“I think I could use a drink,” I announced and hightailed it in the direction of the bar.

“Don’t do that,” she called after me. “I have reserved us a table, and a server will come to take our order.” Odette swept ahead of us, her brunette bob swinging as she maneuvered through the tight tables, and led us to a high top under a cozy chandelier made of vintage light bulbs and distressed iron spindles that looked like woven vines.

As soon as we took our seats and placed an order for a bottle of wine of Odette’s choosing, she squealed with delight and said, “So tell me, I really have to know, why did you choose to set your show in Maubec?”

Elliott explained, “There are certain towns all over Italy and France selling properties on the cheap in order to bring money, attention, and new blood into struggling towns. Our show is kind of like travel porn meets HGTV. Two things we Americans just can’t seem to get enough of.”

She clapped her hands together with an enthusiasm that matched her bright eyes and big smile. “It really is wonderful. Maman and Papa tell stories about how this town used to be so vibrant, so full of life back when Château Mirabelle was a prominent winery in the region. Did you know, it was widely regarded as one of the most notable vineyards, and its unique blends won numerous awards? That was until the war, anyway. Once it was destroyed, Maubec couldn’t bounce back, and those who could afford to simply packed up and left. The region’s fortunes have waned significantly over the past few decades, mostly because modern wine consumers prefer heavy, robust reds—the only style of wine the Luberon does not produce. So the people who stayed behind don’t have much, but they have more backbone and heart than anyone else you’re likely to know.”

The waitress returned with a bottle of Sancerre and a few glasses for the table. Odette took a sip and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “So what is your plan? Are you looking to restore the château as a vineyard? I can’t even imagine if you were to put the Everly name and popularity behind a winery in this region. It would certainly bolster our tourism and recognizability. Our little town would become a household name again. Our inn would be full, our restaurants would be brimming with new faces. Oh, Plum, I’m so excited you’ll be staying.”

I swallowed hard. “Well, yes, that all sounds wonderful, but I think you’re misunderstanding just a liiiiiittle bit. I’m here to renovate the house and film a television show about that process, but I won’t be staying in Maubec after we wrap. Once my commitment with the show ends, I’ll put the house on the market and head back home to LA.”

“Wait, what? You’re just going to leave? But I don’t understand.” Odette’s eyebrows wove together, and she leaned back in her seat, deflated.

“I have to go back to LA. That’s where my life is, that’s where my family is. I took this on as a job with every intention of heading back home once it’s finished. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but I assure you, we will leave the château in such magnificent condition that people will be flooding here from all around to come visit.”

“But couldn’t this be your chance to make a new life? Just think about it, after all your bad press, I just assumed you were looking for a fresh start.” Odette’s comment caught me off guard, and it took me a minute to gather my thoughts in response.

Is this what people were always saying about the French and their brusqueness? Unlike us Americans who had a tendency to dance around sensitive topics, she went at this one full force without even realizing it might be a faux pas to do so. I could tell she was genuinely curious and in no way trying to be malicious, but her remark stung, a bitter reminder of not only the stupid tape, but the betrayal I swore I’d put out of my mind for the duration of this trip.

I glanced over at Elliott, trying to gauge his reaction, expecting harsh judgment—or worse, an indication he’d already seen the video the public aptly titled Plum Everly: Ripe and Ready (which was even worse than the film itself!) and incidentally probably seen me naked. God, I hope not. His expression remained blank, at least outwardly. Maybe he hadn’t?

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, well, that whole situation was messy, but I hardly think it’s a reason to abandon my life in LA full stop.” I took a generous sip of wine to stop myself from saying something that would really tank the vibe of the evening.

Odette tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear and propped her chin on her delicate hand. “Et toi, Elliott?” Her eyes seemed flirtier than before, sultrier, as she leaned in closer toward him. “And you? What’s your story? How did you find yourself on a project like this? Do you have a lot of interest in home design and interior decor?” she teased. By his simple style and gruff manner, it seemed like a stretch.

He scoffed. “Not at all, but I’ve always been a history nerd. I just recently finished up an internship with Ken Burns’s production company working on a three-part documentary series about the US and the Holocaust.”

My ears perked up. “I saw that. On PBS, right? I didn’t know you worked on that.”

“Well, you didn’t ask.” His tone wasn’t rude, simply matter of fact. And he was right. I hadn’t asked. Come to think of it, I didn’t really know anything about Elliott at all, aside from the fact that he traveled light and could efficiently fold himself into a smart car.

“From the sound of it, this reality show seems a far cry from a documentary. What made you think of taking this job?” Odette continued, missing entirely the layer of tension still present between me and Elliott.

He took a casual sip of his wine and said, “It isn’t really my field of interest, but money was starting to get tight, and this is the kind of gig that actually pays the bills. I figured maybe I can find a passion project while I’m on this side of the Atlantic.”

Nodding along enthusiastically as he spoke, I was fascinated to hear him articulating a lot of why I myself took the job in France. The thought of finding a passion project or something of interest to reignite my soul, something to maybe give me some insight on what the hell I was supposed to do for the rest of my life, felt especially poignant.

Lost in all the possibilities and opportunities that might await me in the rolling hills and rocky cliffsides of Provence, I didn’t realize how fixated I’d become on Elliott until he looked over to me, interrupting himself midsentence, and asked, “What? Why are you nodding at me like you’re a dashboard gnome in a dance battle? Something you want to add?”

