her upper lip. “It's sweeter than I would have expected.”
“The sweetness comes from the way we harvested our grapes. At harvest time, we would twist the stems, but leave the grapes to hang on the broken vines for several days. Then we would pick them.”
“But the grapes would rot.”
“Precisely.”
She gave him a skeptical stare, wondering if he were teasing her. “You made your wine from rotten grapes?”
He laughed. “Not all of them were rotten,” he assured her. “But it is a very old technique here in the Midi, dating back many centuries. It is hot here in the south and heat destroys the wine, causing it to spoil too fast,” he explained. “If a good percentage of the grapes are overripe, the sugar content of the wine is much higher, making it a stronger wine and preventing it from spoiling.”
“I see.” She glanced down at the wine and took another sip. Looking back up at him, she said, “Whatever you do, it works. I don't particularly care for wine, but I like this.”
“I'm glad, mademoiselle.”
“Since you are so good at it, why don't you make wine anymore?”
He froze, the glass poised in midair. Then he took another swallow before he replied. “I will never make wine again.” Frowning down at the food on the table, he added, “We should eat.”
She didn’t point out that he had changed the subject without answering her question. Instead, she filled two plates, handed his to him, and moved to take her seat. He took his as well, and down the long length of table that separated them, she watched anxiously as he broke apart the crab on his plate. As he took the first bite, she held her breath, watching him chew. And chew. And chew.
Something was wrong. Tess broke apart her own crab and one bite confirmed that the meat, which was supposed to be tender and sweet, had the texture of rubber and no taste at all. Across the table, their eyes met as they both valiantly chewed in silence.
Tess finally gave up the struggle and swallowed the bite whole with a gulp of wine. Hoping the vegetables were better, she pushed her fork into a bite of slightly brown, boiled potato. The potatoes, at least, had a taste. Scorched.
With growing dismay, she sampled the carrots and found that they were not scorched. Instead, they were only half-cooked and had the pungent flavor of too much thyme. She crunched bravely, but she knew she’d bungled her chance, and he’d never let her stay. Why should he?
Dumond said nothing. He politely ate what was on his plate and the longer she watched him, the more wretched she felt. Finally, she could stand it no longer and rose to her feet. “Would you care for dessert?” she asked in a strained voice.
Alexandre swallowed another gulp of wine and rubbery crab. “Certainly.”
A man about to be executed probably spoke in that same brave tone of voice, she thought, heading for the kitchen. Almost timidly, she opened the oven door. The apples were golden brown and simmering in their juice, and the smell of cinnamon filled the kitchen. They seemed to be done. Unwilling to trust her own eyes, she pushed a fork into the fruit. It was tender, but not mushy. Relieved, she put the apples into a serving dish, poured some of the sauce over them, and took the dish into the dining room.
“What is this?” he asked as she set the bowl beside his plate.
“Baked apples,” she answered, spooning some of the fruit onto a dessert plate for him and one for herself.
“It looks quite good.”
“Really?” She looked at him and saw him nod. His smile was so reassuring, so understanding , and somehow that made her feel worse than before. Taking her plate back to her end of the table, Tess sat down, but didn't make any move to eat. She stared down at her plate, knowing that even if the dessert was good, it probably wouldn't matter. She couldn't cook, and he knew it.
When he picked up a fork to sample her dessert, Tess caught her breath, lifting her gaze to his face with a
“The sweetness comes from the way we harvested our grapes. At harvest time, we would twist the stems, but leave the grapes to hang on the broken vines for several days. Then we would pick them.”
“But the grapes would rot.”
“Precisely.”
She gave him a skeptical stare, wondering if he were teasing her. “You made your wine from rotten grapes?”
He laughed. “Not all of them were rotten,” he assured her. “But it is a very old technique here in the Midi, dating back many centuries. It is hot here in the south and heat destroys the wine, causing it to spoil too fast,” he explained. “If a good percentage of the grapes are overripe, the sugar content of the wine is much higher, making it a stronger wine and preventing it from spoiling.”
“I see.” She glanced down at the wine and took another sip. Looking back up at him, she said, “Whatever you do, it works. I don't particularly care for wine, but I like this.”
“I'm glad, mademoiselle.”
“Since you are so good at it, why don't you make wine anymore?”
He froze, the glass poised in midair. Then he took another swallow before he replied. “I will never make wine again.” Frowning down at the food on the table, he added, “We should eat.”
She didn’t point out that he had changed the subject without answering her question. Instead, she filled two plates, handed his to him, and moved to take her seat. He took his as well, and down the long length of table that separated them, she watched anxiously as he broke apart the crab on his plate. As he took the first bite, she held her breath, watching him chew. And chew. And chew.
Something was wrong. Tess broke apart her own crab and one bite confirmed that the meat, which was supposed to be tender and sweet, had the texture of rubber and no taste at all. Across the table, their eyes met as they both valiantly chewed in silence.
Tess finally gave up the struggle and swallowed the bite whole with a gulp of wine. Hoping the vegetables were better, she pushed her fork into a bite of slightly brown, boiled potato. The potatoes, at least, had a taste. Scorched.
With growing dismay, she sampled the carrots and found that they were not scorched. Instead, they were only half-cooked and had the pungent flavor of too much thyme. She crunched bravely, but she knew she’d bungled her chance, and he’d never let her stay. Why should he?
Dumond said nothing. He politely ate what was on his plate and the longer she watched him, the more wretched she felt. Finally, she could stand it no longer and rose to her feet. “Would you care for dessert?” she asked in a strained voice.
Alexandre swallowed another gulp of wine and rubbery crab. “Certainly.”
A man about to be executed probably spoke in that same brave tone of voice, she thought, heading for the kitchen. Almost timidly, she opened the oven door. The apples were golden brown and simmering in their juice, and the smell of cinnamon filled the kitchen. They seemed to be done. Unwilling to trust her own eyes, she pushed a fork into the fruit. It was tender, but not mushy. Relieved, she put the apples into a serving dish, poured some of the sauce over them, and took the dish into the dining room.
“What is this?” he asked as she set the bowl beside his plate.
“Baked apples,” she answered, spooning some of the fruit onto a dessert plate for him and one for herself.
“It looks quite good.”
“Really?” She looked at him and saw him nod. His smile was so reassuring, so understanding , and somehow that made her feel worse than before. Taking her plate back to her end of the table, Tess sat down, but didn't make any move to eat. She stared down at her plate, knowing that even if the dessert was good, it probably wouldn't matter. She couldn't cook, and he knew it.
When he picked up a fork to sample her dessert, Tess caught her breath, lifting her gaze to his face with a
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