He nodded. “Your mom and I visited there, gosh, it must have been around forty years ago. We ate the most delicious lavender ice cream from this tiny shop next to a gorgeous church I can’t remember the name of now. Anyway, it was like nothing I’d ever tasted before. There was a small park right across the street where I decided I wanted . . . no, had to marry your mother. I got down on one knee and proposed right then and there. I tried to convince her to go back across the street to that gorgeous church and become my wife, but, of course, she turned me down. It took another three years for me to change her mind.” Dad tapped his index finger against his lips. “Maybe I’ll grab some lavender from the garden and ask Pear to give it a whirl.”

I scrunched up my nose as I passed him the last of the wine. “Lavender ice cream?! Yeah, none for me, thanks.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” He slid the big barn’s stall door closed, snapping the metal clamp down to lock it, and brushed his hands off on his pants. “So when do you leave?”

“The show would film from June through August or so. If I agree, I’ll be leaving in a few weeks, I guess?”

“France in the summertime”—he sighed and cast his eyes to me—“plenty of glorious sunshine.” His face broke into a wide, supportive smile.

I threw my arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Then I better get going. It sounds like I have a contract to sign and a trip to pack for.”

Chapter Six

I tapped my foot along to the beat of Dua Lipa drifting from my AirPods and waited in the airline’s club lounge until the last possible second, sipping on a Bloody Mary and noshing on all the free bar snacks. They announced a final call over the loudspeaker for my flight, and I rose to gather my belongings. Slinging my purse and carry-on onto my shoulder and grabbing for my rolling suitcase with my other hand, I made my way to the counter, the sign over which blinked BOARDING. I flashed my phone screen at the gate agent to scan my ticket and walked down the Jetway into the next chapter of my life.

Three months away from LA, away from the peering paparazzi, away from the spotlight. I released a heavy sigh and thrust my bags in front of me, trying to wiggle them down the narrow path, bouncing off the sides of the aisle seats like a Ping-Pong ball. When I arrived at my cozy pod, I pushed my items onto my seat, trying to clear the way to let others pass.

I double-checked that I’d stashed my passport back in my purse’s zippered pocket and confirmed my phone, which was tucked right next to it, was already powered to airplane mode. Moments later, a dapper flight attendant named Antoine, according to his winged name tag, bounced into my field of vision.

“Oh! Mademoiselle Everly, enchanté. Please make yourself com-fort-ableh, and as soon as we’ve reached ze cruizing altee-tude on our route to Marseille, I’ll be over with ze in-flight champagne tout de suite,” he said in a sort of Frenglish. His energy was infectious. I could already imagine myself sipping lattes at tiny cafés, soaking in the sights and smells of Provence.

“I just love your accent,” I complimented.

Antoine leaned in closer to me. “They don’t flat-out ask us to put on the accent, but the flight attendants who do, get the first pick of schedules,” he said, completely abandoning his French inflections.

“Wait, so you’re not French then?”

“Born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey. Fake it till you make it, am I right? Let me know if I can get you anything else before we bid LA adieu!” He winked and hurried off before I could ask him for a hand getting my bags into the overhead compartment.

The Air France first-class cabin was spacious, and I couldn’t help but smile with gratitude that Tributary was paying for the flight. When the coast was clear, I moved out of my seat and bent down to grab my carry-on to lift it into the bin, but as I went to hoist it above my head, the weight was too great, forcing my knees to buckle and sending me stumbling sideways into the neighboring seat, where a seated older woman shot me a nasty look.

“Oops, so sorry,” I mumbled, momentarily confused by the fact that the bag that had been too heavy a second ago was magically much lighter and more manageable. It then dawned on me I was actually holding very little, if any, of the bag’s weight at this point, and turned to face the mysterious force. The stranger, a bit too close to me, felt jarring until a smooth voice with a hint of a midwestern drawl wove its way up my neck.

“Easy there, let me help you,” he said. As he heaved my bag into the bin, I noticed that the very tall stranger was boyishly good-looking, unassuming, with a bit of scruff that speckled his structured jawline. His awkward grip on the suitcase from behind me was clear from the grunts he tried hard to disguise. “My God, what did you pack in this thing? Lead weights? Gotta tell you, its size makes it a little deceiving.”

“Says the guy who maybe could use a few more trips to the gym,” I joked as I helped support the one side, and then together, we finally pushed it squarely into place.

“Orrrrr maybe you could learn the art of packing light? Ever hear of Marie Kondo? Or minimalism? I mean, they do have stores in France, you know.”

“If life has taught me anything, it’s to be ready for any possible fashion emergencies,” I said—a nod to my Celebrity Ballroom catastrophe, which he apparently didn’t get, resulting in an awkward silence between us. I cleared my throat and shifted my weight. “Anyway, thanks for your heroic efforts. You gotta name, Hercules?”

“Sorry, yeah, I’m Elliott.”

I put my hand to my chest and responded, “Plum. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah . . . I know who you are. I’m actually here for—”

A loud ding cut him off, and he was quickly interrupted by Antoine’s lilting voice (and faux accent) on the loudspeaker. “If everyone could please take z’air seats and fasten z’air seat belts, we are ready to push back from ze gate and begin our safe-tee dem-on-stra-see-on.”

Elliott acknowledged the announcement with a quick nod. “We better take our seats. I have like a three-mile hike to get to mine all the way back in coach.”

I reached over to snatch the green foil–wrapped pillow mint from my luxury pod’s fold-out bed and waved it in the air. “Do you need any provisions for your journey? I think it’s Godiva.”

