4. Cat
CAT
I wake to the smell of coffee I didn't make, which means she's already up.
For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom I claimed a week ago, where I used to sleep on visits when I was young enough that everything felt like an adventure and old enough to want my own space.
Iris Beaumont-Clark is making coffee. In Grand-mère's kitchen. In my kitchen.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and remind myself that technically, legally, it's also her kitchen. Has been since the moment Grand-mère died. The paperwork just hasn't caught up yet.
But it doesn't feel like hers. It feels like mine. It feels like the only place I've ever truly belonged, and now I have to share it with a woman who looks at me like I'm something she's trying to calculate.
I get up, pull on yesterday's jeans and a clean-ish t-shirt, and go to the kitchen to face the inevitable.
The kitchen is exactly as I left it last night—clean, organized, everything in its proper place—except for Iris standing at the counter with a mug of coffee cradled in both hands.
She's already dressed, because of course she is.
Tailored trousers, a silk blouse, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that not a single strand would dare escape.
She looks like she's about to give a presentation. At seven-thirty in the morning. In a farmhouse in Provence.
It should look ridiculous. It does look ridiculous. It also does something warm and inconvenient at the back of my ribs that I decide, firmly, not to think about.
"There's coffee," she says without turning around. "I wasn't sure how you take it, so I just made a pot."
"Black's fine. Thanks."
I move around her to the cupboard, very aware of how much space she's taking up despite not actually being particularly large. It's the presence, I think. The way she holds herself, like she's bracing for something. Like she's always bracing for something.
"Did you sleep?" I ask, because the silence feels too heavy.
"Some." She takes a sip of her coffee. "The jet lag is... real."
"Yeah, it's rough crossing the Atlantic. I usually feel human again by day three."
She makes a small sound that might be acknowledgment or might be skepticism. Hard to tell with her.
I pour my coffee and lean against the counter, watching her. In the morning light from the kitchen windows, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the tiny lines of tension around her mouth. She's beautiful but she's also exhausted in a way that goes deeper than jet lag.
"The lawyer's expecting us at ten," I say. "It's about a twenty-minute drive. We could take one car if you want—save on petrol."
"Fine."
"I'll drive. I know the roads."
Something flickers across her face—resistance, maybe, or just discomfort at not being in control. But she nods. "Fine."
We drink our coffee in silence. The morning light grows brighter. Somewhere outside, a rooster crows.
"Is that..." Iris frowns. "Is that a rooster?"
"Neighbor's farm. About a kilometer that way." I gesture vaguely toward the east. "He starts around six. You get used to it."
"Six," she repeats, like I've told her something personally offensive. "Every morning?"
"Welcome to rural France."
The look on her face is almost worth the awkwardness of this whole situation. Almost.
The drive to Ma?tre Duval's office takes us through Saint-Céline-sur-Sorgue, which is postcard-pretty in the morning light—cobblestone streets, stone buildings, a church tower rising above red-tiled roofs.
I park in the small lot behind the notary's office and lead Iris through a narrow alley to the front entrance.
She walks like she's crossing a stage: shoulders back, chin up, every step deliberate. I wonder if she's always like this or if it's a performance for my benefit. I wonder if she knows there's a difference.
Ma?tre Duval's office is exactly what you'd expect from a provincial French notary: wood-paneled walls, leather chairs, shelves of legal tomes that probably haven't been opened since the Mitterrand administration.
The man himself rises to greet us—sixtyish, silver-haired, with the kind face of someone who's spent a career handling other people's worst days.
"Mademoiselle Beaumont-Clark." He shakes Iris's hand first, then mine. "Mademoiselle Aldridge. Please, sit. Can I offer you coffee? Tea?"
"We're fine," Iris says before I can answer. "Thank you."
I swallow my irritation and take the chair next to hers. Duval settles behind his desk, and for a moment, no one speaks. The weight of what we're here to learn fills the room like smoke.
"I want to begin," Duval says finally, "by telling you both how much Marguerite loved you. Both of you. Differently, perhaps—she had different histories with each of you—but equally. That is important to understand."
