Chapter Twenty-Three
Ever since arriving in France, I’d been looking forward to Kate’s visit to the set. She’d become a lifeline for me, taking early-morning calls, answering late-night texts, and basically reassuring me every chance she could that even though Chateau Mirabelle was far behind its renovation schedule, Heart Restoration Project would still be a success.
Since the crew would be continuing to work full steam ahead to get things ready before we could restart filming, Kate suggested we meet in Paris for a quick weekend jaunt before joining up with the rest of the production team in Provence. I jumped at the offer, desperately needing a change of scenery, some breathing room from whatever was starting to develop between me and Bastien, and a chance to escape to the City of Lights. There was one downside, though: Kate wanted Elliott to come along to film a bit of me in the bustling metropolis, a stark contrast from the sleepy vibe of Maubec. She thought our little foray to Paris might even serve as a good midpoint or lighthearted transition episode for the series.
It was a three-hour-plus train ride from Avignon to Paris, and for most of it, Elliott sat curled up in his seat, engrossed in a book. Some nonfiction, boring-looking behemoth with a plain cover and a thick spine. Every so often he’d yank out an earbud and ask me to scoot my knees over so he could pass to get to les toilettes or the café car. But for the most part we kept to our separate corners. Since our heated argument that afternoon we’d spent in town, he and I had barely spoken more than a few necessary words to one another. Still, with so much of the show left to shoot, I knew I needed to keep it civil between us if we were going to have any hope of making it through to the end.
We met Kate at George V, one of the swankiest hotels in the city with oversize suites and Eiffel Tower views right off the Champs-élysées. She was waiting for me in the lobby, looking chic as ever, pin-straight blonde extensions framing her perfectly made-up face. You would never have guessed she just stepped off an almost twelve-hour flight.
“Plum, darling,” she said, springing over to me. “You look fabulous!” She eyed Elliott up and down. “Hello, you must be Elliott Schaffer?”
“Nice to finally meet you in person, Ms. Wembley,” Elliott said with a nod. He hoisted his camera onto his shoulder and switched it on, its bright light practically blinding us both.
Kate looked into the camera, seemingly startled that it was focused on her. The footage was supposed to be of me, not necessarily us, in Paris, but Elliott would need to film as much material as possible in order to ensure we’d get great edits.
“Best to think of him as a piece of furniture or a plant, something in the background nobody pays much attention to. Better yet, pretend like he’s not even here.” I waved a hand at him dismissively, only half joking.
Kate eyed him up and down and whispered, “Looking like that, easier said than done, am I right?” She brought her voice back up to a normal level. “Anyway, I dropped my bags in my room and came straight downstairs to meet you.” She jumped up and down, clapping her hands like an overexcited schoolgirl. “I planned the most fabulous day for us. The first dailies are testing so well with our focus groups that Tributary has almost quadrupled our budget and my expense account,” Kate said with a mischievous grin. “We’ll start with coffee and a macaron at Ladurée and then hurry over to Le Bon Marché, where two personal shoppers will be waiting to assist us through the store. Then, I arranged for a private tour of Coco Chanel’s Paris apartment followed by spa treatments here at the hotel and finally, dinner at Café de Flore. You’ve been working so hard, I wanted to treat you to a special day.”
“That all sounds wonderful,” I gushed. And it did. After lots of long hours sweeping and disposing of construction debris, attaching and mudding drywall panels, and spackling every godforsaken hole I could find, I was in dire need of some good R R. And I had a feeling Parisien R R was going to be just what the doctor ordered.
Kate lifted her tote over her shoulder and pushed her oversize sunglasses down off her head onto her face. “Good, let’s go, all of Paris awaits.”
We left the hotel, turned onto the Champs-élysées, and headed straight to Ladurée, a gorgeous old French tearoom famous for its brightly colored macarons and people watching. As we approached the front door of the restaurant, Kate turned to Elliott and said, “Why don’t you let me and Plum have a private girls-only catch-up? We’ll meet you in front of Le Bon Marché at eleven to start filming for real.”
“You’re the boss,” Elliott grumbled, and without being told twice, he turned and headed in the opposite direction.
“Is he always like that?” Kate asked once Elliott had left.
“Yes, always.”
“Noted.”
Kate gave our name to the ma?tre d’, who seated us at a small banquette right off the main dining room. After browsing through the menu, we settled on a few pastries: un plaisir sucré, un millefeuille, and a selection of colorful macarons. The sweet scent of powdered sugar swirled with the bitter aroma of fresh-brewing espresso, and I inhaled it as deeply as I could.
