And all of a sudden, my dad looked like a much younger version of himself, and I leaped back in time to the days before EVERLYday became a hit, reminiscing about the girl I used to be—innocent and wide-eyed, brimming with dreams and unbridled optimism, wide open to a world of endless possibilities. A time before my TV persona assumed control of the wheel, racing me forward without even so much as a glance in the rearview mirror.

I fought back my own tears, turned to my dad, and asked, “So you’ll do it? You’ll invest in Château Mirabelle?”

“No,” he replied, “but I will invest in Plum Everly.”

To hear my father say those words after so many years of feeling like a failure and the black sheep of the Everly family was more gratifying and fulfilling than I could have even imagined. A lump of emotion formed in my chest, and I touched my fingers to it, relishing in the feeling. I spent so many years searching for myself—on television, in Rhys, in public opinion. Who would have ever thought I would finally find what I was looking for six thousand miles away in a sleepy small town in France.

As we stood there in the shadow of the cherished house that had stolen my heart, surrounded by the splendor of Provence and the towering mirabelle trees, I emerged from under their comforting shade, took a few steps forward, and allowed the sun’s brilliant and golden light to wash over me.

Epilogue

I gladly welcomed the cooler temperatures October brought with it. And on one particularly temperate day, the breeze blew through the hills of Provence and through the open windows of Château Mirabelle, puffing the drapes gently with each easy gust.

I checked my watch again. Monsieur Grenouille and Madame Archambeau were by no means late for our housewarming but hadn’t yet arrived. I also managed to convince Agnès, Pascal, and Odette to leave the inn in the very capable hands of Pascal’s nephew for the afternoon and come meet my family and celebrate with us the real completion of Château Mirabelle. As my special guests for the day, theirs was the arrival I was most looking forward to.

Pear was bustling about in the kitchen putting the final touches on the platters of amuse-bouches she prepared from her latest bestselling cookbook, Think Global, Eat EVERLYthing Local. In the vineyard, Peach was finishing the tablescapes set upon large hand-carved wooden tables crafted from rustic white beech. But one of my favorite sights of all was watching my father strolling around the vineyard with René and Bastien, inspecting the vines and branches, intrigued by the nuances of the grapes and soil.

It seemed Château Mirabelle had brought us all together in more ways than one. Before my journey to France, I would have never in a million years believed my family would ever consider me to be an equal player on their team. But as we all bustled about, contributing our own little touches and individual talents, Château Mirabelle became a reflection of us all. And as if swept away by one of the breezy gusts, all the heartache for the years of judgment and hurt I’d felt as the outlier of my family disappeared, and instead, the frustration was replaced by fierce gratitude. I felt lucky to have them and, finally, their support. Maybe I’d had it all along, and just wasn’t able to see it since I was so focused on being the one who didn’t fit in. But we were sisters. We were family. And amid each one running their own multizillion-dollar company, they dropped everything to come to share their talents with me and Château Mirabelle, and for that, I couldn’t be more grateful.

At last, I heard the engine of a car make its way up the driveway, and I hurried out to meet our guests. As they all climbed out, I stood on the steps of the grand entranceway and announced, “Bienvenue tout le monde. Je vous présente le Château Mirabelle,” and then I offered an over-the-top gesture. And as if on cue, my sisters pulled the doors open from inside to reveal a spectacular view straight through the château to the salon lined in floor-to-ceiling windows, through which rolled the picturesque vineyards below. The sun streamed through the windows in wide, hazy beams, almost like a benediction.

My mom, ever(ly) the hostess, was eager to say hello to our guests and rushed to introduce herself. She unloaded Monsieur Grenouille’s hands, full of pastry boxes tied with red ribbons, and set them down on the table. “Peach, can you get a tray for these?”

Madame Archambeau handed a lovely bouquet of sunflowers to Lemon, who said, “These are gorgeous. We’ll put them into a vase to use as a centerpiece.” And finally, Agnès, Pascal, and Odette offered up several bottles of wine, which Kiwi gratefully carried into the kitchen to be chilled for dinner.

They all continued inside, and I puffed out my chest proudly before I spoke. “Permettez-moi de vous de vous présenter les lieux, s’il vous plaît.”

Pascal’s eyes twinkled proudly. “Ma belle, look at you speaking perfect French. You have been my very best étudiante.”

“To be fair, I think I was your only student,” I joked.

He chuckled too. “Mais oui, but still. You should be très fière. You are not the same girl you were when you arrived, non?”

“I am proud, really. And thank you for saying that. Thank you all for everything.” I spoke the words and, one at a time, I met the eyes of my new friends, trying to impress upon each of them the profound impact they had on me during my few short months in Provence.

