A NEW VINTAGE

A MAX SKINNER STORY

(Stand alone, not part of the House of 4 Seasons saga)

By Atonia Walpole

Part 1:

It’s not that he wasn’t used to being alone. If he thought about it he’d been alone most of his life. Oh, sure there were people about him, but not with him. He’d had a glimpse of what life could be with someone and had it cruelly taken away. He’d had one good year and then everything changed in an instant.  It had ended almost as it had begun. He’d run her off the road on her bike and she’d bruised her hip. The second time it was a carload of tourists, but this time she didn’t get up from the wreck. Her head hit a rock and she never woke up.

He was devastated, lost, and if it hadn’t been for his cousin Christie and Ludivine and Duflot he would never have made it through. It had been almost a year now since the accident that took Fanny’s life and Christie only just left, going back to America to finish out her hast year of school.  Papa Duflot passed away the day she left and Ludivine and Duflot were, of course, taking some time to mourn his passing. Ludivine still brought his meals over, but was absent from the Chateau and Max Skinner found he missed her cheerfulness about the place.

He was trying to pay some bills. Everything was laid out on the desk but he was having a hard time concentrating. It was just too quiet in the house. Absence of life, he thought. Charlie Willis called him earlier that morning, trying once again to convince him to come back to London. There was a flat becoming available in the same building where he used to live. Charlie called him a friend. Was he a friend, or only a friend if there was money involved? He had come over for the funeral. Maybe he was but Max wasn’t sure he had his interest at heart. He didn’t want to go back to London. He’d quit that life for the one he wanted here. The reason was now gone but still he stayed on, becoming, he thought, his Uncle Henry.

To banish the stillness in the house he got up and put on one of his uncle’s records, turning the volume up loud to chase away  the ghosts crowding him today. Perhaps it was Papa Duflot’s funeral yesterday that brought them out. He went back to his desk and began writing checks, not hearing the car that pulled up in the drive.

Donna Martin was presently staying in Marseille. She had a small room in the corner of an old building. It was a room with a view and rest didn’t matter much to her. She was used to tiny rooms in rickety old buildings. They were much preferred than the new modern hotels, hostels and apartments she’d lived in for the last two years. She was a photographer by trade, selling her photos to travel magazines mostly.

Today she’d come looking for an old friend. Christie Roberts had grown up not five miles from where she’d come from and she hadn’t seen her since she’d left California two years ago. They kept in contact and she was interested to see where Christie had landed, ending her tramp around Europe. She sat in her car for awhile looking out over the courtyard. Everything was a photograph in this region.

She went up and knocked on the door to the chateau then turned around, still looking at the light and how it played over the courtyard. She could hear music so somebody must be home. She knocked again a little harder. The door moved a bit under her efforts so she stuck her head inside.

“Hello…Christie?”  The music was loud. Maybe she couldn’t hear? “Christie?” she called a little louder.

Max put down his pen and turned. Did he hear a voice? There it was again. He went to the door of the study and looked out. The front door was open just a little. Ah, there was somebody there.

“Oh, sorry!” Donna stepped back from the doorway into the yard when the man appeared from behind the door.

“May I help you?” he asked in French and then in English. She had spoken English.

“Um, well, I was looking for Christie, Christie Roberts?”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She’s gone back to America.”

“Oh, rats! That’s my luck. I was hoping to meet up with her before she left. I’m Donna Martin, an old friend of Christie’s.”

“Ah…Max Skinner, cousin of Christie.”

“You’re the cousin?” She nodded her head slightly. Christie had told her about him and his losing his fiancée. Christie hadn’t lied. He was a good looking man.

“Yes…have you come very far?”

“Only from Marseilles. I’m staying there for awhile.” She looked around again. “It’s beautiful here. I’m a photographer so I see things as a picture to be captured.”

He moved out from the doorway into the yard. “It is. I live here now but I don’t think I will ever not see the beauty of the place.” He smiled slightly at her, taking in her long dark auburn hair pulled carelessly back into a clip, white shirt and the inevitable jeans Americans wore. “The vineyards are just down there. Would you like to see?”

