Forbidden Monsieur

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Facing the stainless steel vat, Alexandre Travers adjusted the settings on his state-of-the art, all-stainless steel, filtration unit that would automatically pipe into the vacs. With the capacity to produce as he’d predicted between crop and equipment, he was on track for multiple contracts that would put his wine in every country and make him richer than anyone he knew. He gave the screwdriver one last twist, then turned it on and waited for the first bottle to fill.

Because of all his hard work, this year’s grape crop was the best yet and would turn his vineyard into everything he planned.

He’d kept the old oak vats that people associated with a winery in case he opened a storefront like a few of his neighbors. If only the old ways made enough wine to sell in every supermarket, but while the taste was superior, there was a market for younger wines. The machines he’d invested in tripled what his grandparents could even imagine from every grape they produced.

Satisfied that everything worked, Alexandre wiped his hands and headed back out into his vineyard, ignoring the slight chill in the air. The fall equaled harvest, and this evening was one step closer to closing his first contract.

The local families who’d worked the vineyards for generations had picked grapes most of the day and were now packing to go home. At least he’d found a way to keep them on with the new quantity so the tranquil village remained undisturbed by change.

Henri led a few of the workers to lock up the new machines used to harvest 90% of the grapes with the locals only having to deal with the grapes the machines missed. Everything flowed seamlessly.

He’d done it! He’d modernized the Travers vineyard against all odds, and this year his Luegrille Piquant brand would be marketable well beyond the local venues.

Alex stepped toward the family vineyard, crushing a broken grapevine. The scent of earth and vines wafted into his nose. Life was good.

Something banged through his field behind him and he turned, heart hammering with alarm as he looked for the source of danger.

Crash.

Screams echoed from the laborers as they backed away, but he ran toward the sound. Puffs of dirt from the field lifted into the air but the source of the problem was hidden around a curve.

He ran faster. His mother, thank God, was in the house. What had happened?

He smelled gas and smoke. As he turned onto one of his fields, he saw his staff fleeing while flames burst everywhere.

His heart stopped. If the flames hit the vines that remained to be harvested, he’d lose his crop. He slowed and looked around. Where was the closest garden hose?

A hand pounded against the dashboard of the black Mercedes. Smoke billowed.

Someone was inside the car. Without thinking, he covered his mouth with his hands and dodged the individual fires starting from the dried vines. He made it to the side of the car and tugged the door open.

A small blonde woman coughed and tugged on her seatbelt like she was stuck. He pulled his sharp knife for the vines from his back pocket and cut the fabric, yanking her out.

The rear of the vehicle was crumpled, the left taillight broken, and it was clear she’d been hit. Whoever was responsible for her appearance in his vineyard hadn’t stuck around.

The woman swayed. Alexandre caught her—he had to get her away from the car.

“This couldn’t have happened!” She screamed and began to cough. The blonde siren had legs that made him want to touch, and her short blue dress didn’t leave much to the imagination—she fainted, and he held her tighter.

Henri and the other workmen brought hoses and buckets of water.

His mother, Louise, waved a phone and motioned for himto join her.

He picked up the slender woman and cradled her to his chest, carrying her to the porch. He hoped she had no injuries. She hadn’t spoken yet though she was breathing.

His mother looked from him to the woman. “She was in an accident—her car was rear-ended.”

“The authorities are on their way,” his mom said. “Bring her inside to rest.”

“Good thinking.” He ignored his instinct to go and fight the fire, to save his crop, and carried the woman into his house.

He pushed past the door with his hip and brought her to the couch. He settled her unconscious body on the red and blue quilt his mother had made.

His mom waited at the front door with a look of concern. “I’ll look after her. Go.”

“Thanks.” He rushed outside toward the sputtering flames and picked up a hose, wetting the ground near the vines. He slowly made his way toward the car.

The last thing he needed was to lose all he had after glimpsing success.

Sirens sounded in the air as police and firemen arrived. Within minutes the firemen doused the last embers of the fire, saving most of the vines except those closest to the black car.

Alexandre wiped his brow with relief, coughing out smoke.

The policeman, a moustached middle-aged Frenchman who drank wine at the local café in the village every night, asked, “What happened?”

“A car accident. The driver was moving but weak and lost consciousness once I pulled her out. She’s in my house.”

He nodded. “Do you need us to call Service d'Aide Médicale Urgente too?”

“My mother already called them.” As usual, Maman knew exactly what to do in an emergency. He nodded, “Merci beaucoup.”

Alex turned toward his laborers who had all pitched in, stomping embers or spraying water on the precious grapes. He Henri on the back as he said to everyone, “Thank you for your hard work just now. Tomorrow I will host a special dinner as thanks.”

Erick, his foreman, said, “Go home, monsieur. These vines hold the lives of all of us.”

“Tomorrow, Erick, we will drink last year’s stock and celebrate life,” Alexandre said.

Now to find out who the woman was who’d almost destroyed his home. What had happened?

Being outside, he assumed the blonde spoke to the authorities, but he wasn’t sure. Either way he’d missed whatever she told the police earlier, working to clear his vines. Once most of his staff left, Alexandre slowly walked back to his house. His mother stood at the door and said, “This girl is weak and tired, but I don’t think she broke anything.”

“I hope you’re right, Maman.” In the distance, he heard emergency services sirens which meant the ambulance was close.

“I was a war nurse,” she reminded him.

“Oui. You’ve told me.” He winked at his mother and walked to the door again peering out for the Service d'Aide Médicale Urgente to arrive.

In a few minutes, professionals would assess the woman for injuries. His mother had covered her with the quilt, and blonde hair wisped at her forehead. She had soot on her cheek and shadows beneath her closed eyes but despite the ravages, she remained a beauty. Perhaps she was beautiful, but another part of him wondered if she was trouble.

There would be identification in her car—it felt wrong to go through her pocketbook—he could collect whatever personal things she had to give back to her. Her blue dress had felt like silk in his rough hands. “I’ll let them in and then go find out if she has anything of value in that car of hers before it’s towed.”

“So thoughtful, Alexandre.” He stepped outside and pointed the emergency service team to where his mother waited.

The night air held a whiff of smoke, and the bright full moon began it’s ascent in the sky. His harvest had been saved.

Perhaps he’d open a bottle for both him and mother to celebrate, and possibly the woman in his house if she stayed, and see how big the moon became this evening.

His vineyard was all he had, and he’d make his heritage successful. No one would pity the American-born Travers for growing up far from his father and all of this. Now that he owned everything, inherited outright, he’d prove that though he was only half-French, it was the half that would turn Travers Vineyard into profits.

The keys were still in the car and he popped the trunk only to find a tangled mess of bags, paints and brushes squished together.

The car had been rear-ended badly, so it seemed the accident wasn’t her fault.

He gathered her belongings before the tow truck arrived.

With her stuff cradled in his arms like he’d carried her to the house, along with the broken-wheeled luggage, he made his way home. Emergency services had already completed their check, and the woman wasn’t with them so his mother must be right. She was fine.

What a nightmare—but for tonight, he’d be hospitable.