Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The journey had left me feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, but the soft Proven?al breeze wafting through the open window was already working its magic. With a groan, I hauled myself up and began transforming from a bedraggled traveler into a somewhat presentable human.
I walked into the en-suite bathroom and splashed some icy water on my face, washing away hours of recycled airplane air and dusty travel. I slipped out of my travel-weary clothes, replacing them with a gauzy summer dress that felt cool against my skin. I wrangled my tangled, frizzy hair into a messy topknot. A swipe of tinted lip balm and a dab of concealer, and I was ready to face the world—or at least Colette.
As I descended the creaking wooden stairs, my senses were assaulted by a barrage of unfamiliar yet oddly comforting sensations. The walls, a patchwork of old stones and sun-bleached plaster, seemed to exhale the scent of sun-warmed lavender and aged wood. Each step brought a new aroma—was that actually fresh bread? My stomach growled its approval, reminding me that airplane peanuts were a poor excuse for sustenance.
I wasn't exactly sure where I was going, so I followed my stomach and finally found the kitchen nestled at the back of the house.
" Bonjour !" A cheerful voice broke through my sensory reverie as I stepped into the cozy room. Colette was coming in, clutching a lacy tea towel like a tiny white flag of welcome.
" Bonjour ," I replied, summoning a smile. "Thank you for the lovely setup upstairs. It's like something out of a storybook."
Colette beamed, her face a road map of laugh lines.
"But of course. Now, tell me, are you hungry? You must be famished after such a journey."
"Starving, actually. I've subsisted on little more than hope and stale pretzels for the past twelve hours."
Colette clicked her tongue in dismay. " Quelle horreur ! This simply won't do. Come, let's fix this tragedy."
The room looked like it had been plucked straight from a rustic French cookbook. Blue and white tiles adorned the walls, and copper pots hung from rough-hewn beams overhead.
"Sit," Colette commanded, gesturing to a bright, cozy nook with a view that made my heart skip. Rolling hills blanketed in neat rows of grapevines stretched as far as the eye could see, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.
"This place is... I don't have words. I wish I could remember it from before."
"Ah, but your soul remembers," Colette said with a wink, setting down a platter that looked like it belonged in an art gallery. A crusty baguette, still warm from the oven, nestled against a rainbow of local cheeses and plump, glistening strawberries.
"That's not food. That's a masterpiece," I said, my mouth already watering.
"This is France, ma chérie . We take our simple pleasures very seriously. Now, shall we complete this canvas? I have a chilled bottle of our estate rosé."
I thought I just might cry. "Please, yes."
She returned with a bottle beaded with condensation, pouring a blush-colored stream into a delicate tumbler. I took a sip and felt my eyes widen involuntarily.
"This is... incredible," I breathed. It might have been the extreme jet lag, but I was certain this beat any rosé I'd ever had, even in Napa.
Colette nodded sagely. " C'est le terroir. Rosé is the lifeblood of Provence. Drink it here, where it's born, and you'll understand."
I savored another sip, letting the crisp, fruity notes dance on my tongue. "I think I already do. And you make this here?"
" Oui . Well, not me. It was your grandfather's passion project, this vineyard. For many years, it was quite successful."
A shadow passed over Colette's face.
“But not anymore?" I asked.
She sighed, her shoulders drooping slightly. "It became... challenging. After Pascal—your papa—" she trailed off, lips pursed.
I swallowed hard. "It's okay. Please, go on."
Her voice softened. "After the accident, the heart went out of Pierre. The vines—they continued to grow, but the soul of the operation... it withered." She shrugged, a gesture both elegant and melancholy. " C'est la vie, non ?"
" C'est la vie ," I echoed.
We sat in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of lost years and missed opportunities settling around us like a fine mist. When I heard about Pascal's accident, it had been like reading about a book character. This mythical being that had created me yet to whom I felt no familiar connection.
Abruptly, Colette straightened up, and she patted the table with renewed vigor.
"Shall we explore the estate once you've eaten?" she asked.
I perked up, grateful for the distraction. "I'd love nothing more. But do you have the time?"
Colette smirked. "Ma chérie, these days, my calendar is as empty as last year's wine bottles."
Her words were light, but I detected an undercurrent of sadness that tugged at my heart. She must feel so adrift with her anchor to this place—my grandfather—now gone. After thirty years, I imagined this estate had been more than her workplace. It must have been part of the very fabric of her existence.
With practiced ease, Colette shed her apron and plucked an enormous, floppy sun hat from a nearby hook.
"The Proven?al sun can be Merci less this time of year. I'd advise some protection unless you fancy resembling a lobster by dinnertime."
"I've got sunglasses, but a hat completely slipped my mind," I admitted sheepishly.
Colette's brow furrowed in thought for a moment before she disappeared into a small closet. She emerged triumphant, brandishing a well-loved straw hat with a cherry red ribbon. "It may not grace the pages of Vogue, but it will keep your nose from peeling."
