Luc Basset possessed an obvious dependability combined with sensitivity and virility. A virility that could not be measured in money, success and wittiness, but in strength, stamina and the ability to care for a family, a house, a piece of land. Such men were bound to the land of their ancestors; selling, leasing or even granting a new son-in-law a piece of it was equivalent to having an organ removed.
‘Weatherproof’ would have been Lirabelle’s comment on Luc. ‘You’re a different person if you’ve been warmed by open fires rather than by central heating as a child, if you’ve climbed trees instead of cycling on the pavement with a helmet on, if you’ve played outside rather than sitting in front of the television.’ That was why she would send Jean out into the rain at their relatives’ in Brittany and heat his bathwater in a kettle over the fire. Hot water had never felt so good since.
What was it that reminded Jean of that boiling kettle when he looked at Luc? It was because Manon’s husband was every bit as intense, alive and authentic as it. Luc’s sturdy shoulders, his work-hardened arms; his whole bearing said, ‘I will not bend.’ This man looked at him with his dark eyes, studying Jean’s face, examining his body and fingers. They did not shake hands.
‘Yes?’ Luc asked instead from the doorway. A deep, measured voice.
‘I’m Jean Perdu. I’m the man your wife, Manon, lived with in Paris. Up until … twenty-one years ago. For five years.’
‘I know,’ Luc said steadily. ‘She told me when she knew she was dying.’
The two men stared at each other, and for one crazy moment Perdu thought they were going to hug. Only they could understand each other’s pain.
‘I’ve come to ask for forgiveness.’
A smile flickered across the vintner’s face.
‘Ask whom?’
‘Manon. Only Manon. As her husband … you couldn’t possibly forgive me for loving your wife. Or for being the other man.’
Luc’s eyes narrowed. He stared very intently at Perdu.
Did he wonder whether Manon had liked feeling these hands? Did he wonder whether Jean had been capable of loving his wife as well as he had?
‘Why have you only come now?’ Luc asked slowly.
‘I didn’t read the letter at the time.’
‘My God,’ Luc said in surprise. ‘Why not?’
This was the hardest part.
‘I expected it to contain only the kind of things women usually write when they’re sick of their lovers,’ said Perdu. ‘Refusing was the only way to preserve my dignity.’
It was so, so hard to say these words.
And now, at last, pour your hate on me, please.
Luc gave himself time. He paced up and down the wine-tasting room. At last he spoke again, this time to Jean’s back.
‘It must have been terrible – when you did read the letter, and realised that you’d been wrong the whole time, that they weren’t the usual words. “Let’s stay friends” and that sort of rubbish. That’s what you expected, right? “It’s not your fault, it’s mine … I hope you find someone who deserves you …” But this was totally different.’
Jean hadn’t reckoned on such empathy. He was beginning to understand why Manon had married Luc. And not him.
‘It was hell,’ he admitted. He wanted to say more, much more. But it was choking him. The idea that Manon had stared at a door that never opened. He didn’t look around at Luc. His eyes burned with tears of shame.
It was then that he felt Luc’s hand on his shoulder.
Luc turned Jean to face him. He looked him in the eyes, searching them, exposing his own grief to Jean.
They stood a mere yard apart as their eyes spoke the unspeakable. Jean saw sorrow and tenderness, anger and understanding. He saw that Luc was wondering what they should do now, but he also noticed his readiness to endure whatever might happen.
I wish I’d known Luc earlier.
They could have grieved together. After the hatred and the jealousy.
‘I have to ask this now,’ said Jean. ‘I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since I saw her. Is … is Victoria …?’
‘She’s our daughter. Manon was three months pregnant when she went back to Paris; Victoria was conceived in the spring. Manon already knew she was sick, but she kept it to herself. She decided in favour of the child and against the cancer therapy when the doctors assured her that the baby stood a chance.’
Luc’s voice was quavering now too.
‘Manon chose certain death on her own. She told me only when it was too late … too late to give up the baby and to attempt to cure her. She kept her cancer secret from me until her letter to you, Jean. She said that she was so ashamed, and it was her just deserts for loving twice in one lifetime. My God! As if love were a crime … Why did she have to be so hard on herself? Why?’
The two men stood there and though neither cried, they both watched the other man struggle for breath, swallow hard, grit his teeth and try not to sink without a trace.
‘Do you want to know the rest?’ Luc asked after a while.