Chapter 30
Thirty
Elise
Two days and counting when Claire corners me in the hall, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright with the kind of excitement that usually means she’s done something behind my back.
“You’re free tonight, oui?”
I hesitate. “Why?”
She links her arm through mine, tugging me toward the dormitory. “Don’t ask questions. Just be free.”
I glance at Kingston, who is tucking his laptop into the leather case he’s claimed like a briefcase. He arches one brow. “What are you plotting?”
“Nothing dangerous,” Claire singsongs, which only makes him more suspicious.
After a long day, Kingston meets me at Sebastian’s office. And I swear Kingston growled at him before we left.
When we reach the dormitory, laughter and music spill down the stairwell. The door is propped open with a wine crate, and I catch the faint smell of fresh bread and melted cheese.
Claire beams at us as she pushes the door wider.
Inside, the common room has been cleared of furniture, crowded with folding chairs, and decorated with candles stuck in mismatched bottles.
Someone has strung fairy lights across the ceiling, and their soft glow makes the plaster walls almost romantic.
It’s not elegant, not Chateau’s polished grandeur, but it’s warm. Lived in. A community.
“Surprise!” Claire announces. “Your farewell fête.”
My throat tightens. “Claire, you didn’t—”
“Of course, I did.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You think you can leave without us celebrating everything you’ve done here? Impossible.”
Students, cellar hands, and assistants I’ve worked beside for months gather around.
Glasses are circulated until everyone has one.
Kingston looks out of place at first, too tall, too polished in his pressed shirt and dark jeans.
I catch the flicker of unease in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffen as laughter swells around us. He doesn’t belong here, not really.
But when he feels me tense, he slides his arm around my waist, grounding himself through me. I lean into him, and the stiffness eases. The truth is, with me beside him, he does belong, at least for this moment.
We find seats near the corner, squeezed together on a sagging sofa. Claire claps her hands for attention, her curls bouncing.
“Mes amis,” she declares, “tonight, we raise a glass to Elise. She came to us fresh from Canada, with eyes like this—” She widens her own comically until everyone laughs.
“Terrified! Confused! Did not know the difference between battonage and remontage. And now, look at her. Dirt under her nails, French curses on her lips, and the respect of every one of us.”
The room erupts with cheers. Someone whistles. My cheeks burn, but laughter bubbles up, unstoppable. I spot Sebastian in the corner talking to one of the hands. He looks at me and raises his glass.
Yet even as I laugh, a sharp pang cuts through me. This—these people, this warmth, this makeshift family—I’m leaving it behind, and there are many things I will miss. The ache lingers at the edges of my smile, bittersweet and impossible to ignore.
Before Claire can go on, I lift my glass and cut in, grinning. “Let the record show that Claire taught me at least half of those French curses. So if anyone’s offended, blame her.”
The room explodes with laughter, and Claire presses a dramatic hand to her heart. “Trahison! Betrayal!” she cries, but her eyes sparkle.
The playful jab earns me another cheer, and warmth floods over me. I realize I’ve claimed my own place here, not as a guest, but as part of them.
Around us the music shifts from a jaunty French pop song to an old American classic.
Someone sings along off-key, and others clap in rhythm.
Candle wax drips down the bottles, and Kingston leans back against the sagging sofa, his earlier stiffness softening.
He chuckles at a cellar hand’s story about a fermenter exploding and covering them all in foam.
Claire raises her glass higher. “Elise will go back to Canada stronger, wiser, and more annoying than ever, I’m sure. But we’ll miss her. Très fort.”
“à Elise!” voices echo, glasses clinking.
Kingston touches his glass to mine, his eyes catching the fairy light. There’s pride there, but something softer too. He leans in to whisper, “I don’t remember the last time I was at a party like this.”
“High school?” I tease.
He smirks. “Even then, I think I stuck to the wall.”
I imagine him younger, tall and serious, watching while others laughed. The image makes me squeeze his hand tighter.
Later, Claire pulls me into a hug. “You’ve changed more than you realize,” she whispers. “When you first came, you looked like someone running. Now you look like someone ready.”
I step back, blinking quickly, and promise, “We’ll stay in touch. I’ll send you those Canadian contacts, and you’ll come visit. You’ll see Paradise Hill.”
She grins through her own tears. “I will. And when I do, you’ll owe me wine.”
“Deal.”
By the time the crowd thins, I’m exhausted in the best way. My cheeks ache from smiling, my arms from hugging. Kingston steers me gently up the stairs in the dormitory, one hand warm on the small of my back.
“That was…” I trail off, searching for the word.
“Overwhelming?” Kingston offers.
“Perfect,” I say instead. And I mean it.
He slips his hand into mine. “You’ve made something here, Elise. Something that lasts.”
I lean into him, letting his steadiness carry me forward. I’ll carry this piece of France with me, tucked into my bones.
Upstairs, I set my shoes by the door and slide beneath the quilt.
The sheets smell faintly of lavender, crisp from Chateau laundry.
Kingston follows, loosening his watch, his shirt, his presence filling the space with calm.
He settles beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight.
Without hesitation, I curl into his side, my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat thuds steady beneath my ear, anchoring me.
“You were beautiful tonight,” he murmurs into my hair.
I laugh softly. “Covered in crumbs and probably red-faced from all that wine?”
“Beautiful,” he repeats firmly, as if the word has nothing to do with how I look and everything to do with how I was.
The compliment makes my throat swell. I don’t tell him that earlier tonight, when Claire described me as someone who’d arrived terrified and was leaving stronger, I almost cried.
I don’t tell him how much I needed to hear that.
But I think he knows anyway. Kingston always knows more than I want to admit.
We lie in silence for a while, and I trace idle circles over the back of his hand, my mind replaying the last few months.
When I came here, France was supposed to be an escape, a way to outrun the expectations pressing down on me at Paradise Hill, to hide from my own doubts. I thought if I put an ocean between me and home, the noise in my head would quiet.
It didn’t, not at first. But somewhere between the blistered hands, the long days in the cellar, and the laughter spilling through the dormitory walls, something shifted.
This place tested me. It stripped me down until all I had left was grit and choice.
And I chose to stay. I chose to work harder, to listen deeper, to try again even when I failed.
Now, lying here, I realize France was never meant to help me run away. It was about preparing me for my job at home. Strengthening me, like the vines left with extra growth for winter. Kingston said that earlier, and he was right.
I tilt my head up to look at him. He’s half-asleep, his eyes heavy, his mouth softened from its usual sharp lines. He’s vulnerable in a way only I get to see.
“Promise me something,” I whisper.
His lids lift, and he hums low in his throat.
“Promise me you won’t let me forget this feeling when we go home. The way I’ve grown here. The way I’m not afraid anymore.”
His hand cups my cheek, warm and sure. “I promise,” he says. “I’ll remind you every day if I have to.”
A laugh escapes me. “Annoying reminders?”
His mouth curves in the faintest smile. “The best kind.”
I press closer, closing my eyes. Tomorrow will come, with its travel and goodbyes and the sharp ache of leaving. But it also throws the future open wide as I find what’s next for my personal life as well as my work. Tonight, in this bed, I’m not running from anything.
I’m ready.