The gentle sunshine warmed my face and shoulders as a light summer breeze wafted in the faint aroma of lavender, wild thyme, and ripe plums—the garrigue I’d come so fondly to associate with Provence. I inhaled deeply and hurried down the front steps of Château Mirabelle to meet the Vespa I spotted turning off the road. René climbed off the motorbike and set his helmet on its seat before ambling up the driveway to meet me.

Now that Jack and Claudine were 100 percent on board with the show’s new direction, Tributary had signed off on a few more weeks of filming for the fully reimagined Heart Restoration Project. Though Elliott was less than pleased to be working alongside Bastien, the three of us had agreed to a reconciliation in the name of shooting material worthy of the show now built around our new star, Château Mirabelle.

Bastien accepted the fact that, though his heart was in the right place, his prowess with a hammer and nails (among many other construction skills) left much to be desired. He stepped aside as foreman, and we decided to call in the professionals to whip the house into better shape for the real renovation effort. Now that the house was actually the show’s real focus, all the smoke and mirrors needed to be replaced with drywall and support beams, and the crew would have to work tirelessly to make as many improvements as they could with the limited time and budget we had left.

“Monsieur Laroque,” I said, extending my hand, “thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me. I can certainly understand why you may have wanted to rid yourself of this project completely.”

“Please, Mademoiselle Everly, call me René.”

“Plum, then, please,” I said, placing my hand to my chest, and smiled. “René, I’m truly sorry for how you were treated. Bastien never had the skills necessary for a renovation like this one, and we are all in agreement you should have been project manager from the start.”

“Well it seems, if the rumors are true, that I was not the only one . . . how do you say . . . dans la merde?”

“Dans la merde?” I thought for a second. “Um . . . screwed?”

His eyes brightened, and he lofted a finger in the air. “Oui! Yes, screwed! Tous les deux.” He gestured between the two of us with an enthusiastic wave, and then, as if running out of steam, he just sighed. René dug into his back pocket, pulled out an iconic pack of Marlboro Reds, and tapped one into his fingers. With the other hand he brandished a lighter, igniting the thin white end, and drew in a lazy drag before blowing it into the breeze. He offered me one, and when I shook my head to politely refuse, he tucked the lighter into the cigarette box and shoved it back in his pants. “Besides, ce qui est fait est fait,” he said, waving his hand in the air.

“What is done . . . is done?” I translated.

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Très bien. It is a shame you are going back to Californie just when your French lessons are starting to really pay off.”

“Actually, I’m not sure I am going back to Californie, I mean California, at least not right away. In fact, that’s what I wanted to speak with you about—in addition to the apology, of course—I don’t quite think ‘what’s done is done.’ As you may have heard, the merde hit the fan when Jack and Claudine found out about Kate’s twist for the show, but we managed to pitch a different spin on how we can deliver an even more compelling season, and we were hoping you could help us bring it across the finish line.”

“I don’t know if I quite understand.” His forehead and lips both puckered in confusion. “What, uh, exactly do you need from me?”

“We were given another three weeks of budget to cover whatever we can finish of the restoration. Also, to finish gathering as much footage and conducting the rest of the interviews to piece together with the material we already have. As you can see”—I gestured to the lumber and materials still strewn around the front of the property—“we don’t quite have a fully renovated château. So I guess I need you to give it to me straight. What are we working with? Are we days away from being able to finish this thing?”

Taking a minute to digest it all, he inhaled a long drag and blew it out in a forceful stream of smoke as he nodded. “Do you want the looking-at-life-through-rose-colored-glasses answer or the truth?”

I pounded my chest and raised my chin a little higher. “Go ahead, hit me with the truth. Who knows? It might actually be a welcome change.”

He took one last drag, then started walking and talking like he was leading a tour through the Louvre, and I realized I was supposed to try to keep up. “The biggest lift was the foundation. Fortunately, the explosives that were detonated through the house did more superficial damage than structural, and we were able to repair all of it.” He motioned upward. “As you know, there was quite a bit of mold in the upper level bedroom walls on the south side of the house where the roof was the most compromis. We have removed it, replacing all the Sheetrock and beams.”

“And the roof itself?”

