“There is something so beautiful about the simple things. You know, real life,” I said, turning off the phone.
“Oui,” he agreed, “there most certainly is.”
We smiled and nodded at the workers as we continued past, but they barely batted an eye. They probably figured we were just guests of the château who lost their way. Climbing up the steep, cramped, winding servants’ staircase, we emerged surreptitiously in a hallway between the kitchen and dining room.
“Château Mirabelle has a few things going for it that Château du Val d’Été did not,” Bastien explained.
“Yeah? What are those?” I asked.
“Well, plumbing and running water for one. None of it’s up to code, of course, but at least we have a better place to start from.”
It was hard to believe that the gorgeous estate surrounding us didn’t even have the bare basics when Bastien took it on as a restoration project. It sparked in me a renewed hope for the future of Château Mirabelle, and I could now envision those crumbling walls and dilapidated floorboards transforming into this. We continued down the dimly lit passageway and up another small flight of stairs into the château’s sun-soaked entranceway with floor-to-ceiling windows. Carrara white and black marble tiles were laid out like a chessboard in front of us.
“Come,” Bastien said, taking my hand. “I want to show you the salon.”
Chapter Seventeen
We stepped into a cozy room with painted ceiling beams and a massive fireplace. Bastien pointed up at the rafters. “You see the lights? Chandeliers, girandoles, and candelabras were all redesigned to re-create the original feeling of . . . intimacy.” We locked eyes for a moment before he continued his tour.
“The goal of this renovation was to restore the space to its original condition while being mindful of the decorative woodwork, paintings, gilding, and flooring.” He drew my attention to the ground. “The paneling was entirely removed to allow for necessary structure and to hide the lighting and safety networks. We also worked on all the stone and brickwork, and the plastering, bien sûr. All but maybe a dozen walls in the château were compromised in some way or another when we started.”
It was becoming increasingly clear why Bastien brought me here. He wanted to show me where a little vision and a lot of hard work could get you. He had every reason to be proud of Château du Val d’Été. It was more than a home, it was a painstakingly crafted work of art.
“So what do you say? Should we go get a drink in the garden? They have a lovely restaurant out there,” he said.
We settled down at a table under a large black-and-white-striped umbrella. A server spotted us and came rushing over to take our order. I motioned for Bastien to take the lead. He picked up the wine list, rattling off a litany of wines and vintages.
Bastien handed the two menus to the server and crossed his legs at the ankle. “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of ordering a flight of their finest: Sancerre, Sauvignon Blanc, Melon de Bourgogne, Chenin Blanc, and one surprise. Although we’re often overshadowed by France’s more prestigious regions, most obviously Bordeaux, the Luberon Valley has played a vital role in French wine history for many centuries.”
“You’re so passionate about wine and winemaking. Did you ever consider becoming a vintner like your grandfather?”
“Pfft,” he scoffed a bit sourly. “Considered it? Mais oui! Of course. It’s all I wanted for as long as I could remember, but I don’t come from a wealthy family, and these things, they are, how do you say . . . political. It’s not like how it used to be, the trade being passed down through the generations. The newer châteaus and wineries want you to have all the formal accreditations, and I couldn’t afford the tuition. A good vintner can make the difference between poverty and prosperity. I understand, though, these vineyards have become important businesses for this region.”
“I guess that explains why Odette was so disappointed to hear I wouldn’t be staying on to run Château Mirabelle,” I said.
Bastien’s lips flattened into a smooth line as he shifted in his seat. There was clearly something he wasn’t telling me. “Hey, what’s the real story with you and Odette?” I asked.
The server came over with our order and placed the two flights on the table, along with small plates of tangy olive tapenade, buttery foie gras, and creamy herb-infused fromage de chèvre paired with slices of crusty baguette. Bastien lifted the first glass and swallowed it down in one gulp. He set the empty glass back on the table. “What do you want to know?”
I shrugged. “I guess whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”
“Odette and I were childhood sweethearts. I thought I might even marry her one day.”
I propped my elbows onto the table, my eyes wide in disbelief. “What happened?”
“So many things. But if I had to narrow it down to just one, I wasn’t good enough for her.”
“She actually told you that?”
“Not in so many words, but her actions made it clear enough. At one time I did think I would follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. But when all those winery doors were slammed shut in my face, I wasn’t sure how I would be able to support myself, let alone a wife and family. I promised Odette I would make something of myself, I just needed a bit of time to figure out how. Well, she couldn’t wait. First chance she got, she hightailed it to Paris and started building a whole new life, one that didn’t include moi.”
I shook my head. “That’s awful.”
“No. She’s always wanted more than this provincial life. I’m sure she would have come to that realization eventually, no matter what.”
“But she seemed so committed to the idea that Château Mirabelle could help revitalize Maubec. She was talking like it was her own personal mission or something.”
“I’m sure she wants what is best for Maubec. Her maman and papa have the inn there. But Odette won’t be returning. She’s very wrapped up in her new Parisian friends and their jet-set lifestyle. I’m certain that is why she attached herself to you so quickly, you represent everything she wants for herself—fame, fashion, status, followers.”
How was it that even after all this time in the limelight, I was still such a poor judge of character? I hadn’t gotten that impression of Odette at all. Maybe a bit flirtatious and somewhat direct for my taste, but nothing like what Bastien described.
Bastien shifted his weight in his chair as he simultaneously shifted the conversation away from Odette. “What do you think of that last wine?” he asked.
I was swimming in my own thoughts. “What?”
He motioned to my glass. “The last one you tried? It’s best when you pair it with the fresh goat cheese. Brings out the nuttier notes.”
He spread some of the goat cheese across the pillowy inside of the still-warm baguette and then extended it toward me, offering me a bite. My gaze was drawn to Bastien, his profile outlined by the soft amber light of the setting sun behind him. The flickering candle on our table mirrored the winking of the stars beginning to emerge in the dusky lavender sky. The scene was absolutely idyllic, storybook perfect. Good wine. Incredible views. Enchanting company.
With each sip of wine, his lips touched the glass with a sensuous elegance, and I found myself captivated by the way his strong yet graceful fingers cradled the stem. I leaned in and took a sip of the wine, the sweet crispness coating my mouth and tongue. I held up the glass. “This is far and away my favorite of the flight. It’s delicious.”
He set his glass down, sat back in his chair, and stretched his arms over his head, looking satisfied and proud. “Good, I’m glad you like it. It’s my own creation—a special blend I’ve been working on for a few years.”
I set down the goblet. “Wait? Really? You made this wine?!”
“I have a small vineyard I’ve managed to cobble together. Not as impressive as some, but the grapes are exquisite and the terroir is riche with vitamines. I share bottles with close friends, and the bartender, Guillaume, keeps one or two on hand for me when I want to impress future clients or very beautiful women. Who am I kidding, you are the first woman I’ve shared it with. Not only am I quite shy and too busy to really date much, but this wine is special . . . and it deserves to be shared with someone special, I think.” He grinned.
My face flushed at his compliments, and I quickly changed the topic. “Can I ask, when you realized you couldn’t become a vintner, how’d you find your way to doing home restoration? Seems like a big departure.”
