Elliott snapped his notebook closed. “I’m not sure what he’s working on?”
“Well, lucky us, we get to spend the day at Brocante de Beaucaire,” Simone said, clapping her hands together with a wide grin.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My favorite antiques market in all of France. You will absolutely love it. Where shall we meet?” Simone asked.
I looked over at Elliott. “The van will be at the inn at five a.m.,” he answered.
I did a double take. “Five a.m.?”
“Trust me, you want to get to the market bright and early, that’s how you find the very best stuff,” Simone said with a nod.
“We’re staying at the La Cigale Chantante,” Elliott added.
She nodded, tucked the itinerary into the side pocket of her portfolio, and said, “I know it well. See you both tomorrow morning.”
After Simone left, Elliott stepped a little farther into the room to examine the crumbling fireplace. He reached up and grabbed hold of a small paint curl dangling above the mantel and dragged it down the wall, peeling it away to reveal the faint outline of an image underneath. He reached up again, tugging at an even larger paint curl, and like a streamer, this time, exposed a huge section of the picture.
“From here, it looks like it could maybe be the top half of a lion. That’s right, I remember seeing a painting over the mantel in one of the photos at Saint Orens,” I said.
Elliott backed away from the fireplace. “I noticed a lion was part of the Adélaïse family crest. I bet if we kept peeling away the paint, we’d find the whole thing intact. You should make sure to point it out to your designer friend. It’d be a shame to see it covered up again. Maybe they can restore it? Feature it in the design?” Elliott wiped the paint dust from his hands off onto his pants.
“Hey, Elliott?”
He faced me. “Yeah?”
“I wanted to say thank you for letting Bastien know I’d be coming into Avignon so late the other night. That was really . . . um . . . thoughtful.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s fine, Plum. Don’t mention it, it’s no big deal.”
“It was a big deal. I don’t know if you could ever understand, but when the paparazzi closes in on me like that, I feel like one of those animals with their legs caught in a trap. Like a lion being chased by hyenas. Completely helpless. I needed to get out of there, and I wasn’t thinking clearly, so I’m grateful that you were.”
“I swear, I didn’t know who it was you were talking to in the hotel lobby, on my life, I didn’t. Or I wouldn’t have filmed you and Rhys. All that gotcha stuff, that isn’t me. That isn’t who I am as a person or filmmaker.” He took a few steps closer so we were just inches apart. “I’d never do anything to hurt or embarrass you.”
“I know,” I whispered.
We stood there, so close our breaths were practically touching.
“Plum, good, there you are,” Bastien called from the doorway. “I have a busy next couple of days, so I wanted to see if you were free to grab some dinner?”
“Sounds good. Just give me one minute to finish up,” I called out to him. I turned back to Elliott. “Are you finished for the day too?”
“I think I’ll stick around and explore a little more before heading out.” Elliott fixed his light-blue eyes on me. “I feel like there might still be something here I’m missing. Sometimes the most special things are right there in front of us, just waiting to be discovered,” he said softly, his words hanging delicately in the air between us.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Framed by castle walls and the Rhône River, the port town of Beaucaire was bustling with activity. The sun was barely up, but already hundreds of people were streaming into the Brocante de Beaucaire looking for everything from household items, furniture, silver, and copperware to decorative accessories like vintage photos and jewelry.
“Every town in Provence has its own unique market. Some specialize in fresh fruits and vegetables. Some in seafood, some in furniture, and some in flowers,” Simone explained as Gervais circled around for a spot to drop us off. “A brocante is a simple market with goods offered mostly by dealers, while a Marché des Antiquités tends to have high-quality antiques. Brocante de Beaucaire has a bit of both, which is why it’s my favorite in the area.”
“Gervais, laissez-nous au bas de la colline,” Simone instructed, before continuing on. “I asked Gervais to drop us off at the bottom of the hill. We can meet the van back up top in a few hours. Usually, you can negotiate for delivery for any larger pieces of furniture, so don’t worry about that.”
We climbed out of the van, followed closely by Elliott and his small film crew. As we stepped into the warm summer heat, I inhaled and closed my eyes, trying to place some of the unique smells of the market. “I will never get tired of that smell. I wish we could bottle it. It’s just so distinct.” I stretched my arms over my head and sucked in another lungful.
“Funny you should say that. It’s called garrigue. It is the signature scent of the south of France. It comes from the combination of the vegetation and herbs that grow in the region, along with the terroir—the soil—the sea air, and the limestone on the coast. What you smell is the essence of juniper, thyme, rosemary, and lavender. Garrigue enhances the food of Provence, the culture, the wine, and even the people—those born here and even those just visiting for a while,” she said with a wink and a smile.
Simone slung a messenger bag across her body and led the way through the different stalls, pointing out interesting pieces along the way.
“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.”
