“These would be divine by the fireplace in the grand salon,” she said, pointing to two large cream chairs with rose stitching. “What do you think, Plum?”

“They’re gorgeous. Do you know anything about them?” I asked the seller.

He shook his head. “Désolée, je ne parle pas anglais.”

Simone stepped forward. “Pardon, pouvez-vous me parler de ces chaises.”

The seller nodded before providing us with the chairs’ history in rapid-fire French. Unfortunately, I was only able to make out a few words. I looked to Simone for some assistance.

“He found the chairs in the thirteenth-century monastery village of Fanjeaux, about two hours away. Based on their quality, he thinks they may have belonged to the mother superior of the abbey. He wanted one hundred eighty euros a chair, but I talked him down to three hundred euros for the pair,” Simone said, passing the seller the bills.

“The left leg on that one looks broken,” I said.

Simone glanced down. “No problem, that is an easy repair.”

Elliott had Simone reenact the exchange two more times and directed her to ask a few more pointed questions about the chairs in English for the benefit of Heart Restoration Project’s American audience. She caught on quickly, able to extract the information without it seeming directed or forced.

Elliott addressed his small crew. “I think we got what we need here. Why don’t you guys grab some shots of the eager crowds coming into the market. I think it’ll really up the stakes of the negotiation scenes.” He looked over at me. “So much for the reality aspect of reality TV, right? But I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

“You know it’s funny, but in the early days of EVERLYday, everything we put out there was real. It was only when the show started to take off that things began to change. We weren’t the Everly family anymore, we were the Everly brand.” I glanced up from the ground and into Elliott’s sympathetic eyes. “What? What’d I say?”

“I guess I never thought about what that must’ve been like for you. You always seemed so, I don’t know, happy? The perfect nuclear family? Two parents who loved their kids and liked each other. Pretty novel stuff.”

“Is it?”

“I wouldn’t know, my dad walked out on us when I was a baby, and my mom’s tablescapes, well, they were made up of paper plates and red Solo cups,” he snickered.

His rigid posture and balled fists clued me in to the fact we were treading on uncomfortable territory. I arched my right eyebrow and tried to lighten the mood. “Elliott Schaffer, did you watch EVERLYday?”

“Gimme a break, everyone watched EVERLYday. It was on so many damn channels you couldn’t avoid it even if you wanted to. But only the early seasons—before I got a PlayStation.”

“So who was your favorite?”

“Favorite what?”

“Sister?”

He pursed his lips and jutted out his chin. “Do you really want to know?”

Simone rushed over, stealing the moment his answer was supposed to fill. “Okay, so good news, I got the seller to agree to transport the chairs free of charge. Turns out he always wanted to be an actor and was pretty jazzed about his five minutes of fame. He asked if he might get a chance to be on camera again when he delivers them to the château? Since he has another even better booth at the top of the hill, I told him we might be able to work something out.” Simone fanned her face with a map of the market. “Goodness, it’s hot today. What do you say we divide and conquer? That way we can cover as much ground as possible before the temperature becomes unbearable?”

The sun was starting to come up over the market and already the summer heat felt sweltering. Even the breeze off the river was doing little to help cool down the air. “I’m fine with that. Although, I’m not sure how it will affect the filming schedule?” I looked at Elliott.

“I’ll go with Plum, and radio the guys to meet up with you, Simone. We should have more than enough footage already, but this way we’re definitely covered.”

Elliott and I set off deeper into the market, while Simone headed up the hill to check out the professional antique booths. Brocante de Beaucaire was a feast for the senses, with vibrant textiles, unique art, and local food vendors. Rows of vendor stalls were set up to display some of the region’s most desirable goods: fleur-de-lis-adorned linens and needlework, antiques and bric-a-brac like weather-worn tins and handblown glassware, artisan-crafted ceramics, and household furniture of varying sizes from all periods of history.

In the center of the market, the most beautiful antique carousel spun in the sunlight. It featured candy-colored horses, bejeweled carriages, and classic storybook characters. The scene was so overwhelmingly animated it was hard to know what to focus on first. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large mantel clock decorated with a black onyx lion sitting on a table in a nondescript booth full of knickknacks and small trinkets. I crossed over and wiggled through some foot traffic for a closer look.

“Pardon, Monsieur. What can you tell me about this clock?” I asked the seller.

“Ah, it is a French specimen-marble, four-glass clock by the renowned maker Japy Frères. As you can see, the pretty dial is porcelain enamel on copper with floral swags between the hours and fretted gilt-brass hands. The lion is one hundred percent polished black onyx dipped in gold leaf. She is a beauty, non?”

