Pushing his computer onto the cushions and out of the way, I leaped onto his lap and peppered his face with silly, sweet kisses—one to his cheek, his other cheek, his nose, his neck—each 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. “As much as I would prefer to do this for the rest of our time in France, we should probably focus our attention on getting Château Mirabelle finished like you said.”
“You don’t happen to have a cool four million lying around, do you?”
He jokingly looked under the couch cushions and then patted down his pockets. “Sorry, other pants. What about you? You holdin’ out on me, Everly?”
“Maybe? I mean, well, I certainly don’t have that kind of dough. But I do know a few people who might. The thing is, I’m not sure if they’ll go for it?”
Elliott passed me my phone from off the side table. “And I say, there’s only one way to find out . . .”
Chapter Forty-Three
A few hours later and I hadn’t made the call yet. I needed more time to practice my pitch so that my parents didn’t 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 Château 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. “They’re going to think I’m calling to ask for money.”
From over his laptop, his blue eyes, bright with the illumination from the screen, lifted from the footage he was still editing. “Well, you kind of are calling to ask for money.”
I shot him a look. “Not helping.”
He lowered his MacBook screen and turned to me. “You have a solid business plan. Walk your parents through it exactly the way you just walked me through it. They’ll see the potential in the château and the winery. It’s all there. Really.”
I took a deep breath and hit the dial button before I could change my mind. A few rings later, Dad answered.
“Plumkin, is that you?” he asked, clearing his throat. It was obvious I’d woken him up. “Everything okay? What time is it?”
“Here or there?”
“Both?”
“It’s five p.m. here, so eight a.m. in California.”
“Your mother must’ve let me sleep in,” he said through a yawn. “What’s going on? We haven’t heard much from you these past few weeks, just a few texts here and there. How are things? Très bien, I hope,” he chirped in a distinctively Californian accent.
“I’m . . . I’m actually pretty good, all things considered . . .”
Silence on the other end.
“Um . . . Dad? You still there?”
“‘All things considered’ what?” he urged. “I’m on the edge of my seat . . . or should I say, my bed. I was just waiting for you to continue. I wasn’t sure if you were just embracing a dramatic pause or something . . . you just never know with you girls,” he joked.
“Fair point, but not the case today. Actually, it’s a bit of a long story, really. One that I was wondering . . . if you’d want to hear in person?”
Panic flooded his voice. “Oh God, are you in some sort of trouble?”
Scoffing, I sighed. “No, Dad, thankfully, not today. But I do have an idea—a business proposal—I wanted to run by you and Mom, and then maybe, if you think it to be worthwhile, I’ll tell you the rest over a bottle of white . . . when you come to visit me here in France?” I lifted the end of my question to accentuate my request with an air of hope.
“Okay, you’ve got my attention. Let me get your mother on the phone.”
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 didn’t 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. I’d also managed to negotiate that 2 percent of the residuals from Heart Restoration Project’s 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 show’s remaining restoration budget would address as many structural elements as possible, but as René pointed out, we’d barely be scratching the surface. The most obvious solution was to bring in my family as silent partners in the estate. They’d expand their B and B business portfolio into the European market, an idea they’d been aspiring to for years, and Château 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.
“So what do you think? If you don’t want to be involved, I understand and will look for different investors, but one way or another, I am going to make this happen.”
I’m 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 moment’s hesitation, he said, “What do I think? I think we’ll see you in France at the end of the month.”
Almost four weeks later, the entire Everly family descended on the quiet out-of-the-way village of Maubec, France. It didn’t take long for them to fall in love with the beautiful scenery, the warmth of the people, and most of all, Château Mirabelle. As they stepped onto the estate’s 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 should’ve 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.
“Dad, it’s just another door,” I said, dragging him from the library.
“Do you see that wainscoting? That’s not just another door. That door is a thing of beauty.”
“If you like that door, wait till you see the wood trellis out in the garden. Arches, lattice designs, carvings . . . the works,” I teased. “C’mon, we’ve been inside all morning, let’s take in some of that fresh Provençal air.”
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.
“It’s only been a few months away from home, and yet I feel like I have a lifetime to fill you in on,” I said to Dad, linking my arm through his as we strolled through the narrow rows of grapevines.
“How about just the highlight reel then?”
“Elliott—who I can’t wait for you to meet—edited the finale and sent it off just a few days ago, and apparently the test groups responded even better to this version than Kate’s. 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 châteaus 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 Château Mirabelle now that you’ve seen her? About my plan? Cause I won’t abandon her. I will see this thing through.”
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. “Your friend René, he told me this land is still rich with minerals and ready to be a vineyard again. You know, I still haven’t 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 . . .” He took a beat, as if a wave of emotion was making it difficult for him to speak. “And I think I’ve never seen my daughter so passionate and so self-assured about anything in her life.” With his free hand he dabbed a bent knuckle into his tear duct, and then he said, “It’s good to see you again, Plumkin. I knew you were still in there somewhere.”
