Peter Mayle - A Good Year

“Henry Skinner?”

She nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I thought it was about time I met my dad.” Stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette, she shrugged. “But I guess I’m too late.”

Max shook his head. “Afraid so. I’m very sorry. He died last month. Tell me, how did you know where to come?”

“An old friend of my mom’s works in Washington, for the State Department. It took a few weeks, but those guys can find out anything.”

Max stood up, still shaking his head. “Let me show you something.” He went to the sitting room, and came back with a silver photograph frame. Removing the back, he took out the concealed second photograph, brown and cracked with age, and placed it on the table in front of Christie.

She studied it for a long moment. “Wow. This is really weird.” She looked up at him, and back at the photograph. “That’s my mother. And I guess that’s my father.”

“My uncle,” said Max.

Madame Passepartout used the pretext of clearing away the coffee cups to lean over and peer at the photograph, which only added to her frustration. “Monsieur Max,” she said, “qu’est-ce que se passe?”

Max scratched his head. “I’m not sure.” Turning to Christie, he began to tell her his side of the story-his boyhood visits to the house, the death of his uncle, the will. And as he mentioned the will, something that Nathalie Auzet had told him came into his head.

He picked up the old photograph and stared at it. “My God, I’d forgotten all about that. I wonder…” He looked at Christie. “Listen, I have to make a phone call.”

Christie smiled. “Go ahead.”

Max got through to the notaire ’s office, only to be told by the secretary that Maître Auzet was in Paris for a few days. He put down the phone and slumped back in his chair. “The thing is,” he said to Christie, “there’s this inheritance law in France. When you die, your property has to go to your next of kin-your husband, your wife, your children. You have no choice. Now, when Uncle Henry made his will, he thought that I was his only surviving relative. He didn’t know about you.” Max frowned. “That’s strange, isn’t it? Why didn’t he know about you?”

“Mom married-a guy called Steve Roberts-but it didn’t work out. After that, I guess she felt she couldn’t… you know, come back to your uncle with a surprise package. Or maybe she didn’t love him. Who knows?”

Max looked at his watch-the Englishman’s inevitable reflex before the first drink of the day-and got up to fetch glasses and a bottle of rosé from the refrigerator. “You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? If you’re Uncle Henry’s daughter, it might make his will invalid.” He poured the wine and gave Christie a glass. “Which would mean that the property would legally have to go to you.”

“That’s crazy.” Christie laughed. “Just crazy.” She took a sip from her glass, holding the wine in her mouth before swallowing. “Hey, this is good. Nice and dry. What’s the mix? Grenache and Syrah?” She reached for the bottle and looked at the label. “Makes our Zinfandel taste like cough syrup.”

“You know a bit about wine?”

“Sure. I grew up in the Napa Valley, and I work in a winery. Public relations. I do the winery tours.”

Max nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. It was dawning on him that what he had just said to the girl-even if she didn’t believe it-was more than likely true. According to the serpentine dictates of French law, an illegitimate daughter would quite possibly take precedence over a legitimate nephew. All at once, just as he was beginning to ease into the life of gentleman vigneron, his future began to look uncertain. Extremely uncertain. And it was a fundamental uncertainty. He couldn’t ignore it, and it wouldn’t go away. Did he have a future here, or didn’t he?

“Look,” he said, “we’re going to have to sort this out.” He got up, went to a drawer of the dresser, pulled out a phone directory, and started leafing through the Yellow Pages. “Better to do it now, before things get any more complicated.”

Christie watched, a puzzled half smile on her face. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“I think we should get a legal opinion.” Max found what he was looking for, and reached for his phone.

“Oh, come on. Do you really think…”

“I’m serious. Do you have anything against lawyers?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

As Max tapped in the number, Madame Passepartout, saucer-eyed and bursting with frustrated incomprehension, looked at Christie and shrugged. Christie could do nothing but shrug back. They waited for Max to finish his call.

“OK. We’ve got an appointment in Aix at two o’clock.”

Lunch was a swift, informal affair of bread and cheese and salad in the kitchen. Max was preoccupied, his head filled with depressing possibilities: losing the house, having to go back to London and find a job, scraping together the money to pay back Charlie. Christie was thoughtful, a little bewildered, and saddened by the realization that she never would meet her father. Madame Passepartout had given up the linguistic struggle and had gone home, promising to return to do battle with the cobwebs in the afternoon.

They were about to get into the car when Christie paused as she was opening the door. “Max? Do we really need to do this?”

Max looked at her across the roof of the car. “I do. I couldn’t stay not knowing if the house were mine or yours. Suppose you did something silly, like marry a Frenchman? You might want to come and live here.”

She shook her head. “Not on my agenda.”

“You never know. Agendas have a habit of changing.”

The drive down to Aix was marked by the kind of safe, impersonal conversation two people resort to when they don’t want to discuss what is really on their minds. They compared jobs: Max’s time in the City, Christie’s in the winery. They shared an admiration for the spectacular countryside they were driving through-like Napa, but greener and somehow older-looking-and by the time they had found a parking spot in Aix they were starting to feel as comfortable with one another as they could under the curious circumstances.

One of the most attractive corners of Aix is the Place d’Albertas, a miniature eighteenth-century cobbled square built around a fountain. Once an architectural prelude to the palace behind it, the square is now largely taken over by discreet offices filled with more or less discreet members of the legal profession. Maître Bosc, the lawyer Max had chosen at random from the extensive selection in the Yellow Pages, occupied the ground floor of one of the best-kept buildings, his brass plaque twinkling in the sun.

The secretary placed Christie and Max on two hard chairs while she disappeared to announce their arrival. Five minutes passed, then ten. Finally, when enough time had passed to establish that the maître was a busy and important man, the secretary reappeared and ushered them into his office.

It was a large, beautifully proportioned room-a high ceiling, tall windows, and delicately molded cornices-desecrated by the kind of modern office furniture one finds in catalogs that offer a discount for buying in bulk. Maître Bosc stood up behind his faux-rosewood desk and gestured at them to sit down. He was a thickset, rumpled man, shirtsleeves pushed up above his elbows, hair awry, his reading glasses dangling from a cord around his neck, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He looked at them with a pleasant smile. “ Alors? What can I do for you?”

Max described the odd situation in which he and Christie found themselves while Bosc made notes, interrupting from time to time with a murmured question. Christie’s exposure to lawyers had been limited to the California variety, sharply dressed and aggressive. Bosc, although she couldn’t understand him, seemed cozy and sympathetic. But he had a lawyer’s instinct for a lengthy and lucrative assignment, something that was apparent from his first words after Max had finished speaking.