Mom was seated at one end of the pale green striped brocade sofa, so I took one of the overstuffed pale rose chairs and watched Trudy charm Derek. Apparently Trudy’s soft spot for the British coincided with a soft spot for handsome men. And who could blame her?
Amelia walked in and placed a large silver tray on the French provincial coffee table, then left the room. She had managed to squeeze a pot of tea, a small platter of cookies, cups, saucers, utensils, and little napkins onto the tray.
Amelia showed no signs of returning, so I scooted forward in the big chair. “Shall I pour?”
“Would you, dear?” Trudy said as Derek delivered her to her place at the opposite end of the sofa from Mom. “And I’ll be happy to answer any questions your Derek wishes to ask me.”
Derek sat in the other chair and flashed me a quick smile as I began to pour tea into cups. I placed a small cookie on the side of each saucer and handed them to Mom, Derek, and Trudy.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Mom said.
“There are more cookies on the platter,” I said, although I’d counted three missing and eyed the doorway to the kitchen, where I knew Amelia was scarfing them up. I didn’t mind. I just hoped she would remember to smile at me next time.
“How long have you lived in Dharma, Trudy?” Derek asked once he’d taken his first sip of the hearty English blend.
“I moved here as a small child,” Trudy said. “I was barely seven years old when we left our village in France and boarded the ocean liner for America. That was in the fall of 1944.”
“That must’ve been a treacherous time to travel,” he commented.
“Indeed it was, but being a child, I saw it as a grand adventure.”
“Why did you leave?” I asked.
She stared at her cookie before taking a ladylike bite. “It was critical that we leave. We lived just over four miles from Oradour-sur-Glane. The massacre there took place in June, and we were afraid that at almost any moment, the same would be done to our village.”
“Where did you live?” Derek asked.
“La Croix Saint-Just. North of Oradour, along the River Glane.”
“Near Limoges?” Derek asked.
“That’s the nearest large city, twenty miles southeast.”
He smiled. “I know the area.”
“Très bien! Very good.” Trudy laughed. “Goodness, can you believe I still slip into French if I’m not paying attention?”
To my untrained ear, her French sounded perfect, even though she’d lived in Sonoma for close to seventy years, if my quickie calculations were correct.
“What happened in that town near you?” I asked.
Derek answered, his gaze steady on me. “The Nazis gathered all of the women and children into the Catholic church, locked the doors, and began looting the village.”
“The men were rounded up and herded into several area barns,” Trudy continued stoically, “and killed by machine gun. Then the Nazis gassed and bombed the church with all those people inside and set fire to the rest of the town.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“It was said to be in retaliation for some of the villagers’ collaborating with la Résistance.”
Mom reached across the sofa and squeezed Trudy’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Very few escaped,” Trudy said, and then turned to Derek. “So you’re aware of this ugly moment in French history?”
Derek nodded. “I attended some low-level NATO meetings near Limoges a few years ago and spent a day walking through Oradour-sur-Glane. It was heartbreaking.”
“Yes, it is still. Even though I was a child, I can’t remember being so frightened before or since.”
There was a moment of troubled silence, and then Derek asked, “Can you tell us about your father?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled. “Luc Benoit was born in La Croix Saint-Just, but to tell his story, I must begin with his father, my grandfather, Christophe Benoit, who was born and raised in the town of St. Emilion.”
My eyes grew wide. “St. Emilion?”
“Yes. It is known for its Bordeaux wines. You’ve heard of it?”
I almost laughed at the understatement. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” St. Emilion was world-renowned for its premier red Bordeaux wines. Every schoolkid in Sonoma had heard of St. Emilion.
“Grandpapa grew up working in his father’s winery, but on a high school trip to Limoges, he met and fell in love with my grandmother, Belle. She was from La Croix Saint-Just and had no intention of moving to St. Emilion no matter how important Christophe’s winery was.”
“She was a hometown girl,” Mom said in complete understanding.
“Precisely,” Trudy said, smiling as she nodded. “So what else could my grandfather do but move to La Croix Saint-Just and marry her? They had four sons, one of whom was my papa, Luc. His brother Anton was Robson’s grandfather. Grandpapa Christophe had only ever known winemaking, so he brought with him a satchel of old-growth vines from St. Emilion and planted them in the rich soil of La Croix Saint-Just.”
“How did that work out?” I wondered aloud.
“Oh, he became very successful, possibly because he was one of the few winemakers in the area.”