It was not just the car that made the long drive more pleasant; there was also the countryside to consider. Zoe always saw herself as a country girl, and even when the country was in a different country, she felt an affinity to the great outdoors, be it the American South or a South African safari or the South of France. (That was a lot of ‘South’s. She briefly considered if it was just being “South” that she liked.)
It was hard to say what was so perfect about the countryside here. It gave off an odd sense of confidence in its own beauty – it had been here a long time and would be here for centuries to come. There was something established about it – France was an old nation and wine-making was an old profession, these hills that fueled that industry existed while governments and nations rose and fell about them. They charmed all who came here with their quiet ease and beckoned you into their peaceful center.
The other thing that made the journey so enjoyable was the company. Last night had proved that throwing Zoe into the deep end in the business of food and wine (in a country which took that business as seriously as open heart surgery) had been an error. You could not sink or swim in the tricky world of French gastronomy - you could only sink. Some sort of preparation was necessary and Nick was ready to own up to this as being his own mistake. He had decided to remedy this with a car game.
“I could taste wines as we drive?” suggested Zoe.
“That seems unfair to me,” Nick replied. “Plus, it’s a very long journey and you’d have the most almighty hangover tomorrow morning.”
“Then what?”
“I have prepared a series of fiendish questions on French food and wine. If you get one right then you get to choose what music we listen to.”
“And if I get them wrong?”
“Then we listen to French radio.” Nick spoke the words darkly and turned on the radio. An atonal warbling emerged, backed by an accordion.
“What the hell is that?” Zoe gaped.
“Here they call it music,” said Nick. “They may rule the cultural roost when it comes to food and wine, but in the area of popular music, France is a country in the Dark Ages. Celine Dion is considered the height of sophistication. Now come on and answer a question – this is as hard on me as it is on you.”
There are few negative reinforcements that are as guaranteed to produce good behavior as French radio. If the Allied and Axis nations had been put in a room with French radio and told that they could come out when they had come to an agreement, then it would have shortened the Second World War by five years.
Zoe found herself grasping bits of forgotten information from the back of her mind and adding new information to its stock – she was learning. She was an excellent learner. She was also having fun. It seemed to her that there had been a definite change in Nick’s teaching technique since their visit to her parents.
She was not sure of why – he had very obviously forgotten that late night conversation which had seemed to bring them closer – but she was glad of it. Nick no longer seemed a distant, aloof figure to her, it no longer felt that he was looking down on her as he taught her stuff. She did not feel ignorant and bumbling around him anymore, simply ill-informed and slightly awkward – which was the same thing only said more nicely.
In late afternoon the Daytona rolled onto the white gravel drive of a pleasant villa that overlooked acres after acre of vines, spilling away into the distance across the hillsides with a stunning view of the ocean further in the background.
“This is where we’re staying?”
“You like it?” He sounded genuinely eager to please her.
“It’s incredible.”
They got out and looked at the view. Zoe realized suddenly that her hand was in Nick’s. She could not say if she had taken his or he hers but now she let it remain. It felt right.
Chapter Eight
They had a rustic dinner together out on the veranda, overlooking the silent vines and beneath a clear sky of sharp, bright stars. The menu here was definitely more to Zoe’s taste than that at the hotel. Not that there had been anything wrong with the hotel food, but here the menu told you what it was without any messing around with floral language.
The food was simple home cooking, although that came with the caveat that it was French simple home cooking, which meant that it was fancier than most restaurant food in the US. The wine was of course from the vineyard itself – a rare occasion when ordering the ‘house’ wine is considered de rigeur – so to speak. There was no need for lengthy menus designed to trap neophytes here, they simply brought you the wine that best complimented your chosen meal.
“Try it,” urged Nick, as the thick red liquid spilled into Zoe’s glass.
She sipped. “Oh!”
“Is it all right?” Nick looked worried.