“Did you know that until the late 1800s, women weren’t allowed in cafés without their husbands?” Kate said, passing the two menus back to the server. “Ladurée was one of the first restaurants in Paris that allowed women to dine on their own.”
I folded a mint-green linen napkin onto my lap. “I have to say, I love it here even more now.”
“There’s a Ladurée in Beverly Hills over on Wilshire, but it’s not the same. For a start, you’d never see people in LA shoving their faces full of pastries,” she teased. The server came over, balancing a tray with two coffees and our assortment of sweets. He carefully set them on our table, along with a small metal pitcher of warm milk. “I have to be honest with you,” Kate said, stirring a heaping spoonful of sugar into her mug, “I have slightly ulterior motives for asking you to join me in Paris.”
I took a bite of my macaron, the crisp outside melting into a soft, delicate texture. The pistachio flavor was perfectly balanced, and my mouth flooded with nutty sweetness. “Oh yeah?” I asked midchew, catching a crumb on the corner of my lips with my pinkie.
“I’m hearing different things about the construction delays at Chateau Mirabelle. What’s really going on?”
“Well, I guess that depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you,” she said pointedly.
“Bastien and the crew haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye.”
She took a nibble of her macaron and batted her lash extensions. “What do you think the problem is?”
“Bastien has a clear vision for Chateau Mirabelle, one not everyone’s on board with. He’s an artist, really. Maybe a bit of a perfectionist too, which is of course slowing down the train, but he just wants it all to be right. I don’t know if it’s that he sees it to be a personal reflection of him? Or the work he’s capable of? Maybe he is using the renovation of the house as an opportunity to prove himself a bit? He’s so talented and so passionate, I can see how much he is putting his whole self into this thing.”
Kate rested her chin on her hands. “You’re one smitten kitten, aren’t you?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “What? No. I’m not. I mean, I like him. He’s an easy person to like.”
“It’s okay, Plum, you can tell me. I’ve seen the dailies, the sexual tension between the two of you is as thick as ganache,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
A deep flush crept up my face. “It’s the language barrier. Most of the time, I can’t understand even half of what he’s talking about.”
A smile erupted across her face. “You understand everything he says perfectly. Look, I don’t blame you for falling for Monsieur Munier. And all the women in our focus groups, they don’t blame you either. He’s pretty easy on the eyes and charming to boot? He’s practically Prince Charming! I mean, you have the castle and everything.” She threw her head back with a laugh and took a sip of her Earl Grey from the bone china teacup.
Bastien was easy on the eyes, no question, but it was more than that. He was thoughtful, kind, and sensitive. He was frank and unaffected. But there wasn’t anything serious happening between us. Not really. So far, my entire courtship with Bastien consisted of some heavy flirtation and a few light make-out sessions. And though the other night he was angling for us to take the next step, he understood I wasn’t ready. I’d already had my share of showmances, most of them ending as soon as the director yelled cut. I was determined not to go down that road again, unless there was something and someone real waiting for me at the end of it.
“What about Elliott? Personality aside, he’s one tall drink of water, no doubt about that,” Kate purred.
I looked up from my plate. “Elliott?”
“Production has discussed extensively ways to get him on film, but he’s remained pretty adamant he wants to stay behind the camera. Can you imagine someone not wanting to be famous?”
I set down my fork. “Actually, I think he’s become a little more interested in being part of the show in a different way. You know, Elliott and I have uncovered a lot of interesting history about Chateau Mirabelle that he wants to try to include in the show somehow. I mean, it’s called Heart Restoration Project, right? The house is the heart of the village, or will be once we finish the renovation. We could put such a meaningful and profound twist on its significance to the town.”
“Yes and no, Heart Restoration Project can mean lots of different things. It’s why we ended up sticking with it,” she said matter-of-factly. “Shoot, look at the time, Elliott doesn’t seem like the type who’d be happy to be kept waiting.” Kate waved her hand in the air to flag down the server. “L’addition, s’il vous plait.”
“I didn’t know you spoke French?”
“Un peu. I studied in Paris for a semester during my junior year. I use the term studied loosely. Ran around like a silly American drinking far too much wine and having baguette sword fights in the streets with mes amis.” She laughed at the recollection and threw some euros down on the table before adding, “Shall we?”
