“Non, Mademoiselle, that I understand. I just don’t know what you mean. How were you deceived?”

“It’s a long, complicated story. I’m not sure you would understand. You might even think I had it coming.”

“Had it coming?” he said slowly, trying to work out the right translation. “Now that phrase I am unsure of?”

“It means you’d probably think I deserve what I got.”

“I guess that all depends? What did you get?” he asked plainly.

“Kicked in the teeth, that’s what,” I said, not even sure where I’d start if I were to explain. “Can I ask you something?” I didn’t know exactly why I’d chosen Monsieur Grenouille to be my sounding board but figured he wouldn’t have any problem being painfully frank, something I desperately needed at this moment.

“Go ahead.” He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, seemingly grateful for the chance to get off his tired feet.

“Did you ever trust someone? I mean, really trust them. Believe they had your best interest at heart only to find out they betrayed you in the worst possible way?”

“What is that expression? Let me think if I can do it justice in English.” He focused his eyes, trying to work out just the right words to use so I would understand his meaning, and finally said, “The hardest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies.”

“Exactly. I loved Rhys. I trusted Rhys. And I was wrong about him. And now, all this time, I thought Kate had been my friend, but it turns out, I was very wrong about that too. Seems I’m either an incredibly terrible judge of character, or there’s something about me that gives people the impression I’m dispensable.”

“I don’t know this Rhys you speak of or this Kate, but if she hurt you, you should let her know. It does no good to hold on to the pain of the past. I can assure you of that.”

I thought back to his outburst that day with Madame Archambeau and Elliott at the corner table in his shop when he pounded his fist and said the town had been through enough, heartbreak seeping through his every pore. I thought I now had an inkling about the pain he was referring to. Reaching into my bag, I unzipped the small inside pocket and pulled out the picture Father François had let me hold on to at Saint Orens. I set it down on the table and slid it over to Monsieur Grenouille. He picked up the photograph, his eyes growing larger and larger.

“Where did you get this?” he exclaimed.

“It was in the archives at Saint Orens.”

His face lit up with recognition. “Those are my parents, Ginette and Alain Grenouille.”

I got up and stood behind him. “I know,” I said, using a rigid finger to point to the other two couples. “And that’s Luc and Imène Adélaïse, and Marthe and Grégoire Archambeau beside them.”

He turned the picture over and looked back at me. “What’s that? What’s DP mean?”

“It stands for Dutch-Paris. Your parents. The Adélaïses. The Archambeaus. They were all part of a Resistance network that helped people escape France during World War II.”

“I was only two years old when they disappeared. My brother was just a few months. My grandparents were Nazi sympathizers, and I was forbidden to even speak their names. The little I know about what happened to them, I’ve spent my life trying to piece together.”

“Monsieur Grenouille, what I’ve been trying to piece together is that day in your shop, you said Bastien was somehow to blame for what happened. How would that even be possible?”

“Not Bastien. I misspoke. His grandfather and namesake, Sébastien Munier.”

“Château Mirabelle’s vintner?”

“So Bastien did tell you?”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Apparently not everything.”

Monsieur Grenouille went behind the counter and pulled out two small glasses and a bottle that, based on its brownish color, I guessed to be whiskey. He uncorked the top and poured us each a shot’s worth before sitting back down. He lifted the glass in the air and threw back the entire thing in a single gulp. I followed suit, but being unaccustomed to a drink that strong, I launched into a coughing fit of epic proportions. He chuckled and encouraged me to chase the shot with some water, which finally stopped the outburst.

“You are wrong, you know,” Monsieur Grenouille said. “Sébastien Munier wasn’t Château Mirabelle’s vintner, he was the vigneron.”

“I’m not sure I know the difference.”

“A vintner makes the wine but does not have involvement in farming the grapes, whereas a vigneron cultivates the grapes and also makes the resulting wine. From what I understand, Sébastien Munier was the very best vigneron in the Provence region, personally selecting every vine at Château Mirabelle. His Chenin Blanc became the stuff of legends and put the winery on the map.” He refilled his glass and continued, “Of course, the Adélaïses enjoyed having a profitable vineyard, but wine was not a particular passion of theirs, and they left most of the day-to-day operations to Monsieur Munier. That is, until 1942.”

