“Being young and in love is ageless, I suppose,” Bastien said. A profound sense of recognition washed over me, as if Bastien had somehow tapped into an age-old truth, shining a spotlight on a truth many spent too much time forgetting.
I leaned in closer to the photo. “They really look like they were . . . in love, I mean?”
“Hard to know, but by all accounts, I believe so.”
I turned off the recording. “Makes what happened to them all the more tragic.” I picked up another photograph from the table, Luc and Imène standing arm in arm with two other couples in the château’s grand foyer. On the back of the picture, I saw the letters DP in clear, distinct capital letters.
“DP? Do you know what that stands for?” I asked him.
Bastien took the picture from my hand. “I am not sure. A mystery, non?” He handed the photo back to me.
“Wait? Is that the same foyer we were standing in yesterday? And this room,” I said, flipping to another picture, “with the lion clock on the mantel underneath the painting there? What room is that? It’s so beautiful.”
He glanced down. “I believe it is the grand salon. Trust me, it will be beautiful again if we have anything to do with it, ma belle. You see the staircase. We can take reclaimed wood from the region and re-create it in all its original splendor. Maybe even better than before.” Bastien collected the photos from the table, carefully placing them back in their plastic storage bags. “Renovation not only restores the house, but the story of the home and the people who lived there. Trust me, you will see, we’ll bring them all back to life. Are you hungry?”
“What?” I was so caught up in his beautiful words I lost my train of thought.
“Hungry? Are you hungry?” he repeated.
My stomach had been rumbling the better part of the last hour. “Maybe a little.”
“There’s an ice-cream shop down the hill that makes the most incredible lavender ice cream. I promise, you’ve never had anything quite like it.”
I thought back to the conversation with my father by the barn the last time I was home. He’d mentioned a small ice-cream shop by a beautiful Provençal church, where he ate the most delicious lavender ice cream before getting down on one knee and asking for my mother’s hand in marriage. Even though the idea of lavender ice cream still sounded kind of unappetizing, somehow, the way Bastien suggested the treat—with his sexy accent and unabashed enthusiasm—made it sound so much more tempting.
“So what do you say, Plum,” Bastien repeated. “Want to give lavender ice cream a chance?”
“Yeah, you know what? I think I do.”
Chapter Sixteen
We arrived at the ice-cream shop only to discover that the store was closed for the next two weeks while the owners were away on holiday in Nice. Hungry and disappointed, we hopped on Bastien’s Vespa and took off for the town of Bonnieux, a walled village on a hilltop in the Luberon mountains. Bastien recently completed a château renovation there and wanted to show me the finished project.
We rode through beautiful countryside dotted with orchards of golden mirabelles and cool wooded hills of oak and pine. And towering above all, the giant of Provence, Mont Ventoux, appeared on the horizon with its white peak beckoning in the distance. We zoomed down the winding dirt road where, against the earthy browns and greens, popped the violets of lavender, crimson of poppy fields, and bright yellows of towering sunflowers. The stretch seemed to extend on for miles and miles until finally, we were met by a large wrought iron gate surrounding the enormous property.
Bastien hopped off the bike and unstrapped his helmet. “Bienvenue au Château du Val d’Été,” he said. “The owners turned the house into a hotel, so we’ll need to check in at the gate.”
I followed him to the front of the estate where we were met by a brawny security guard who had at least a good five inches on Bastien. He may have even had a couple on Elliott. At first, the guard and Bastien swapped what sounded like formal pleasantries, but then the exchange ratcheted up a few notches into a full-blown argument complete with flying spittle and hand gestures.
With his hands on his hips, Bastien grumbled as he strode back to me.
“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” I asked.
“I spent close to three years renovating this house, and the clown over there won’t let me past the front gate. He must be new, but even still, c’est répréhensible!”
“What about the owners? Can’t you just call them?”
“This time of year they’re on their yacht somewhere in the middle of the Med.”
“Three years? Someone’s bound to recognize you.” I tilted my head toward the front gate. “Let’s go back and ask around for someone else.”
“I have a better idea. Come with me.” He took me by the hand, flashing me his most devilish smile before leading me around the side of the gate and out of sight.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Bastien continued down to the estate’s massive vineyard with rows of grapevines whose sprawl faded off into the horizon. We wove in and out through the meticulous rows until we made our way to the back of the estate. “If I am remembering right . . . yes, good, it’s still there,” he said, pointing to a large door that opened into what looked like a cellar. “That’s the wine storage room. The servants’ staircase connects through there into the lower level.”
He started to advance toward the door, but I stayed in place, forcing Bastien to stop short when my hand, still connected with his, didn’t move forward too. “No, we can’t,” I pleaded, pulling him back. I didn’t need any scandals, any bad press, any additional attention. My palms started to prickle with sweat at the thought of doing any kind of stint in a federally mandated orange jumpsuit. “Wouldn’t it be trespassing?”
He flashed a sexy grin. “Only in the most literal sense of the word. I don’t know about you, but I’m not trying to steal any of the silver. I just want to show you around a bit, and then we’ll go. No harm done.”
Rhys and I used to pull crazy stunts like this together all the time. Skinny-dipping or staging elaborate pranks on the EVERLYday crew. He was always game for anything I suggested, and I loved him for it. We made a good team—that was until I realized he’d started playing the part of supportive boyfriend instead of actually being the supportive boyfriend he had always been. The more out of control I got, the more publicity he got, and with his recent admission about the tape, it was only now I realized he may have been fervently fanning the flames of my self-destruction all along.
Bastien took note of the uneasiness on my face and placed my hands in his. “Plum, turn around, you see these vineyards? They’re characterized by their terroir.”
I searched my limited French vocabulary and came up empty. “Terroir? I’m not sure I know that word.”
“It loosely translates to mean ‘a sense of place.’ In a vineyard, terroir refers to the specific characteristics imparted to the wine itself. But it is no different with people or even houses. Everyone, really everything, has its own unique terroir or sense of place in this world. A restoration is about honoring such things. I did it here at Château du Val d’Été, and we will do it again at Le Château Mirabelle. Come inside with me. Let me show you what I mean,” he said, gently cupping my chin in his palm. I looked up into his eyes, which were flickering with optimism. “What do you say, game for another adventure?” he whispered softly.
Realizing that this wasn’t a publicity stunt but a genuine moment of spontaneity, I brushed aside my apprehension and allowed myself to be swept away. “Oui. Yes. Let’s go inside,” I answered.
Bastien set off into the cellar while I followed closely behind him. A few vineyard workers were inside packing up cases of wine for shipment. I took out my phone and filmed them. It was just the kind of slice-of-life moment I loved to capture. Over the last few days, I’d decided to keep my own video diary of my time in Provence. Maybe just for myself? Maybe I would use it for social media down the road? The truth was that I wasn’t really sure what I was doing it for exactly, but with so much inspiration to be found here, I simply couldn’t help myself.
I took a few steps closer to the table and zoomed in on the workers’ rough hands, their weathered faces, and their mud-stained cuffs. I dragged the camera down the long rows of empty glass bottles that would soon be filled to the brim with crisp white wine.
Bastien leaned over as I continued to focus in on the tightly bound strips of the grainy French oak barrels. “Isn’t it your job to host the show, not to film it?” he asked.
