Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
By the time I got home from the farmers market, a light drizzle was coming down, splattering the old windows in a romantic melody. I stepped out onto the terrace, clutching a cup of tea to my chest, and breathed in the fresh morning air. I had managed to shake off what Marcel had said at the market. Things were looking up—dare I say it? We were making progress with the house. Once we’d found our rhythm, the repairs and updates started to flow. Now, the only thing left was to wait for the official permits to begin renovations on the old tasting room building. It hadn’t been operational in a decade, but I had dreams of it bursting with life again.
My phone rang. I glanced down and saw a French number on the screen.
"Hello?" I cleared my throat and tried again. " Bonjour ?"
" Bonjour. Is this Elodie Baker?" a woman’s voice asked on the other end of the line.
"Yes, this is she. How can I help you?"
She cleared her throat before continuing. " Oui, my name is Marie Cartier. I’m calling from the bureau du maire regarding your permit request for the renovations at Chateau Descoteaux. "
My heart pounded, and I swallowed a lump. "Yes. Hello. Do you have an update?" I asked shakily.
"I'm afraid there is going to be a delay in processing these permits."
"A delay? Why? What kind of delay?"
"There are some questions about the historical nature of the building. The records list it as a Monument Historique. Because of this, certain renovations may fall under preservation protection. This means you'll have to follow a different set of regulations and a more complex process to obtain the permits."
My pulse quickened. "What—what does that mean?"
"It means your renovation plans will need to go through a more rigorous approval process. You'll need to consult with the Architecte des Batiments de France before proceeding."
"I... I don't understand. The who? I’m working with a contractor."
Marie’s voice softened, sensing my confusion. "The ABF is a government-appointed architect who oversees renovations on historic properties. They’ll need to assess your proposed changes to ensure they align with preservation laws."
I sank down into a chair, my mind reeling. "But I’ve already started some of the work..."
"I'm sorry, but you’ll need to halt all renovations immediately. You’ll have to submit a detailed proposal outlining your plans. The ABF will review it and may impose specific restrictions or guidelines."
"Guidelines? Restrictions? But it’s my property!"
"I understand your frustration, Madame. However, as a historical property, there are regulations in place to preserve its character. You’ll need to obtain a proper building permit—a Permis de Construire —from our office after the ABF approves your plans."
I ran a hand through my hair, dislodging a small cloud of dust. "This sounds like it could take months."
"It can be a lengthy process, yes. If you’d like, I can email you more detailed information about the process and put you in touch with the local ABF office."
"Yes, please do," I replied, my voice hollow.
After a polite goodbye, I ended the call. This was just great. I didn’t know what I was thinking, taking this project on. Who was I to oversee the renovation of a house? I didn’t know the first thing about houses, clearly. Back home, I could barely change a lightbulb. And here I was, trying to restore and update a 100-year-old French chateau?
I heard the sound of a car pulling up and spotted Remi’s truck easing into the driveway. He got out, a happy little smile on his face. I felt my lips tugging wider. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days—not since our hilltop picnic—and the sight of him sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach. My lips pulsed in remembrance.
" Bonjour, " he said. "Loving this drizzle."
"Yeah, me too. Feels a bit like the weather back home. And it’s a nice break from the oppressive sun."
He came closer but stopped short at the porch. He stared at me curiously. "What’s wrong?"
"What makes you say something’s wrong?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I don’t know. There’s just something about your—how do you describe it? Your energy. Your smile is... weak."
"A weak smile?" I said with a laugh. "That’s very observant. And very specific."
"Am I wrong? Is there something on your mind?"
"Well," I started with a sigh. "As a matter of fact, yes. I just got off the phone with the inspector, and the permit for the old tasting room structure has been denied. Or delayed. I’m not entirely sure."
Remi's eyebrow went up. "Denied? Did they say why?"
I sighed. "Something about this being a historic property, so it needs to go through a different channel. Some historical preservation. The Architecte de something."
" Architecte des Batiments, " he supplied.
"That sounds right. She rattled off a ton of information that I only half caught, but basically, she said it could take up to a year for it to go through." I pressed a hand to my forehead, massaging away a throbbing headache.
Remi looked thoughtfully concerned for a moment, then he snickered.
"I appreciate your lighthearted attitude, but I’m really not finding this funny," I said.
He shook his head. "No, I’m sorry. It’s not that it’s funny exactly. I just think I know who might be behind this."
"Behind this? Are you trying to tell me somebody is sabotaging my renovation efforts?"
He sighed and walked up to sit beside me. "Possibly. I was visiting my father last night, and he made some comments."
"So your father is out to get me," I said.
