The Wine Route – Part 2: Late Harvest

"Yes," said Paula. "To both."

The kiss was soft and tasted of lime and stone. Etienne's hand came up to her cheek, warm and cellar-cool at once, and Paula laughed and kissed him back. A candle flickered on the table. The rain had stopped, and the first stars were pricking out above the dripping vines.

Supper was at a long wooden table in the courtyard, under strings of lights, with a thin crisp tarte flambée bubbling out of the wood oven, a salad of bitter leaves and a cold bottle of Pinot Gris. Etienne's mother, a small woman with white hair and a sharp eye, sat at the end, watching them with a faint smile and saying nothing.

"She likes you," whispered Etienne.

"How can you tell?"

"She has not asked you any questions."

They laughed. They ate until the stars were thick overhead, and then they sat on the courtyard wall with a last glass, talking quietly, as the village clocks chimed from the valley below. The air smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke.

"I should find a hotel," said Paula.

"There is a spare room." Etienne hesitated. "And there is my room. You choose. I will understand either."

"Etienne." She took his hand. "I'd like yours."

The bedroom was low-beamed and warm, with a wide bed, a patchwork quilt and a window over the vines. They undressed slowly, laughing at cycling shorts and tangled laces, and under the quilt their love-making was gentle, unhurried and warm, with the faint sound of dripping leaves outside. The house creaked. The night was soft.

In the morning the valley was wrapped in mist, and a rooster crowed in the yard. Paula woke to find her mended bike leaning against the window, a small bunch of wildflowers tied to the handlebars.

"I have a week left on my route," she said.

"The route goes in a circle." Etienne, in the doorway with two coffees, smiled. "It comes back here."

"Does it?"

"If you follow the signs," he said. "I painted a few more."

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