Heart Restoration Project

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Like a siren song, Saint Orens called out to me. I remembered what Bastien said the first time we visited, that anyone could seek sanctuary at a church, at any hour, day or night. Hours after our conversation at Chateau Mirabelle, I found myself alone, walking up the cobblestone road lined with charming old houses with blue wooden shutters toward the baroque cathedral. I wasn’t sure what I was in search of—sympathy, understanding, or the ability to forgive—but I figured Saint Orens was as good a place as any to look.

I pushed lightly on the large oak doors and stepped into the empty chapel. To my surprise, Father Fran?ois was still inside cleaning up from the evening Mass. He spotted me from the dais and came hurrying down from the altar to greet me.

“Plum, what are you doing here? Unfortunately, we just concluded our evening prayer service,” he said.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t want to disturb you, I just ... I don’t know ... I needed a quiet place to think, and this was the first one that came to mind.”

“Oui, of course, our doors are never closed to those in need. Take as long as you wish.”

“Merci.”

Taking a seat in a pew at the back of the church, the bench squeaking loudly as if welcoming me in, I rested my back against the unforgiving wood and took comfort in its refuge. Even though I’d been here before, I hadn’t really stopped to appreciate how beautiful it was inside. The large stained-glass windows reflected colored light from long, tapered candles placed all along the chapel walls, so that almost everything shimmered with a golden hue. Like all of Provence, it too was magical.

Father Fran?ois made his way up the aisle and sat down beside me. “I was going to retire for the evening shortly, but before I do, is there anything I can help with, mon enfant?”

“I wish, but unfortunately, I’m not Catholic.”

“?a va, this isn’t confession. Just an old priest here to offer a sympathetic ear.”

Before I even realized what was happening, the entire sordid tale came tumbling out. When I finished, Father Fran?ois pursed his lips, nodded solemnly, and simply said, “Je comprends,” like it was a story he’d heard a thousand times before.

“So you see, I can’t win,” I continued to explain, certain there was no way he could really comprendre. “No matter what I do, someone will be disappointed.”

Father Fran?ois turned to face me. “There is a saying: a truly strong person does not need the approval of others any more than a lion needs the approval of sheep. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should take my leave, but please, stay as long as you need.”

His words hung in the air like a prayer. What did I want? For myself? For Chateau Mirabelle? Before I came to Provence, I wasn’t living, I was floating. From project to project and one mistake to the next. Blaming everyone—my parents, my sisters, the tape, Rhys, even the paparazzi—for the person I’d become. Now, if I wanted to, I could easily add Kate and Bastien to that ever-growing list. But maybe it was high time I acknowledged that I was the constant, the common denominator threading my own story together.

The sound of footsteps echoed off the walls of the chapel. I looked back and saw Elliott ambling down the aisle. Our eyes met, and a soft smile tiptoed across his lips. “I knew this is where you’d be,” he said, easing into the pew.

“You did?”

“It’s hard to explain, but it was as if, when I heard the church bells resounding through the town, the church was trying to call out for me to come find you. I’m sure that sounds completely bonkers.”

“It doesn’t, actually.”

Elliott’s eyes flitted around the room. “It’s really different being here at night, isn’t it? With the candlelight and everything, it’s so ethereal.” He turned so that his body faced mine, our knees practically touching in the narrow row. “I heard about what happened between you and Kate, and I need you to know I was in the dark too. I promise you, Plum, I would never have signed on for this project if I knew what it was really about.”

Kate had already confirmed Elliott was just an innocent bystander, unknowingly capturing moments on film that would be twisted and distorted to fit her secret narrative. If anything, he’d also been duped. It was clear now, Tributary probably also never had any intention of using the additional material we’d been gathering on Chateau Mirabelle’s history.

“I know. Kate told me. I’m sorry you got entangled in this whole mess when all you thought you were doing was your job.”

He took my hand in his. “I’m not sorry.”

I looked up. “You’re not?”

“I’ve never felt more engaged or alive than when you and I were working together, uncovering all the history about the chateau. I want us to tell the world about the Dutch-Paris network and the Adéla?ses and their bravery, and if Tributary doesn’t want it, we’ll find someone who does. We have to give them all the ending they deserve.”

“You don’t understand, if I don’t do the finale, I’m in breach of contract and don’t get the house. There is no happy ending.”

“So what happens then? It falls back into disarray and disrepair? Their legacy gets buried in the blown-out cellars of Chateau Mirabelle?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking. If I agree, I play right into everyone’s worst perceptions of me—the Everly sister with no direction, no real passion, just in it for the good time and easy money. My family’s businesses will suffer, I’ll be another joke ... I just—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. It got caught in the back of my throat.

“Not everyone thinks that of you. Come, I want to show you something,” he said, squeezing my hand a little tighter and pulling me out of our pew and down an aisle toward the side door. I followed him out of the church, where he led me over to the arched stained glass windows carved with the symbolic scenes and characters that Bastien had pointed out to me the first day we visited Saint Orens. “You see this etching? The one you were so taken with? The lion surrounded by the pack of hyenas?” Elliott shone the flashlight from his phone on the archway. “Here, take this and follow it all the way around,” he said, passing me his cell.

I aimed the bright light at the wall and trailed the image up and over the arch to the other side. I bent down, and there, carved into the stone, was the second half of the narrative, the pack of hyenas that’d been relentlessly hunting the lion were now scattered to the wind, chased off by his mighty roar.

I stood up and found myself inches from Elliott’s face, the light from the phone glowing between us.

“The dominance of a lion has nothing to do with its size, right? I mean, it’s far from the largest animal in the jungle,” Elliott said, the metaphor sinking in as he spoke it aloud. “The lion’s real power is in its strength and fearlessness.” His voice lowered to a whisper, and his body was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. “Plum, I know you. You’re a lion. So be the lion.”

I edged up onto my toes and planted a sweet kiss on his lips. At my touch, he grinned against my mouth. I pulled back, worried I’d gotten too swept up in the moment, but I was met with a boyish smirk and a mischievous twinkle in Elliott’s gaze. He leaned in, cupping my face in his warm hands, and really kissed me. My knees buckled under my weight, and I caught myself by holding on to his broad shoulders. Breathless, I touched a hand to my lips and stared at him, relishing in the sensation still buzzing through me.

For the weeks where I felt uncertain about him, and Bastien, and Rhys, and France, and the show, I realized Elliott had been the only constant who’d been nothing but his true and authentic self since the minute I’d met him. While I tried to navigate all of the newness and figure out what I really wanted after so much time being told who I was and what was expected of me, it had been Elliott who remained a steadfast voice of reason and clarity, even if what he said was at times hard to hear.

Now, at long last, despite our relentless efforts to deny the connection that had been brewing between us from the very moment the accordionist serenaded us with “La Vie En Rose” in the middle of the town, to our errant kiss on the carousel when my feelings about everything still seemed so hazy, to the onyx clock replaced on the Adéla?ses’ mantel after he’d returned to the vendor to purchase it at the Brocante de Beaucaire ... the realization hit me hard. It’d always been Elliott. I knew it the way I knew the sky was blue or that the sun would rise each morning. I knew it the way a river knows its course, unwavering and unyielding. And I knew it the same way I finally knew exactly what I was going to do.

I glanced down at the etching of the lion one last time, its expression stoic and triumphant. “I’ve made my decision,” I declared before resting my hands upon Elliott’s chest. “I’m done being swayed by the opinions of sheep—I’m ready to be the goddamned lion.”