“How nice,” I said, and as soon as the words left my mouth, a young raven-haired goddess emerged from the back room. Her facial structure was impeccable, with defined cheekbones and a perfect slope to her nose. She was about my height, but her no-makeup, no-frills style was effortlessly Parisian chic. Looking at her made me acutely aware of my current state.
“Mademoiselle Everly, I am just so thrilled to meet you.” She quickly kissed me on both cheeks, and I tried not to recoil in an effort to shield her from my inescapable odor.
“Enchantée,” I echoed, grateful for having put that vocab word on my list to memorize.
“I am sorry to do this because I have been so looking forward to the opportunity to chat with you, but I have to run out to make a delivery for my parents, but we will catch up soon, n’est-ce pas? I will be serving breakfast in the morning. I hope to see you then. Oh, and this is for you.” She offered me a small gift bag bursting with colorful tissue paper, gave me another squeeze, and rushed out the door.
“Wow, thank you,” I called after her and then placed the bag on the counter to give myself the leverage to pull out the paper. Inside was a small handheld battery-operated fan, the kind you charge in a USB port. I pulled it out and looked over at Agnès and Pascal quizzically.
“We don’t have air-conditioning at the inn. Well, in most places in France, anyway. And given that it is the summer, and you will be in the château without cool air, we just thought it may help to make you more comfortable during your stay here,” Agnès explained.
No air-conditioning? Did I hear that right? I held the small fan in my hand, mustered every molecule of gratitude I could, and smiled. “This is incredibly thoughtful. Thank you. I’m sure I will be needing it.” I tucked it back into the gift bag. “Before I head upstairs, Pascal, do you have a pair of pants and a T-shirt that Elliott can borrow? We had a little situation in the car on the way here from the airport, and unfortunately, his luggage won’t arrive until later.”
“Yes, I am sure I can find him something that will work.”
“Wonderful. Merci.” I grabbed my gift bag and my key and marched myself upstairs. My suitcase was resting right outside my door and, after battling with the old-fashioned brass knob and double lock, I wrestled the valise over the threshold to its final resting place.
All I want is to take a shower and a Xanax, and to sleep for like a day.
And as soon as I’d finished my thought, I heard the shower shut off, signaling it was my turn. I stripped off my crusty clothes, wrapped myself in a lavender-scented towel, and grabbed for my cache of toiletries. Cracking open my door, I made sure the coast was clear and then quickly tiptoed down the hall to the washroom.
I wrenched the water up to as hot as it could go (incidentally not very hot) and waited for the fog to billow up like a thick cumulus cloud. I rested my arm against the shower wall in front of me while the water streamed down my hair, and inhaled the steam.
But then, a sudden blast of ice-cold water knocked the wind from my lungs. “Ahhh! What the—” Hair still mid-lather, I shrieked and jiggled, unable to think logically while being blasted by the freezing jet. I finally managed to turn the dials (why were there so many dials?!) enough for the water to slow to a stop. Panting and still soapy, I tried to towel dry out the bubbles still left in my hair.
Forget it. Xanax and sleep. STAT. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
I wrapped my body back up in the now sopping-wet towel and shimmied down the hallway to my room. I heaved my bag open, threw on an oversize nightshirt, and dug around for the familiar bottle.
Oh no. A treacherous realization dawned on me: the Xanax prescription was in my other bag.
Merde.
Chapter Nine
The buttery, sweet aroma of fresh-baked baguettes and flaky croissants drizzled with lavender-infused honey floated up through the inn and under the door to my room, waking me from a deep and tranquil sleep. I don’t know if it was the quiet of Maubec or the genuine feather mattress, but for the first time in years, I slept like a baby without the help of a sleep aid. I lifted my legs over the side of the bed while my stomach let out a deep growl.
I had been so exhausted when I arrived at the inn, I bypassed Agnès’s welcome spread of meats and cheeses, opting for a handful of grapes and flaky croissant to go as I beelined to my room to shower and pass out for the night. Perhaps not my best decision to eat in bed since I woke to buttery crumbs embedded into my cheeks. I slipped on a clean T-shirt and jean shorts from the rest of my luggage that had been delivered late last night, washed my face extra well to ensure there were no remaining bits of pastry left behind, and raked my fingers through my hair as I studied my appearance in the cloudy antique mirror. After yanking my phone out of the charger, I shimmied it into my pocket before heading downstairs to the dining room.
A handful of guests were already seated at small tables, sipping frothy espressos and foam-topped café au laits while Agnès walked around with a basket offering a colorful assortment of homemade goodies. I spotted an empty chair by the window overlooking Maubec’s belfry and made my way over to it.
“Bonjour, Prune. Sleep well?” Agnès asked in a cheerful tone.
“Very. It’s so quiet here at night. Not at all like LA.”
“Oui, nothing but les cigales.”
“Les cigales?”
Agnès scrunched up her nose. “How you say . . . cicadas? Here . . .” She held up a linen napkin embroidered with the large-winged green insect and beamed proudly. “See?”
“Oh, um, a bug is stamped on your napkins? Well, that’s an interesting little mascot,” I said, hoping to sound genuine.
“Not just a mascot, Mademoiselle, la cigale has great significance in Provence. It is like your bald eagle. Similar to four-leaf clovers and rainbows, les cigales are thought to be signs of good luck and good fortune to come. In fact, that’s how we came upon the name of our inn.” She set the basket of treats down on the table and put a place mat and utensils in front of me, scarcely missing a beat of her story. “According to Provençal folklore, God sent the cicada to prevent peasants from becoming too lazy by keeping them from their afternoon naps. All that buzzing and chirping was thought to be a great nuisance. But the plan backfired. Rather than the people finding the cicada to be an annoyance, they found the singing relaxing, which in turn lulled them all into deep and tranquil sleeps. So the name of our inn, La Cigale Chantante, means the Singing Cicada, as we hope that our guests find their stay relaxing and full of peaceful rest.”
“I love that story. My parents are always finding little details like that to celebrate in their properties too.”
“Of course, happy to share. Mais faîtes-attention, les cigales have a reputation of stowing away into many a tourist’s suitcases.” Agnès laughed.
I wasn’t sure if she was serious or not, but either way, I was very much considering encasing my luggage in Saran Wrap as soon as I returned to my room.
She flipped over the coffee cup in front of me and set it on its saucer. “Can I get you a coffee? Tea, perhaps?”
I set a napkin in my lap. “Espresso would be wonderful.”
She nodded. “And Monsieur Schaffer? Where’s he this morning?”
My head shot up. “Who? Oh, Elliott? I’m not sure? Still asleep, maybe?”
“Not asleep,” Elliott said, coming up behind Agnès. “I’ve been awake for hours. I went for a run through the countryside before the sun was even up.” He lifted up his T-shirt and used it to wipe the sweat pouring off his forehead, exposing the smallest hint of a washboard stomach I wasn’t at all expecting.
Agnès clapped her hands together. “Pascal, une chaise, s’il te plaît,” she shouted to her husband.
I shook my head. “He doesn’t have to . . .”
“I don’t have to sit here,” Elliott said, finishing my sentence.
Pascal set a chair down across from my own. “Asseyez-vous,” Agnès directed Elliott. “Sit.”