I was still nodding when I realized he was speaking to me. His tone was surly, like he suspected perhaps that my over-the-top gesturing was mocking him instead of genuine. Stopping abruptly, I looked around the table to find Odette and Elliott staring at me, awaiting some kind of response. “Oh, no, it’s just that I understand having to take gigs that pay the bills,” I said.

“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Elliott scoffed, and Odette joined him in the laugh, both assuming (like everyone else did) I was rich just because of my family’s empire. I didn’t own my own lifestyle branch of the Everly brand. I didn’t work for our family’s multitude of properties. It was as clear to me as it was to everyone that my skill set was limited, but I was trying my best to figure out what I was good at so I too could find some stability and peace of mind just like everybody else.

“Coucou, mon chou!” Bastien announced as he made his way to the table, thankfully interrupting the painful awkwardness of the moment with his arrival. His expression was jovial and light as usual, which caused a refreshing shift in mood. After I texted him the address of the restaurant earlier, he said he planned on joining us but never specified exactly when. I was beginning to think he’d changed his mind and wasn’t coming until I spotted him breezing through the tall doorway of the brasserie.

When he reached us, he immediately swept over to kiss me on both cheeks. My face flushed in response. Flipping a quick wave to Elliott, his smile dimmed almost imperceptibly as he simply nodded in Odette’s direction. “Odette.”

“Bastien.” She nodded, equally as curt.

Wait, did they like know each other know each other? This morning Odette made it seem more like she knew of Bastien the same way apparently everyone in Maubec knew of everybody. But their awkward exchange suggested there was maybe more to it than that.

“Let’s get you a drink,” I offered, hoping to wash away the discomfort in the air. As I extended my arm up to wave to the waiter, Bastien grabbed the empty bottle I’d been mostly responsible for drinking while Odette and Elliott carried on in conversation.

“This bottle is finie, and perhaps instead of us getting another one, maybe we head somewhere else? Somewhere a little livelier, perhaps?” Bastien suggested.

“Oh? Well, where did you have in mind?” I asked.

A waitress made her way over, and before any of us could utter another word, Bastien scribbled in the air and interjected, “L’addition, s’il vous plait.”

He stood up and grabbed my jean jacket from the back of my chair before I was even off my seat. “What kind of shoes are you wearing?” He eyed my feet.

“Huh?” I glanced down, not incredibly sure where he was going with this line of questioning.

“You should be fine. Allons-y!” And with that, he tossed a handful of euros on the table, grabbed me by the hand, and whisked me toward the door. I glanced back just in time to see Odette shrug in Elliott’s direction as they grabbed their belongings and tried to keep up. By the time they met us on the street, Bastien had already hailed a taxi. Elliott jammed his Frankenstein frame into the front passenger side, while the rest of us piled into the small back seat.

“Bastien, do you mind cracking the window? I get motion sickness, and these winding roads aren’t doing me any favors.” I shuddered at the thought of ruining the night with a repeat of yesterday’s performance.

“You should sit up front, then. Sortez! Allez! Allez!” He took my hand, led me around the side of the car to the front, and yanked open Elliott’s door. “Changez, s’il vous plait!” he pleaded as he continued to gesture with a flap of his hands.

Elliott, startled, regarded Bastien like he’d lost his mind. But once he comprehended the ask, he begrudgingly squeezed himself out of the passenger seat and into the back.

“Bastien, where are we going?” Odette’s expression was somewhere between annoyed and not surprised. I maneuvered the visor mirror, pretending to check my mascara, and glanced back and forth between the two of them. I searched their faces for some hint at the background of their past relationship. Were they ever an item? Nothing in their expressions indicated any kind of romantic history, even though the tension between them was certainly hard to miss.

Bastien leaned forward and poked his head between the two front seats. “Are you alright, Plum? Do you feel less sick?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Bien. I am glad.”

A few turns later, the taxi pulled up under a streetlamp on a rather quiet side of town. We were dropped in front of a large, nondescript warehouse-type building not at all typical of the local architecture. And suddenly, I felt like I was back in West LA instead of Provence.

Chapter Thirteen

Did Bastien give the driver the correct address? This couldn’t be right.

I glanced at Odette, who didn’t seem the least bit nervous, which I took as a good sign. But still, I was worried that perhaps Bastien and I had some epic lost-in-translation moment. Maybe I somehow inferred that I wanted to tour a sketchy part of Avignon while slightly tipsy on a white blend?

“Bastien, where—”

But Bastien was already out of the car and knocking at the building’s back door. “People usually use the front entrance around the corner,” he explained, “but my friend works security most nights, and he said he’d just let us in through the back.”

A clean-cut man in his midforties pulled the door open and, seeing Bastien, began bantering in fast French after exchanging the customary kiss on each cheek. The man let Bastien in and eyed us, holding the door open wide as we passed. “Bonsoir. This way.”

I nodded in appreciation, and a tingle ran up my arm when I realized Bastien had doubled back to reach for my hand. He led the way with the confidence of someone who’d been there quite a few times. We wound through a maze of service entrances and employee-only areas finally to emerge into the depths of the building. With each step we took, a pounding, pulsing thump of powerful bass grew in intensity, rattling my bones until I had to set my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.

Just as we reached the threshold of what I imagined was the entrance of the main dance club floor, based on the thump thump thump of the bass line, Bastien turned to us and said, “Don’t worry, I know it is very noisy, and we may want something not so loud. I have another friend who works the door at the VIP, but the only way to get there is through the club—there is no shortcut.”