He laughed and shook his head. "No, my father wouldn’t do anything like that. He talks a big game, but he takes very little action with his ire. But he did mention that there were some people in the commune who were wary of whatever it is you’re doing. I’ve said before—people around here, some of them are afraid of progress. They are wary of outsiders coming in and doing anything—it doesn’t matter what. And I’m sad to say, but there are some who are especially wary of young Americans with their big ideas and deep pockets."
"If only they knew how shallow my pockets were at the moment."
"They assume all Americans are filthy rich. Surely you’ve created an app."
"Apparently, I should have. So, what am I supposed to do? Just go through this other historical preservation process?"
Remi looked like he was considering the proposition. "You can. And you might have to if it’s truly a Monument Historique. But I also think this might be—what’s the phrase? Smoke and mirrors? I think they’re just throwing up roadblocks to be difficult. This property is old, but I don’t think it falls under any historic preservation laws as far as I know. But to be safe, we should review the books. Perhaps there is some historical significance we don’t know about."
I smiled weakly. "Thank you. Again. I feel like you’re doing way more for me than you should."
"Do you not want my help?"
I clutched his arm dramatically. "Please don’t go anywhere. I will be absolutely lost among these crazy French people."
"And how was the market?" Remi asked, shifting gears abruptly.
"Market?"
Remi nodded toward the bag sitting on the table. "The farmers market. It looks like you were there this morning. I usually go, but I was caught up."
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to talk about what the winemaker had said. It was bothering me way more than it should, and I didn’t want to reveal that weakness.
"Elodie?" Remi was looking at me expectantly.
"Right. It was—it was lovely."
"You sound unsure."
I sighed. "It was fine. Well, the market itself was absolutely wonderful. It’s something right out of a storybook, really. I just had this weird interaction."
"With who?"
I fiddled with my teacup. "This winemaker, Marcel Leroy. He said some kind of nasty things to me about not appreciating me coming in and renovating the house. I guess he was echoing sentiments like your father’s. People don’t want me here. I’m an outsider."
Remi didn’t say anything for a moment. He waited for me to finish.
"Are you okay?" he finally asked.
"I’m fine. I mean, who cares what some cranky old neighbor thinks, right? It’s just—I know people don’t want me here. I’m not French. I never will be. I’ll never belong here, you know? It’s fine."
Remi moved closer and gently touched my cheek. "It’s not fine, Elodie. Your papa was a full-blooded Frenchman. You were born here. You. Are. French." He said the words slowly.
I turned and looked up at him. His words were like a fist wrapped around my heart.
"Thank you," I said. "That means a lot to me. I’m just not sure anyone else sees it that way."
"I’ll talk to him," Remi said assertively.
"No!" I snapped. The words came out much harsher than I intended. "No, I don’t want you to do that."
"And why not? I know him. He’s a staple around here, and his winery is very successful, but he’s just a cranky old jerk. I’ll explain to him who you are and what your intentions are."
"No, Remi, I don’t want you to do that. I don’t need you to come in and save me at every turn. I can take care of myself." The words definitely came out too harsh, but I realized it was the way I meant them. I appreciated what Remi was doing, but sometimes I felt like he was babying me, fixing all the problems.
"I thought you wanted my help," he said, his jaw tight.
I sighed. "I do. And your help has been invaluable. But I just need to do some things on my own. I’m not as helpless as you think."
"I don’t think anyone would ever accuse you of being helpless, Elodie. Just stubborn."
I turned to glare at him. "I’m stubborn? You’re like a child when you don’t get your way."
He narrowed his eyes at me, and I instantly regretted what I said. I was frustrated and angry, and I knew I was taking it out on him. But the indignation in me made me dig my heels in even harder.
"Nice to know how you really feel. I should go." He turned away.
I should have told him to stop and apologized. But I didn’t.
"Probably. I need to be alone anyway," I said instead.
He didn’t even give the obligatory pause for me to change my mind or ask him to stay. He just nodded and was back in his truck in an instant.
"Elodie? Are you all right?"
Colette stepped out onto the porch, all warmth and smelling of pastry. I breathed in slowly, trying to compose myself. I slowly stood upright and forced a smile. "I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed."
"Did something happen?"
I slowly shook my head, not even knowing how to explain it all.
"So many things, Colette. It's everything. From the permits to Evan. And then today, a local winemaker basically told me to get lost, and that nobody wants me here. I guess I just don’t even know what I’m doing. Taking on this project, trying to renovate this place. Thinking I could just abandon everything and rebuild my life here was stupid."
The words came out in a rambling babble. Colette gave me a moment to collect myself, then came over. Without asking, she took my hand and started dragging me inside.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"You need a croissant."
I laughed. "Does a pastry solve everything?"
" Oui. In France, it does. Especially my croissants. I baked some fresh this morning." She hustled over to the counter, where, indeed, a fresh plate of buttery, flaky pastries awaited.