“Would you mind if I photographed this place? I wouldn’t state where it is, only that it’s in Provence.”

“As long as it doesn’t bring tourists to my door.”

“I’ll just get my camera.” Donna ran to her car and came back with her Nikon. “I don’t mean to intrude on your morning. Sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”

“Not at all. I was only paying bills.” She pushed her sunglasses up revealing her eyes, hazel with a fringe of dark lashes. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? My housekeeper’s had a death in the family but I can manage a kettle.”

“Thank you. Tea would be nice.” He left her to her picture taking and went back inside to put the kettle on.

He was trying to remember if Christie had mentioned a friend coming to visit. She may have sometime. He knew he only half-listened. Half-lived. He plugged in the kettle.

Donna was snapping away. She’d moved from the stone wall around to the back of the house where the gardens were revealed. Fountain, pool, it was a lovely place. It was sad Christie had been too late to meet her father but to own part of this place…she was a lucky girl.

She hadn’t meant to take his picture but he’d opened the doors as she was photographing the back of the house. He hadn’t seen her. She let her camera fall on its strap around her neck. He was bringing a tray out to the little table.

“I didn’t fuss with it much.” He poured out a cup of tea for her. He’d found some biscuits and put them on a plate.

“This is fine, thank you. Christie told me you’re now making a different wine?”

He chuckled, “Well, we had to. The stuff my Uncle was making was next to gasoline.”

She’d also told her he knew as much as she did about making wine but didn’t participate much in the actual product. He was handling the business end of it.

“We put down a vintage last year that may prove to be profitable. How do you know Christie?” He sipped his tea.

“I grew up about five miles from her. We went to the same schools and then she went off to college and I took some classes in photography and headed out. I photograph for travel mags.”

“That must take you some interesting places.”

“It has. I landed in France about eight months ago and have been moving around the country.”

“Where’s home, still in California?”

“I suppose. I haven’t been back there in a couple of years.”

“You must have left about the same time Christie did.”

“Right after. I went to England and she came here to find her father.”

“Yeah, shame about that. She never knew him.”

“Well, I should go. I’ve taken up enough of your morning. Thank you for tea and for allowing me to photograph this place.”

He hadn’t minded the interruption at all. “Come back…if you need more photos. I’ll be around.”

“I might do that,” she smiled and picked up her camera.

He walked her to her car. “I meant that, about coming back.”

Donna opened her car door and looked up at him. “Is that an invitation?”

He took a breath. “I think it is.”

“Well, then, I will. I have the house phone number. I’ll call.”

He nodded and closed her door for her.

She pulled out of the drive, leaving him standing in the courtyard wondering what he had done. He went back inside and turned the volume down on the record player. Suddenly it was too loud.

Part 2:

Ludivine was back. He knew it before he was properly awake. He could smell sausages. He lay back on the pillow listening to the familiar sounds of the house, awake and well on with the day. He’d slept in again and chided himself for becoming a wastrel. There simply wasn’t enough here to keep him busy and he hadn’t tried to become a part of the community, of the village life. It had been different that first year with Fanny here and Christie, but then Fanny had been killed in the accident and there’d been only Christie for company. They’d gotten to know each other as cousins and worked with Duflot to create the new wine.  Christie, sensing his bereft nature, included him in everything and kept him from falling into a deep depression. He’d grown quite fond of her.

He sat up on the side of the bed, eyed the empty wine bottle on the little table and got up, padding into the bathroom. Showered and wearing Uncle Henry’s robe he’d adopted for its comfort, he padded downstairs to the kitchen.

“G’morning, Madam Ludivine,” he smiled, sniffing the air.

“Ah, you’re up at last! I make you brunch now. Out, out with you! I bring your coffee.”

He went outside and sat at the table. A newspaper was already waiting and soon the coffee appeared with juice and croissants. A nice breakfast would follow. Ludvine fed him well.

His cell phone rang while he was waiting on his coffee. “Hello?”

“Max, this is Donna Martin. I was out there about a week ago. Um, I wonder if I might come back? There are some shots I’d like to take again a little more professionally, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“No, I wouldn’t mind at all. When were you thinking about coming out?”

