Chapter 6
Chapter Six
That afternoon, we gathered in Grandpère's formal sitting room. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating tiny dust motes dancing in the air. I sank into a plush velvet sofa that threatened to swallow me whole.
"I feel like I'm in the middle of a murder mystery," I said, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the hushed room. "Should I be checking my tea for poison?"
My new siblings shot me looks that could curdle milk. Only Félicité managed a wan smile, as if she'd briefly forgotten how to use her facial muscles.
The door creaked open, and in walked Jean Allard, the estate lawyer. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of central casting for "Generic French Lawyer #3," complete with slicked-back grey hair and a suit so crisp it could probably stand up on its own.
" Merci beaucoup for coming together," he began in English tinged with a Maurice Chevalier-esque accent. "I apologize for the formality, but it is best that these things are 'andled in person. Merci, Elodie for making the trip.” He cleared his throat with the gravity of a man about to announce the end of the world, then extracted a stack of papers from his briefcase.
The room crackled with tension. étienne's fingers tap-danced a frantic rhythm on his knee. Félicité bounced her foot relentlessly. My stomach performed Cirque du Soleil-level acrobatics.
"Alright, the first item of business," Jean began. "Colette, as a valued friend to Pierre, he 'as left you a sum of money to keep a comfortable retirement. In this envelope, you will find some notes and details. Additionally, there are some paintings zat everyone previously agreed on zat madame should 'ave?"
He paused, eyebrows raised, daring anyone to object. The silence stretched like an overworked rubber band.
"Bon," he continued. “And Eric, similarly, you will find a retirement sum in ze envelope. Pierre also dictated that, should you wish, you would both have a home here at ze estate for as long as you desire."
Colette's eyes welled up, and she and Eric exchanged emotional glances.
Jean soldiered on like a dull auctioneer. "Now to the blood family. There has been a trust set up for everyone. I think all of you are already aware of its contents. The money that would 'ave gone to your father was divided equally among your father's children." His eyes slid to me. "Including his eldest daughter, Elodie."
The collective gasp could have sucked the oxygen out of the room. I blinked, wondering if my jet lag had finally driven me to auditory hallucinations.
"I'm sorry?" I said, trying to keep my tone easy. "Did you just say I'm getting... money?"
“French law dictates that all children must be included in ze inheritance. The exact terms of what that looks like can vary, but no legal child may be left out."
Régis huffed like an offended bull. "But she wasn't even his child. I mean, not really."
His words hit me like a slap. He wasn't wrong—I had about as much connection to Pascal as I did to the French Royal Family—wait, did the French have a royal family? When Jean told me Pierre had died, it was like hearing about a vaguely familiar celebrity. A tiny part of me mourned, but it was the kind of grief reserved for someone you’ve admired from afar.
Jean shot Régis a look that could have curdled Camembert. "Legally, she is. That is all that matters."
There was a pregnant pause as Jean studied the paperwork. He took a deep breath before continuing.
"Now, as to the matter of Pierre's chateau and winery." Another dramatic pause. I leaned forward. The other three remained stoic. “Pierre has left the physical estate to his eldest grandchild, Elodie Baker."
The silence that followed was so complete, you could have heard a grape drop in the vineyard.
My brain felt like an overtaxed electrical system. The words hung in the air. Slowly, as if synchronized by some cosmic puppeteer, every head in the room swiveled toward me.
My stomach did a backflip. I swallowed hard, tasting the bitter tang of confusion mixed with a hint of... was that excitement?
"I—um—could you hit rewind and repeat that last part?” I stammered.
Jean nodded, unfazed by my jumbled reaction. “Your Grandpère, Pierre Descoteaux," he repeated, enunciating each syllable as if explaining quantum physics to a toddler, "has bequeathed his primary residence—this chateau—and the winery to you, Madame Elodie Baker— nee Descoteaux—of Berkeley, California."
I slowly shook my head. “But why? He hardly knew me. We had no relationship.”
"Excellent question," étienne snapped, his words razor-sharp. He whirled on Jean like a matador facing a particularly irritating bull. "Surely there's been some clerical error? Perhaps someone spilled grenache on the will, and you misread it?"
" Non, non . It is all très clair . Your grandfather was of parfaitement sound mind when he drafted his will, I assure you.”
Régis let out a laugh that sounded like a mix between a snort and a goose honk. “I highly doubt that. He wouldn't leave this place to someone he barely knew.”
"But—you know, he did know me," I piped up, feeling a small smile stretch across my face. "He didn't know me for long, but he knew me at the beginning. I remember him... sort of. Like a character from a half-forgotten bedtime story."