"We understand," Iris says crisply. "The terms of the will, please."
Duval's eyes meet mine for just a moment, and I see something there—sympathy, maybe, or a warning. Then he opens the folder in front of him and begins.
"The estate consists of the property known as Domaine des Lavandes—the farmhouse, the barn, the distillery, and approximately fifteen hectares of cultivated lavender fields.
The estimated value is significant, though the exact amount depends on current market conditions for agricultural land in the region. "
He pauses, looking between us.
"Marguerite has divided this estate equally between you. Fifty percent to Iris Colette Beaumont-Clark, fifty percent to Catherine Vivienne Aldridge."
Fifty-fifty. Even after everything. Even though Iris is blood and I'm just... I'm just the one Grand-mère chose.
"However." Duval's voice takes on a careful quality. "There are conditions attached to this bequest."
Here it comes. I grip the arms of my chair and wait.
"The first condition is residency. Both beneficiaries must reside at Domaine des Lavandes for a period of ninety consecutive days. If either party leaves the property for more than forty-eight hours during this period, her share of the inheritance reverts to charitable donation."
The words take a moment to process. Ninety days. Three months. Living in the same house as—
"That's absurd," Iris says, and her voice is sharp enough to cut glass. "I have a job. I have a life in Chicago. I can't simply—"
"The condition is non-negotiable, mademoiselle. If you choose not to accept it, your share of the estate goes to a wildlife conservation fund in the Luberon."
Iris's jaw tightens. I watch her hands clench in her lap, then deliberately relax.
"And after the ninety days?" I ask. "What then?"
"After that, you may choose to sell the property." Duval pauses. "However, any sale must be agreed upon by both parties. If one wishes to sell and the other does not, the property remains jointly held until agreement is reached."
"So we're trapped," Iris says flatly. "Either we stay here for three months, or we lose everything. And even after that, we're tied together."
"Marguerite's hope," Duval says gently, "was that by the end of it, you might not wish to sell. She believed you would come to love the property—and perhaps each other—as she loved you both."
"That's—" Iris stops herself, pressing her lips together. "That's very optimistic."
"Marguerite was an optimist. Also, perhaps, a bit of a romantic." Duval's smile is sad. "She believed that if you were forced to know each other, you would find common ground. She wanted very much for her two grandchildren to become family."
Her two grandchildren. I'm not her grandchild. Not really. Not in the way that matters.
"I'm sorry," Iris says. "But I have to ask." She turns in her chair, her gaze moving from Duval to me. "You keep calling her Grand-mère. You spent every summer here. But my mother was an only child—I am her only child. So how are you hers?"
Duval starts to answer, but I cut in. If anyone's going to explain me, it's going to be me.
"My mother was English. A painter—or she wanted to be.
" I keep my voice level, the way I do when I don't want it to shake.
"She came to Provence the way a lot of artists did back then, chasing the light.
Somewhere along the way she ended up at Marguerite's door—pregnant, broke, nobody waiting for her anywhere.
And Marguerite took her in. Gave her a room, gave her work, gave her a place to have me. I was born in that farmhouse."
Iris is watching me now, really watching.
"We didn't stay for good," I go on. "My mum took me back to England before I was old enough to remember any of it, and we made our life in London.
But every summer, we came back here. Every single one, until I was twelve.
Marguerite taught me to cook in that kitchen, worked me half to death in those fields, and loved me like I was hers.
" I make myself hold Iris's gaze. "I'm not blood.
I know I'm not. But she's the only grandmother I ever had. "
Iris is quiet for a moment. Whatever she expected, it wasn't this.
"No one told me any of that," she says finally. Not an accusation—more like she's adding it to everything her mother kept from her.
"No one told me much either," I say. "That seems to be the family way."
"There is one more thing," Duval continues. "Marguerite left letters for each of you. They are to be delivered at the six-week mark—along with the key to her bedroom. And there is a final envelope, to be opened only after the ninety days are complete."