He rolled his eyes, lifted his tiny duffel farther up on his shoulder, and stalked through the flimsy curtain that separated the first-class cabin from economy.

As I watched him go, the grumpy, tight-lipped old lady that I’d bounced into earlier let out a not-so-subtle ahem, and when I looked over to her, she nodded in the direction of the attendant waiting for me to take my seat.

“Yep, got it. Sorry.” I shoved my purse under the seat in front of me with my foot, plopped down into the plush leather chair, and expelled a deep sigh.

I was doing this. For real. No safety net of family close by. No backup plan. No Rhys. Even when we were broken up, Rhys was my barometer of normal. He was my biggest supporter. My rock. My touchstone. Now, he was another name to add to the long list of people whom I’d let use me for their own endgame. Whether he leaked the tape to break us out of our “box” like he claimed or to boost his own fame, what did it matter? In the end, the person I’d loved most in the world betrayed and lied to me, and in my heart I knew that shattered trust was the final blow ending us for good.

My heart started to quicken, and my rib cage seemed to squeeze the air out of my lungs. I looked straight ahead, and Antoine was gesturing with the seat belt and flotation devices. His arms moved fluidly, and his smile never faltered. But I couldn’t hear a thing. My ears were filled with a thick, pulsing thrum that reverberated down to my toes.

Oh God. Am I having a stroke? What the hell’s happening?

I bent in half to fumble for my purse, the one I’d kicked a bit too far under the seat in front of me, and the exertion and odd position squeezed out whatever small bit of air was left in my lungs. Dark speckles danced in my line of vision as I continued to blindly riffle about. Finally grabbing my clutch of toiletries, I fished around the bottom of the bag, desperate for my fingertips to find a few rogue Xanax pills that had spilled out on my last trip. Aha! Success! One lonely soldier ready to save the damn day! I pinched it between my fingernails and dropped it into my open palm before reaching for the bottle of water I’d bought at the kiosk right next to our gate. Swallowing the pill down, I sank back against my seat, the leather cooling my clammy neck, and focused on taking big, deep breaths.

And just as the cold liquid hit my stomach along with the pill, a heaviness settled like a fog between my ears as if a slow leak of carbon monoxide was streaming in through the little overhead vents instead of air. Out the small airplane window, I hazily watched the ground crew in their neon-orange vests waving their lighted wands as they directed the plane away from the gate and onto the runway.

As the Xanax took hold, the sharp edges of my consciousness softened into a calming blur and took me further and further away, though the plane’s wheels were still on the asphalt. Rhys. The tape. I would never be able to find myself in France (or anywhere at all) if I continued to harp on his betrayal, and damn him, he didn’t get to take that too. So, for as brief as the thought may have been before the medicine knocked me out for good, I was resolute and downright determined to leave Rhys behind in the US, and in my past.

My head lolled back against the headrest and I drifted off; the effect of the pill lifted me up, up, and away like the very plane I was on. My worrying and the nerves melted away, and the next thing I knew, Antoine was reaching over me to raise my window shade, holding a hot Styrofoam cup and asking me how I took my café.

I pulled out my cell phone, turned on the international data plan, and watched the tiny digital clock update to 8:00 a.m. I opened my Gmail and typed Heart Restoration Project into the search bar, and the email I was looking for popped up on the screen.

Bienvenue en France! Once you land, head to the luggage carousel and look for a driver holding a sign with your name to take you to Maubec. We have sent some of the crew ahead—they will have your next week’s itinerary as well as your lodging information. Please feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns. Have fun, and see you in a few weeks!

—Kate

After tucking my phone back into my bag, I reapplied some lip gloss and made my way off the plane, through customs, and down to the luggage carousel. I inched up on my toes, and out of the far corner of my eye, over a sea of heads, I could just make out a driver holding up a sign that said P. EVERLY AND E. SCHAFFER. Dragging my heavy bag behind me, I wove through the crowd and over to where he was standing.

“Bonjour, I am P. Everly. Plum. Plum Everly.”

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle, je m’appelle Gervais. Enchanté. Is this all your luggage?” he asked.

“Nice to meet you too, Gervais. I have a few more pieces coming off the plane.”

“Allow me.” He grabbed for my carry-on and roller bag, but I held on to my purse, which I kept slung across my body. “Are they labeled?” he asked.

“Yes, there’ll be two large valises with my name on them.”

Gervais poked around with something on his phone and then answered, “Very good. Do you mind waiting here for Monsieur Schaffer?”

I nodded, even though I had no idea if I was supposed to know who Mr. Schaffer was—because I didn’t—and the driver stepped away to retrieve the rest of my luggage. Since I had a moment, I scanned the concourse, hoping to find an open kiosk or restaurant where I could get a drink for the car ride into Maubec, but the airport in Marseille was small, and it seemed I’d already passed most of the shops.

It certainly wasn’t LAX with its bright lights, bustling crowds, and sea of retail chains. But I managed to spot a small patisserie in the corner, its bakery shelves lined with powdered-sugar- and almond-covered croissants and cloud-shaped, flaky brioche. Tufts of lavender sprigs tied together with rustic burlap ribbon were set out by the register, and an espresso machine hissed on the back counter.

Not seeing the driver returning just yet, I hurried to purchase a small latte, an Orangina for later, and a chocolate chip cookie in case Gervais needed a pick-me-up as well. Still not seeing him or any sign of a Mr. Schaffer, I returned to the spot where I’d been asked to wait and kneeled down to stuff the bottle of Orangina into the side of my purse for safekeeping.