Elliott stepped forward. “Actually, we have some great news to share with all of you. Heart Restoration Project has been such a big hit for Tributary that they greenlit a second season of the series to follow up on the role the Dutch-Paris network played in the Resistance across Europe. Plum and I will be leaving in a few weeks to start filming.”

“We will miss you but, tu es un membre de notre famille, Prune. Pour toujours,” Agnès said.

Mom elbowed me and whispered, “Prune? Did she just call you Prune?”

Tears welled in my eyes. Yes, we would be famille for always. I surveyed the foyer again, my family—both real and chosen—scattered around the space, and I was overcome with emotion. “Okay, okay, before I get myself all sappy, I want to show you the rest of the renovation! Venez, venez—on y va!”

I proceeded to show everyone all the nooks and crannies of the château, including the stunning eat-in kitchen with an adjacent dining area that looked out over the expansive landscape. The space was kept in the style true to the rustic provincial decor but was upgraded with state-of-the-art appliances disguised with adornments and cabinetry to maintain the illusion that they were all original fixtures and features.

Odette leaned against the kitchen island and said, “Plum, this is incredible. I’m truly speechless. After our conversation about Kate and the show and how the château was being left uninhabitable, I thought you would have cut your losses and run. I was so sure you’d try to sell it. When you told us you’d be staying in Maubec a bit longer to complete the renovations, I never could have imagined that this is what you had in mind. It’s . . . it’s parfait.”

Monsieur Grenouille chimed in, “And after all the work you and Elliott put into learning about Château Mirabelle and its history, you should be proud to know that you have returned this landmark to the people of Maubec. It is no longer an eyesore, a difficult reminder of the past. It is reinvigorated, and bright, and represents all the things that Maubec can be once again. This château was never just a building, it’s been a symbol for this town for as long as we can remember. After the war, it hurt too much for us to try to repair her. It felt like the wreckage was a necessary reminder of our pain and our history—all our family members and their sacrifice. And since the moment they blew it up, it’s been withering away every day, taking with it the spirit of Maubec. But it’s shiny, new, and most importantly, full of life. You did that. You, Plum. You gave us back our heart.”

The tears were now freely falling, and I was unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Once I managed to swallow it down, I addressed everyone before me. “So we’ve prepared a delicious meal to share outside in the vineyard. Well, not so much we. Probably much to the delight of all of you, I left that task up to Pear, our resident kitchen wizard, to dazzle us with her cuisine, fresh from the chȃteau’s gardens.”

I led everyone through the flower-covered trellis; through the herb garden, fragrant with a mix of fresh mint, lavender, and basil; and out to the patio adorned with an elaborate tablescape of bright yellows and ocean blues. Tall glass vases filled with fresh lemons and sprigs of rosemary towered over the serving dishes piled high with charred vegetables, colorful sauces, and flaky fish fillets served over fluffy pearled couscous and white raisins. Between the spread of food, the eye-catching decor, and the breathtaking view, the scene looked like something straight out of a magazine spread. I considered for a moment drawing out my phone to snap a picture of the moment, but instead, I chose not to, simply taking it in, trying to hold on to every single morsel of its sweet perfection, just for me. My chest swelled with a sense of pride and gratitude when, from the corner of my eye, I saw my mom carrying out a tray of champagne flutes. I knew that was my cue.

Making their way up from the vineyards, Dad, René, and Bastien palled around as they ambled up the dusty path, Dad beaming like an excited child on Christmas. Flurries of excitement started to dance in my stomach, and I could barely contain myself for another minute. I waited for everyone to take their seats and took my place at the head of the long table. Mom, having set a flute next to everyone’s place, made it around to hand me the last glass. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, which she returned with a wink, and then I faced the table to raise my champagne high. I realized my hands were shaking, half with nerves and half with excitement, almost feeling like I was back on the finale of Love Lagoon or Celebrity Ballroom, all the stakes finally laid bare. But this wasn’t TV, this was reality. And damn if it didn’t feel even better.

“When Heart Restoration Project finished airing, this château was in much better condition, but still not everything I’d hoped for, everything I knew it could be. There was still so much work to be done—the bones were back, but it still lacked all the things that make a home really come to life. After everything I’d learned about what happened here and everyone I’d met to whom this place meant something, I knew I had to finish what we started.”

I moved around behind the chairs to step between my parents, who were beaming at me proudly, and placed my hand on my dad’s shoulder, a gesture of gratitude for our collaboration and partnership. “I asked my family to invest in this property and help restore it to its full potential. You all know it had never been my plan to stay in Maubec. But after falling in love with the town and this house, apparently fate had an entirely different idea in mind.” I couldn’t help but flash a quick and meaningful glance at Elliott before continuing. “One that I am hoping Agnès and Pascal will want to be a part of.”

Agnès and Pascal looked up from their plates as if caught by surprise to hear their names.

