Chapter 2
Chapter Two
PROVENCE, FRANCE
Provence unfurled before me in a tapestry of emerald vines and golden wheat fields. The landscape was familiar yet foreign, reminiscent of Napa but imbued with an ineffable magic that made my heart skip. Lavender-scented air wafted through the car's open window, mingling with the earthy aroma of fertile soil.
As promised, a sleek black Audi sedan was waiting for me at the Aix-en-Provence airport when I arrived after a brutally long trip halfway across the world. I stared out the window sleepily as our car rolled through the storybook landscape. My driver, Luc, and I exchanged pleasantries in a slightly clumsy dance of broken English and Duolingo French. His weathered hands gripped the steering wheel as he navigated the winding roads, occasionally gesturing at points of interest. A companionable silence settled between us, punctuated only by the crunch of gravel beneath the tires.
As we climbed a particularly steep hill, I caught sight of a dilapidated stone farmhouse. Its shutters hung askew, with paint peeling like old pages from a forgotten book. I had a vision of my father leaning against that weathered door, his hair rustling in the mistral. The image faded as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind a hollow ache in my chest. I'd been having these flashes of fragmented memory ever since I got the call from Jean, and I had no idea if they were genuine recollections or elaborate fictions woven from wishful thinking. The line between truth and imagination wavered.
The car rounded a bend, revealing a sprawling chateau nestled among the vines. My breath caught in my throat. Was this the place? My grandfather's estate? Excitement and trepidation warred within me as we approached the gravel drive, the stones crunching beneath the car.
Luc brought the car to a stop, and I took a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scents of rosemary and anticipation. My hand hesitated on the door handle, the cool metal grounding me in the present. Whatever lay beyond—family, fortune, or folly—here we go, I thought.
The door creaked open, and Luc stood beside me, opening the car door. I stepped out onto the gravel, the warm stones shifting beneath my feet. The French sun caressed my skin, its touch both familiar and foreign. I closed my eyes, letting my senses drink in the moment. Birdsong filled the air, a gentle counterpoint to the rustle of vine leaves. The rich aroma of sun-warmed earth mingled with the sweet scent of ripening grapes.
As I opened my eyes, adjusting to the brilliant light, my gaze fell upon a woman standing before me. Her sudden presence startled me, and I inhaled sharply.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I stammered, feeling awkward and out of place.
She remained silent, her eyes studying me with an intensity that made me want to fidget. Then, as if reaching a conclusion, her face transformed with a radiant smile.
"Elodie," she whispered. Was it me, or did she have tears in her eyes? "It is you." Her English was heavily accented, but warm.
She was petite, dressed in a navy sundress that danced in the breeze. Gray hair escaped from a haphazard bun, framing a soft face etched with lines that spoke of joy rather than hardship. Despite the passage of time evident in her appearance, her eyes sparkled with a vitality that seemed to defy age.
In that moment, as she stood framed by the sun-drenched vineyards, she embodied a life well-lived.
"Yes, I'm... Elodie. I—I got a letter?" My voice wavered, uncertain, as my eyes darted around the unfamiliar surroundings. Words failed me, leaving me adrift in this surreal moment.
Before I could gather my thoughts, the woman closed the distance between us and enveloped me in an embrace. Her arms wrapped around me with the warmth and familiarity of a long-lost relative. I didn't think this was a standard French greeting.
The scent of lavender and home-baked bread clung to her, evoking a sense of comfort I couldn't quite place. Initially startled, I found myself melting into the hug.
As she pulled away, her eyes locked with mine. A flicker of recognition danced in their depths, teasing at the edges of my consciousness.
"It has been so long," she murmured, her words carried on a gentle breeze.
"Do I—do I know you? I'm sorry, it's been—"
She clucked her tongue. "Of course, you would not remember, non? Je suis Colette. I was your grandfather's housekeeper for many years. More than thirty, in fact."
Realization dawned. "So you were—here when—?"
Colette's smile deepened, her hands settling on my shoulders with a comforting weight. "When you were born. Oui . I held you. I fed you. I wiped your tiny poo-poos."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, surely painting them that lovely crimson I get when embarrassed.
She sighed, her gaze drifting momentarily to the sprawling vineyards. "We were all so sad when your mother took you back to America. We—" her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—"we understood why she did. Your father—well, let us just say your grandfather never blamed your mother, no matter how heartbroken we were."
A lump formed in my throat, threatening to spill over into tears. I blinked rapidly, determined to maintain composure. It was far too soon into the trip to break down.
Colette's tone shifted, brisk and maternal. "Oh, silly me. You are exhausted and jet-lagged, and here I am, trying to break your heart on day one. Come, come. Let's get you settled and fed. Coffee?"
"I'd kill for one," I admitted, the thought of caffeine being a welcome anchor to normalcy.
"Bon. Come." She turned, gesturing toward the chateau. "Luc, please bring the bags, Oui ?"
We stepped into the house, and the sight stole my breath away. The grand entryway unfurled before me, its polished wooden floors gleaming like honey in the soft light. Ornate paintings adorned the walls, their gilt frames catching the sunlight streaming through tall windows. Lush, emerald plants stood sentinel in corners, leaves flickering gently in the breeze from an open window.
