Read Chapter 26: The Competition

The hall smelled of oak, sweat, and spilled wine. Élise stood at the back of the stone amphitheater in Avignon, her hands pressed flat against the cool wall, watching the judges’ table where a line of dark bottles moved like soldiers through inspection.

Julien stood beside her. He hadn't touched her since they'd arrived, and she understood. In public, they were colleagues. In this hall, they were strangers with everything at stake.

“They're pouring the third flight,” he murmured. “Ours should be in the fourth.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. Around them, vintners from a dozen domains clustered in small groups, their arms crossed, their eyes fixed on the tasting dais. Some wore thick wool suits despite the heat of the crowded room. Others smelled of the cellar—wet earth and ferment—as if they'd come straight from their tanks.

Élise had dressed carefully: a cream silk dress, her mother's pearls. A costume of confidence she did not feel.

A judge lifted a glass from the fourth flight, swirled it, held it to the light. The wine caught the window's glare like a struck match. Élise watched his face, but the man betrayed nothing. He dipped his nose into the glass. Then another judge did the same. Three of them. Four.

Julien shifted beside her, and she felt his shoulder brush hers—a small, accidental comfort.

“That's it,” he said. “That's our bottle.”

She'd know it anywhere now. The wine had aged only weeks in tank, but the old-vine Grenache had already folded into something deep and dark, a ruby liquor shot through with blackberry, thyme, and smoke. They'd bottled only forty cases. Enough to taste. Not enough to sell.

But if they won, it wouldn't matter how many bottles they had. If they won, every bottle would be worth twice what the bank owed.

The judges set their glasses down. One of them—a thin woman with spectacles and a blade of gray hair—wrote something on her scoring card. Then another. The head judge, a heavy man with a sun-darkened neck, nodded once and passed his card down the line.

Élise held her breath.

The assistant collected the cards and carried them to the table at the front of the hall, where the competition's director—a silver-haired man named Beaumont—adjusted his spectacles and began to read.

The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that could break a person.

Beaumont worked through bronze medals first. A white wine from Bandol. A rosé from Cassis. Silver went to a Côtes du Rhône from Châteauneuf, and Élise felt her stomach drop as the audience applauded.

No gold yet.

“And now,” Beaumont said, his voice carrying over the rustle of the crowd, “the gold medal in the red wine category, for consistent structure, depth of finish, and expression of terroir…”

He paused. A habit of ceremony, or cruelty.

“Domaine Delacroix. Vin de Pays des Bouches-du-Rhône.”

Élise didn't move.

Around her, applause erupted like a summer storm. Someone clapped her on the shoulder. A man she didn't know shook Julien's hand. But she stood frozen, watching the gold medal catch the light on the table, thinking of the ledger in her drawer, the debt collector's letters, the crumbling stone walls of the domaine.

A hand closed around hers. Julien.

“We did it,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word.

She turned to him. His eyes were wet.

“We did it,” she repeated, and then she was laughing, breathless, pulling him into an embrace before she remembered where they were. She stepped back awkwardly, but the room was already closing in—journalists, buyers, wine merchants from Paris and Lyon, all pressing toward them with questions, with card numbers, with promises.

Élise reached into her handbag and found a pen. She signed her name on order forms she didn't have time to read, while Julien answered technical questions about yields and rootstock with the patience of a man who'd waited his whole life for someone to ask.

By the time they escaped, the sun was low over the courtyard, and a thin man in a dark suit was waiting by their car.

Élise recognized him immediately: Bernard, the debt collector's clerk.

Her pulse stuttered.

“Mademoiselle Delacroix,” Bernard said, his voice smooth as a bank ledger. “Monsieur Morel asked me to convey his congratulations.”

“How did you know to find us here?” Julien asked, stepping in front of Élise.

Bernard smiled. “News travels fast in Provence. And money travels faster.”

Élise placed a hand on Julien's arm. “What does Morel want?”

“He's prepared to offer flexible terms. A payment plan, perhaps. Given the domaine's improved prospects.” Bernard extended a folded sheet of paper. “His proposal. You'll find it generous.”

Élise took the paper but didn't open it. She could feel Julien's eyes on her, the question in them. She'd kept the ledger, the debts, Delambre's blackmail—all of it, a secret she'd hidden from him even in their most naked hours.

“I'll review it,” she said.

Bernard nodded once, a ghost of amusement passing over his face, and walked away into the gathering dusk.

Julien was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “What did he mean, ‘improved prospects’?”

“The gold medal,” she said. “It changes the valuation of the property.” She opened the paper, scanned it. The numbers were better than she'd hoped. A year to repay, not three months. Enough time to bring the wine to market. Enough time to breathe.

But it also did not mention Delambre. The blackmail hung over everything, unresolved.

“Élise.” Julien took her hand. His palm was warm, flecked with dust from the tasting hall. “You're shaking.”

She looked at him—at the man who had kept André's secret, who had carried Marguerite's shame for her, who had kissed her in the cellar and wept at her side in the dark. She wanted to tell him everything. The ledger. The debt. Delambre's letters. The truth she'd buried the moment she'd arrived in Provence.

But a journalist from Paris was already crossing the courtyard toward them, a photographer trailing behind her.

Élise smiled and tucked the paper into her bag.

It could wait. The wine had won. The bank would wait. Tomorrow—tomorrow she would tell him everything.

Tonight, she would let herself be happy.

Julien squeezed her hand, and they turned to face the cameras together, their fingers still linked in the long September light.