We asked Gervais to drop us back in the town’s center, where we plotted our route over garlicky mussels in a soupy, white-wine-and-herb-infused broth and extra-crispy frites. The small cliffside bistro had about ten small wrought iron tables with mosaic tops adorned with fanned white linen napkins that billowed gracefully in the afternoon breeze. When the server asked what we’d like to drink, we ordered two glasses of the Chenin Blanc he’d recommended to go with the meal.
A roving accordion player strolled past, and the melody of France’s famous “La Vie En Rose” floated by on the back of a warm breeze. Elliott’s foot grazed against mine as he inched closer to listen. As he scooted in, his eyes glanced at my cheek, and he moved his fingers toward my face. Confused and a little unnerved, I tried to lean back, but as I was pinned against the chair, his pointer finger and thumb reached out to brush my cheek. Considering the size of his mitt-like hands, his touch was surprisingly gentle.
“Uh . . . whatcha doing there, buddy?”
He pulled his fingers back, away from my face, and held out his thumb. “Eyelash. Make a wish.” The sentence came out in one breath, like it was preprogrammed.
Out of the thousand things I saw Elliott do every day, nothing could have prepared me for that to have come out of his mouth. I squinted at him to check if he was joking, and then seeing that he wasn’t, I looked to the tiny hair on the large pad of his thumb. I chuckled. “Make a wish!? I thought only eight-year-old girls did that?!”
Catching himself, he blushed, almost as if surprised he’d said it at all. “Eight-year-old girls and overly superstitious thirty-year-old men who grew up in a house full of little sisters. Some habits die hard, I guess.” But in spite of his embarrassment, he extended his thumb out a bit closer, and, surrendering, I closed my eyes.
I inhaled deeply and considered my wish before opening my eyes, pursing my lips together, and expelling a whoosh of breath to send the eyelash into the warm summer air—and along with it, any traces of his previous embarrassment.
Elliott pulled back, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, while grabbing for a sip of his wine with the other. “So what’d you wish for?” he asked as soon as he swallowed.
“I can’t tell you that! Or else it won’t come true. Everybody knows that.” I crossed my arms over my chest as if holding in my secret and grinned in mock defiance.
Maybe I was a little superstitious too. He smiled but he didn’t speak, his eyes remaining focused on me. I wasn’t sure if he was challenging me with his stare to tell him my wish, or just observing the fact that I wouldn’t. Either way, usually, I would have ignored the attention, but from him, I held his gaze and studied his face, his relaxed posture, his lack of pretense.
When I finally pulled my eyes from his, I scanned the bistro as it twinkled under the string lights above. The warm, honeyed tones of the Provençal sky merged seamlessly with the landscape below, and the hills, dressed in a patchwork quilt of vibrant greens and soft purples, unfurled like a living tapestry tossed over the hills as if to keep it warm as the temperatures dipped at night.
I took out my phone, opened the video app, and zoomed in on the accordionist swaying to and fro in front of the whole picturesque view. The entire scene was so cinematic I couldn’t help but be drawn to capturing it, even though I was certain the magnitude and true beauty could never adequately translate the same way as seeing it in person.
Elliott, spotting my camera, started waving his hands at me, his eyes growing wide in panic. “Ah, no! What are you doing!? That’s just going to make him come over here!” He very inconspicuously tried to hide behind his menu, obviously unsuccessfully since his head alone could barely be concealed by the tiny paper flapping in the breeze.
The musician meandered closer as the final notes were played and peeked over his accordion to ask, “Excusez-moi, do you young lovers have any special requests?”
Elliott looked around, seeming to think the stranger was addressing someone else, and when the man stood there waiting for a response, Elliott finally sputtered, “Lo . . . lovers?! Us? No! We’re not!”
“Jeez, relax. We’re sharing a bowl of mussels and a bottle of wine and sitting like two feet away from one another. It’s not completely unreasonable he might think we were on some sort of date. Doesn’t make it true,” I shot back. “And thank you for making it sound like a date with me is the most offensive idea on the planet. Real ego boost, thank you.”
Elliott turned to the accordionist. “We’re fine. This isn’t a date and we . . . we’re not . . . lovers. Um, here,” he said, tossing some money into his porkpie hat, “take this, for the rose song.”
The rose song, classic Elliott.
I continued filming him, zeroing in on his flushed face and him gulping down his glass of water, until the musician disappeared into the crowd to serenade some actual lovers, and then I tucked my phone back into my bag.
Elliott watched me as I put it away and said, “I know I was giving you a hard time about your little videos before, but I’ve seen some of the clips you’ve been posting to your TikTok account. And, I’m big enough to admit, they’re not half bad. The one you posted a few days ago of Agnès shuffling around the inn in her housedress arranging sprigs of lavender was really very good. The editing was clever and original, and it showed her in a totally different light.”
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.
