38. Café Americano #2
Another message pinged, and I opened a photo Joni had sent of Lucas walking down the street behind the wedding party.
“Your man looks like hell, Mimi.”
“He’s not my man,” I said even as I hovered a finger over that chiseled face.
He did, however, look awful. Transformed back to the old Lucas, cold and untouchable, but with frown lines carved into his brow and dark circles hollowing his eyes.
It wasn’t the look of a proud brother and best man.
It was misery echoed in my soul.
“There was also this interview,” Joni continued. “Some reporter asked him about a mystery woman he was supposedly with in Paris. One with short hair and green eyes. Any guess who she is?”
“No, Joni, I don’t want to?—”
But she had already sent it through via an Instagram reel titled “Watch this CEO go feral protecting his staff member!”
Lucas appeared on my screen, cornered by a reporter from New York One outside what looked like the Plaza. Even a Lyons quickie wedding demanded a reception at the city’s premier venue.
“Mr. Lyons!” the reporter called as Lucas strode up the steps of the famous hotel two at a time. “There are rumors that you were recently involved with someone in Paris. Can you comment on the relationship?”
On the steps, Lucas froze. Then he jogged to the reporter with those familiar storm-clouds brewing in his expression.
“Oh, shit,” I murmured. I’d seen that glare before.
I watched as he grabbed the microphone from the reporter and spoke clearly into it.
“There is no woman, and my private life is of no concern to you or anyone else. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this woman alone and focus on my brother’s nuptials and not our staff.”
Our staff. Even in protecting my privacy, he’d reduced me to an employee.
It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.
I exited the screen to return to Joni’s sympathetic features. “It’s nothing. And honestly, Jo, I don’t want to think about the Lyons family anymore.”
“Even if you’re going to give birth to one of them?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Tears pricked my eyes, reminding me that my heartbreak was still relatively recent, and also that I was a ball of hormones.
Joni looked like she wanted to jump through the screen and give me a hug, and for the first time, I wondered if leaving New York to pursue my dream really had been the right thing to do.
“You’re so close to having everything you want, Mimi,” she said softly.
“So, listen, have the baby if it’s what you want to do.
Or don’t, and that’s okay too. But if Lucas is also what you want, in any way…
” She shook her head. “Well, I reserve the right to throat punch the guy the first time I see him. But maybe you need to tell him what’s going on and give him a chance to make it right.
Maybe he wasn’t only telling lies. Maybe he does love you a little. ”
I couldn’t help the tear that streaked down my cheek, though I did cough and take a sip of espresso to keep others from following it.
“Thanks for being here for me, Jo.” I meant it completely.
Joni smiled, kind and true and more grown up than I’d ever seen her. “Always, Mimi. I just want to see my big sister happy.”
After we said goodbye, I left money on the table and bid Sandrine farewell, but not before she invited me back tomorrow for a chat. Although it was only four o’clock, fatigue washed over my body in waves, signaling that I needed a nap more than I needed to continue exploring the town.
I walked down the hill and out of the main part of the village onto the smaller country road that led to the cottage I was renting.
I took my time, enjoying everything about the walk: a walnut orchard on one side with a creek that ran through it, a vineyard on another that had just finished its fall harvest. In several directions, medieval castles loomed in the distance, sentinels over the land as the slowly setting sun gilded the valley and the nearby river.
I was halfway to the cottage when I saw the sign, half-hidden by blackberry brambles on the other side of a stone bridge that crossed the creek running alongside the road and led through a copse of beech trees framing a view of a small chateau down a gravel path.
Propriété à Vendre .
Property for Sale.
The site drew me like a flower angling for extra rays of sun, and I crept through the copse to get a closer look.
It wasn’t a palace-like building that usually showed up in tourist photos of French towns.
This was more like an oversized farmhouse, built of honey-colored stone with red roof tiles, blue shutters, and an overgrown rosebush that climbed up one wall and dangled the last of its blooms with rose hips waiting to be harvested.
A few smaller outbuildings dotted the perimeter of the property with matching stonework and paint.
Unkempt gardens stretched out to one side, large enough that they could have supported the whole estate and then some.
On the other side was a small pool, dry and empty, with a pergola under which a long wrought-iron dining table and chairs begged for someone to remove their rust and lay bounty for visitors.
It needed work. Well, that was the understatement of the year.
It needed a complete overhaul to make it shine.
But I didn’t see its current condition as I looked around.
Instead, I saw its future. People milling around the table, laughing and drinking and tasting the dinner I had prepared.
Guests walking to and from the outer cottages, some of them families traveling through the countryside, maybe a couple or two on their honeymoon, or a professor on sabbatical.
A small, stormy-eyed, black-haired child chasing a bumblebee through a patch of lavender. They turned and called me Mama.
Without thinking, I pulled out my phone and called the number on the sign. A few rings later, an agent picked up.
“ All? ,” I said, and continued in French. “I’m interested in the chateau for sale on Route du Sel. My name is Marie Zola.”
“Wonderful,” said the agent, a friendly woman who introduced herself as Mélodie. “It has been available for some time. Would you like a tour? Maybe tomorrow? Feel free to look in the windows if you like. No one has lived there for a few years.”
We arranged to meet the following morning, and she also agreed to send me the listing and any information she had on the property that night so I could review it on my own.
But already, I knew the price fit, and even more, the rest of the details screamed home in a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt before.
Not at the little brown house on Hughes Street.
Not in the tiny apartment in Paris.
Not above the garage at Prideview.
The closest I’d ever experienced was in Lucas Lyons’s arms, and even then, it wasn’t quite the same.
This place would be mine. In a way, it already was.
My heart beat faster as she spoke, and I did indeed peek through the leaded windows next to the arched front door.
The building was old, but looked better inside than out, with exposed beams and an enormous stone fireplace, terracotta floors, and old paintings on the walls.
There was also a kitchen that needed some mild updates but had been renovated for commercial dining not terribly long ago.
This wasn’t just a house. It was a business, once upon a time.
“Yes, the previous owners ran it as a bed-and-breakfast for thirty years,” Mélodie explained when I mentioned the kitchen. “Very successful, but they retired a few years ago to be closer to their grandchildren. All the permits, all the licenses—everything transfers with the sale.”
Which meant I could start almost immediately. Depending on the speed and how many updates were needed, I could potentially be serving guests within a month.
This was what I’d been training for without realizing it.
Three years as a maid at Prideview, learning how to manage a household and anticipate everyone’s needs.
Seven more as a chef, learning to cook for demanding clients and plan elaborate meals.
A year at the Institute, perfecting my technique and understanding the food culture of France, in particular.
Here, I could do it all. Work in my home. Be a part of a community. Put love and care and design into every aspect of my life, just like I’d always wanted.
Maybe even raise a family here when the time came.
My hand dropped to my stomach, and I knew then what my decision there would be too.
Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
But I was capable of far more than I’d ever imagined. I’d already reinvented myself once. I could do it again. This time on my own terms.
As I walked out, I caught a glimpse of an old sign for the chateau, half-hanging on its rusty hinges, blue and white paint peeling around the carved words Songe du Soir .
Evening’s Dream.
I looked up to where the stars glimmered at the far horizon, opposite where the sun would soon set.
Evening’s dream indeed.