We sped over to the sixth arrondissement and spent the rest of the morning being pampered by the personal shoppers at Le Bon Marché. They brought us champagne, canapés, and the best of French fashion. Elliott looked bored out of his mind, but he diligently captured every moment on film as directed.
Kate refilled her flute and collapsed onto the round cotton candy–pink chaise longue in the center of the dressing room while I finished zipping up a body-conscious Balmain ribbed dress with metallic braid detail up the front.
Kate sat upright. “Shut the front door! You look hot in that dress. You have to get it.”
In the mirror, I caught a quick glimpse of Elliott, whose mouth was dropped open, his eyes locked on mine. He immediately shifted his gaze away and tucked himself back behind the camera. I glanced down at the price tag dangling off the bottom of the dress: €3,950. “I can’t afford it.”
Kate shot me the same look of astonishment almost everyone did when they heard I wasn’t rolling in the Everly millions.
“How’s that even possible? You got paid for EVERLYday, right?”
“I was young and stupid and had a lot of people in my ear giving me all the wrong advice,” I admitted.
“What about your parents? Where were they during that time?”
“Believe me, they tried to tame my wild ways, but back then, I didn’t listen to anyone besides Rhys, and look at where that got me.”
I glanced over at Elliott. For the first time all day he seemed to be invested in our conversation, not just recording it.
“You weren’t stupid, you were in love. We’ve all been guilty of making poor decisions in the name of love.” Kate refilled my champagne flute, and I downed the glass in one gulp before stepping back into the dressing room. I slipped out of the Balmain number and handed it to one of the personal shoppers.
“We should wrap things up. Our guide’s meeting us at Coco Chanel’s apartment in about an hour for our tour. Let me close out here,” Kate said, holding up her small pile of purchases. “Can you flag down the driver, and I’ll meet you both outside?”
I spotted our driver, who was parked on the other side of the street, and Elliott and I crossed over the Rue de Sèvres to meet him. The driver opened the door to let me inside, and Elliott jumped into the front seat, probably so he didn’t have to make awkward chitchat while we waited. A few minutes later, Kate approached juggling a handful of shopping and garment bags, putting all but one in the trunk.
“31 Rue Cambon, s’il vous pla?t,” Kate told the driver as she slid into the car. “Here,” she said, passing me the garment bag. “This is for you.”
“For me?” I slowly unzipped the garment bag, revealing the incredible Balmain dress inside. “Kate! It’s too much, I can’t accept this.”
“Of course you can. Heart Restoration Project’s shaping up to be a hit, and we have you to thank for that. You and Bastien.”
“This is way too generous.”
“Generous nothing, it’s called friendship.” Kate rolled down the window. “Is that the apartment building?”
“Non, Mademoiselle, c’est le Musée de la Résistance nationale, the museum of the French Resistance,” the driver translated.
“Excusez-moi, excusez-moi, can we pull over here, s’il vous pla?t?” Elliott asked the driver excitedly.
“Here?” Kate questioned and looked at her phone for the time. With urgency in her voice, she said, “Well, we don’t really have time to stop if we’re going to make our tour at Chanel.”
“What if I just make a quick pit stop and meet the two of you over there?” Elliott asked.
I turned to face Kate and said, “Actually, I’d love to go too. Is there any way to squeeze it into our day?”
Kate hesitated before responding, “I mean, I guess if you really want to visit a museum more than Coco Chanel’s apartment? You know her home’s not normally open to the public. I set the tour up as something special for us,” Kate said, a tinge of disappointment in her voice.
“We’ll be a half hour at the most, an hour, tops. I think we might be able to find some useful nuggets for the show. I promise to make it quick,” I pleaded.
She pressed her lips together into a smile. “Yes, of course, go. This is your day. I’ll try to hold off going to the exclusive Chanel boutique without you, but no promises,” she teased before turning more serious. “As much fun as this trip has been, I still need all this footage for the show, so Elliott, you stay close to Plum, and be sure to film the rest of the day. Can you both be back at the hotel by five for our spa appointment? We need to be sure to check in promptly, or else they double charge. Or I suppose I could cancel the spa too, if that’s what you really want?”
“No, I don’t want that. Don’t cancel. I’ll be there, and I promise Elliott will film every mundane moment,” I said, crossing my heart.
“Go, have fun. I’ll see you back at the hotel—five sharp. Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, arrêtez-ici, s’il vous plait,” Kate called to the driver.