“Right, of course. That’s when the Adélaïses joined the Resistance?”

“Oui, that’s when they started to use the winery as a cover. As far as I know, Sébastien Munier wasn’t political. I don’t think he cared for anything really beyond his precious vineyard and mostly turned a blind eye to what the Adélaïses were doing. But I have to imagine that at some point, their covert operations started to get in the way of his winemaking. From what I have been told, he tried to buy the winery from them, but because they were using it as a means to transport weapons and even people, they refused to separate it from the estate.”

I was on the edge of my seat, transfixed by his every word and gesture. “So what happened?” I whispered.

“He gave them one last opportunity to sell or else he would go to the Nazis and tell them everything. But rather than turn the house over and risk the lives of everyone involved, the Adélaïses decided to blow it up, erase all evidence of the Resistance, protect the other networks, and go into hiding.”

I slumped back in my chair. “And Monsieur Munier knew exactly what route they would take, the same route they had been using to get people out of France and into Switzerland.”

“Précisément.”

“He sold them out? He sold all of them out? Over wine!?” The magnitude of his treachery washed over me like a wave.

“Perhaps he thought he could give enough information that he would be rewarded for his loyalty and be able to hold on to the vineyard, but as you know the Nazis weren’t ones to let things go. I know my parents were somehow caught up in it, but that is all the information I have. It is like one day they just disappeared off the face of the earth.” He refilled his glass one last time and drank it down.

My throat constricted, and I grew anxious to finish his story. “I know what happened to them.”

His head shot up like a bolt. “You do?”

“The six of them, Luc and Imène Adélaïse, and Marthe and Grégoire Archambeau, and your parents were captured at the Beliveau farm in Annecy, about forty kilometers south of Geneva, on November 16, 1942. From there, they were processed into Camp des Milles and remained there until December 23, when they were transported to another camp called Drancy.”

“And after that?”

“They were most likely transported to Auschwitz. Camp des Milles didn’t have records, but they think they could be found in Poland.”

Tears streamed down Monsieur Grenouille’s face, and he remained quiet for a few minutes before speaking. “I always wondered . . .”

“Thank you, Monsieur, for your honesty and for sharing all of this with me. Your parents were incredibly brave. Very selfless and very brave. They saved hundreds of innocent people.” I took his soft hand in mine and gave it a supportive squeeze.

His expression softened, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Thank you for helping to heal an old man’s heart. You may call me Remy. I am sorry I misjudged you, Mademoiselle Everly. I see now you care more deeply for Maubec than I originally imagined.”

Laying out a spread of the other photographs and notes I’d taken at the camp and the church archives and sharing the pictures and videos I’d taken on my phone, I recounted every bit of information Elliott and I learned throughout our investigation to Monsieur Grenouille as we sipped on whiskey. And while our findings wouldn’t bring any of them back, or erase the wrongdoings of the past, I was grateful to have given Monsieur Grenouille the missing pieces to his puzzle and even more so the closure he hadn’t realized he needed until now.

We filled our cups one last time. Monsieur Grenouille lifted his and said, “L’amour est un sacrifice, et l’amour se sacrifie pour son prochain, which means: Love is sacrifice, and love sacrifices itself for its neighbor.”

I lifted my glass to meet his. “Well, then, to love.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

While I was speaking with Monsieur Grenouille, the sky had turned dark and opened up to an unexpected steady roll of afternoon showers. I threw my cardigan up over my head to scurry across the street back to the inn. My mind was reeling over the information Monsieur Grenouille had revealed, and I wasn’t sure how many more surprises I could handle. I had so much to try to sort out and less than twenty-four hours to make a decision about airing the show.

Truth be told, I already knew what I was going to do. I had to walk away. It was my dignity on the line, my reputation. Not to mention, that leaked sex tape became such a rift between me and my family, I knew another embarrassment of that caliber would firmly cement in their minds that I was hopeless—bound forever to exist as the permanent blemish that tarnished the family name.