Heart Restoration Project

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Framed by castle walls and the Rh?ne River, the port town of Beaucaire was bustling with activity. The sun was barely up, but already hundreds of people were streaming into the Brocante de Beaucaire looking for everything from household items, furniture, silver, and copperware to decorative accessories like vintage photos and jewelry.

“Every town in Provence has its own unique market. Some specialize in fresh fruits and vegetables. Some in seafood, some in furniture, and some in flowers,” Simone explained as Gervais circled around for a spot to drop us off. “A brocante is a simple market with goods offered mostly by dealers, while a Marché des Antiquités tends to have high-quality antiques. Brocante de Beaucaire has a bit of both, which is why it’s my favorite in the area.”

“Gervais, laissez-nous au bas de la colline,” Simone instructed, before continuing on. “I asked Gervais to drop us off at the bottom of the hill. We can meet the van back up top in a few hours. Usually, you can negotiate for delivery for any larger pieces of furniture, so don’t worry about that.”

We climbed out of the van, followed closely by Elliott and his small film crew. As we stepped into the warm summer heat, I inhaled and closed my eyes, trying to place some of the unique smells of the market. “I will never get tired of that smell. I wish we could bottle it. It’s just so distinct.” I stretched my arms over my head and sucked in another lungful.

“Funny you should say that. It’s called garrigue. It is the signature scent of the south of France. It comes from the combination of the vegetation and herbs that grow in the region, along with the terroir—the soil—the sea air, and the limestone on the coast. What you smell is the essence of juniper, thyme, rosemary, and lavender. Garrigue enhances the food of Provence, the culture, the wine, and even the people—those born here and even those just visiting for a while,” she said with a wink and a smile.

Simone slung a messenger bag across her body and led the way through the different stalls, pointing out interesting pieces along the way.

“These would be divine by the fireplace in the grand salon,” she said, pointing to two large cream chairs with rose stitching. “What do you think, Plum?”

“They’re gorgeous. Do you know anything about them?” I asked the seller.

He shook his head. “Désolée, je ne parle pas anglais.”

Simone stepped forward. “Pardon, pouvez-vous me parler de ces chaises.”

The seller nodded before providing us with the chairs’ history in rapid-fire French. Unfortunately, I was only able to make out a few words. I looked to Simone for some assistance.

“He found the chairs in the thirteenth-century monastery village of Fanjeaux, about two hours away. Based on their quality, he thinks they may have belonged to the mother superior of the abbey. He wanted one hundred eighty euros a chair, but I talked him down to three hundred euros for the pair,” Simone said, passing the seller the bills.

“The left leg on that one looks broken,” I said.

Simone glanced down. “No problem, that is an easy repair.”

Elliott had Simone reenact the exchange two more times and directed her to ask a few more pointed questions about the chairs in English for the benefit of Heart Restoration Project’s American audience. She caught on quickly, able to extract the information without it seeming directed or forced.

Elliott addressed his small crew. “I think we got what we need here. Why don’t you guys grab some shots of the eager crowds coming into the market. I think it’ll really up the stakes of the negotiation scenes.” He looked over at me. “So much for the reality aspect of reality TV, right? But I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

“You know it’s funny, but in the early days of EVERLYday, everything we put out there was real. It was only when the show started to take off that things began to change. We weren’t the Everly family anymore, we were the Everly brand.” I glanced up from the ground and into Elliott’s sympathetic eyes. “What? What’d I say?”

“I guess I never thought about what that must’ve been like for you. You always seemed so, I don’t know, happy? The perfect nuclear family? Two parents who loved their kids and liked each other. Pretty novel stuff.”

“Is it?”

“I wouldn’t know, my dad walked out on us when I was a baby, and my mom’s tablescapes, well, they were made up of paper plates and red Solo cups,” he snickered.

His rigid posture and balled fists clued me in to the fact we were treading on uncomfortable territory. I arched my right eyebrow and tried to lighten the mood. “Elliott Schaffer, did you watch EVERLYday?”

“Gimme a break, everyone watched EVERLYday. It was on so many damn channels you couldn’t avoid it even if you wanted to. But only the early seasons—before I got a PlayStation.”