“After careful consideration, we’ve realized Château Mirabelle needs a real caretaker. Someone who can be here full time to oversee the hotel and winery. Someone who knows how to manage a property like this, knows the town and the people, and someone who loves all those things just as much as we do. I thought perhaps the two of you might want to live here and run it. Everything is brand new, so there wouldn’t be much maintenance to worry about like at La Cigale Chantante. The truth is, I can’t think of two better people to entrust this endeavor to.”

It was clear that the Sauveterres were overcome with emotion, but none more so than Odette, who had her hand pressed to her chest and her eyes full of tears. She’d been ready and willing to sacrifice her own dreams to help keep her parents’ struggling inn afloat, but now she wouldn’t have to. She could return to Paris and resume her studies knowing her parents would be able to stay in Maubec with their friends to enjoy the life they loved, and most of all, they’d be “caretakers” of the chȃteau but not left to shoulder the burden alone. They’d have help and support to manage the property, while being able to step away from the day-to-day upkeep—something I knew that their sore backs and rickety knees very much appreciated.

I turned to look at Bastien. “I have one other proposition I’d like to make. Two generations ago, Sébastien Munier played a pivotal role in transforming Château Mirabelle into one of the most successful vineyards in Maubec. His treacherous actions are well documented, but few are aware of the price his grandson has had to pay for his sins.” I shifted my eyes to gaze at Monsieur Grenouille. “Letting go of the past can be a formidable challenge, a lesson I have learned firsthand, but we must if we are going to have a better future.”

A soft smile broke over Monsieur Grenouille’s face as he nodded in understanding. “So, Bastien, will you agree to be the estate’s vintner?” I asked.

“Is this a blague? A joke?”

“No, it’s not a joke. Not even a little. I spoke with my father, and we need a master vintner, someone who knows this land and this terroir better than anyone. If you can bring the same passion and nuance to this vineyard’s wine as you have with your own, well, Dad, you might finally get that award-winning white. We want to make this property and its vineyard the pride of Maubec once again. So, Bastien, what do you say?” I eyed him next to René, who gave him a spirited and congratulatory pat on the back.

Tears welled up in Bastien’s eyes, and he struggled to form words. But his silence spoke volumes. Maybe now he’d finally be able to unburden himself of his family’s legacy and create a brand-new one that was all his own.

“I know I’m leaving Château Mirabelle in fantastic hands”—I gestured to the end of the table where the Sauveterres and Bastien were still reeling with the news—“as I head off on this next adventure with Elliott.” He tilted his flute to me and smiled. “So I guess there’s nothing more to say except Bon—”

“Just a second, Plumkin,” Dad interrupted, “if I may?”

I waved him on to continue, but he’d stepped away from the table for a moment to pull a large cardboard box from where it had sat out of sight.

With no room for it on the table, he placed the box down at my feet and stood before opening it. “Plum, we are so proud of you. This entire undertaking and what you have done with it . . . we know you have given it your whole heart. So your mom and I got to thinking, and, of course, we asked Elliott for some help, but we thought, after all Château Mirabelle has been through, it deserved to be renamed to celebrate its rebirth.” He pulled out a stack of white linen napkins, the words Château Adélaïse embroidered in a soft lavender script. Below the name was the stitched outline of a proud and fearless lion, taken directly from their family crest. “Château Adélaïse,” he announced with a flourish. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Emotion swelled tight in my throat, and I swiped at a tear that had managed to squeak out. “I think . . . it is absolutely perfect.”

“Then it’s settled,” Dad exclaimed, and lifted his champagne glass. “To Château Adélaïse!” he called.

To which everyone at the table enthusiastically raised their flutes and cried, “To Château Adélaïse!”

Later that night, after everyone had gone home and my family was relaxing inside, Elliott and I remained the only two people left in the vineyard. Snuggled under a blanket on a double-seated rocker overlooking the property, we soaked in one of our very last sunsets in Provence before we flew out to Geneva in a few days to start working on the “much-anticipated” second season of Heart Restoration Project. The back terrace of the winery featured tables made of wine barrels positioned throughout the space tucked under a canopy of string lights.

Elliott chuckled. “Kinda funny to have a winery with no wine . . . yet. Madame Archambeau barreled through most of what the Sauveterres brought for dinner.”

I surveyed the acres of vineyard that sprawled far and wide and said, “Someday soon the wine here will be overflowing. But in the meantime . . .” I reached for a wine tote I’d set at my feet, slid one of the bottles from it, and held it up to Elliott. “Bastien brought us these from his private collection. He said that he was inspired by the mirabelle trees here at the château, and played around with the infusion of plum in this new blend. He said he thinks it’s one of his best yet.”

Elliott asked, “What was that thing Bastien said about the mirabelle when we first met him here?”