“Tomorrow if that would be convenient with you.”

“Tomorrow would be great. Um, lunch or dinner?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Will you be staying for lunch or dinner so I can let Ludivine prepare.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. I was just going to take a few pictures, but…dinner? I’d like to catch the afternoon light.”

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing you again.” Words seemed to be flowing out of his mouth before he could catch them. He couldn’t believe he was actually asking her to stay for dinner.

“I look forward to seeing you, too. Bye, Max.”

“Good bye, Donna.”

“And who is Donna?” Ludivine, lingering around the doorway, asked.

“A photographer. Wants to take some pictures. She’ll be staying for dinner tomorrow night.” He smiled and picked up his coffee cup.

“Is she young and beautiful?”

Max rolled his eyes up at her.

“Ah ha ha ha!” she laughed and turned around. “Is good, very good, Max.”

He wasn’t so sure it was good…maybe. It had been a year and it was time he started living again. His Uncle Henry would have approved.

It had taken a lot for Donna to call Max and request another visit, although he had invited her back. The pictures she’d taken had been all right but not the quality she would send in for publication. It was the picture of Max that she paid the most attention to. It now adorned the pitiful mantle in her tiny room. He was a handsome man and at present had an air of loneliness about him. Maybe that is what attracted her, because he was but a charming host when she met him.

For all his good intentions the next morning he forgot Donna was coming and the afternoon found him cleaning out the garage. He was filthy and Ludivine tried to brush him down when he came through the house to answer the front door. He’d seen her car drive up through the gates that led to the garage.

“Hello, Donna,” he smiled, tucking his spectacles into the front of his dirty shirt.

Donna’s lips twitched to smile when she saw his appearance. “Hi, are you in the middle of something? Should I come back some other time?”

“No, no, I was um cleaning out the garage, actually.” He turned and gave Ludivine a look as she tried to peer over his shoulder to see the girl. She was still brushing his shoulders and back. He stepped out of the door. “Anything in particular you wanted to, um, shoot?”

“Yes, I’d like to get some good shots of the vineyards and the grounds here, if that’s okay?”

“The vineyards? Yes, well, they’re not very pretty right now. The harvest is over, of course, and they’re being cut back. You may still find enough to take a picture of.” He walked with her over to the stone wall.

There was something, and she hated to stare at him but…”Excuse me, but you have feathers in your hair.”

“Oh!” He bent over and ran his hands through his hair, dislodging white chicken feathers and other bits. “Chickens,” he said and laughed.

Donna smiled and looked back over the wall. There still were vines yet uncut. “Would it be all right if I just wander around and take my pictures?”

“Of course. You probably don’t need my help, not that I would be any help. I’ll just, um…”

“Chickens?”

He smiled broadly, “Chickens.” And backed away and ran to the house.

He was different today. That quiet loneliness seemed to have left him. She watched him run back to the house in his dirty shirt and shorts, hair bouncing about his head. He was rather adorable she thought. But she was here to take pictures to sell so she set about finding the right venues and angles and lighting.

Max made good progress in the garage and a pile of debris outside the entrance attracted Duflot’s attention.

“What are you doing?” he called out.

“Sprucing up the garage.” Max came out even dirtier with hands on hips.

“These are my things, my buckets, eh?”

“Well, take them home with you. Why are they cluttering up the garage?”

“I keep them there.”

“No, you don’t,” Max replied. “This is my garage and anything I find in it is mine. The chickens are going to have to find a different home. I’m closing the doors." He began pulling one of the doors closed.

“They will not close,” Duflot warned.

“Yes, they will!” Max strained, pulling and pushing.

“The doors do not close. There is no, how you say, charniere.”

Max had the door pulled half way across and it began to fall forward. He caught it and it began to fall backward. “Duflot, help!”

“I tell you they do not close.” He held on to one side and Max the other.

“Why don’t they close Duflot? Why is there no hinge? I want hinges or whatever it is that keeps the door from falling over. Tomorrow, comprendre?”

