âThe house will be in really good shape for the show, but thereâs still a ton of work to be done for us to make her the heart of Maubec again. Heâs agreed to help, which is a pretty big win. Itâs still a huge undertaking, though.â I slumped down on the couch beside him.
âDonât get ahead of yourself. One step at a time. Weâll find a way,â Elliott said, resting his hand on my leg as I snuggled into him.
I motioned toward his computer. âWhatâs that youâre working on?â
He sat upright. âItâs the rough cut of all the footage we captured. Plum, your eye is spot-on. The best moments are the ones that you directed,â he said, clicking the play button on the video. Suddenly, we were back in the Room of Murals at Camp des Milles with HĂ©lĂšne, the camera panning over the walls of art, zeroing in on the small details that humanized it. He zipped through more of the footage, stopping on certain scenes and exchanges to point out how my instinct enriched and enhanced each moment.
âItâs really good, isnât it?â I said.
âIt really is,â he agreed, meeting my gaze.
âRemember on the carouselââ
âWhen you said you wanted to be me? How could I forget, it was the first time you said anything to me even slightly resembling a compliment,â Elliott joked.
âI donât know if that was technically a compliment . . . ,â I teased. âIâm pretty sure you just misheard me. But yes, when I said I wanted to do what you doâto be the one behind the camera instead of in front of it. I want to work on projects that matter and subjects I care about. I never felt more myself than I have here in Provence, and I want to find more stories to breathe new life into.â I reached for his hand and nervously let the words spill out before I could stop myself, âAnd . . . and I want you and I to set off with our cameras and tell them . . . together.â
He took a thoughtful half second before responding, a sweet smile gracing his face. âWhere do I sign?â
Pushing his computer onto the cushions and out of the way, I leaped onto his lap and peppered his face with silly, sweet kissesâone to his cheek, his other cheek, his nose, his neckâeach little smooch like the popping of champagne bubbles. He rolled me over, pinning me under him, and returned the playful affection, to the sound of my laughter. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he continued to press his lips over the exposed skin of my collarbone.
Elliott planted one last kiss before shifting back beside me and sighed. âAs much as I would prefer to do this for the rest of our time in France, we should probably focus our attention on getting ChĂąteau Mirabelle finished like you said.â
âYou donât happen to have a cool four million lying around, do you?â
He jokingly looked under the couch cushions and then patted down his pockets. âSorry, other pants. What about you? You holdinâ out on me, Everly?â
âMaybe? I mean, well, I certainly donât have that kind of dough. But I do know a few people who might. The thing is, Iâm not sure if theyâll go for it?â
Elliott passed me my phone from off the side table. âAnd I say, thereâs only one way to find out . . .â
Chapter Forty-Three
A few hours later and I hadnât made the call yet. I needed more time to practice my pitch so that my parents didnât think this was yet another one of my wild (and historically fleeting) ideas, but rather a solid investment with real potential for the future. Unfortunately, though, time was of the essence. With the finale airing in just a few weeks and the renovation budget practically tapped, I needed to find some more lifeblood for this project if ChĂąteau Mirabelle was ever going to be truly restored back to its former glory. I held my phone tightly to my chest and looked at Elliott. âTheyâre going to think Iâm calling to ask for money.â
From over his laptop, his blue eyes, bright with the illumination from the screen, lifted from the footage he was still editing. âWell, you kind of are calling to ask for money.â
I shot him a look. âNot helping.â
He lowered his MacBook screen and turned to me. âYou have a solid business plan. Walk your parents through it exactly the way you just walked me through it. Theyâll see the potential in the chĂąteau and the winery. Itâs all there. Really.â
I took a deep breath and hit the dial button before I could change my mind. A few rings later, Dad answered.
âPlumkin, is that you?â he asked, clearing his throat. It was obvious Iâd woken him up. âEverything okay? What time is it?â
âHere or there?â
âBoth?â
âItâs five p.m. here, so eight a.m. in California.â
âYour mother mustâve let me sleep in,â he said through a yawn. âWhatâs going on? We havenât heard much from you these past few weeks, just a few texts here and there. How are things? TrĂšs bien, I hope,â he chirped in a distinctively Californian accent.
âIâm . . . Iâm actually pretty good, all things considered . . .â
Silence on the other end.
âUm . . . Dad? You still there?â
ââAll things consideredâ what?â he urged. âIâm on the edge of my seat . . . or should I say, my bed. I was just waiting for you to continue. I wasnât sure if you were just embracing a dramatic pause or something . . . you just never know with you girls,â he joked.
