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.
The rain was warm and fell in rhythmic patterns across the square, fat drops plopping into the fountain in the center. I lowered the cardigan down off my head and allowed myself to close my eyes, tilt my face up, and take it all in. Raindrops slid down my forehead, into the creases of my lids and lashes, and sloped down my cheeks and neck. My clothes soaked up the moisture, the layers growing heavier with the passing time. I inhaled a deep breath and looked out into the distance: the lush fields of green and violet, the cypress trees, and Saint Orens in the distance on the hill.
I’d learned so much since arriving in Provence—not all lessons I’d volunteered to learn, necessarily, but they came nonetheless. I learned about the Adélaïses, and the Resistance, and the brave people who fought back in spite of the repercussions they knew they’d face if caught. I learned about the heartbreak of betrayal (intimately), a lesson it seemed the universe was insistent I hadn’t mastered quite yet.
I wiped my hand across my face, picked up my bag, and went inside to take a hot shower and give careful consideration to a decision I’d already subconsciously made.
The silver bell chimed above the inn door, a sound I’d miss once I was back at home, and I noticed Odette hustling around the dining room, moving small buckets around the floor and up onto tables to catch the drops of water leaking through the roof. As soon as she placed them, it seemed another leak opened somewhere else across the room. It was like watching a much less humorous game of Whac-A-Mole.
“Do you need some help?” I asked, instinctively grabbing a bucket and moving it to a stream of water that started to pour out harder than before.
Odette didn’t even lift her head to see who was speaking. She was too busy trying to balance three buckets in her arms to dump some of the caught water into the side sink. “Yeah, I do, actually. Any chance you have a new inn on you? In a pocket somewhere or in your luggage? Or a new roof at least?” she joked.
“Actually, funny you should ask . . . ,” I joked back.
Odette lifted her head at the response. “Oh, Plum, hello. Yes, I guess you do have a château . . .” Odette laughed. “Sorry, that comment wasn’t meant for you, I was just making a general joke. But, as you can see, we need a bit of renovation work ourselves if we hope to stay open for much longer.” She repositioned the newly emptied buckets back under the leaks and grabbed a dish towel to mop up any puddles left behind. “It’s one of the many reasons why I cannot return to Paris. It feels so selfish. Clearly, my parents need me here. With the state of the inn as it is, it’s all too much.”
“I can understand that,” I said and nodded.
“And I couldn’t think to move them to Paris. This is their home—Maubec, our neighbors, every piece of this town. I could never do that to them, no matter how much my dreams and future may live outside Provence.” She took a deep breath and continued, “Actually, since it’s just the two of us down here, I do have something I wanted to broach with you.”
She used the dishcloth to wipe off the chairs once more to ensure no wetness was left and then gestured for me to take a seat. She plopped herself across from me and fidgeted with the rag in her hands. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and though I know I was initially upset that you wouldn’t be staying in Maubec, I’ve come to realize that maybe it is the opportunity we’ve all been waiting for.”
Her eyes burned with anticipation and optimism. “Not that I wouldn’t love for you to stay,” she clarified and continued, “it’s just that, if you’re not, then I have a proposition for you. I was wondering if you would consider selling the château to us once it’s finished. We never could afford the renovations that property needed, and the project, quite frankly, was just too big and overwhelming for my parents to take on before. I know you’ll probably have your share of offers for it, many of them way over asking, but I just would like to throw our hat in the ring, and though our offer may not be as tempting, I was hoping that now that you’ve gotten to know us and the town, you’d see it as a sound investment. You see, if my parents were able to run a property that didn’t need quite so much upkeep, then perhaps I might be able to return to Paris and finish my studies with greater peace of mind.”
The idea tumbled out of her mouth like she was afraid if she didn’t get it all out in one breath, she’d lose her nerve. Once finished, she drew in a long breath and set her hands on top of the table, wringing her fingers with anxiety. “What do you think?”
How was I supposed to answer Odette with the future of the property and the show so up in the air? Where did I even begin to explain?
“Odette, I love the idea of Château Mirabelle being run by your family, but . . .” My chin began to quiver, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get the words out before completely breaking down. “The house. It’s not . . . It won’t . . . It’s just a mess.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my forearm jovially. “Oh, Plum, I know. It’s okay. I mean, once it’s finished,” she laughed, clearly misunderstanding.
“No, I mean, it won’t ever be finished. I’m leaving the show. It was all a setup, and the renovations were all staged, just a backdrop for a love-story gotcha moment they dreamed up to embarrass me on a national stage . . . all for TV ratings.” Fresh tears sprang to my eyes, the hurt still a raw ache.
“Wait, what? No. That can’t be true. How cruel!” Odette swung her chair around the table to scoot closer to me and slung an arm around my sunken shoulders.
“It’s true. And I feel like such an idiot. Now even more so in learning the project had gotten your hopes up about a possible future for you and your family.” The tears started to spill in steady streams, and I hid my face in my hands in embarrassment.
Odette was maybe the last person I thought I’d be crying to, but alas, here we were, and I couldn’t keep the floodgates from opening again. “What’s worse is that the house,” I continued, “at least aesthetically, is in just as poor a condition as when it started. They fixed the foundation and the mold problem and the plumbing. But those things pushed the schedule so far off course it never found its way back. There are no floors or walls, no decor. No charm or flavor. It is a blank and chaotic canvas, and after everything they put me through, I may need to walk away from the project to preserve what little dignity I have left.”