Max and Francis Duflot had reached a sort of relationship. Duflot had secretly never completely forgiven Max for selling the Chateau Siroque, even though he’d squelched the deal before it had gone through. He didn’t trust Max. In return Max reveled in whatever problems he might cause Duflot in the exercise of his daily duties. Maintenance on the chateau had gone by the wayside the last few years of his Uncle’s life and to his credit Max was trying to bring it back.

Madame Duflot, on the other hand, delighted in Max and was extremely happy to see a woman staying for dinner. She’d been popping in and out of the kitchen as she prepared the meal, catching a glance at her here and there as she walked about with the camera and its stand. She was a nice-looking woman dressed in tan slacks and a short-sleeved sweater with a paisley wrap about her shoulders.

Which reminded her Max needed to get in and clean himself up in time for dinner.

Part 3:

Max came down the stairs to see the table set and candles lit all around the room. He smiled to himself at Ludivine’s efforts to create a romantic atmosphere. He hadn’t seen Donna since she arrived and he went through to the kitchen where Ludivine was ladling soup into bowls.

“She is there. I took her a bottle of wine and two glasses…go, go!” She shooed him out of the kitchen toward the patio.

“You look like a picture yourself,” he smiled, taking a seat opposite her and filling his glass.

Donna smiled at him. “You clean up nicely. Get your chickens sorted out?”

“Ah, well,” he made a face, “after all that work I can’t close the garage doors so I suspect they will be back tonight. Did you take your pictures?”

“Tons. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity to photograph this estate. I will do some discreet editing. You won’t be bothered by tourists.”

“Good. I hate bloody tourists.” He took a drink from his glass.

Donna bit her lip...still touchy there. “I understand you grew up here. That must have been wonderful for a young boy.”

“It was. My parents died when I was young and Uncle Henry took me in, sent me back to England to school. I spent all my holidays here. I love this place.”

“After spending the afternoon wandering around the grounds I can understand why. You were very fortunate to have such an uncle.”

“Yes…I was. I’ve loved two people in my life and now they are both dead. I think the gods are trying to tell me something.”

Ludivine appeared to tell him dinner was on the table and would he be so kind as to show the lady in.

“It’s as charming on the inside as out,” Donna declared as they walked through to the table Ludivine had prepared.

“I’ll give you a tour later if you’d like.”

“I would like. Christie told me a lot about this place. She’s very happy here.”

“I know, but I think she did the right thing by going back and finishing school. This place is not going anywhere. You and she must be very close.”

“She’s the only one from California I keep in touch with. We were best friends in school. We spent a lot of time together after her mother died. She came and stayed with us.”

“So you were her Uncle Henry?”

“Not quite. My parents were, I guess. Christie went to the university and my parents got a divorce and I decided I didn’t particularly like either one of them at the time. I took photography courses at the local tech school and then left home. I haven’t been back since. Right now I don’t really have a base.”

“A base? Is that what you call a home?”

“There’s a difference. I really don’t have either. I live out of a suitcase. I really hate I missed her.”

“Did she tell you about me?”

“Yes, you’re the only family she has now. I’m sorry about your fiancée, Max.”

“She did tell you about me then. Thank you.”

“Your Madame Duflot is a very good cook. This is excellent.”

“I’ll convey your compliments. What will you do after you send in your photos?What’s next on your schedule?”

“I spent a year in England and I had intended to spend a year in France but I’ve an assignment in Spain, so I guess that’s where I’m headed.”

“Oh? When are you leaving?”

“In two weeks…”

“So soon?”

“Yes…I’ve been in France for eight months, spent three in Paris. How do you mean…so soon?”

“Well…we’ve only just met. That’s hardly time enough to get to know someone…if you wanted to know someone.”

“Hmm, does someone want to know someone?”

“It crossed my mind.”

Donna met his eyes. “I have two weeks and after I develop the photos I took today and do a little work on them, I’m free.”

“Where are you staying in Marseille?”

“A tiny nook of a room overlooking a cliff.”

“Would you like to come and stay here?” he asked.

“I would love to,” she answered, feeling mighty bold and reckless.

“Good. That’s settled then.” He lifted his glass and touched hers and smiled. Uncle Henry would indeed have been proud of his nephew.

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE