“‘N’est-ce pas’ means ‘do you not,’ right?” I guessed.
His eyes beamed. “Bien joué, your French is much improved, Plum.”
“Pascal Sauveterre has been tutoring me a bit in the evenings,” I shared.
“Ah, Pascal Sauveterre. I did some work on La Cigale Chantante not too long ago.” He shook his head, fishing around in the cooler for a beer from the very bottom, deep in the ice. “They have some very serious foundation problems. The inn on top of the hill will be the inn at the bottom of the hill in not too long if they cannot get it properly fixed.” He popped the top off with his hand effortlessly and passed me the frosty bottle with an easy smile.
“Merci,” I said and clinked my bottle to his before taking a long sip. The hoppy tang was surprisingly refreshing, and I relished in the cold chill working its way down my chest and into my stomach. “Have you seen Bastien or Kate at all?”
“Oui, they were in le château earlier.”
“Oh, it’s been deemed safe to go inside now?”
“Almost, so long as you stay on the rez-de-chaussée . . . um, ground floor. The last of the mold was removed earlier today, and the second floor should be secured by tomorrow evening so filming inside can safely resume.”
I nodded, and we sat for a few moments enjoying the cold beers as the sun continued to beat down from high in the blue sky. The condensation from the bottle dripping down the skin on my fingers mirrored the beads of sweat rolling down the small of my back, and I enjoyed another long pull of the crisp but mildly bitter beer, cooling me from the inside as it snaked its way down to my stomach. I finished my beer as we sat in comfortable silence, and after swigging back the very last frothy sip, I thanked him, clinking my empty bottle once more to his, and set off to look for Kate and Bastien for an update.
I stepped into the grand foyer and called into the house. No answer. I inched a little farther into the hallway, but still no answer. There was a light knock on the front door.
“Hello?” I called.
“Bonjour, y a-t-il quelqu’un ici?” a cheerful voice sang out.
I recognized the seller from the booth where we bought the antique cream-colored chairs with rose stitching and went to greet him at the entranceway. “Je ne parle pas beaucoup le français, Simone n’est . . . Simone n’est . . . I’m afraid Simone’s not here.”
“Voilà, the chairs. For you,” he said, carrying them into the house, one wedged under each of his arms. His eyes darted around the space. “Où?”
“Où? Oh right, where? Follow me,” I said, motioning him toward the salon.
“Où sont les caméras?” he asked as we made our way down the long hall.
“Where are the cameras?” I translated and repeated back to him. “Not today,” I responded and held up two fingers. “Deux jours. Two days.” His face fell in disappointment. “Maybe you can come back then, and we can reenact the chair delivery? Sorry, I don’t know how to say reenact in French.”
The seller plopped the two chairs down in the middle of the room with a resounding humph.
“Um . . . if you can wait a few minutes, I can try to find someone who can speak better French who can explain,” I offered.
“Non, non, non, Simone m’a promis!” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out the front door, muttering a handful of what I imagined to be French expletives along the way.
“I’ll have her call you,” I yelled after him, but he was already halfway to his truck. Once he was gone, I turned my attention to the beautiful chairs now strewn in the middle of the room. They were heavier than they looked, and it took almost all the upper body strength I had to drag them across the floor to the front of the fireplace, but Simone was right, they made the most perfect addition to the space.
Exhausted from the early wake-up call, I plunked down in one of them and stretched my feet out in front of me. Even though it was close to ninety degrees in the house, it was easy to imagine a family gathered around the massive hearth playing card games and telling stories. I glanced up, and there above the fireplace was the fully excavated Adélaïse family coat of arms. The workers must have finished it while we were at the market. I don’t know how I’d overlooked it earlier, maybe it was all the commotion with the yelling chair vendor, but as soon as I spotted it, I sprang out of the seat to take a closer look.
Most of the color on the crest that had been faded from the layers of paint that had to be scraped to unearth it were renewed, now clearly detailing the heralding trumpets, fleur-de-lis, and rampant lions on its shield. The proud name Adélaïse, now clearly visible in a stylized Old English–looking font stamped across the middle, added to its regality and prominence. With the colors restored to a distinctly vibrant crimson, green, and gold, the crest looked dynamic and powerful, a true symbol of what this house and this family stood for—and seeing it displayed front and center in the space made me feel a sense of pride I hadn’t felt while working on any project . . . or maybe ever.
What sounded like a man’s and a woman’s voice cascaded down the hallway. I poked my head out of the salon doorway and spied Bastien and Kate locked in an intimate conversation, Bastien’s hand on the small of Kate’s back as they walked. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but every couple of words were interspersed by laughter. They stopped at the stairway, huddling closer together. Kate placed her palm on Bastien’s chest, nodding along to whatever it was he was saying before he pulled her in for a long hug. She broke away and threw him one last smile before turning on her heel and walking out of the house.
I waited a few seconds, cleared my throat, and called out, “Bastien? Bastien, is that you?”
He strode into the salon. “Plum, there you are! How are you, ma chérie? You were at Brocante de Beaucaire, non? How was it? A rousing success?”
“Honestly, it was hot. But we did manage to find these two beauties,” I said, pointing to the chairs.
He stood back to admire them. “Elles sont magnifiques.”
“Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Oh, I have been up with the cicadas since this morning . . . busy, busy. First, I did a walk-through of the house to make sure we cleared all the mold. Believe me, mold is not something you want to play around with, very serious if any at all is left behind. I think the fans and dehumidifiers need just one more day to run to make sure everything is dried out before we secure the floors, and then we can resume filming.”
“That is very good news.”
He cupped my chin in his hands. “Why do you look like that when you say, ‘that is very good news’?”
“Why do I look like what?”
“Like the very good news is actually very bad news.”
I stepped back and away from him. “No, it’s nothing. Just a long, hot, exhausting day is all. And it is very good news. I’m sure Kate was delighted.”
“Maybe? I am sure René has already provided her with an update.”
“René? Not you? You’re not the one who’s been updating her?” So if Bastien wasn’t giving her the lowdown on the mold situation, then what were they so cozied up about?
“Oui, I asked René to take the lead on this part of the renovation. There are just too many things to tend to, and I needed to, um, how do you say . . . give some jobs away?”
“Um . . . delegate?”
“Oui, yes, delegate. He will update Kate on his part.”
