Stranded with a Spy by Merline Lovelace

their comrades before they finally cracked a breach in the German defenses. Supported by tanks and two destroyers delivering continuous bombardment, the Americans pushed through the breach and liberated the surrounding towns by the late afternoon.
    “You will visit the museum?” the clerk asked. “And the American Cemetery? It is not far, on the road between St. Laurent and Colleville-sur-Mer.”
    With real regret, Cutter shook his head. “We’ll have to visit the museum another day. This morning we go to Villieu Vintners.”
    “Ahhhh!” His face folding into paroxysms of delight, the clerk kissed his fingers. “You will sample the finest of Calvados brandies at Villieu. The best in all of France.”
     
    Afterward, Mallory was never quite sure how the day slipped away from her. She’d fully intended to return to the château by noon, untangle her affairs, and resume her interrupted vacation.
    But after a short stop in the village so she could purchase a few items of clothing and toiletries, they drove northeast toward St. Lo. The dappled sunlight sifting through the trees wiped away much of Mallory’s guilt that she wasn’t back at the château, working the phones. Monsieur Villieu’s ebullience and generous hospitality washed away the rest.
    Or it could have been his brandy. The tingling scent of potent spirits surrounded her the moment she and Cutter arrived at the stone buildings housing Villieu et Fils Distillery.
    Lean and spare, with cheeks chafed red by wind and sun, Villieu beamed as he walked his visitors through vineyards first planted by the Romans and orchards groaning with the weight of their fruit.
    “The grapes, they do not grow as fat here as they do in Bordeaux and Cognac. The climate is too damp, the soil too flinty. Aaah, but when we blend our tough little grape with the apple and the pear…”
    He kissed his fingers and opened the door to the fermenting sheds with a flourish. A sour-mash smell rose in waves from the huge vats and almost knocked Mallory back a step. Nose wrinkling, eyes watering, she breathed through her mouth until they exited the fermenting shed and entered a different world.
    Here it was the heat that hit like a slap to the face. Sweat beading on her temples, Mallory followed Monsieur Villieu along rows of copper pots that looked like big, squat gourds with long necks.
    “Here is where we boil the wine. It must heat to 212 degrees Fahrenheit for fourteen hours.”
    While Mallory discreetly dabbed at the sweat beading her upper lip, her host pointed to the tubes coiling from the necks of the copper pots.
    “And there is where we capture the vapors that become Calvados. We boil seven hundred gallons of wine, yes? From that we get two hundred gallons of eau de vie. ”
    She understood the goal was to capture only the purest of the vapor, but she lost him when he tried to explain the difference between the heart, tailings and heads. The end product was a clear, amber liquid that was then stored for two to four years in Limousin oak casks inside caves cut into the hillside behind the distillery.
    The potent fumes inside the caves were starting to get to Mallory by the time they emerged into the sunshine. The fresh air cleared her head enough to nod and smile when Monsieur Villieu insisted his visitors join him and his wife for lunch at a table set under an ancient oak tree.
    As scarecrow-thin as her husband, Madame Villieu heaped bowls and plates for her guests before doing the same for herself and her husband. Her English was as spotty as Mallory’s French, but the banquet she set out crossed all language barriers. A tureen of potato soup was followed by salade Niçoise and gargantuan platters of tomatoes, cheese, spicy sausage and sliced mutton. Following their host’s lead, Mallory and Cutter slapped slab upon slab of meat, tomatoes and cheese onto fresh-baked baguettes.
    In the midst of the feast, Monsieur Villieu poured stiff shots of his award-winning Calvados. “For