“So who was your favorite?”

“Favorite what?”

“Sister?”

He pursed his lips and jutted out his chin. “Do you really want to know?”

Simone rushed over, stealing the moment his answer was supposed to fill. “Okay, so good news, I got the seller to agree to transport the chairs free of charge. Turns out he always wanted to be an actor and was pretty jazzed about his five minutes of fame. He asked if he might get a chance to be on camera again when he delivers them to the chateau? Since he has another even better booth at the top of the hill, I told him we might be able to work something out.” Simone fanned her face with a map of the market. “Goodness, it’s hot today. What do you say we divide and conquer? That way we can cover as much ground as possible before the temperature becomes unbearable?”

The sun was starting to come up over the market and already the summer heat felt sweltering. Even the breeze off the river was doing little to help cool down the air. “I’m fine with that. Although, I’m not sure how it will affect the filming schedule?” I looked at Elliott.

“I’ll go with Plum, and radio the guys to meet up with you, Simone. We should have more than enough footage already, but this way we’re definitely covered.”

Elliott and I set off deeper into the market, while Simone headed up the hill to check out the professional antique booths. Brocante de Beaucaire was a feast for the senses, with vibrant textiles, unique art, and local food vendors. Rows of vendor stalls were set up to display some of the region’s most desirable goods: fleur-de-lis-adorned linens and needlework, antiques and bric-a-brac like weather-worn tins and handblown glassware, artisan-crafted ceramics, and household furniture of varying sizes from all periods of history.

In the center of the market, the most beautiful antique carousel spun in the sunlight. It featured candy-colored horses, bejeweled carriages, and classic storybook characters. The scene was so overwhelmingly animated it was hard to know what to focus on first. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large mantel clock decorated with a black onyx lion sitting on a table in a nondescript booth full of knickknacks and small trinkets. I crossed over and wiggled through some foot traffic for a closer look.

“Pardon, Monsieur. What can you tell me about this clock?” I asked the seller.

“Ah, it is a French specimen-marble, four-glass clock by the renowned maker Japy Frères. As you can see, the pretty dial is porcelain enamel on copper with floral swags between the hours and fretted gilt-brass hands. The lion is one hundred percent polished black onyx dipped in gold leaf. She is a beauty, non?”

“Oui.” Elliott came up behind me, and I picked up the clock to show it to him. “What do you think? For the mantel in the salon? It looks just like the one I saw in a photograph of Chateau Mirabelle back at Saint Orens.”

Elliott studied the clock. “Who knows? It could very well be the same one? When the Germans occupied Chateau Mirabelle, it is more than likely they looted and traded whatever they could.”

A wave of sadness washed over me. What if the clock had been a wedding gift for Luc and Imène, or maybe it was an Adéla?se family heirloom? And while I knew it was highly unlikely this was the very same one, even the remote possibility it could be had my heart beating just a little bit faster. “Can you tell me the price?” I asked the seller.

“Three hundred fifty euros. But for you, ma cherie, three hundred euros.”

Elliott picked up his camera to film our exchange.

“Merci,” I said and set it back down on the table.

Elliott lowered his camera. “What happened? You’re not gonna get it?”

“Simone was pretty strict with her orders, furniture only today. Besides, we can’t know for sure if this was the same one, and it’s a bit pricey and out of budget for something not entirely practical.”

“Does it matter?”

“Bastien says you can honor a home by restoring it to its original state, or you can honor it by restoring it to its original intention, so maybe it doesn’t matter?”

His expression couldn’t mask his surprise. “Bastien said that?”

“He probably read it off a fortune cookie or something,” I teased.

Elliott looked up from the ground. “I don’t hate him, you know? Bastien.”

I tilted my head and side-eyed him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t,” he confirmed. “When I messaged him to pick you up from the station in the middle of the night, he didn’t hesitate for even a second. I told you, I can admit when I’m wrong.”

The stall was quiet with the exception of one other patron who was being helped by the slightly balding seller behind the tables. Elliott rested his camera by his feet, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Luckily, first impressions aren’t always the most accurate,” he smirked, a playful glint in his eye. Thinking of the awkwardlypainful car ride that first day, I broke into a grin as I remembered hurling all over him in the back of a car the size of a toy truck.

