“Oh my God, Plum. I had no idea. I am sorry to have even asked.” She lowered her head, unsure of what else to say and how to proceed. “Are . . . are you okay?”
I looked up at her and into her brown eyes. Before I answered, I surveyed the dining room again. Amid the buckets rapidly filling with water from dozens of leaks actively pouring from the roof, Odette was asking about me. About my troubles. About my mental health. Her selflessness was jarring, yet incredibly appreciated, and I felt a hollowness of regret for not warming to her sooner. Perhaps it was jealousy in seeing how Elliott behaved around her? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I suddenly felt a deep remorse for the time we’d lost. It’d been a long time since I’d had a real and genuine friendship, and if I hadn’t been so caught up in myself, I could’ve been building one with Odette.
“Actually, I don’t know how I am, quite honestly. I feel pretty lost right now, and I’m trying not to act rashly and make a decision I may live to regret. But I feel like I’m hanging upside down. The world is present, as I’ve always known it, but it’s all wrong. It’s inverted and confusing and out of balance. I feel like I’m looking at a Jackson Pollock painting that someone is telling me is a Renoir.”
She squeezed my fingers supportively and did not let go. She stayed quiet, not trying to dispense advice or empty encouragement like so many would; she just stayed by my side and listened.
I continued, “So now I’m left at a crossroads. Do I allow Tributary to air this fabricated season, complete with the mortifying gotcha moment in Paris with Rhys they are sure to include, or do I back out of my contract, chalk it all up to a very arduous learning experience, return to LA, and never look back?”
“You know I can’t answer that for you,” she said, her eyebrows woven together in sympathy.
“You sure? At this point, I’m thinking of flipping a coin. At least you are a bit more qualified.” I cracked a smile. “Thank you, though. For listening. For understanding. And for giving me the benefit of the doubt.”
“I had a feeling that once Elliott and I started to become a little closer, you pulled away. But nothing is going on or has ever gone on with us. Actually, I think he is quite taken with someone else.” She lifted her eyebrows at me, an obvious hint at who she meant.
“No,” I said and shook my head. “I mean, maybe? But I can’t even think about all of that right now. I need to close this Bastien chapter first, figure out what I’m doing with Château Mirabelle, and then maybe I can sort out whatever is going on or not going on between me and Elliott.”
“Ouais, I understand, but don’t take too long. Don’t throw away this entire experience because it ended up not being what you expected. Sometimes life’s greatest treasures are the ones we don’t expect.”
I smiled and nodded. “I’ll try to keep that in mind. Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” she replied.
“Can you tell me more about Bastien? I just feel so blindsided, like I never knew him at all. You tried to warn me, didn’t you?”
An expression of guilt washed over her face. “Listen, Bastien and I have a long history—un peu compliqué. We grew up together. We were young and in love as high school sweethearts, but he had a difficult time growing up in this town, and it has haunted him, dictating his actions and forcing him to live in survival mode ever since he was a little boy with the last name Munier.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded in contemplation. “I’ve been trying to put this puzzle together, and Monsieur Grenouille just slid the proverbial last piece into place by telling me about Bastien’s grandfather. I can’t tell you how shocked I was to learn that he was the one who turned in the Adélaïses and the rest of the townspeople involved in the Resistance.”
“Ouais,” Odette consented, “can you imagine living in the shadow of such a treacherous betrayal? Bastien had nothing to do with it but was forced to pay for the sins of his family’s past. It was one of the biggest wedges that existed in our relationship early on. He wanted to run away from Maubec and start a new life, somewhere the story couldn’t follow him. It had always been his dream to be a vintner like his grandfather, but no one would give him the chance to apprentice in this region, a necessary step.”
“It doesn’t excuse what Bastien did,” I responded coldly.
“Non, of course, it doesn’t. But perhaps it may justify it a little. He tried to hitch his wagon to your star, or maybe tried to right the wrongs of the past through rebuilding what his grandfather was responsible for destroying—which isn’t right, but is maybe at least a bit more understandable given the circumstances.”
“You are undeservingly gracious with him. He said it was you who wanted more, who needed to get out of Maubec, who left everyone behind—ruthlessly and selfishly. When given the chance, he threw you right under the bus. So, why, after all that happened, do you still defend him?”
“Because he is a genuinely good man. He is just a product of his family and his history. Like you. Like me. Like we all are. And he is a hell of a vintner to boot. It’s a shame no one ever gave him a real shot. He is actually quite talented.”
Odette stood from the table and pushed in the chair. “Whatever it is you decide, Plum, don’t let it be because of what Bastien or Rhys did or Kate . . . or anyone else in your past. Let it be your decision, wholly and completely. It’s the only way it will ever be the right one.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Before I could change my mind, I sent a text to Bastien asking him to meet me at Château Mirabelle in an hour. In the meantime, I needed to take a walk to clear my mind. The landslide of the past several hours was almost too much to believe, let alone bear. Between the show turning out to be a prank, the revelation about Bastien and his grandfather, the heartache of learning about the Adélaïses, and my complicated feelings for Elliott, I was hitting my limit on things I could handle.