âFair point, but not the case today. Actually, itâs a bit of a long story, really. One that I was wondering . . . if youâd want to hear in person?â
Panic flooded his voice. âOh God, are you in some sort of trouble?â
Scoffing, I sighed. âNo, Dad, thankfully, not today. But I do have an ideaâa business proposalâI wanted to run by you and Mom, and then maybe, if you think it to be worthwhile, Iâll tell you the rest over a bottle of white . . . when you come to visit me here in France?â I lifted the end of my question to accentuate my request with an air of hope.
âOkay, youâve got my attention. Let me get your mother on the phone.â
Over the next forty-five minutes, I walked my parents through my plan. Once I was finished filming the new, more historically focused finale, Jack and Claudine (in payment for my emotional anguish and probably so I didnât sue the hell out of the studio) had promised to honor the agreement of letting me keep the deed to the estate once we wrapped. Iâd also managed to negotiate that 2 percent of the residuals from Heart Restoration Projectâs current airing season, all its streaming content, and any subsequent syndication would go toward keeping the property operational once it was up and running. But it might be months, possibly even years, before we saw any of that money.
The showâs remaining restoration budget would address as many structural elements as possible, but as RenĂ© pointed out, weâd barely be scratching the surface. The most obvious solution was to bring in my family as silent partners in the estate. Theyâd expand their B and B business portfolio into the European market, an idea theyâd been aspiring to for years, and ChĂąteau Mirabelle would become a full-service hotel with a fully operational winery my father would manage. It had the potential to be a win for all, if they agreed.
âSo what do you think? If you donât want to be involved, I understand and will look for different investors, but one way or another, I am going to make this happen.â
Iâm not sure if he could sense the resolve in my voice, the sincerity of my ask, or the clarity of my conviction, but without a momentâs hesitation, he said, âWhat do I think? I think weâll see you in France at the end of the month.â
Almost four weeks later, the entire Everly family descended on the quiet out-of-the-way village of Maubec, France. It didnât take long for them to fall in love with the beautiful scenery, the warmth of the people, and most of all, ChĂąteau Mirabelle. As they stepped onto the estateâs cobblestone path, my father, ever the practical one, took in the impressive structure with a critical eye. He could see the potential, his excitement growing with every step.
I gave him a full tour of the house, starting in the fully rebuilt and refurbished wine cellars all the way up through the attics. A jaunt that shouldâve taken about an hour took closer to three as Dad stopped to examine every piece of crown molding, every pane of stained glass, each elaborate fireplace, and, I swear, the framework on all ninety-two doors and windows.
âDad, itâs just another door,â I said, dragging him from the library.
âDo you see that wainscoting? Thatâs not just another door. That door is a thing of beauty.â
âIf you like that door, wait till you see the wood trellis out in the garden. Arches, lattice designs, carvings . . . the works,â I teased. âCâmon, weâve been inside all morning, letâs take in some of that fresh Provençal air.â
I guided my father, our arms linked, as we strolled leisurely through the expansive garden, passing beneath the magnificent trellis as promised, a weathered oak structure adorned with climbing roses and wisteria clusters, and then made our way to the vineyard.
âItâs only been a few months away from home, and yet I feel like I have a lifetime to fill you in on,â I said to Dad, linking my arm through his as we strolled through the narrow rows of grapevines.
âHow about just the highlight reel then?â
âElliottâwho I canât wait for you to meetâedited the finale and sent it off just a few days ago, and apparently the test groups responded even better to this version than Kateâs. The history angle, the town angle, the mystery of it all. They loved it. They loved it so much that the producers have already greenlit a second season. They want me and Elliott to visit some of the other chĂąteaus that were part of the Dutch-Paris network and tell their stories. And I want to say yes, but first I need to know what you think about ChĂąteau Mirabelle now that youâve seen her? About my plan? Cause I wonât abandon her. I will see this thing through.â
Dad grinned from behind his hand as he rubbed the salt-and-pepper scruff on his cheek. He bent down to the ground, scooping a fistful of dirt into his hand. âYour friend RenĂ©, he told me this land is still rich with minerals and ready to be a vineyard again. You know, I still havenât been able to produce a decent white in Ojai, but I think with the right vintner, we may just be able to do that here. What do I think? I think this place is every bit as magical as you described it, and . . .â He took a beat, as if a wave of emotion was making it difficult for him to speak. âAnd I think Iâve never seen my daughter so passionate and so self-assured about anything in her life.â With his free hand he dabbed a bent knuckle into his tear duct, and then he said, âItâs good to see you again, Plumkin. I knew you were still in there somewhere.â