Chapter 4
“What is this?”
When they arrived at the Dubois house, Isabelle stormed across the gravel oval toward them.
Dressed in a flowing dressing gown, her long blond hair pulled up into a tall bun at the back of her head, and with the stunning stone house behind her, Natalie was momentarily transported into a costume drama.
However, the illusion shattered when the woman thrust her cell phone into Natalie’s face. Her cheeks flushed red, and Natalie struggled to form words—the phone shook so intensely that she couldn’t even make out what was on the screen.
“Pardon, Isabelle—” Ian started, but Isabelle gave him a look that might as well have been a slap across the face.
“Do not speak for her,” Isabelle snapped. “Why are you trying to bring your disgusting, cheap, American shame to my house?”
“Excuse me, what are you talking about?” Natalie replied, the tone in Isabelle’s voice finally breaking her shock.
“You are posting about being in my house, at my winery, in my town while looking like the Queen of Social Media Idiots, when really, you are here to beg for help because you could not keep the vines you took alive.” Isabelle moved to drop the phone.
Instinctively, Natalie caught it, and at last, she saw what Isabelle had been complaining about, almost instantly wishing that she hadn’t.
On the screen was her latest post on the Fitzgerald Hills profile.
The photo featured a smiling selfie over coffee and croissants from a nearby café where they had enjoyed breakfast on the second day of their visit to town.
The caption read: “Finally getting my head around French coffee; don’t worry—I’m an expert at the patisserie, though. ”
There were nearly fifty thousand likes and shares noted at the bottom of the post.
Ian stepped forward, asking what was going on.
Isabelle shook her head and responded in French, seemingly offering more detail but—perhaps unsurprisingly—not bothering to translate “the Queen of Social Media Idiots.” She couldn’t help but notice the tone the woman was using.
She was angry and not calming down. Natalie understood not wanting one sick vineyard’s reputation to potentially affect her own, but it wasn’t as if she was out there advertising the connection between her and Ian’s true purpose or even their actual presence at the Dubois estate.
“Mrs. Dubois,” Natalie said, stepping forward. “Perhaps we can talk inside?”
The woman turned to her, looking as though she might actually land a slap when a booming male voice cut through the air.
“Isabelle! Stop this at once; they are our guests,” Mr. Dubois said, standing erect at the front door like an offended statue. He continued in French as Isabelle turned and walked toward the house, with Ian and Natalie following behind.
“He’s saying that, basically, this isn’t the time or place, and she’s behaving like a dock worker’s…something,” Ian whispered as they followed. “He’s not happy about the yelling, and she’s not happy in general. What happened, exactly?”
Natalie showed him the screen and watched as he processed the information.
His face contorted. “But that doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t even mention the estate. How would anyone even connect the two?”
“Exactly,” Natalie said. “I really think that she just hates me. Her and Sabine.”
“She doesn’t—” Ian began, stopping when he noticed the look Natalie was giving him. “Okay, she definitely doesn’t like you. But hate is not it, I don’t think.”
They were approaching the front doors when Natalie realized this would be the first time since their first day here that they had been invited inside. All their discussions with Sabine had taken place on one of the terraces or at local restaurants.
They went inside, and Mr. Dubois guided them to a small living room where he invited them to sit on a couch across from a silent and seething Isabelle.
“Now…” Mr. Dubois spoke in a halting but exact English.
“What seems to have upset my wife is that there is some potential collateral damage to her reputation should your issue become known. You have come here looking for something, but Sabine has not been able to tell us what—other than you are likely to ask us to buy more vines to take back with you to replace the ones that have died.”
Natalie cleared her throat. “Yes, well, my family has been involved in winemaking for generations. My great-great-grandfather came here hoping to bring some of the essence of French grapes to California. In the past few months, nearly all the stock he brought home decades ago has succumbed to a blight no one has been able to identify. While we would love to revitalize our line with vines from the same source they originally came from, I would settle for gaining a better understanding of the history of the place and knowing where our lineage began. I have no desire to embarrass you or give anyone the impression that there is anything wrong with your wine. If it pleases you, I won’t even mention your estate—there are plenty of wonderful things in the town that can serve as the focus instead.
I just want to learn more about the vineyard that made my life’s passion possible. ”
There were several beats of silence during which Natalie was certain her heart raced loudly enough to hear until a hissing noise from Isabelle was abruptly interrupted by Mr. Dubois.
“I think I can understand that,” he said.
“My wife is less open-minded. However, this is my house, and I will give you two weeks of access to the archive. If you cannot find your answers by then, you will go. Any decision on the purchase of vine stock is entirely down to my wife. You will not mention this house, this family, or this winery in any of your social media activity. Does that sound fair?”
Shooting to her feet, Isabelle began spouting off in French but trailed off when Mr. Dubois shot a glare in her direction.
“I can agree to that,” Natalie said. “I really don’t want to cause any trouble.”
Isabelle huffed as she turned to leave. “No, of course not—you just will.”
“Merci, Monsieur Dubois,” Natalie said.
The older man chuckled and responded in French as he walked away.
Natalie turned to Ian for translation, though she grew more concerned when she saw his face.
“Basically, he said don’t get too excited until you’ve seen the archives. Sabine will show us this tomorrow. Also, she’s not here, so leave.”