Chapter 23
Ember
The wine cellar at the chalet is chilly like you’d expect it to be to keep the wine, hundreds of bottles, safe to age and mellow, each one tucked lovingly into its cradle.
The count was rumored to be a bit of a manwhore.
Papa had the cellar redone so it also functioned like a tasting room with a long table that could easily accommodate ten people.
Once we’re all seated, Papa’s voice booms and he announces, with full theatricality, “Tonight, mes amis, we drink only French! And only the good stuff.”
A cheer goes up.
I take a seat at the far end of the table. Ransom is right next to me. I’ve figured his trick out. He waits until I sit and then settles himself. Always close enough so I can smell his cologne and feel it in my heart, and in between my thighs.
Thomas is on my left, legs swinging beneath the bench. Across from him, Anika peers curiously at the ten empty wine glasses and note cards lined up in front of each adult. Only she and Thomas have a single small tasting glass each. More ceremonial than serious.
“You’re going to drink ten wines?” Anika asks, perturbed.
“We’re going to taste ten wines, bébé,” Papa corrects her.
“How come I don’t have ten glasses?” she enquires.
“Me, too.” Thomas raised his hand, his lips thin and mutinous because of the unfairness.
“’Cause you’re not drinking,” Latika admonishes.
“Only one sip for les petits.” Papa points a stern finger at Thomas, who giggles.
Latika sighs and mutters, “Bunch of alcoholics,” under her breath.
“Now, Latika, we’re not alcoholics,” Mama says regally, and then adds on a laugh, “but we are heavy drinkers.”
“I want to try the red one.” Thomas points at a bottle of Loire Chinon Cabernet Franc.
“Me, too,” Anika agrees.
Papa drops a small amount, barely half a sip each in their glasses.
Thomas drinks like a tiny aristocrat and declares, “It tastes like old socks.”
“You know what old socks taste like?” Latika chuckles.
“I can guess.” He smells the wine and wrinkles his nose. “Smells like old socks, too.”
“That’s actually on the money,” Ransom tells him. “Cab Franc does taste like…old socks.”
“What’s a cab franc?”
Before someone can explain about grape varietals, Anika says, “It’s like jam…but mean.”
Latika’s eyes sparkle as she wraps an arm around Aksel’s waist. “Your children are either going to be sommeliers or rebels.”
“I’ll take either,” Aksel grins, brushing his lips against hers.
“Can we go up now?” Anika jumps off her chair. Her brother follows.
“Yes, you can,” their mother says.
The kids run upstairs, where Racquel is waiting to put them in front of the television with some tried-and-true, vintage Charlie Brown.
Mama claps her hands. “Jean, what’s our game?”
Papa beams. “Blind tasting! We’ll pair up in teams. Taste, guess the grape, the region, the vintage. Ember, I have made sure none of the reds have sulfites.”
“Thanks, Papa.”
Then, he lifts a bottle with both hands, almost ceremonious.
“The winners will take home this—1990 Domaine Leflaive Batard-Montrachet Grand Cru.”
A hush settles over the room, followed by a collective intake of breath.
This is one of Burgundy’s crown jewels: Leflaive’s Batard-Montrachet, from the very heart of the C?te de Beaune.
The 1990 vintage is especially revered—rich and expansive, yet finely balanced, with a depth and complexity that have only grown more profound with age.
It is absolutely the best Chardonnay in the world.
“That’s serious.” Jonathan lustily eyes the bottle of Montrachet.
“We’ve got this, babe,” Freja assures him.
“That’s what they all say.” Aksel makes a gun cocking motion with his fingers. “I am the master of blind tasting.”
“No, I think that’s me,” Uncle Bob insists.
“That’s bourbon, Bob, not wine,” his wife teases.
“Same difference,” he remarks on a laugh.
Papa looks around. “Well, let’s make this simple. We’ll have everyone partner. Since Ember and Ransom are single, they can team up.”
Subtle as a supernova in a dark-matter simulation, Papa.
“The rules are simple. I will pour a wine. You’ll discuss it as a team and write what it is on the note card in front of you.
After, we’ll match the cards to the bottles and see who wins.
” Papa looks enormously pleased with himself.
“Now, to make it fair. I don’t even know which bottle is which because Racquel set this up after Chef Pascal picked the wine based on my instruction that they be from France and be top notch.
All I know is that we have five whites and five reds. ”
He points to the wine bottles, which are in paper bags, only their spouts showing.
As Papa begins the first pour, there’s a hushed clamor of paper rustling and glasses clinking.
All the couples lean into each other, whispering, trying to identify primary, secondary, and tertiary flavors.
Ransom takes in the nose of the first white, and then tastes it. “I’m getting citrus—like grapefruit. Loire Valley?”
I swirl the glass, sniff, and then take a taste. “Agreed on the Loire. Sauvignon Blanc. Maybe 2020?” I taste the wine again. “Definitely 2020. It’s got that bright, racy acidity from the hot summer, but still holds that crisp minerality the Loire does so well.”
