French Inheritance (Escapist Romance #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

I lowered myself into downward-facing dog, trying to temper the escalating rage threatening to take over my entire existence. The sale documents glared at me from the kitchen table, their crisp edges a stark contrast to my crumbling world. I avoided glancing in that direction, focusing on the yoga mat beneath me, my bare feet gripping the rubbery texture like it was my lifeline.

Finally, defeated, I collapsed. Today was not my day.

I lay sprawled out on the living room floor of my quaint Berkeley bungalow—the house I would have to vacate soon. I blinked back the tears and forced myself up.

I walked over to the kitchen table and ran my fingers over the embossed letterhead, the paper cool and unyielding beneath my touch. The scent of fresh ink mingled with the bitter aroma of my untouched coffee, both equally unpalatable.

Elodie’s Natural Life—my brainchild, my passion—was reduced to a series of numbers and legalese. The buyout sum stared back at me, a hollow consolation prize that couldn’t begin to compensate for the dreams I had to abandon.

I hadn’t exactly expected it to turn out like this. But I guess that’s what happens when you start a business with your cohabiting boyfriend, who turns out to be a crypto-bro with slightly shady morals.

I pushed the stack aside, my hand trembling. The urge to toss the entire lot into the crackling fireplace was almost overwhelming. Instead, I gazed at the flames, their dance hypnotic and eerily reminiscent of the way Evan’s eyes had lit up when he first pitched his “foolproof” crypto investment strategy.

Evan hadn’t always been unscrupulous. I wasn’t so completely na?ve that I would have joined my life so fully with someone I suspected would screw me over. But people change. And sometimes that change comes at you like a California wildfire—razing your life to the ground before you even knew what hit you.

When he’d forced us into such a bad financial state, we’d had no choice but to sell to a larger home goods chain that had been pitching us for awhile. Our products were great. But our accounting was not.

I tossed my now-stale coffee and poured a fresh cup.

Really, the slow decay had started the previous year. A knot formed in my throat as I recalled the day we closed our downtown Berkeley storefront. The jingle of keys, the final click of the lock—each sound had reverberated through my chest like a farewell dirge. I could still smell the lavender and eucalyptus that had perfumed the air. Could still feel the smooth grain of the reclaimed wood shelving under my palms.

We just couldn’t keep up with the rent. Evan had assured me it was just a few bad months of sales and skyrocketing real estate costs. We agreed to move everything online with the dream of opening in a new location when things turned around.

The harsh buzz of my phone interrupted my reverie. Evan’s name flashed across the screen, and my pulse pounded at the sight. My finger hovered over the notification as I warred between curiosity and self-preservation.

The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. Outside, a car horn blared, and a dog barked in response—reminders of a world continuing to turn while mine had ground to a halt.

Finally, I swiped open the notification.

We need to talk about this. There are still matters we must sort out.

Stomach acid inched up my throat. I shoved the phone away, sending it skittering across the smooth countertop. The urge for a drink clawed at my throat, and I eyed the fridge where a crisp Pinot Grigio offered some temporary respite. I chuckled darkly—unemployment had its perks.

Another buzz. I whirled on the phone, ready to unleash my frustration.

“What!” I screamed at the inanimate object that somehow ran my life. The word tore from my lips, echoing in the empty kitchen.

But it wasn’t Evan this time. The phone flashed with an incoming call from a foreign number. Assuming it was just a robocall from India, I moved to hit the End button. But then I noticed beneath the number it read: Aix-en-Provence, France.

My finger, poised to dismiss the call, froze midair. Suddenly, phantom memories flooded my senses—the heady scent of lavender fields, the earthy bouquet of sun-warmed grapes, the feel of worn cobblestones beneath my feet.

Something tugged at me like an invisible thread of intuition. I answered, my voice tentative. “Hello?”

A rustle of papers, then a man’s voice, thick with a French accent. “ Bonjour . Um, hello. Am I speaking to Elodie Baker?”

“Yes, that’s me. Who—is this?”

“ Bonjour , Madame Baker. I am Jean Allard, an estate lawyer here in Provence.”

I blinked, my free hand unconsciously reaching for a pen. “Provence? As in France?”

“ Oui , Madame. Provence, France.”