“Oui.” Elliott came up behind me, and I picked up the clock to show it to him. “What do you think? For the mantel in the salon? It looks just like the one I saw in a photograph of Château Mirabelle back at Saint Orens.”

Elliott studied the clock. “Who knows? It could very well be the same one? When the Germans occupied Château Mirabelle, it is more than likely they looted and traded whatever they could.”

A wave of sadness washed over me. What if the clock had been a wedding gift for Luc and Imène, or maybe it was an Adélaïse family heirloom? And while I knew it was highly unlikely this was the very same one, even the remote possibility it could be had my heart beating just a little bit faster. “Can you tell me the price?” I asked the seller.

“Three hundred fifty euros. But for you, ma cherie, three hundred euros.”

Elliott picked up his camera to film our exchange.

“Merci,” I said and set it back down on the table.

Elliott lowered his camera. “What happened? You’re not gonna get it?”

“Simone was pretty strict with her orders, furniture only today. Besides, we can’t know for sure if this was the same one, and it’s a bit pricey and out of budget for something not entirely practical.”

“Does it matter?”

“Bastien says you can honor a home by restoring it to its original state, or you can honor it by restoring it to its original intention, so maybe it doesn’t matter?”

His expression couldn’t mask his surprise. “Bastien said that?”

“He probably read it off a fortune cookie or something,” I teased.

Elliott looked up from the ground. “I don’t hate him, you know? Bastien.”

I tilted my head and side-eyed him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t,” he confirmed. “When I messaged him to pick you up from the station in the middle of the night, he didn’t hesitate for even a second. I told you, I can admit when I’m wrong.”

The stall was quiet with the exception of one other patron who was being helped by the slightly balding seller behind the tables. Elliott rested his camera by his feet, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Luckily, first impressions aren’t always the most accurate,” he smirked, a playful glint in his eye. Thinking of the awkwardly painful car ride that first day, I broke into a grin as I remembered hurling all over him in the back of a car the size of a toy truck.

My smile quickly evolved into a fit of giggles. “I will never forget, for the rest of my life, how you looked folded into the back of that car. It was a bit like how I imagine Houdini looked inside a safe.” And just saying the words out loud launched me into an outbreak of uncontrollable laughter.

“Well, at least I kept my breakfast in my stomach and not launched all over the colleague I’d just met,” Elliott fired back. And to my surprise, he started to laugh too. Loudly. And the sound was delightful. Always so serious and focused, he rarely, if ever, let his hair down, so to speak. Since we’d been working together, this was the first time I’d really heard him let loose. The sound stirred something within me, and a twinkle I’d never quite noticed before flickered from behind his smile.

“Hey,” I said, sobering a little with the realization, “you have a great laugh. You should do it more often.” I swatted at him playfully, and catching his eye as my hand landed on his forearm, I felt a current of electricity rocket straight through me. Our shared giggles dissolved with that one glance and melted into a sweet moment that lingered between us like a haze. He stepped toward me, and his body brushed against mine so closely that the soft hairs on his arms tickled my skin.

I shifted uncomfortably, lowering my eyes to break the spell. “Come on, we should keep moving if we want to meet Simone on time.” A flash of disappointment registered on his face, but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded and hoisted his camera on his shoulder again, and we continued on our way meandering through the stalls.

I glanced around the market, noticing scores of pottery and antiques of different shapes, colors, and countries of origin, and instinctively reached for my phone to capture the distinct pieces as we passed. Tapping the record button, I zoomed in on an older couple strolling hand in hand down the wide aisles of the market who paused to examine a lemon-colored lace tablecloth displayed on a rustic and oddly shaped wooden table. They’d probably been married for at least forty years and had their children and their grandchildren over every Sunday for roast chicken dinner on their little garden patio. From behind the camera, it was easy to get lost in endless possibilities. Lately, I was finding the same to be true of France itself.

I stopped filming and turned to Elliott. “Being here, sometimes I feel like I’m not just on a different continent but a completely different planet. The sights, the smells, the freedom I have to walk around a place like this in complete anonymity. I know people call Paris the City of Love, but it feels like there’s a magical spell cast over the whole damn country. I like Bastien, I do, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it’s him I’m falling for or if it’s Provence?” I looked up. “Do you ever feel that way about Odette?”

“Odette? No, there’s nothing going on between me and Odette.”