In the distance, a spiraling staircase wound upward, its wrought-iron balustrade twisting like an elegant vine reaching for the sky.
"She has probably changed a lot since you were here last.” Colette's voice broke through my reverie.
I shook my head slowly, inhaling the scent of beeswax and old wood. "Honestly, I really don't remember this place at all. I have vague images in my mind, but I'm sure they're just from a photograph or descriptions from my mother."
"Did she talk about it?"
I sighed, memories bittersweet on my tongue. "On occasion. Sometimes, she would have a couple of glasses of rosé, and her memory would take over. She told me a few stories about what it was like here in the summers—the lavender fields and the smell of wine fermenting. Occasionally, she might even mention my dad and some of those early days together, but she didn't like to talk about him much."
Colette smiled thoughtfully, her silence as delicate as the motes dancing in the sunbeams.
"And how is Rosemary? We did all love her."
I lowered my eyes and breathed. "She—she passed away, actually. A few years ago."
"Oh, ma chérie . I am so sorry. How?"
"Cancer. A rare type of melanoma."
"That is a tragedy, Elodie. I am so glad that you have come home then."
A fist squeezed my heart. Home. What a generous thought, even if it was just a fantasy.
"Well, then." Colette lightened her tone. "I've settled you in one of the guest rooms. It has a lovely view of the entire estate. You can see the sunrise in the morning, hear the birds, smell the grapes."
"It sounds like heaven," I said, already imagining the scene.
Colette led me upstairs, our footsteps muffled by a plush runner. The room she showed me was a country dream come to life. Soft, cream-colored walls embraced weathered wooden beams, and gauzy curtains billowed gently at an open window.
Colette gestured toward the bathroom. "You have a small ensuite bathroom there. I stocked it with toiletries for you, but please let me know if you need anything else. I want you to be comfortable while you're here."
I turned, words catching in my throat like thistledown. "This is like a hotel. Why—why are you being so kind?"
Colette's brow furrowed. "Why would I not be kind?"
I laughed nervously, the sound brittle in the tranquil room. "No, of course you would be. I guess—why invite me here? Why not just send me a letter or a phone call after the will was read?"
Colette shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling like the gentle hills outside. "Honestly, I'm not sure. It was in your grandfather's wishes that we have you here in person. I think he always felt very guilty about the way things went—that you never got to know this place, to know your family."
Family. The word sat heavily on my tongue, tasting of both promise and trepidation.
"Who—" I started, but Colette shook her head, her silver hair catching the light.
"I think that's enough questions. Why don't you get yourself settled? Freshen up. Take a nap if you'd like. Or if you're hungry, come downstairs, and I'll fix you something—pour you a nice glass of rosé. We have a beautiful courtyard where you can sit and enjoy."
I nodded, gratitude washing over me. "Thank you. That all sounds perfect."
As Colette left, closing the door with a soft click, I stood alone in the room, surrounded by the echoes of a past I barely knew and the whispers of a future yet to unfold.
I gravitated toward the window. The view was nothing short of breathtaking—rolling vineyards stretched to the horizon, their neat rows like brushstrokes on a living canvas. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in a golden glow, and I could almost taste the sweetness of the air.
Well, Elodie. Looks like you've fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in a French fairy tale. Let's see if there's a white rabbit hiding in the armoire.
I chided myself for saying such weird things. I needed sleep. Lots of sleep. And probably a glass of the aforementioned rosé.
I set about unpacking my meager belongings, each item seeming more out of place in this grand setting. My well-worn jeans looked almost comical hanging next to the ornate carvings of the antique armoire. The wood creaked as I closed the doors, as if sighing at the indignity of housing my Target sundress.
The ensuite bathroom was a study in contrasts. An old clawfoot tub dominated the space, its gleaming porcelain pristine. A vintage vanity mirror reflected my jet-lagged face, its gilt frame adding an air of elegance to my disheveled appearance. But amidst the old-world charm, modern fixtures winked at me in a concession to contemporary comfort.
As I arranged my drugstore toiletries on the marble countertop, I couldn't help but notice the wallpaper. Once probably the height of fashion, it now peeled slightly at the corners, its faded pattern a whisper of former glory.
"Looks like you and I have something in common," I addressed the wallpaper. "We're both a little worse for wear and definitely out of our element."
Okay, now I was talking to wallpaper.
I wandered back into the bedroom. I ran my hand along the wooden bedpost, feeling the slight roughness where the varnish had worn away. The entire house seemed to exist in a state of elegant decay—beautiful, but with a patina of age and neglect that spoke of passing years and fading fortunes.
I sank onto the bed, its down comforter enveloping me like a cloud. What was going on here? Why would Pierre insist I come here?
The silence offered no answers, but as I lay there, the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone drifting through the open window, I felt a curious sense of belonging. It was as if the house itself was welcoming me, wrapping me in memories I didn't even know I had.
I closed my eyes and thought I might just drift off to sleep right there. Then my stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since somewhere around 3 a.m. in the Frankfurt airport.
With that, I pushed myself up to freshen up, then headed in search of Colette's promised hospitality.