For once in his life, Manon seems to have listened to what I said. For the past few days, I have only seen him from afar. It must be said that the places he visits on the estate are mainly the vineyards and the cellar, while I hang out in the offices, in the tasting cellar or the reception rooms.
I expect to have a relatively calm day. An appointment with a caterer who’ll come to do some scouting for a future wedding, and some quotes that await me. But that’s not counting Jack’s visit in the early afternoon. His skin is grey, his eyes are dark-rimmed, and his hand is resting on his stomach.
“Oh dear, you don’t look good,” I noted, going around my office desk to meet him.
“Don’t come near,” he protests, raising his free hand in front of him as a barrier. “I’m sick.”
“I see that. You sho