“It’s good.” Zoe sounded astonished and realized that this was probably the wrong reaction, and perhaps a little insulting. It wasn’t that she was surprised that it tasted good –people clearly found wine nice. She just never had. What surprised her was that she could tell that it was good; she would have picked this wine out as being better than others that she had, in the past, drunk. For the first time in her life she had tasted a wine and been able to recognize it as more than just another wine. It was the first step on the road to connoisseurship, and an absolute revelation to someone who had, up to this point, thought that the idea of there being good and bad wines was just nonsense, and it was all about how little money you spent to get you drunk the fastest.
When they said goodnight later, before retiring to their rooms, there seemed to Zoe to be a moment between them – a frisson of something. It was that sensation familiar to all those who find themselves in the first throes of attraction, the unwillingness to part. In itself it was little; a lingering at the doors to their rooms as they eked out the final seconds of each other’s company, a slight tug at the heart as they parted, as if some elastic bond between them was being stretched beyond its comfortable limit.
Alone in her room, Zoe got ready for bed, undressed and slipped beneath the covers, the window open to allow in the fresh country air and the soft sounds of a still night. She lay awake staring at the ceiling for a while, not thinking about Nick as much as trying to think about anything else.
The following day returned to business: a guided tour of the vineyard, taking in every aspect of the wine production process. Zoe made notes as she went, determined that she would not let slip any of this most necessary information. Over lunch, Nick shot more questions at her, this time using the positive reinforcement of a bunch of sweet grapes, allowing her one when she got the questions right.
“Are you sneaking looks at your notebook?”
“No.”
“Yes you are! You cheat!”
Nick tried to take the book from her and, as he did so, Zoe managed to snatch the grapes from him. They laughed and the whole point of the exercise somehow faded to obscurity.
The following day was wine-tasting; the culmination of the Zoe’s training, and the hardest part to master. Much of the rest of their visit here would focus on this arcane art. While the other guests and visitors treated the whole thing as a tremendous lark – swallowing when they supposed to spit and asking ‘hilariously’ if they were tasting beer – Zoe and Nick took it almost as seriously as the French. It wasn’t easy - Zoe had never had any need for a ‘palate’ that could readily tell the difference between one wine and another - but gradually, with the help of Nick and one of the vineyard assistants, delighted to finally have a guest who cared about this stuff, she grew more adept.
“One day,” the assistant said (it was astonishing how everyone here spoke such great English), “if you apply yourself, you will be a true connoisseur.”
“Any chance that day will be next week?” asked Zoe, hopefully.
The man shook his head. “It will take many years. But do not give up. You have natural talent.”
Zoe was surprised to learn that she had natural talent for wine-tasting but it was n
ice to hear, even if she would need a great deal more than that to get through meeting Jacques Jourdan.
“I just don’t see how we’re going to fool him,” she said later, bitterly shaking her head. “Wine is this man’s life. He thinks I know my stuff. He’s going to know I’m faking it.”
“Don’t worry,” Nick reassured her. “We’ll make it work.” He said it to reassure her, but he wasn’t very certain. But a mere two weeks ago his reaction would have been so different. His whole attitude toward Zoe had changed. “How about we have a glass of wine?”
“Work never ends,” sighed Zoe.
“I meant just to drink,” smiled Nick. “You’ve tasted enough for one day – all theory, no practice never helped anyone. And do you know what, the single most important thing that you can know about wine is? That it’s quite enjoyable to drink.”
“I’d heard that,” said Zoe.
“Well let’s try putting it into practice. Why don’t you order?”
“Couldn’t resist it, could you?” Zoe grinned, recognizing the little test.
“Well, if there’s an opportunity. But that’s it!” Nick promised. “No more questions, no more tests, no more theory. From here on in, tonight is about fun and the simple pleasure of sharing a bottle of wine with a friend.”
Zoe looked up to meet his eyes. “Are we friends?” It sounded like a horribly pathetic thing to say.
“Of course we are,” said Nick. His breathing seemed to have quickened. “You’re… Well, you’re just…” He looked away, apparently unable to adequately finish the sentiment. “I’m glad we’re friends. Now let’s get drinking.”
Sharing a bottle of wine with a friend is indeed one of the great pleasures in life. Sharing two bottles is good too but, it can lead to revelations in a way that one bottle never can. Revelations like, ‘friends’ might not have been entirely the right word.