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?”
“The house will be in really good shape for the show, but there’s still a ton of work to be done for us to make her the heart of Maubec again. He’s agreed to help, which is a pretty big win. It’s still a huge undertaking, though.” I slumped down on the couch beside him.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. One step at a time. We’ll find a way,” Elliott said, resting his hand on my leg as I snuggled into him.
I motioned toward his computer. “What’s that you’re working on?”
He sat upright. “It’s the rough cut of all the footage we captured. Plum, your eye is spot-on. The best moments are the ones that you directed,” he said, clicking the play button on the video. Suddenly, we were back in the Room of Murals at Camp des Milles with Hélène, 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.
“It’s really good, isn’t it?” I said.
“It really is,” he agreed, meeting my gaze.
“Remember on the carousel—”
“When 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,” Elliott joked.
“I don’t know if that was technically a compliment . . . ,” I teased. “I’m pretty sure you just misheard me. But yes, when I said I wanted to do what you do—to 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.” I reached for his hand and nervously let the words spill out before I could stop myself, “And . . . and I want you and I to set off with our cameras and tell them . . . together.”
He took a thoughtful half second before responding, a sweet smile gracing his face. “Where do I sign?”