“The slate roof is brand new, and we managed to keep it as close to the original as possible down to the copper nails. It took some doing, but I was even able to procure enough zinc to re-create the ridge work. And finally the plumbing,” he said, sucking in air. “Luckily most of the piping was still in decent shape. We replaced the kinked or broken pipes and introduced hot water into the kitchen and toilettes.”

So far this all sounded pretty encouraging. Given how erratic the construction had been, I was astounded by how much of the renovation was actually completed. “Okay, so then what wasn’t touched?”

He exhaled. “We started the process of rewiring the house but weren’t able to finish. Since they had the production lights for filming, it was made lower on the priority list.” René motioned for me to follow him inside to the entranceway. “None of the stairways are up to code. They all need to be widened and reinforced.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

He frowned. “I am not fini. There’s no central heating or air. Right now the only heat source for le château is the fireplaces.”

“That’s okay, right? Adds to the charm. The ambience,” I said optimistically.

He continued, “Most of the floors we haven’t replaced need to be stripped and resealed, as does every single window and door in the house—ninety-two total to be exact.”

“The château has almost a hundred doors and windows?!”

“Look, Ms. Everly, by most standards the house is restored or will be in a couple of more weeks when the crew is finished. It will be a château much like the ones that stood proudly in Provence at the turn of the century. But if you are asking me if it is now a modern dwelling with modern conveniences ready for a family to live in or guests to stay in comfortably, the answer is no. Achieving that would take a substantial investment.”

“How much of an investment? Like ballpark?”

His eyes looked upward as he did the calculations in his head, and when he settled on a figure, he blew out a raspberry at the enormity of it. “Pfft . . . ballpark? Off the top of my head? I’d say around three to four million euros.” Four million euros?! Jeez, it may as well have been a unicorn horn or a leprechaun’s pot of gold—just as valuable and seemingly just as unlikely.

“Come, let’s go back outside for un moment, I have one more thing I want to show you,” he said.

I followed him to the back of the house overlooking the vineyard.

“I shared a drainage proposal with Mademoiselle Wembley, but she was not interested in any work related to the winery,” René said.

“What kind of proposal?”

“A vineyard must be tiled before planting. Tiling allows excess water to flow to a drainage ditch and away from the vineyard. It is quite expensive, but also quite necessary, especially with the heavy rains we have been experiencing in Provence these last few years.”

“What does something like that cost?”

“It is about four thousand euros an acre.”

“Okay, that seems reasonable. How many acres is this vineyard?”

“Hmm, a little over sixty.”

I did some quick calculations in my head. “So you’re telling me it’s about a quarter million euros to tile the vineyard?” That was like six times the amount of all my combined winnings from every reality competition I’d been on!

“With labor probably closer to three hundred thousand euros,” he said, grabbing for my elbow when his answer almost bowled me over. “But I say all this to tell you, that this land—this terroir—is a worthy investment if you can find someone who can cultivate it back into a vineyard again. And for certain, it can be thriving and flowing and wonderful, but it will take some real money and quite a lot of hard work.” René dropped his arms to his sides. “Plum, may I ask you a question? Do you really understand what you would be taking on if you decided to revive Château Mirabelle to her fullest potential?”

“Don’t you mean that we’re taking on?” I asked him with a hopeful smile and a curved brow.

“Oh? I’m sorry? I’m not sure I understand?”

“We. That we are taking on together . . . that is, if you will stay on and be project manager? I know deep down you love this house as much as I do. I know that’s why you fought so hard to make sure Bastien did right by it.”

“Plum, I do not think you can afford me.”

“No, you’re right. I can’t afford you. But I’ll figure something out. Château Mirabelle deserves the best, n’est pas?”

He surveyed the house with careful scrutiny, taking his time before answering, “Oui, yes, you may count me in.”

“Merci,” I exhaled gratefully.

“Good, and now that I am signed on, let’s go remove all that vulgaire silver inlay,” René exclaimed, marching off in the direction of the front door.

After René left, I found Elliott cozied up with his laptop on one of the sofas, bulbous headphones on top of his Kansas City Chiefs ball cap, in the grand salon. Perhaps hearing my footsteps or just sensing someone else in the room, he looked up from the screen.

“So,” he asked, “what was René’s verdict?”