I ran my fingers along the sun-bleached brim, feeling the history woven into each strand. "It's absolutely perfect."
She led me through a weathered wooden door onto a sun-drenched back terrace. A cluster of wrought-iron bistro tables stood sentry, offering front-row seats to a view that stole my breath away. Undulating rows of emerald vines stretched to the horizon, their leaves shimmering like scales on some great slumbering dragon. Even in the late afternoon, the sun was slightly unforgiving, bathing the valley in a brilliant, almost otherworldly light.
"How much of this was Pierre's?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I took it all in.
Colette's gaze swept across the landscape, pride and nostalgia mingling in her expression. "More than the eye can easily take in. Several hundred acres, though I couldn't give you an exact figure."
"Wow," I managed, eloquence deserting me in the face of such grandeur.
"Come," Colette said. "Let me show you the estate's crown jewels."
We meandered down a picturesque path, gravel crunching softly beneath our feet, until we reached a garden that looked like it had been plucked from a Monet painting.
"Your grandmother, Marie—whom I don't believe you had the pleasure of meeting—this was her passion." She gestured to the riotous blooms. "She'd lose entire days out here, coaxing beauty from the earth. The grape vines may have befuddled her, but flowers? They sang for her. Just beyond, there's a lavender field that would make the angels weep. She tended it religiously, year after year."
A bittersweet smile tugged at my lips at Colette's poetic explanation. "I wish I could have known her. Both of them, really."
"The vines you see stretching before us are predominantly Grenache, Cinsault, and Mourvèdre," Colette went on, her hand sweeping across the sea of green. "These are the holy trinity of Proven?al rosé. The lifeblood of our region."
I bit back a quip about "rosé all day," realizing the Instagram-fueled meme would likely fall flat here, where the pale pink elixir seemed less a trend and more a way of life.
"And the house?" I asked, turning to study the sun-kissed stone fa?ade. "Any good stories to tell?"
Her eyes crinkled as though with fond remembrance. "She's seen her fair share of harvests, this old girl. Built in the roaring twenties, if memory serves. Pierre acquired her when he was barely more than a boy himself, with more dreams than francs. The house—it was in a state of disrepair after the war. The previous owner had housed Nazis for a time in exchange for his survival, so many of the locals thought it carried a curse or was surely haunted,” she chuckled lightly. “So Pierre was able to afford it through pure luck. He poured his soul into restoring her, planting the vines, nurturing them to greatness. It wasn't his only venture, mind you, but I daresay it was the one closest to his heart."
The sound of footsteps announced a newcomer, and we turned to see a man approaching. His coveralls were a patchwork of earth tones, and he sported battered, muddy boots.
" Bonjour , Colette," he called in a voice as rich and robust as a well-aged Bordeaux.
"Ah, Eric! Perfect timing. There's someone rather special I'd like you to meet."
Eric ambled over, peeling off a work glove to reveal a calloused hand. " Bonjour . Je suis Eric . You must be Elodie." He smiled, crinkling the lines around gentle brown eyes.
I opened my mouth, the words, "Pierre's granddaughter" sticking in my throat like an oversized grape.
"Yes," I managed.
"We've all been waiting with bated breath for your arrival," Eric said.
My own brows furrowed in confusion, and I half laughed. "You have?"
" Mais Oui ! Ever since the lawyer mentioned you were part of the estate, it's been the talk of the vineyard."
Heat crept up my neck, settling in my cheeks. "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing significant. Probably just some family heirloom or a dusty old book."
I caught a fleeting glance between Colette and Eric, laden with meaning I couldn't decipher. Maybe I was imagining it.
The moment was shattered by the distinctive grinding of tires on gravel. We turned to spot a sleek baby blue sedan winding its way up the drive.
"Ah, they are here," Colette said.
"They?" I asked.
" Oui . The rest of the family has arrived."
My head snapped toward her. "The rest of the family?"
"I take it you know nothing about them yet?"
My head was spinning, and I shook my head. "No, I don't know anything. Who—?" My throat was suddenly dry.
Colette's face softened, compassion etching fine lines around her eyes. She exchanged a look with Eric. "I thought perhaps Jean Allard might have told you."
"Told me what?"
"Your father—he had three more children after you."
The words hit me like a spray of ice water. "Three?" I barely managed to whisper.
" Oui . Two sons and a daughter. He married their mother, though they parted ways when the children were in their teens. Pierre, bless him, always showed kindness to his daughter-in-law. Céline is her name. Pierre had a generous spirit, even when others didn't always reciprocate in kind."
Colette's gaze drifted toward the approaching car, and I couldn't help but wonder if her words were meant for my absent father or the half-siblings I was about to meet.
My mind reeled, emotions crashing over me like waves on the San Francisco Bay shore.
Siblings.
A whole branch of my family tree I'd never known existed, about to burst into my life like an unexpected summer storm.