It was still raining, but significantly less. And what was a little rain? I was already soaked from when I’d left Monsieur Grenouille’s shop and helped Odette in the dining room. In fact, the warm summer shower felt cathartic, like a baptism washing away my troubles and sending them in rivulets down the cobblestone road. I walked past Monsieur Grenouille’s shop and waved with a smile when I caught his eye through the window. He returned the gesture, and I immediately felt lighter.
I continued my stroll, passing Le Coquelicot floral shop and a few other storefronts that lined the town’s main street. The stores weren’t busy; in fact, they looked a bit like they were taking a siesta in this afternoon rainstorm. For the almost six weeks I’d been in Maubec, I’d walked down this road before, many times, but I’d never really surveyed the town as a whole. It was quiet and insular. It looked like a movie set built on a film stage in LA, but one that had been constructed years ago and then left to wither away, unattended and overlooked.
It had all the makings of a beautiful, luscious tourist destination, one that would bring along with it the money and the attention that could reinvigorate Maubec back to its original glory. The potential was there. The story was just waiting to be written. I sighed, heavy with the weight of my impending decision about airing the show. It would change so much for this town and these people, but greenlighting its broadcast also would force me to take a hit from which I wasn’t sure I could recover.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I met Gervais out in front of the inn. For the entire twenty-minute drive, I mentally rehearsed my speech. And every time I did, it took on a new inflection. Anger turned to hurt, hurt turned to sadness, and then sadness turned back around to rage. I wasn’t sure if, once I was actually face-to-face with Bastien, I’d lose all sense of the self-control I was mustering and instead, go simply ballistic. I guess once the time came, I would be just as surprised at what would come out of my mouth as he would.
Gervais was able to pull up the full length of the driveway this time, as almost all the trucks and crew had left for the day. There was only one work vehicle left, the workers marching in and out loading up the back with their tools and excess materials, and one small car that I recognized as Simone’s. Most of the rain had cleared since my walk in town, and the clouds were finally breaking just in time for sunset.
I walked in the front entrance and gasped, clasping my hands over my mouth in awe. The space was stunning: intricate area rugs and lush Queen Anne furniture, golden fixtures and rich tapestry drapes that hung the length of the full picture windows. The light from the descending sun streamed in, casting everything in a warm, hazy hue. I caught a glimpse of Simone walking gingerly around the space, adjusting the floral arrangements that adorned all the tabletops—tall yellow sunflowers paired with lavender sprigs and clusters of hyacinths.
“Simone, I can’t even believe this. How? How did this all get finished? This house was a disaster just this morning!” I exclaimed, still marveling at the amazing art on the walls and the meticulous details—like the fully staged dining room complete with place settings of bone china.
Simone shook her head and skirted around an area rug on the floor as she made her way over to me. “Yes, it does look incredible. But don’t be fooled, not everything is as finished as it seems. In fact, this is all just for show. Look . . .” She lifted the area rug she’d just stepped over to reveal a large hole in the wood floor. My eyes widened. “Yeah, don’t step there, or over there.” She pointed to another small rug across the room. “But don’t worry, they’ll mark the places where it isn’t safe to walk when you film the finale.”
“Wait, it’s staying like this? This is the finished product? This is how I’d get the house?” I asked.
“Pretty much. They just need it to be staged adequately to where they can shoot around the space and make it appear like the renovation is complete. Just enough to get the necessary footage.”
“I see,” I said, disappointed that there was one more thing I had either misunderstood or been duped by in this agreement.
“Good luck with the show, Ms. Everly. It has been nice working with you.” Simone extended her hand, seemingly oblivious to the mental short-circuit I was currently experiencing inside my head.
“Oh, yeah. Same, Simone, thank you,” I responded and then watched her walk out the front door.
I drew in a long, deep breath and stood enjoying the stillness. In spite of the phony decor and staging, I could finally see Château Mirabelle’s true potential.
I heard the soft growl of Bastien’s Vespa putting its way up the drive. My heart started to race, and I was afraid I’d lose the nerve to stand up for myself when it came down to it. The snap of the front door opening caused my palms to sweat, and I raked them down my jeans before he saw me. Finally, he walked into the foyer and our eyes met. I expected to feel the familiar sensation of butterflies fluttering in my stomach, but it seemed they’d migrated north, fuzzying my head with too many thoughts at once.
“Plum, ma cherie,” Bastien started.
I expected to erupt with anger, but instead, all I could manage was, “Please, don’t do that.”
