Heirloom Merlot

The scent of Paris shocked Cecelia. The family she was coming to work for warned her about the pig factory near the Charles de Gaulle airport but she wasn’t really listening at the time.

She pulled her black turtleneck (chic, non?) up to her nose and booked it to a nearby cab, murmuring “pardonne” to anyone she bumped into. The wheel on her suitcase loosened and started to spin out of control. People were getting irritated with her. The smell was becoming too overwhelming. She could feel the complimentary peanuts churning in her stomach.

Things didn’t seem to be going too well for her.

Cecelia scored a job nannying for the Moreau family, and although she had no experience in childcare, she was able to lie her way through the FaceTime interview. (Her friend Courtney also helped her get the gig, because she was the Moreau’s last au pair.) It didn’t matter anyway. She was coming here to meet Luc, a hot guy she met on Tinder Passport.

Cecelia wasted no time at the Moreau residence. She spent time rehearsing her level one French before she left her hometown Seattle and kept her greetings curt and polite. Madame Moreau took no deep interest in getting to know Cecelia, much to her benefit, because she wanted to hurry up and get ready to meet Luc in the 11th arrondissement for drinks.

Luc is...nice. Timely and seemingly authentic in his responses, which Cecelia found refreshing because the guys her age in Seattle always have dead phones and take forever to respond. He was handsome, with dark curly hair and almost black eyes that were mysterious yet soft. He didn’t come off as self-obsessed or narcissistic in his selfies -- quite the opposite. All his Tinder pictures were of him at beaches, art museums, donning a denim jacket and holding a cup of coffee in his hand. His smile was sincere. He seemed sure of himself in a comforting way.

Cecelia kept her black turtleneck on and smeared red lipstick over her semi-chapped lips (airplanes are just so dry), which didn’t really matter because they were going to be kissed off anyways. She tousled her hair, put platform boots on (secure and steady enough for the cobblestone streets) and grabbed her black leather handbag with the gold metal chain. She spritzed her Chanel Chance perfume on and bolted out the door, jet-lagged and sleepy, caffeinated and driven by her own anticipation.

Bolting out the door was probably not a good idea as Cecelia found herself hobbling along the stony path. Using Google Maps disorganized her already scrambled brain and it didn’t help that she had to improvise her way through acquainting herself with these unfamiliar words and directions. She couldn’t wait to plop down into a chic wicker chair, drink a glass of Merlot, and stare at the Seine river with Luc.

Luc! She totally forgot to tell him she was on the way. God! Was it even a good idea to do this tonight? Couldn’t it have waited another day or week or so? Cecelia knew deep down that the answer was no: she liked to live in the present and couldn’t entertain plans for too long. This had to be done: it was now or never. And maybe it’ll be the best night of her life. She just had to give it a chance to unfold.

Cecelia’s phone dinged - a message on Tinder.

“Hi C,” the message read. “I’m not sure if you are still on for the date but I am sitting at Le Calbar enjoying a drink. Come join if you are still cool. Haha. Ciao ;)”

Cecelia was relieved and somehow soothed by Luc’s laidback nature, another thing she wasn’t used to with American boys. They all wanted some weird control over her and collectively had some fixation on blowing her off last minute, but freaking out and blowing her UP anytime she was running late. Which was another reason she didn’t miss the states too much (so far) and was ready to keep navigating her way through her first night in Paris.

Cecelia wove through couples on strolls and people on bicycles until she finally reached her destination: a very unassuming cocktail bar with a blue awning. This must be it. Le Calbar was very small and had a speakeasy vibe, which Cecelia appreciated. (She thought dive bars were too trashy and hotel bars too stiff. This was the perfect choice.)

Luc must have seen her before she walked up and came rushing to her, planting a kiss on each side of her cheek. Although this was custom in French culture, Cecelia’s knees buckled (maybe’s she just tired) under the sweetness and pure romance. How do American girls survive in this environment? The charm is SO overwhelming!

“I was thinking maybe you might be too cool for this place and maybe me,” Luc joked. He used the word “cool” a lot, he must really like that English word. Cecelia chuckled. “No, never.” She said while rolling her eyes. “Are you sure YOU’RE not too cool for me?”

Luc raised an eyebrow and cocked his head towards a table. “Let’s find out,” he suggested coyly. Cecelia followed him while eyeing the place carefully. She’s heard some sketchy things about Paris, like the pick pocketers, and wanted to be on guard. Her friend told her about the time he saw a pick-pocketer trying to steal from a tourist’s tote bag with a long spoon! Cecelia shuddered and clutched her handbag to her chest. Luc turned around, as if he could feel her shuddering, and asked if she was cold.

The answer was no...but...it wouldn’t hurt to say yes and see if Luc would lend her his denim jacket. Cecelia batted her eyelashes and looked away, as if she was too shy to admit that she was foolish for not bringing a jacket to an evening date. Luc didn’t seem to judge and wrapped his jacket around her. It smelled like burnt coffee and Dior Sauvage and Cecelia shuddered again, this time with excitement and arousal. Luc laughed out loud and blurted out, “I swear you are like a small animal! Just shaking all the time huh? Maybe a drink will relax you.”

