Chapter 3
“B-but I don’t even know a Louis Monet,” I sputter, shaking my head, adamant this is all one giant mistake, and I’m being pranked by someone.
“I can assure you, you do, Miss Allard. You are Monsieur Monet’s only living relative,” Timothé affirms as he produces a black-and-white photo of an older-looking gentleman, with bespoke circular spectacles adorning his close-set eyes, so unlike my large doe ones. His hair is closely cropped on the sides and longer on top, the designs of a wealthy man. A fluffy mustache adorns his upper lip, but the rest of his oval face is cleanly shaven. His lips are pressed into a thin, terse line, matching his steely gaze. His suit is impeccably pressed, with a crisp crease down both breast pockets. Sitting next to him is a younger boy whose eyes I can’t forget. Even from the black-and-white photo I know his eyes are as blue as mine, and his face is the same oval shape as mine. The perfect heart-shaped lips curled in a toothy grin, showing his two missing front teeth. The slight curve in his nose, an accident from an errant ball. The gentle spattering of freckles, the exact pattern of mine, is unmistakable. I run my thumb over the little boy’s face as a lone tear escapes the corner of my eye and lands on the photo. Even though it has been over sixteen years since the passing of my father, the pain of seeing his face is always a reminder of what I’d lost. I’m a mirror image of my father, even though you can’t see it in the photo, right down to the natural blond highlights in my light brown hair.
“You see, Miss Allard…” The tone in Timothé’s voice lightens as his face softens.
Still processing everything he just said, I look up at Timothé’s earnest eyes. “Can I keep this photo?” I ask as I wipe a tear from my cheek. If my dad knew Timothé, that must mean he may have wanted me to have some part in the chateau too.
“It’s yours,” he replies, a small smile gracing his lips. “I knew Monsieur Monet very well, Miss Allard. He thought you may need some convincing. It can be hard to believe he was your great-uncle, especially because you’ve never met him. He entrusted me with that photo and this letter.” Timothé produces a plain, yellow-stained envelope from his briefcase.
Cautiously, I take the envelope and place it down next to me, wanting to be alone to open it. Timothé clears his throat again. “If you wish to accept what has been assigned to you, I need you to sign this document. It details the bank account the money has been left in and the full title of the chateau.” Timothé places another piece of paper down on the table in front of me as he reaches back into his briefcase to produce a pen. I scan over the first paragraph—the only paragraph translated into English.
I, Aurora Allard, accept ownership of Chateau des éveillés with the conditions stated in the will, followed by a whole heap of lawyer-y words my brain can’t process. I take it from his grasp and sign next to the tabs, not bothering to read the details written within the pages. It doesn’t matter anyway. If this was something my dad wanted, I’m going to do it. Especially with the sting of the Tyson Gallery rejection still fresh.
Timothé packs away four documents but leaves me with a small stack of paperwork. He stands, closing the lid of his briefcase. “Miss Allard, in accordance with clause five of Louis’s will, you will be in Carcen by tomorrow afternoon, and you and Jean-Luc need to have the chateau livable within six months or it will go on the market,” he announces as he does the button on his suit jacket. My jaw unhinges and my eyes bulge. No one said anything about clauses.
“Wait. What?” Livable? Six months? My mind struggles to comprehend everything that is being said. How the heck am I going to get to France by tomorrow? I can’t pack up my entire life and move to a different country…a different continent by tomorrow? By the time I am finished with my inner monologue, I scan the room to find Timothé has shown himself out the door, leaving me stunned in my chair.
I pace the floor in my apartment so much, I’m going to wear a hole in the carpet, not that I’m going to get my deposit back anyway. In twenty-four hours, my life has drastically changed. Yesterday, my biggest problems were being rejected from the Tyson Gallery and how to pay my back-due rent to avoid being evicted. Today I’ve woken up to find a great-uncle, who I didn’t even know about, has left me a chateau in France. Pinching my arm again, I hold the puckered skin, watching it turn red and waiting for the pain to become numb.
Okay, so not dreaming. I release the skin. Running a hand down my face, I take a steadying breath. Is this really happening to me?
Using my phone, I google the law firm Gauthier if they didn’t align with what she wanted for me, it simply wasn’t valid. Mother, especially, can’t accept that I am pursing art when all she wanted was for me to graduate and work a menial job and be as far away from élliot Allard’s grasp as possible.
“Louis Monet, that name sounds familiar. Is he the curator at an art gallery?” she questions in a cynical tone. I remain silent while trying to formulate the best way to respond, but she takes my silence as its own answer. She snickers, trying to get a rise out of me. Ordinarily, it would work, but today my nerves are shot.
My breath releases in a whoosh as I say through gritted teeth, “No, Mom, he isn’t.” Well at least not to my knowledge.
Susan stays quiet on the phone, before she finally continues. “Louis Monet, Monet, Monet,” she whispers down the line, like she is trying to recall a memory. “Oh, I remember. Louis Monet was your father’s uncle. After his parents died, Louis was left to raise your dad.”
“Oh,” is all I could say. Well, that answers that question.
Real person.
Real chateau.
Real inheritance.
Real deadline.
“He died,” I finally say after a beat of silence, my voice wobbling slightly. The more of the blurry memories of my father I recall, the sadder I become for the man whom I barely knew yet felt a distant connection with.
“Umm, well, that’s sad to hear, I suppose,” Susan replies, but her tone does not reflect her words. It is obvious that it’s her attempt at being polite. “I’m not really sure I should care, Aurora. He was old anyway; probably would’ve been near a hundred. If that’s all you needed to call and tell me, Aurora…”
I decide not to share anything else with Susan as I grow angry with her and her callousness toward Louis and anything to do with the Allard name.
“Yeah, that was all,” I let the lie roll off my tongue, not feeling an inch of remorse about lying to her. Sometimes secrets aren’t a bad thing.
“Well, I look forward to hearing what you have to tell me next month.” The dead sound of a call ended meets my ears as Susan hangs up, leaving me hollow after yet another failed conversation.
I pull the phone away from my ear and read, “Two minutes, forty- six seconds. That’s gotta be a new record.” I blow out a harsh breath, unclenching my jaw. I’ve had orgasms longer than this phone call.
I’ve become used to the strained relationship with my mother. I would say this short call is a one-time thing, that the mention of my dad put Susan in a sour mood, or that she is having trouble with Craig, but I know this is a regular occurrence. I toss the phone carelessly on the couch; there’s nothing left for me here. My budding artistic career is stalling, I’m about to become homeless, but the fire in my belly is telling me that this isn’t the end of my story. I grab my laptop from the small coffee table in front of the TV and sit down at the kitchen table next to the documentation Timothé left. I start googling where exactly Chateau des éveillés is and waste no time looking for the next cheap flight to Paris. My heart sinks as I scan the screen with my savings in the double digits. I can’t afford the pet carrier prices, let alone an actual seat. My adventure is over before it’s even begun. I throw the paperwork on the table, scattering it in different directions. A loud thump draws my attention to the floor beside me, where an envelope with the words Fremont Air stamped on the front peers back at me. I pick up the envelope and see a yellow sticky note inside.
Thought you may need a little help to get to France, meet you at the airport at twenty-one-hundred.
Pulling the sticky note off reveals a ticket to France. I inhale sharply as I stare at the proverbial golden ticket in my hand.
I’m actually going to do this. I’m going to France.