For a moment, I couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or not, but the sincerity in his eyes left little doubt.

“No, really. Its simplicity captured her and the inn’s essence perfectly. Have you ever considered a career behind the camera?”

I shook my head, considering the extent of my own creative potential. “What do you mean? To do what you do? I guess . . . I’m just not sure I have enough to say—to, you know, actually make people sit up and listen if I’m not the one shouting it from in front of the camera. Usually dressed in spandex. Or juggling something heavy or flaming.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” he began, his voice firm and supportive, “I stopped and watched and listened, and I think you have plenty to say.”

I’d never been one to be short on getting compliments, usually on my looks, my perceived success, or some other nonsensical thing that had very little to do with me. But this compliment, coming from Elliott—who’d pulled no punches about how he felt about my past—struck me as not only more meaningful but also more genuine than any other I think I’d ever received.

“Well, I have been kind of obsessed with all the stuff we’ve been uncovering about the château, and I started to do a little digging on my own,” I said, my words now flowing with a self-assuredness that had been previously absent. “I don’t know how much of this you already know, but I’ve found some really interesting material about the wineries in this region and their significant role in the Resistance during the war. Remember what Odette said? The families who had money fled, and the ones who stayed either couldn’t afford to leave, or simply refused to leave their homes behind. I think that’s why we should speak to some of the families who’ve been here for centuries.” With each word my conviction grew stronger. “Don’t you want to know what really happened to the Adélaïses?”

Elliott’s expression was one of pure surprise. “Wait, so you think someone sold them out too?”

I felt the same pit in my stomach I’d experienced the first day when I spotted all those cameras outside Château Mirabelle. From the moment I’d laid eyes on the photograph of Luc and Imène Adélaïse at Saint Orens, I knew this project meant more to me than just another credit on my IMDb page. For Elliott too. I could see it in his eyes. It was like the Adélaïses were calling out to the two of us to right the wrongs of the past and bring their beautiful home and community back to life.

I nodded and exhaled. “I know Jack and Claudine said this storyline was a waste of time, but I agree with you—it isn’t. So where should we go first? Do you have a plan in mind?”

“I think we should talk to Elodie Archambeau. She owns Le Coquelicot, the floral shop up the road. Agnès told me her family’s been in this town since the early 1700s. She may have some good stories for us to use as a jumping-off point. The only thing is, she’s a bit of a drinker, so we may need to fact-check a bit after her interview.”

I eyed Elliott up and down. “You’ve really done your homework, huh?”

“I have chronic insomnia. So does Agnès. She’s spilled a lot of tea over late-night . . . ummm tea . . . and croissants.”

“Sounds like either way, it’ll be a good time. On y va!” I said as I rose out of my seat and pushed in the heavy iron bistro chair.

Elliott’s eyebrows popped up, impressed. “Look at you, picking up some of the local lingo.”

“While you’ve been busy spilling and sipping all the tea with Agnès, Pascal’s been tutoring me in French, and as it turns out, I’m a quick study.”

I grabbed my jacket from off my chair and went to place some cash on the table, but Elliott had beaten me to it and stepped aside to let me go by first.

Chapter Twenty-One

Elliott walked next to me as we made our way in the direction of Mme. Archambeau’s shop. Though the town was small and there was really only one florist, Le Coquelicot was instantly recognizable by its abundantly colorful display of wildflowers that decorated the walkway in front of the store.

The bell chimed as we stepped inside the small but incredibly fragrant shop. The perfume of the various flowers pirouetted through the air, each note as distinct and delightful as the next. The peonies: bold and blousy. The eucalyptus: brisk and refreshing. The freesia: dainty and unassuming. That was one thing I still couldn’t seem to get over (or get enough of)—the smells. The glorious aromas of potent cheeses in the markets and the fresh-baked bread never seemed to fade. In Disney World, it’s rumored they piped in the scents of sweet treats to entice park goers to grab one more unnecessary confection, but in France, it was wholly organic.

Madame Archambeau was bustling about behind the counter, toying with sprigs of what looked like baby’s breath and eucalyptus. Her graying auburn curls seemed to stand out among the greenery behind her and she moved with the grace and speed of someone half her age.

“Bonjour,” she announced at the sound of the bell, like the Pavlov’s dog of greetings: conditioned rather than truly welcoming. She never even looked up from the ornate display she was arranging.

“Bonjour, Madame.” I walked toward the counter, trying not to be distracted by the exotic orchids, lilies, and dahlias of all different colors placed to contrast one another in the most artistic way. “We were wondering if you have a moment to speak with us.”

“Ah oui, what kind of arrangement are you looking for? We are very busy preparing for a wedding on Sunday, so if it is anything compliqué, you will have to go to Avignon.”

“No, we’re not here for flowers,” Elliott said.

Madame Archambeau set down her shears and furrowed her brows. “Not here for flowers?”

“We understand your family has been an integral part of this community for centuries. We would love to share that sort of personalized history with viewers for a show we’re filming here in town. Would you be willing to talk with us?” he asked.

She pinched her face into a prune-like expression. “Are you part of the film crew I’ve seen over at Château Mirabelle?”

“Yes, we are,” I answered. “We’re restoring the house, but also trying to learn more about the people who lived there. Your family’s name has come up quite a few times.”

She had been distracted as she finished wrapping the floral arrangement on the counter in front of her, but at the mention of her family’s prominence in the historical fabric of the town, she lifted her head and beamed with pride. “Oui, oh well, in that case, I think I can find some time to speak with you,” she said, conveniently forgetting about the Sunday wedding excuse. “Let’s go across the street and sit. Maybe Monsieur Grenouille will be able to join us for a little while. He owns the patisserie, and his family has been here for a very long time as well. Not as long as mine, but still, he may be able to offer some insight. Just give me dix minutes.” She held up both of her hands in five gestures.

