly has no fear of humans. Wolves tend to shun humans. They rarely attack people. I’d say it’s more likely a vicious dog that someone has let run wild. Every year, as you know, dogs all over France are abandoned by their owners. Left to fend for themselves, some of them turn feral. It’s shameful for a nation of supposed dog-lovers.”

INTERVIEWER: “However, many people are convinced that a giant rogue wolf has somehow strayed or perhaps was even brought into the region. Couldn’t this be the case?”

VOISIN: “If some fool has trapped and released a wild wolf in the area, it was a criminally irresponsible thing to do. Wolves are social animals. They live and hunt in small family units. A wolf alone and out of its territory would be under a great deal of stress. I know that a man has been killed and a woman badly bitten, but I point out that neither of these incidents was an outright attack. In both the Piquet and Dupuy cases, the animal was defending its kill. Because we don’t know what we’re dealing with, my association is joining together with other groups to protest the uninformed slaughter of this animal. We want the government to stand behind its agreements to protect large, native predators, at least until we find out what it is.”

INTERVIEWER
(showing his famous toothy smile)
: “But this thing, whatever it is, has proven itself to be extremely dangerous. It’s a man-killer. The local population is terrified. Do you honestly think people are going to listen to you? Wouldn’t it make more sense to shoot first and ask questions later?”

VOISIN: “First of all, it’s an exaggeration to say that people are terrified. In fact, most people are treating this with a great deal of common sense. Residents in the affected area are keeping their dogs locked up, they’re not wandering alone at night in the woods, and for the most part they’re going about their business as normal. Secondly, we must remember that wild wolves are on the verge of extinction in France.
Moreover, they’re protected by French law and international agreements, namely the Habitats Directive and the Berne Convention. I know the Ministry of Ecology and Sustainable Development has authorized the killing of this animal. But I say that we must take this case, serious though it is, as a warning to ourselves and treat it intelligently and—yes—compassionately. The conditions of the attacks have been created by us—”

INTERVIEWER
(a look of heavy skepticism opening out on more teeth)
: “Oh, come, now, professor—”

VOISIN: “I say again, created by us.” (Camera quickly zooms in for a head shot, capturing green, close-set eyes.) “We are destroying the habitat of wolves and all wild things just as surely as we’re destroying our own, to our peril. There is a mystic link between wolves and humans. All of us have something of the wolf in us. We, like they, are social animals. We, like they, live by the law of the pack. And we, like they, are carnivorous predators. I say from the heart that the wolf is the symbol of all truly wild things in France. It is imperative that we learn to live in harmony with them. Our own survival is at stake. On the day when the last wolf in this country is destroyed, something deep within us will die as well.”

Her delivery was so moving that the interviewer, normally never at a loss for words, was momentarily stunned into silence.

FRIDAY EVENING, 7 MAY

J
ulian did not have to put two sixes together to come up with twelve: Mara’s abrupt departure from the pavilion had a lot to do with Denise. Why the hell did Mara have to turn up just at that moment? And Denise, of course, had intentionally made things worse. What was her—Denise’s—game, anyway? That it was a game, he had no doubt. He recalled the look of malicious amusement in her eyes as Mara had sped away down the lane. If he hadn’t been afraid of appearing ridiculous, he would have run after the car. He had phoned Mara that evening but only got her
répondeur
. He left a message: “Dinner Friday?”

Now, engaged in damage control, he reached across the table and took her hand.

“Listen, Mara. I know what it must have looked like, but I swear to you Denise arranged that picnic only in order to pump me about Christophe. For god’s sake, the woman practically threw herself at me.” Their conversation was taking place against the low-key sounds of cutlery, the genteel buzz of well-heeled diners. The restaurant, a posh establishment high on a bluff overlooking the river, made a change from Chez Nous.

Something in Mara’s expression demanded elaboration.

“She’s terribly manipulative,” he added. He was astounded. He had never thought of Mara as the jealous type. And over such a little thing. He didn’t know whether to be worried or pleased. A different approach was needed, he decided.

“Mara.” He leaned forward to capture both hands. “Forget
Denise. Let’s talk about us. We haven’t seen much of each other lately. I mean, not since last Friday.”

Mara’s nostrils flared slightly. “That’s because we normally only meet on Fridays.”

“Well, yes.” He had to let her hands go because a waiter had appeared with their starters: a pâté of quail on chopped aspic for her; hot lobster ravioli, the house speciality, for him. He took up fork and knife, grateful for the time to think. “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Most weeks it’s dinner at Chez Nous, weekends at my place or yours. Well, I think it’s just not good enough.” He managed to make it sound like a long-standing, bitter complaint. Three hot-air balloons drifted slowly past the restaurant windows, like a Technicolor dream.