“Meursault?” He smiled. The name was familiar—maybe he’d drunk it in the past, but he couldn’t be sure.
“One of my absolute favorites. It’s also a Chardonnay, but it’s completely different from Chablis. It’s from a different region of Burgundy and is stored in oak barrels, which gives it that buttery, rounded taste. American Chardonnay wines often try to imitate thatstyle, and certain producers are pretty successful—I love American oak-stored Chardonnay.” She grinned. “But you’re going to sample the French version.”
They wandered along to a small wine store she said she knew well. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but Didrik assumed that they offered a wider selection than most of the state-owned liquor stores in Sweden.
As soon as he walked in, he saw that the shelves were crammed with bottles. No flashy signage, though—this place wasn’t aimed at tourists; it was a store for those who were genuinely interested in wine. Bente browsed happily and eventually placed three reds in her basket.
“I’m going to take a couple of bottles home to Sweden—that’s the best thing about traveling by train.” Then she chose a Meursault from one of the refrigerators at the back of the store. She also bought two large, cheap wineglasses, which the assistant wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a shopping bag with the wine.
They took the Metro a distance, and then made their way up the hills in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. As they walked, Didrik noticed that Bente’s bags appeared quite heavy. He offered to carry them.
“I was the one who was stupid enough to buy so many bottles,” she said, allowing him to take them.
“As a thank-you, maybe you could let me share one of the bottles when we get back to Stockholm,” he said, glancing at her.
Bente smiled, then nodded.
They had reached the top of the hill. From here they could see Sacré-Coeur and Montmartre, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.
“Are the skies always more pink in Paris?” Didrik asked as they sat down and contemplated the streaks of white clouds against the rosy background. The view really was magnificent.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s because of the pollution.” Bente grinned. “But it sounds lovely—the idea that the skies are more pink in Paris.”
She opened the bottle while he unwrapped the glasses. She poured and they toasted each other.
He felt relieved that his revelation about children hadn’t completely ruined the mood. Sitting here with a view over the rooftops of Paris at sunset was something he would never forget.
He took a sip of his wine. “Delicious. So this is from the place called Meursault?”
She nodded. “It’s quite exciting to drink this—several years ago they ripped out the white wine vines in Burgundy because it was believed their grapes made bad wine; the whites became considered out of fashion. Scandalous, when the green grapes in Burgundy are so fantastic. Today Burgundy wines are considered the best in the world! You can taste it—burnt butter, nuttiness, but also a hint of floral notes. And as smooth as silk. Completely different from Chablis.”
Didrik had to agree. Very different. “Absolutely delicious.”
“There’s something seductive about it. I once heard someone say it makes a person think of white silk sheets, and they could well be right.”
He nodded slowly and caught her gaze. There was a spark when their eyes met, and the soft sunlight was reflected in those green eyes.
“What made you fall for Frederic?” Didrik asked after a while.
Bente laughed. “I don’t know—maybe the fact that I could be myself with him. And I learned a lot about myself. I discovered new things with him. Apart from that ... I guess I was young. And you? What did you fall for?”
“His masculinity, that incredible French ...” He grinned at Bente, who burst out laughing. “All joking aside ...” He took a deep breath. “Lovisa made me feel secure, she was ... everything I was looking for. But I also valued her passion for her subject—maybe I told you she’s a lecturer in philosophy? I’ve always found it attractive when people are passionate about something. It could be work, music, some form of art, anything.” He looked at her. “Even wine.”
That hit home—she was clearly embarrassed.
“How did you two meet?”
“At a mutual friend’s thesis disputation dinner. I was sitting next to Lovisa, and ...”
He began to tell her the story, but after a while he realized he had been too long-winded again. Why would she be interested in hearing about his ex?
“Anyway,” he said. “Skål.”
His phone buzzed.Shit.He sighed.
“Lovisa?”
“Just Mom.”