“I love your brain, Sweet Em.” He writes down the first wine on the notecard.
I glance at him, amused, even happy. “Don’t flirt. This is war.”
Across the room, Jonathan is blatantly trying to peer at Mama’s card.
“Stop cheating!” Aksel calls out.
Jonathan grins. “I’m not cheating. I’m…collaborating across party lines.”
“Cut it out or you’ll be sent upstairs to watch cartoons with the kids,” Jean says, feigning annoyance.
By the time the reds are poured, the energy in the room rises. Everyone’s a little tipsy, a little giddy.
Ransom leans closer to me as we try to identify our second red. “This one’s bolder. Plum? Tobacco?”
I close my eyes, savoring the scent. I taste the wine and check its length, balance, intensity, and complexity. “What do you think?”
“Bordeaux. Left bank,” Ransom says without hesitation.
I grin. “Maybe Saint-Estèphe.”
He writes it down.
“20…18,” I say after another sip.
He nods in agreement. “Structured tannins, but already opening up beautifully. It was a hot, dry summer—explains the power and ripeness—but there’s still a freshness in the acidity. Definitely not a 2015 or 2016—they’d be rounder by now.”
I grin. “2018’s still flexing.”
It’s fun to do this with someone who knows his wine. It was always fun with Ransom.
Ransom taps the glass thoughtfully. “Young, but with swagger. Like Aksel at a wine bar.”
We both chuckle.
We’re in our own world, at the end of the long wooden table, shoulders bumping. My hand brushes his as we reach for the same pen. He doesn’t move away. I don’t, either.
“I missed this,” he says quietly.
I look up at him, heart thudding. “Missed what?”
“The way we talk. The way we laugh,” he explains, his eyes hungry on me. “You…you make me want.”
Thankfully, Papa clinks his spoon to a glass. “Last one!”
The tenth pour comes around.
“This is the one,” Ransom whispers.
“You really want to win the Montrachet,” I mock. But I get it, because I want to win it, too.
“It’s superior wine.”
I lick my lips. The wine, the intimacy of the cellar, it’s making me lightheaded and bold. “But if we win, how will we…ah…share the wine?”
“I’ll find a way,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear.
I’m aroused. Flushed. So is he. It’s exquisite torture to be this close and know, in my heart, that he’s attracted to me, and I’m slowly believing it.
Or maybe it’s the wine making your head spin, Ember.
“My palate is all fucked up now,” Uncle Bob complains.
“You didn’t have to drink all the wine,” Papa jeers. “There are spittoons.”
“I’m not going to spit out perfectly good wine.” Uncle Bob picks up his glass and tosses the red wine back.
Aunt Tanya slaps his shoulder. “You’re supposed to taste.”
“Babe, at this point, I can’t taste anything but alcohol,” he counters.
He’s not wrong. Ten wines are a lot. But I’ve been diligent about cleansing my palate with water and crackers.
I taste the last wine and set the glass down.
Ransom does the same.
We huddle. “It’s too light to be Bordeaux, but it’s not Pinot Noir, either. Bright red fruit, something herbal…. Thyme? Maybe rosemary?”
“Yes.” I sniff the wine. Think about it. “Also, cherry, crushed raspberries…and something coastal, almost salty.”
“This is not French,” he murmurs.
I gasp. “I know. But Papa said they were all French.”
Ransom’s eyes narrow. “It’s….” He smells the wine, swirls it, and tastes it slowly.
I do the same, and a smile spreads on my lips. “Technically, Corsica is French.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Technically, it is!”
I grin wide. “I know what it is. It’s his favorite vineyard. Domaine Comte Abbatucci. Rouge Frais Impérial.”
Ransom’s eyes heat. “That’s disturbingly sexy, when you say that in your cute French accent.”
I flush. Giggle.
“What’s so funny down there?” Mama demands.
“We were just thinking how and when we’d drink the Montrachet,” Ransom tells her cockily.
“Oh, please, the bottle is ours.” Aksel picks up the bottle and looks at its label. “It’s gonna taste like a dream.”
After the wines have been put aside, Papa goes through the cards and reveals the bottle, announcing those who got it right, mocking those who didn’t.
Papa lifts Aksel and Latika’s card and sighs deeply. “You confused a Grenache with a Syrah?”
Aksel protests, “They’re both Rh?ne!”
Papa glares. “That’s like saying a euro and Monopoly money have the same buying power.”
Laughter ripples through the cellar, but tension hums just beneath it. We’re a competitive bunch.
He continues down the line, giving everyone hell for their missteps—like Bob for writing “Red???” with three question marks.
“And how about you mixing up a Pinot Grigio with a Chardonnay?” Aksel gets back at Papa, holding up his tasting card in mock horror. “That’s like confusing a bicycle with a Vespa!”