"The locked room," Iris says.
"The locked room." Duval closes the folder in front of him. "Marguerite was very specific about the timing. She wanted you to have the chance to know the house—and each other—before you knew everything about her."
Everything about her. The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.
"What does that mean?" I ask. "What don't we know?"
Duval's expression is careful, almost apologetic.
"I am not at liberty to say. But I can tell you this: Marguerite's story is more complicated than you have been told.
Both of you. Your mothers..." He pauses, choosing his words.
"Your mothers had their reasons for the estrangement.
Whether those reasons were good ones, I cannot say.
That is for you to decide, once you know the truth. "
The truth. As if truth is something simple, something that can be delivered in an envelope and understood in an afternoon.
"For today." Duval reaches into his desk drawer and produces two envelopes, one labeled with Iris's name and one with mine. "Messages. Marguerite wanted me to give you these today, when you learned the terms of the will. She wanted you to know why she did this."
He holds out the envelopes. I take mine; Iris takes hers. The paper is heavy, cream-colored, old-fashioned. Grand-mère's handwriting on the front—I'd know it anywhere.
"Read them when you're ready," Duval says. "And remember: whatever frustration you feel about the conditions of this inheritance, Marguerite did this out of love. She wanted you to have each other. She wanted her two worlds to finally meet."
We drive back to the farmhouse in silence.
I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel Iris beside me—the tension radiating off her like heat. Her envelope sits in her lap, unopened. Mine is in my pocket, burning a hole through the denim.
"Ninety days," she says finally, as we turn onto the dirt road that leads to the property. "That's until mid-August."
"The lavender harvest is in July," I say. "Grand-mère probably wanted us here for that."
"The lavender harvest." Iris's voice is distant, like she's trying to process the concept. "You just... harvest lavender?"
"Well, the lavender doesn't harvest itself."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so exhausted. "I don't know the first thing about lavender. I don't know the first thing about any of this."
"I do." The words come out before I can stop them. "I know this place. I know how it works. I can—" I stop, not sure what I'm offering or why.
"You can what?"
"I can teach you. If you want. The lavender, the distillery, how things run here.
" I pull into the drive and stop the car, turning to face her for the first time since we left Duval's office.
"Look, I know this isn't what either of us wanted.
But we're stuck here for three months whether we like it or not. We might as well make it work."
Iris studies me for a long moment. Her eyes are brown, I notice—a warm brown, at odds with the cool precision of everything else about her. There's something there, behind the control, that almost looks like fear.
"Why are you being nice to me?" she asks finally. "I show up out of nowhere, claim half your inheritance—"
"It's not my inheritance. It's our inheritance." The word tastes strange in my mouth, but it's true. "Grand-mère wanted us both here. She left us both this place. Whatever else is going on, that's what she wanted."
Iris looks down at the envelope in her lap. Her fingers trace the edge, not quite opening it.
"I don't know if I can do this," she says quietly. "What if I'm not... what if I don't fit here?"
The softness in her voice catches me off guard. For a moment, she doesn't look like a corporate exec or a controlled perfectionist or any of the things I've been telling myself about her since she arrived. She just looks tired. And scared. And completely out of her depth.
"We'll figure it out," I say. "Together. That's what Grand-mère wanted, isn't it? For us to figure it out together."
Iris meets my eyes. Something passes between us—not warmth, exactly, but something closer to a truce.
"Ninety days," she says.
"Ninety days."
"I'm going to need better shoes."
This time, I actually do laugh. "Yeah, probably. Those heels won't survive a day."
She looks down at her impractical, beautiful shoes, and for just a second, I see the ghost of a smile cross her face.
"I'll add it to the list," she says.
We get out of the car and walk toward the farmhouse—together, for the first time—and I try not to think about the envelope in my pocket or the words I haven't read yet.
I try not to think about what truths Grand-mère wanted us to discover, or why it had to be this way, or what happens at the end of ninety days.
Three months. I have to survive three months with her.