“Very good. Merci!” I led the way out the door and across the street. I slowed my pace to allow Elliott, saddled with his camera bag, to catch up. When he did, we paused at the corner and stared in the direction of the bakery. Monsieur Grenouille was clearing a few plates from the outside tables and wiping them down with a rag. “Doesn’t ‘grenouille’ mean frog in French?” I asked.

Elliott shrugged. “I’m not sure. Why?”

“It just suits him and his weirdly wide, sinking jawline. I think you should do the talking on this one, though, I’ve gotten the impression he doesn’t like me all that much,” I said.

“You’ve met him before?”

“We’ve crossed paths a few times. I don’t think he’s overjoyed that a film crew’s taken over his town.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to change his mind. I have a feeling you’re good at that,” Elliott said in such an assured tone that I wasn’t sure if he meant it as a biting insult or the highest possible compliment.

“Why don’t you secure that larger table in the back, and I’ll order something so Monsieur Grenouille stops staring at us,” Elliott offered and headed to the back of the line.

A few minutes later he came back balancing two pains au chocolat and two cafés au lait. Monsieur Grenouille’s eyes were still locked on me like a laser, forcing me to wonder what was really behind his intense gaze. Could he really be this upset that we were filming a TV show about Château Mirabelle? Didn’t he realize it would bring tourism and attention to Maubec? Something they desperately needed by the looks of the quiet and crumbling streets. No, Monsieur Grenouille’s disdain felt more personal somehow. There had to be something I was missing.

When Madame Archambeau shuffled in a few minutes later, she hurried to the counter speaking in lightning-speed French to Monsieur Grenouille, who after a few seconds of her chatter started to wave his hands at her to stress his “Non! Non! Non!”s.

The two of them began to bicker back and forth until their tittering came to a sudden halt and they turned to look at Elliott and me sitting at the table. At the abrupt silence, time seemed to pause for a moment while the four of us just looked at one another in a painfully tense will he / won’t he limbo. We readjusted our attention back to our cafés au lait, unsure if we’d be joined by Madame and Monsieur, or only Madame, or if we’d all be tossed out on our asses and charged for the foot out the door.

But after we took a few more sips of our coffees—pretending not to listen to Madame Archambeau coerce Monsieur Grenouille to join us—he finally relented and plopped down at the farthest end of the table, as if he was going to try to make a run for it as soon as he was out of Madame Archambeau’s arm’s reach. She shuffled behind Monsieur Grenouille, and when he was finally settled into a seat, she scurried quickly behind the bakery counter, our eyes trailing her as she returned with a half-full bottle of wine.

“You don’t mind, I’m sure, Remy, non?” she asked as she was already uncorking and pouring the golden liquid into a glass she’d grabbed from the counter.

Elliott looked at me as if to say, Take it away, cowboy, but all of a sudden I felt the weight of all the words I didn’t know how to say in French and realized I couldn’t even offer pleasantries. How embarrassing. Every time I opened my mouth to start to say something, I paused, wondering if he would understand me or even care what I had to say. But thankfully, Madame Archambeau saved the day, delighted to hold court and lead our conversation, so long as her wine was kept full to the brim. Thank goodness, because Monsieur Grenouille remained locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

“Mais oui, you see, there wasn’t much of anything left of Maubec after the war,” she explained. “Once the winery had been destroyed, it was just a matter of time . . . the Bordeaux region would take care of the last of what little the Nazis left behind.” She accentuated her sentences with her wineglass, sending golden droplets sloshing about. “My family managed to remain here during the Huguenots’ mass exodus from France during the 17e siècle, and then we had to fight like mad to stay yet again during the Second World War. But what can I say? We are a resilient lot.”

Madame Archambeau lifted the glass to her lips once again, and I noticed that she’d almost polished off the rest of the bottle. Aside from a tinge of rosiness in her cheeks, she barely missed a beat and didn’t stumble over any words. She scooped the bottle off the table and waggled it in our direction as a sign of offering, but at our refusal, she went on to pour herself what was left of the wine.

“What exactly are you looking for, Mademoiselle Everly? Because these walls have a lot of history and a lot of dark secrets hidden behind them. If you were looking for a nice fluffy story to tell your friends, I am afraid this will be a short conversation.” She cast her eyes out the window dismissively, as if she knew she’d already intrigued us enough that we’d ask her to continue.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I admitted as a way to coax her to keep talking. I eyed Elliott to see if he was any more in the know, but he shook his head, affirming that he too had no idea what she was talking about. And lastly I looked over to Monsieur Grenouille, who was seeming to ignore us entirely as he mindlessly continued to use a spoon far too tiny for his large hands to stir sugar into his espresso.

Madame Archambeau took another sip and leaned in a little closer. “The history of this town is one of resilience and integrity, but it is not a pretty story. It’s full of betrayal, and I’m not just talking about the Nazis. I’m not sure your superficiel little television program is the right platform to tell it.”

“With all due respect, Madame,” Elliott interrupted before I could respond, “that is precisely why we feel it is such an important story to tell.”

Madame Archambeau bit her bottom lip and gnawed on it as she thought. I took the opportunity to glance over at Monsieur Grenouille to gauge his thoughts, but his face was as blank as it had been when we first began.

I had one last trick up my sleeve to try to get her to talk. I set my mug down, slung my purse over my shoulder, and pushed up from the table. “C’mon, Elliott, we’ve overstayed our welcome as it is. Maybe it’s time to get going.”