My smile quickly evolved into a fit of giggles. “I will never forget, for the rest of my life, how you looked folded into the back of that car. It was a bit like how I imagine Houdini looked inside a safe.” And just saying the words out loud launched me into an outbreak of uncontrollable laughter.

“Well, at least I kept my breakfast in my stomach and not launched all over the colleague I’d just met,” Elliott fired back. And to my surprise, he started to laugh too. Loudly. And the sound was delightful. Always so serious and focused, he rarely, if ever, let his hair down, so to speak. Since we’d been working together, this was the first time I’d really heard him let loose. The sound stirred something within me, and a twinkle I’d never quite noticed before flickered from behind his smile.

“Hey,” I said, sobering a little with the realization, “you have a great laugh. You should do it more often.” I swatted at him playfully, and catching his eye as my hand landed on his forearm, I felt a current of electricity rocket straight through me. Our shared giggles dissolved with that one glance and melted into a sweet moment that lingered between us like a haze. He stepped toward me, and his body brushed against mine so closely that the soft hairs on his arms tickled my skin.

I shifted uncomfortably, lowering my eyes to break the spell. “Come on, we should keep moving if we want to meet Simone on time.” A flash of disappointment registered on his face, but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded and hoisted his camera on his shoulder again, and we continued on our way meandering through the stalls.

I glanced around the market, noticing scores of pottery and antiques of different shapes, colors, and countries of origin, and instinctively reached for my phone to capture the distinct pieces as we passed. Tapping the record button, I zoomed in on an older couple strolling hand in hand down the wide aisles of the market who paused to examine a lemon-colored lace tablecloth displayed on a rustic and oddly shaped wooden table. They’d probably been married for at least forty years and had their children and their grandchildren over every Sunday for roast chicken dinner on their little garden patio. From behind the camera, it was easy to get lost in endless possibilities. Lately, I was finding the same to be true of France itself.

I stopped filming and turned to Elliott. “Being here, sometimes I feel like I’m not just on a different continent but a completely different planet. The sights, the smells, the freedom I have to walk around a place like this in complete anonymity. I know people call Paris the City of Love, but it feels like there’s a magical spell cast over the whole damn country. I like Bastien, I do, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it’s him I’m falling for or if it’s Provence?” I looked up. “Do you ever feel that way about Odette?”

“Odette? No, there’s nothing going on between me and Odette.”

I squinted at him, unsure if he’d feel a need to lie. I wasn’t sure why he would, but I was almost certain that I’d noticed them getting more and more chummy over the weeks we’d been here, ever since that first night in Avignon. “There isn’t?” I urged, “But that night at the club, she seemed so into you? And all those afternoons I spied the two of you sharing a bottle of wine out in the garden at the inn, it sure looked like there was.”

He paused before answering, maybe catching how much I must have been paying attention to have noted so much of their interactions. “She was going through a difficult breakup, and I was a shoulder to cry on—a convenient shoulder. She isn’t interested in me like that.”

“It sure seemed like it was more than that,” I said and then realized that, again, I was showing him my hand.

He tilted his head and said, “Maybe, in the beginning, there was a little playful flirtation between us, but that fizzled out quickly. She wasn’t a formidable enough sparring partner ...”

He lowered his gaze to mine, and at the intensity, my stomach bottomed out, and suddenly my breath caught in my chest. Locked in an unspoken conversation laden with undeniable tension and respectful hesitation, it was as though the bustling market around us had momentarily ceased to exist, leaving only the gravitational pull that kept us focused on one another. For a fleeting heartbeat, it seemed as though we might surrender to the magnetism between us, but as quickly as the moment arose, it passed, leaving us standing there, hearts pounding.

I cleared my throat and took a step back. “Wow, I am positively melting,” I announced as I fanned myself with my hand and shifted my eyes from his.

“What do you say we get out of the sun for a few minutes?” Elliott asked.

I looked around the market. There wasn’t an umbrella or awning anywhere in sight. “What do you have in mind?”

