“Oh, of course,” Monroe teases. “I have to have at least one winery to match all my handbags.”
I brush a hand over my beard as I laugh. “I told you; they’re the definition of French aristocracy. My father changed all that, though—well, at least as far as the winery went. He was a maître d’ here in Montreal when he and my mother met—”
“Your French princess mothermarrieda maître d’?” Monroe interrupts. “What is this, a fairy tale?”
“It might as well be,” I agree. “He used to quote this one line by Eduardo Galeano all the time. I forget exactly how it goes in English, but it’s something like...” I trail off, making the translation in my head. I can still picture him looking atMamanas he said it. “Something like, ‘We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine.’”
I might be imagining it, but I think Monroe nearly sighs.
“He sounds like a poetic man.”
“He was, but he was more than that. He wasn’t just a dreamer; he was a doer. He knew no one is ever going to work as hard for the things you want as you are. He had a vision for the winery. He came in, and he didn’t sleep until he made it one of the best in Bordeaux. Then he bought two more wineries.”
“Because you can never have too many fashionable estates.”
I raise my glass in mock-agreement. “Although for him, it wasn’t about fashion. It was about accomplishment, about building something. That’s why he was never upset that I didn’t want to join the business. He understood the need to grow something from nothing. Hegaveme that need. I could have bought out any Montreal restaurant I wanted with what we’ve got in the family trust, but I refused. I’ve never even touched it. It would feel too much like letting him down.”
“He was very important to you, wasn’t he?”
Her tone catches me off guard. She’s staring at me with that same open-faced concern from earlier, the one that seems to see everything—even the things I’d rather keep hidden.
“He was.” I steady myself with a sip of wine. “I’ve never met another man like him.”
“What was his name?”
“Pierre Valois.”
She lifts her glass and nods for me to do the same. “To Pierre.”
“To Pierre,” I echo.
We bring our glasses together, two crystals colliding in the shadows of the bar.
“You’re alarmingly easy to talk to, Monroe,” I tell her, hoping to ease the weight of the moment. “Ever thought about working behind a bar?”
“I...did,” she answers, stirring the ice cubes around in her drink. “I bartended my way through school.”
“And now? Do you sit in dive bars on Avenue Mont-Royal writing revolutionary essays about the contributions of Herman Melville to the literary canon?”
She rolls her eyes. “Again with the mocking. Also, ew. Who wants to write about Herman Melville?”
I chuckle. “Excusez-moi. I feel bad; we’ve spent the whole night talking about me. I don’t even know what you do for a living.”
She gets very engrossed in her ice cubes again. “I...am a manager.”
I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t.
“...Of?” I finally prompt.
“Of...a store.”
“You don’t sound too sure about it.”
“I am.” She stops playing with her drink and looks up with a newfound certainty. “I am a manager of a store.”
“Am I not allowed to know which store? Do you manage a...sex shop, or something?”
She hesitates.