The room fell silent again, as if someone had hit the mute button on a particularly dramatic soap opera.
Jean cleared his throat. “You will find everything in the will is equal and fair by the letter of the law. The estate has been divided equally between all four of you. Some get financial considerations, others property and estate value. It's all très légal ."
étienne shot to his feet so fast I half expected to see scorch marks on the antique rug. " Non! C'est inacceptable ! She's not—" he sputtered like a faulty espresso machine, "—she's not part of the family. We don't even know her. She materialized out of thin air like some sort of inheritance-seeking genie.”
"Just because you didn't know about her doesn't mean she didn't exist," Colette interjected. She fixed étienne with a stare that could have wilted a field of sunflowers. "In fact, I've known her longer than any of you have been alive. Pierre always felt guilty about the way your father treated Elodie and her mother. We can't change what he did, but we can make things right for her now."
étienne flashed her a curdling glare. “Did you know about this, Colette? Were you in on this little plot twist?"
Colette's face remained impassive. “ Non . I didn't know exactly. But Pierre and I talked before he got sick. He wanted to make things right with Elodie.”
"You can be angry,” Jean continued, "but it is the law. She is—was—Pascal's daughter. His eldest child. Whether or not he was married at the time of her birth is irrelevant. French law does not make exceptions. She's entitled to a share of your grandfather and father's inheritance."
The weight of Jean's words settled over the room like a heavy fog rolling in over the San Francisco Bay. Félicité, étienne, and Régis collectively inhaled so sharply, I feared they might suck all the oxygen from the room.
My mind reeled, trying to process this Shakespearean twist. I hadn't received anything when Pascal died—and I hadn’t really expected to. But if what Jean was saying was true...
"Non!" étienne shouted again. “Papa’s estate was divided up years ago. What are we supposed to do, start dividing up the family silver?"
“That won't be necessary," Jean said. “Pascal knew the law. He set aside a petit quelque chose for Elodie. It's already taken care of."
I exhaled a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. A French trust fund? What was actually happening right now? I spared a glance at the velvet curtains, half expecting to find a reality show film crew hiding in the wings.
“What about the vineyard?” étienne piped in.
Jean’s face remained passive as he nodded. “The vineyard is part of the estate and goes to Elodie as well.”
Régis let out a snicker. " Bon débarras . Good riddance. None of us wanted it, anyway. This place is falling apart. We should be grateful he left it to her. It takes the albatross off our necks and saves us from having to sell it. Now, none of us have to worry about this old decrepit place."
His vitriol felt artificial and forced.
My eyes traced the room's features — the delicate crown molding, cathedral-like windows. Sure, there were a few chips in the paint, like smile lines on an aging beauty queen, and some of the finishes had developed a patina that whispered tales of countless dinner parties and family dramas. But it was beautiful. Charming. Mine. The word echoed in my head.
Mine.
"So, what happens now?" I asked, my voice sounding small in the cavernous room. "Does it come with a manual? ‘How to Run Your Surprise French Estate for Dummies'?"
Jean's lips twitched in what might have been a smile, if smiles were rationed in France. “There will be some paperwork we will need to officially go through. A transfer. And then the assets will be legally divided. It's not terribly complicated. Your grandfather was extremely organized. He didn't leave a lot to chance, and he made sure that all of the details were thought through. He was like the Napoleon of estate planning." Jean chuckled at his own joke.
"But what am I going to do in France?" The absurdity of the situation hit me, and I started to laugh. The sound bounced off the walls, filling the room with nervous laughter. Everyone stared at me.
I cleared my throat, trying to rein in my mirth before they called for a straitjacket. "I just mean, I don't live here. I live in Berkeley. I have a life there." The words sounded hollow, even to my own ears. Did I really have a life there? Or just a house on the market and a dwindling bank account.
"Well, of course, that will be your decision," Jean said, his tone suggesting I'd just been handed a particularly volatile bomb. "Once everything is settled, the property will legally belong to you. You can leave it here as is and have somebody take care of it by proxy. You can sell it—"
Colette let out a sharp intake of breath. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down at a sea of French bureaucracy and family drama. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't just leave this massive chateau and winery sitting vacant while I lived in Berkeley, could I? This place didn’t deserve to be abandoned. She deserved love, but—I shook my head.
"All right. I’ll give it some thought,” I said. “How long will the process take?”
"We should have everything finalized within a month if everybody is diligent and cooperative,” Jean replied with fragile optimism.
"A month?" My voice hit a pitch that could have shattered the fine crystal. I certainly hadn't planned on being here for a month. "Well, I guess I'd better start brushing up on my French.”
I glanced at my siblings, who all looked like they were plotting their own Agatha Christie plot.