Cecelia felt embarrassed. “Oh, I’m just tired, leave me alone! I think I want a glass of Merlot.”

“Merlot huh?” Luc seemed amused.

“Yeah. Merlot warms me up. Something wrong with that?”

“Not at all,” Luc reassured her. “I’ll have a glass, as well.”

The evening glided into the velvet night and the moon appeared for her nightly performance, this time appearing full. After a glass of Merlot each, Luc and Cecelia decided to ditch Le Calbar for the night and head somewhere cozier. His hair looked so silky underneath the street lamps and his body somehow got warmer as the night got colder.

Cecelia tried to synchronize her steps with his, but he was much too fast of a walker. He had to have been a native Parisian.

“Were you raised in Paris?” She asked him.

“Kind of,” he responded. “My parents… we were back and forth between Paris and Marseille a lot. They’re big on family and wanted to please both sides. Our house was in Marseille though,” he explained. Then his tone shifted. “I have an idea.”

“Uh oh,” Cecelia teased.

“I know a place we can go. Would you like to follow me?” He stuck his hand out. How could she resist?

Luc lead Cecelia to a house that couldn’t have been his - it was much too grand for a man his age. “Um… whose ‘maison’ is this?” Cecelia inquired with a crooked smile.

“It’s ahhh… belongs to Claire. She is in Tunisia with her husband.” Luc answered politely.

“And who is this Claire?”

“My boss I guess you can say. I have to watch her house for the week. Let’s go inside.”

Cecelia followed Luc into Claire’s house and welcomed herself to a tour. Maybe it was the jet lag delirium, or the wine, or the rush of oxytocin, but Cecelia felt comfortable enough to make bold moves in front of Luc.

She rushed upstairs and whispered, “I want to see her room.”

Luc cocked his head, and gripped his hand firmly around the banister. “I’m not so sure you should, but… why not huh?”

Cecelia started cackling and raced her way through the halls. “Is this it?”

She pointed to the door at the end of the hall. Luc nodded. Cecelia swung the door open.

The room itself was luxurious but Cecelia took more interest in the walk-in closet. Louboutins lined the shelf on one side, Chanel handbags decorated the other. Deep inside the closet stood a glass case with...a bottle of wine on display?

“What is this?” She turned to Luc who was right behind her.

“It’s a bottle of Merlot salvaged from the Great Wine Devastation in the 1860’s. You see, Claire comes from a long line of Vignerons, I mean her family has been making wine for generations. This is an heirloom.”

Cecelia cupped her hands to her mouth but a chuckle-gasp escaped anyway.

“Should we drink from it?” She dared Luc.

“Are all Americans this bold and rude?” Luc retorted. “Claire would kill me if she knew!”

“Who’s gonna tell her?” Cecelia egged on. “I can keep a secret if you can.”

She pulled a wine glass she stole from Le Calbar out of her handbag and dangled it in front of Luc’s face. He burst out into laughter. “You are UN-be-lie-vable,” he exclaimed. Cecelia giggled.

“C’mon,” she persuaded. “It’s an old bottle with an old corkscrew, it’s not even wrapped at the top! We can easily pour a little out and replace it with some Merlot downstairs. Aha!” Cecelia grabbed a black satin glove from a drawer. “And we will leave no fingerprints behind.” Cecelia grinned, then shoved her hand into the glove and carefully opened the glass case. She cradled the bottle, delicately undid the corkscrew, and poured a small amount into the glass.

“She’s never going to know,” she reassured Luc, who was trying to hide his excitement but still maintaining a look of fake shock and disapproval.

“I have to say I am a little perplexed but impressed,” admitted Luc. “I just hope this sacred Merlot is not poisonous!” He joked.

“Then we shall die romantically like Romeo and Juliet,” Cecelia boasted.

“Nice try,” Luc bantered back. “I don’t think their love was romantic at all. Just stupid!”

“I can’t pass up a chance to try Merlot SALVAGED from a vintage wine devastation!” Cecelia exclaimed. “THAT would be stupid.”

Cecelia went ahead and took a sip, then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head aggressively. The wine was acidic and tasted like vinegar- the spirit of Claire’s ancestors were definitely fermenting inside the bottle and exacting their revenge upon Cecelia’s tastebuds. She handed the glass to Luc, demanding him to take this wine away from her.

Luc took his sip and raised his eyebrows. “Hmm… not bad,” he noted. Cecelia gasped in disbelief and Luc cackled. “Either we have different taste buds or...the spirits do not want you to enjoy their flavor.”

They went back and forth sharing the glass of Merlot, looking into each other’s eyes, and erupting into laughter. Cecelia’s eyes were red and sleepy, but mischievous and bright at the same time. Luc’s eyes were even softer in person.

Luc sighed deeply before offering her the last sip. It was almost like he didn’t want the moment to end, but didn’t want to risk anything by pouring a second glass either. “Make a wish,” he urged.

Cecelia closed her eyes and wished for this night to never end. And much to her surprise, the last sip was sweet.