The car pulled in front of the museum’s entranceway, and the driver opened the door to let me out. Elliott had already hopped out and hustled up the front steps. I followed him, hurrying to catch up, but stopped halfway. He looked over his shoulder and then, puzzled, came down four stairs to meet me.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I held out my palm. “What do you say, temporary truce in the name of Chateau Mirabelle?”
“Deal,” he said, shaking my hand and sending a warm tingle up my arm. Our eyes met for a second before letting go. “Actually”—he stepped a bit closer, and I craned my neck up to look at him—“I’m ... I’m surprised and dare I say impressed that you’d sacrifice your trip to Chanel to come here. Maybe I was wrong, and you do care about this thing?”
“And I am excited to hear you admit you’re wrong. I promise to cherish that nugget in the deepest recesses of my heart until the day I die. I do care about Chateau Mirabelle—and these people. I know my résumé. And I know the kind of person I must’ve seemed like. I almost can’t even blame you—if all I had to go on was what was shown on the screen and in the papers, I’d have a pretty poor opinion of me too.”
“Plum . . .”
“No, really. I get it. Maybe I even was that girl when I made the crack about sitting in coach when we left LA. But being here and experiencing the world this way ... it’s like I’m seeing it, really seeing it, for the first time. I’ve probably been to more countries and cities than I can count, but did I ever get to know them? The people? What makes a place unique and special? Never. But Maubec is different. I’ve come to care about it. About Agnès and Pascal. Even crotchety Monsieur Grenouille. Is that crazy?”
He nodded and scratched at his chin. “No. Not crazy. Strangely ... I feel the very same way. Look, I had my mind made up about you from the start, and that wasn’t fair. I see that now. So truce accepted. Now, let’s go and see what else we can uncover to solve this mystery of ours and do our best to get you back to Kate on time. Don’t want to piss off the boss.”
Though over the past few weeks, I’d grown to find Elliott’s gruff demeanor weirdly comforting, the sight of the smallest smirk that crossed his lips was a reassuring sign that we were finally starting to find some middle ground.
“Yeah, hurry your ass up, I didn’t blow off Chanel for nuthin,” I poked back and hurried up the stairs, leaving him in my wake to catch up.
Without hesitation, Elliott lifted his camera to his shoulder and tracked me as we hurried into the Resistance Museum and over to the ticket window. Grabbing a handful of brochures off the counter, I skimmed through them, landing on a pamphlet about a newer exhibit called Vines and Victory, the Role Provence Played in the Resistance. I held it up to the plexiglass information window. “This? Où? Where?”
“Ah oui, follow the signs that way and turn right. You cannot miss it,” the volunteer instructed.
“Merci,” we both called, speed walking as respectfully as we could to the exhibit.
Following her instructions down the narrow hallway into the retrospective, I was immediately drawn in by the photos, testimonials, and maps detailing the Provence region’s involvement in the French Resistance. Elliott and I wandered over to an exhibit about Camp des Milles, an internment camp in Aix-en-Provence for political dissidents, artists, intellectuals, and people to be deported to Auschwitz.
According to a quick Google search, the camp was about an hour from Maubec, so it was pretty likely Luc and Imène Adéla?se had been taken there following their arrest. We might be able to find out what happened to them if we were able to visit. We separated to cover more ground, and I jotted down as much information as I could on the scraps of paper and pamphlets I had on hand before noticing the time. We’d blown well past the one-hour mark, and it was almost five o’clock.
“Why are you still filming!? Move your ass—Kate’s going to kill me!” I cried as we scurried down the steps out of the museum. “Here,” I said, thrusting my pile of notes at him once we climbed in a taxi. “We should try to go to Camp des Milles. I think it may be where the Adéla?ses were taken.”
Elliott looked impressed with my discoveries. He glanced over my notes and tucked them deep into his jacket pocket as the taxi pulled up in front of George V. We quickly hopped out, and Elliott paused to anchor his camera atop his shoulder, pointing it in my direction.
“Seriously?!” I gawked at him with the camera still on me. “I know Kate said to film everything, but we’re so late and I doubt anything significant is going to happen between us getting out of this cab and me making it by the skin of my teeth to our spa appointment.”
But Elliott, already filming, was still hot on my tail and wasn’t missing a beat. He probably just didn’t want to be caught without his camera in hand when we met up with Kate. I rushed over to the concierge desk to ask for directions to the spa, and that’s when I spotted him, my heart practically exploding in a single beat. His arms were wrapped around the tiny waist of one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.
Rhys was standing in the middle of George V.