Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I had always loved a good farmers market. I love a crisp morning with happy farmers, the smell of baking bread, and the earthy scent of freshly harvested vegetables washing through the air. Back home, I would try to go to one a handful of times over the summer. But the Douce Ville farmers market put all of that to shame. Every farmers market I had ever been to was only playing at it compared to this little storybook scene.
Armed with my new shopping hat, I serenely wandered the streets. Colorful awnings and umbrellas dotted the square, sheltering tables laden with an array of local produce and artisanal goods. The air was thick with a medley of scents—the earthy aroma of fresh vegetables, the sweet perfume of ripe fruits, and the intoxicating fragrance of freshly baked bread. I closed my eyes for a moment, breathing it all in.
As I wandered through the rows of vendors, the symphony of sounds enveloped me. The melodic lilt of French conversations floated around me, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. In the background, I could hear the gentle clucking of chickens and the soft bleating of goats from a small livestock area at the edge of the square.
I stopped at a cheese stall, marveling at the variety on display. Wheels of golden Comté sat next to pungent rounds of Roquefort and delicate discs of fresh chèvre—which I only knew because they were clearly labeled. The vendor, an older woman with laugh lines etched deeply around her eyes, offered me a sample of a local specialty—a soft, ash-covered goat cheese that practically melted on my tongue.
Tables overflowed with vibrant produce—plump, sun-ripened tomatoes in shades of red, yellow, and deep purple sat alongside glossy eggplants and bunches of crisp herbs.
The flower stall was a riot of color and fragrance—bundles of aromatic lavender and delicate sprays of mimosa. I couldn’t resist purchasing a bouquet, thinking of how much they would brighten up the chateau’s kitchen.
I filled my basket with local honey and preserves, cheese, a warm, crispy baguette, and a jar of Ni?oise olives.
As the morning wore on, the square grew more crowded, and I absorbed the tableau like a scene from a movie. I found a small café at the edge of the square and ordered a café crème , settling into a wrought-iron chair to watch the world go by. The waiter brought my coffee along with a small plate of fresh strawberries. " Un cadeau de la maison ," he said with a wink.
As I sipped my coffee, a profound sense of contentment washed over me. This, I realized, was what I had been searching for when I decided to take on the chateau. Not just the beauty of the countryside or the challenge of restoration, but this feeling of belonging, of being part of something timeless.
I was heading back out when I found myself walking past a few local wine stalls. I wondered if Remi or Vanessa would be there.
I stopped when I spotted a name I recognized: Domaine de la Roche - Vins de Provence. The booth was elegantly set up, with rows of bottles gleaming in the sunlight and a crisp white tablecloth adorned with sprigs of lavender. My face lit up. This winery was on my road—I had driven by it many times. I sidled up to the booth where an older man was pouring small tastes and chatting with eager patrons.
When his customer moved on, I moved in closer. He was probably in his sixties, with silver hair and deep lines etched into his sun-bronzed face.
“ Bonjour, ” I said with a smile. He met my eyes, and his steel-gray eyes appraised me coolly.
“ Bonjour. Would you care to taste?” he said in heavily accented English.
“Oh, oui. A small bit. It’s a little early for me.”
He nodded and splashed about a tablespoon into a tiny taster cup.
“Actually, I wanted to introduce myself. I recently inherited Pierre Descoteaux’s estate.”
The man's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Ah, so you're the American." He didn’t look up at me as he said it.
I faltered for a moment but pressed on. "Yes, that's right. Elodie Baker. And you are...?"
"Marcel Leroy," he replied curtly. " Propriétaire of Domaine de la Roche."
"It's wonderful to meet you, Marcel. I actually found a few bottles of your wine in the chateau's cellar."
His eyes narrowed. "Did you now? I'm surprised my wines survived your... renovations."
The hostility in his voice caught me off guard. "Oh, I haven't touched the cellar yet. It's in remarkable condition, actually. I was hoping to preserve it—"
" Preserve? " he scoffed, cutting me off. "What would an American know about preservation? You people think you can buy our heritage, our history, and then what? Turn it into some garish tourist attraction?"
I felt heat rising to my cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and indignation.
"That's not my intention at all, Monsieur Leroy. I have great respect for the chateau's history. It’s part of my family and—"
"Family," he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Of course. So you think you can read a few books and suddenly understand centuries of tradition? The blood and sweat that has gone into this land?"
A few other patrons had gathered around the booth, watching with intent curiosity as the drama unfolded.
I gripped my basket tighter, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I understand locals can be wary of outsiders, but I assure you, I'm committed to honoring the chateau's legacy. I'd love to learn more about the local history and traditions. Perhaps we could—"
" Learn? " he barked out a harsh laugh. "You want to learn? Here's a lesson for you, mademoiselle. We don't need Americans coming here, buying up our ancestral homes, and 'fixing' them to suit their Hollywood fantasies. That chateau has stood for centuries without your help."
I wanted to tell him that no, actually, it was built in the 1920s, and "ancestral" was kind of a stretch, but I could see he wasn’t really in the mood.
I lifted my chin, keeping my voice light. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I'm just doing the necessary repairs, updating the plumbing and electricity. Surely you can understand the need for preservation.”
He made a grunting noise and turned away from me.
I felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the square. My cheeks burned, and I could feel curious eyes on me from all directions. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, Monsieur Leroy.”
" Non, " he cut me off again, waving a dismissive hand. "There's no misunderstanding. You Americans, you're all the same. You think you can buy a piece of Provence like it's a souvenir.”
His words hit me like a physical blow. I stood there, mouth agape, unable to formulate a response. The market sounds around us seemed to fade away, leaving only the pounding of blood in my ears.
I nodded curtly and turned to go. “It was lovely to meet you.”
Without waiting for a response, I walked away, my steps quick and purposeful. I could feel eyes following me, could hear the murmur of conversations resuming in my wake. It wasn't until I reached the edge of the square that I allowed myself to slow down, ducking into a quiet alley between two buildings.
There, hidden from view, I leaned against the cool stone wall and closed my eyes, taking deep, shaky breaths. The encounter replayed in my mind, each barbed word stinging anew. Doubt crept in, insidious and cold. Was Monsieur Leroy right? Was I just an interloper, naively thinking I could become part of this world?
A sob caught in my throat, but I swallowed it back. I wouldn't cry, not here, not now. Instead, I focused on steadying my breathing, on the weight of the market basket in my hand, on the distant sounds of village life continuing unabated.
After a few moments, I pushed away from the wall and squared my shoulders. This was just one person’s opinion, I told myself. I conjured images of my siblings. Of Colette and Eric.
Remi.
One interaction couldn’t negate all the warmth and welcome I’d experienced since arriving.
Still, as I made my way back to the chateau, Monsieur Leroy's words echoed in my mind and there was only one thing I could think:
Outsider.