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Our car comes to a stop. Getting out, I speak to the driver, arranging for our pickup.
“I know you’ve been liking some varietals,” I tell her. “I thought this would be a good place to test more out. And I think you’ll like the scenery.”
“Have you been here before?”
Chari and I walk hand in hand down a hill the car couldn’t navigate, and given my usual reluctance to show that kind of affection, I’m surprised by how natural it feels. Like she belongs by my side.
“Not this one, but another across the lake. Did you know”—I point to the mountains on the other side of Lake Geneva as it comes into view below us—“that France is just over there?”
“Seriously? When I’m looking out from our balcony, I’m looking at France?”
“Straight ahead and to the right, yes. To the left you’re looking at the Swiss Alps.”
A man, probably in his late sixties, comes out of the building to greet us on the cobblestone street.
“Bonjour, Monsieur DeLuca. Mademoiselle Atwood.”
My lips twitch at Chari’s expression. She’s already admitted it freaks her out that everyone knows our names before they meet us. She thinks it’s magic.
I know otherwise. We’re paying handsomely for the courtesy.
“Bonjour, Monsieur LeSeurre.” I tell Chari, “He is the owner of Coteau Vineyards.”
“Alexandre, please.”
A round of handshakes follows.
“Thank you again for opening for us this afternoon.”
Many businesses in Montreux are shuttered during the week in the winter. Tourists flock to the ski resorts, leaving other attractions around town relatively quiet. But Hayden’s father has more connections than anyone I know.
“It’s my pleasure. This way.”
He leads us around to the back, Chari’s gasp of pleasure exactly what I’d hoped for. Under a trellis covered in twisting vines waits a table set for two with platters of bread, meats, and cheese. But the real beauty of the patio is a 360-degree view of Lake Geneva, surrounded by vineyards to our left and right with snowcapped mountains all around us.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You should see it in the summer,” Alexandre says. “With everything in bloom, colors explode in every direction.”
“If only I could be so lucky,” Chari answers with a smile, charming him as she does everyone she meets. He pulls out a chair for her, and she sits.
“I’d like to introduce you to Louis, our vigneron,” he says. “He will be taking care of you today.”
We say goodbye to Alexandre and greet the newcomer.
“Please help yourself”—Louis points to the table—“while I start the service. As you may know, our vineyards benefit from three sources of heat and light: direct sunlight, reflected rays from the lake, and heat absorbed by our extensive network of stone walls, which return their warmth to the vineyards during the night. You’ll not taste wines anywhere else in the world quite like them. Today I’ll be serving eight wines, starting with our Chasselas blanc, which takes its personality from the soil.”
He pours a tasting into both our glasses before excusing himself.
Chari lifts her wine glass, looking a bit stunned.
“I don’t know what to say. This feels like a dream.”
I lift my own glass. “A good dream, I hope?”
Although I’d hoped to sneak a smile out of her, her expression stays serious as she says, “The kind I never want to end.”
Something passes between us then. Not the unchecked lust that has hung over us since the moment I greeted her in the airport. This is different. Deeper.