I tapped a pen against the table in a nervous rhythm. “Oh. Okay, what can I do for you?”

“Unfortunately, I am calling with some sad news. Your grandfather has passed away.”

Confusion washed over me like a thick fog. “My—grandfather?”

He had to have the wrong number. Grandpa Doug had died in a Pasadena retirement community five years ago. I could still feel the warm Southern California sun on my face as Mom and I toasted his life with a final gin and tonic.

I was about to say as much when the realization struck me like a bolt of lightning. Not Grandpa Doug. That grandfather.

Pierre Descoteaux.

The shock hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on Jean’s words.

“Madame?” His voice pulled me back to the present.

I cleared my throat, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. “Oh. That’s—that’s terrible.”

“ Oui , I am so sorry to be the one to tell you,” Jean said.

I stood and walked to the window, where I stared unseeing at the world outside. “You said you’re a lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

“And why is a lawyer calling to tell me?” Even as I asked, understanding dawned. A lawyer would probably be the only one who could tell me. My father had passed away a few years back—not that we had ever had any kind of relationship. And I hadn’t seen my grandfather Pierre since I was a baby in France.

“I represent Mr. Descoteaux’s estate. And he has left you in his will.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis as Jean’s words echoed in my head like a dissonant bell.

“What? I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.” My voice sounded distant, as if coming from underwater.

“I understand you have had little of a relationship with Monsieur Descoteaux, so perhaps this may come as a bit of a surprise,” Jean continued, his accent lilting over the familiar yet foreign name.

A laugh bubbled up from my chest, raw and incredulous. “That is putting it very mildly.”

“I can understand this is a bit overwhelming. But we were hoping you could come to France for the estate settlement.”

My legs gave way, and I slid down the wall. “I’m sorry? Come to France? For my grandfather’s will reading? Is this a prank? Or like a murder mystery reality show?”

Surely, this man was mistaken. He had me confused with somebody else. I hadn’t been to France in thirty years. I had no relationship with that side of the family at all. He wouldn’t leave me in his will.

Silence stretched across the line, and Jean’s lack of response was more jarring than any words could have been.

“You are Elodie Baker, aren’t you?” he finally asked, uncertainty creeping into his tone.

“Well, yes, I am. But—”

“Daughter of Pascal Descoteaux?”

“Yes—”

“Bon. Then I have the right woman,” Jean said, his confident tone returning. “So then, I cannot tell you exactly what you shall inherit, as we have not read the contents of the will. So I do hope you are willing to join us.”

“I’m not sure I can—I have—” A whirlwind of thoughts and objections swirled through my mind, but they dissipated as quickly as they formed. What did I have to lose? No boyfriend, no company, no commitments. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: I had absolutely nothing keeping me here.

“When do you need me there?” The words left my mouth before I could second-guess them.

“We are a little flexible, but we do need to settle this within the next few days. The family would be delighted to host you while you are here. They have invited you to stay at your grandfather’s estate in Provence.”

A long-buried memory surfaced: a sun-drenched chateau nestled among endless rows of grapevines, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and sun-baked earth. My gaze drifted to a drawer in the sideboard that housed the photograph—the one tangible piece of my past I had.

“Family?” The word felt foreign on my tongue.

“Yes, of course, your grandfather would have family, and they are excited to welcome you. And the estate is happy to pay for the plane ticket.”

“What? No, I couldn’t ask that—I—”

“I assure you it is no trouble. It was part of the bequest. May I tell them that you’re coming?”

I inhaled deeply, the scent of my own home suddenly feeling stale and confining. As I exhaled, something shifted within me. “I’ll be there.”

“Delightful,” Jean replied with a contained note of enthusiasm. “I will give you my email address, and if you could send me your flight itinerary, I will arrange to have a car pick you up at the airport. We look forward to seeing you in a few days, Madame Baker.”

As I jotted down his contact information, the reality of what I’d just agreed to began to sink in. The pen trembled slightly in my hand, leaving a faint, wavy line on the paper—a visual echo of the uncertainty and excitement coursing through my veins.

I stood and walked into the bedroom and then the closet. I pulled the box down from the top shelf—the one I hadn’t opened in years. I inhaled and lifted the top. With a shaking hand, I lifted out my expired French passport.