Elliott took my hand. “Follow me.”

I trailed him through the crowded market to the antique carousel. He knocked lightly on the ticket window and held up two fingers before handing over five euros in exchange for our tickets.

I stopped him in his tracks. “Elliott, you know I get motion sickness.”

“Still better than sunstroke, right? We won’t ride anything that goes up and down, promise.” He held up his fingers in a scout’s honor salute and winked.

Elliott passed the tickets to the barker, and we stepped onto the ride. I popped up on my toes, looking for a free space. “Over there,” I called, and we squeezed into a weathered enamel carriage that looked like the half-transformed pumpkin from Cinderella. Moments later, the lively sounds of an organ piped out of the center as the platform started to spin beneath us. Round and round we went, taking in the sights from every possible vantage point—children gripping bright balloons, friends sipping coffees, and couples strolling hand in hand through the long aisles of the marketplace.

Elliott glanced over at me. “You okay? The spinning and everything?”

I nodded. “Actually, I’m great.”

Elliott smiled and stretched his arm up and over the top of our tiny carriage normally intended for children—or at least an adult shorter than six foot four. We were sitting so close I could smell his aftershave, clean and crisp against the muggy warmth of the air.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ridden a carousel, maybe ever?” I said to distract me from the closeness of his body next to mine.

“Really? Isn’t that a childhood rite of passage?”

“I didn’t have the most typical childhood, remember? Don’t misunderstand, I’ve lived a wonderful life, and my parents are good people. They didn’t know what EVERLYday would become, nobody did. But being here in Provence, I’ve grown to appreciate the slower pace of life. People here don’t just sip their coffee or wine, they immerse themselves in it. It’s a whole goddamn experience for them.” I shook my head. “No, I can’t go back to the way my life was before. Flitting from place to place and thing to thing, existing but not really living. I won’t do it. I can’t.” Just saying the words out loud made my throat squeeze tight—a desperate desire to convince myself that my future would be different.

“So then, what is it you do want?”

“You know, nobody’s ever asked me that before. I guess, deep down, I want you.” I almost choked on my blunder before fumbling to correct myself. “Um ... to be you ... I mean.”

Elliott pretended not to hear the error, but by the sweep of blush that rosied his cheeks, it was evident he did. “You want to be me?”

“Well, a less grumpy version, maybe,” I teased. “Seriously, though, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve spent my whole life on the wrong side of the camera.”

“So turn it around—the camera, the narrative, your life. It’s up to you, you know?”

I nudged him playfully and said, “Easy as that, huh?”

“You know, you keep surprising me ... and I don’t usually like surprises,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Oh, I do?” I breathed back and adjusted myself to face him. “And you don’t?” I pressed.

He closed the few inches between us, pressing his full lips against mine, igniting the fibers of my body like a wildfire. But I’d been burned by fire before, and I wanted to believe that after all the scars and ash, I’d learned my lesson. I pulled away from his embrace—my lips still tingling, my heart pounding so hard against my chest I was sure it was going to break a rib.

“Elliott, I can’t do this,” I said, placing my hand to his chest to put as much distance between us as I could in the carousel car. “Maybe I shouldn’t feel this way, and we haven’t put a label on things yet, but I know how I’d feel if I found out Bastien kissed somebody else.”

“Of course. You’re right,” he said, his voice breaking. The ride began to slow, and Elliott rose from the metal carriage seat. “This is our stop.”

“Hey, wait ... Can we talk about this?” I pleaded.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I ... I really shouldn’t have done that. You’re right—I must have just gotten swept up in the moment, that’s all. Chalk it up to the heat. Maybe I do have sunstroke after all,” he joked before glancing down at his phone. “I have like half a dozen missed calls from the crew. I should really check in with them. Don’t bother waiting for me, I’ll catch up with you back at the chateau, okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Okay.”

I watched Elliott hop off the still-rotating platform and disappear into the crowd. The ride’s turntable finally ground to a halt, but I couldn’t move. In Cinderella’s tiny fairy-tale carriage, I was left paralyzed—my body buzzing and my head still spinning.