Having the Frenchman's Baby

She slowed down and pulled to a stop to snap a few pictures with her digital camera before moving on.

While she did business in Alsace, she would look into buying a little house with a tiny plot of vines she could use for a retreat. One day years from now she would retire here and write her own book on wines.

Bread might be the “staff of life”, but to her mind the grape vine produced the “magic of life”.

It wasn’t just the final product to be consumed with or without a fine meal—Rachel loved the whole fascinating process, starting with the soil, whose amalgam of elements combined with the right amounts of sun and rain to produce a unique grape that could be turned into a superb wine.

Her sensations of delight mixed with reverence continued to grow even stronger as she followed the signs that led her to an exquisite rose garden growing in the middle of the old convent’s courtyard.

She pulled into the section on the right designated for visitor parking and turned off the motor.

More signs on the door of a modern-looking building indicated the business office. It had been attached to the side of the convent, which she imagined was used these days to store the wine.

Rachel touched up her mouth with a coral frost lipstick, then alighted from the car with her briefcase.

It was a good thing she’d learned long ago to wear comfortable leather sandals while on business. Negotiating the cobblestones with some semblance of dignity was no small feat.

On her way inside she counted a dozen cars. That meant a busy Monday for the staff who’d opened their wine cellar to customers eager to sample everything from Riesling to Pinot Blanc.

Rachel imagined the tourist traffic was non-stop, even in the low season.

Once she stepped inside, the receptionist in the foyer looked up from the computer and smiled. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, madame,” Rachel responded in kind.

But her accent must have given her away because the other woman said in excellent English, “The cave is through that door on your right.”

“Thank you. However I’ve come on business, and would like to meet with the owner.” She handed the other woman her business card.

“My name is Rachel Valentine. I’m the chief wine buyer for three restaurants in London, each called the Bella Lucia.”

The receptionist eyed her with renewed interest. “Valentine, you say? I can’t find your name on the computer. Was Monsieur Chartier expecting you?”

“No. In fact I didn’t know of the Domaine Chartier until I arrived in Thann early today.”

“I see.”

“When I asked the hotel concierge to direct me to the best vineyard in the region, he gave me directions to the convent.”

“Monsieur Chartier will be happy to hear it.”

“Naturally I realize he might be too busy to meet with me today, so I’d like to make an appointment for tomorrow if that’s possible.”

“We’re closed tomorrow, but let me check with his secretary and find out his schedule. He has other vineyards in different villages, so he could be anywhere. Excuse me for a moment, please.”

“Of course.”

Rachel had studied enough French to speak and understand basic phrases, but the receptionist’s volley of French spoken in a low rapid tone was much too fast for her to follow.

After the woman hung up she said, “If you’ll let me know where you can be reached, Monsieur Chartier’s secretary will give him the information.”

“That would be fine. I’m staying at the Hotel du Roi.”

“Très bien. Though I can’t give you an exact time, you’ll be contacted before the end of the day.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Pas de quoi, mademoiselle.”