The Winemaker's Wife

by Kristin Harmel

he had said solemnly as she wiped her tears away after their modest wedding at the baroque-domed Église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine in Old Lille. Of course you will be with us for as long as you like. She hadn’t

When you’re young, you see only the future. When you grow older, you see the past.” She turned to stare out the window. After a long pause, she spoke again, her voice quivering in a way Liv had never heard before. “And the past has a way of showing you things clearly, whether you like it or not.”

“Yes,” Michel said, his eyes glimmering with something dangerous. “And what was it General de Gaulle said? ‘Whatever happens, the flame of French resistance must not and shall not die.’ This is our country, my dear, and I will fight for its honor to the end.”

A sense of lonely desperation seemed to swirl around Inès these days, and at the very least, Céline understood how that felt.

But you should care about the wine, too. It is our life, Céline.” “No, Theo. It is the thing we do, not who we are. If the Germans destroyed the vineyards tomorrow, we would find a way to go on. But what if they destroy my family? What if they already have?”

“No, let me say this. Please. I learned far too late that life is simply about being good and decent to others. It’s as plain as that. But first, you must be good and decent to yourself. Find your own road. Find your own happiness. You must, my dear. You must, or you will wind up old and alone and full of regrets.”