5. Iris
IRIS
I've been awake since five.
Jet lag, I tell myself. Just jet lag. Not the fact that I'm sleeping in a stranger's house—a dead stranger's house—in a country I've never visited, with a woman I don't know in the room next door.
Not the fact that my entire life has been upended in the space of a week and I have no spreadsheet for how to handle it.
The rooster starts up right on schedule, and I give up on sleep entirely.
Running has been my salvation since high school—the rhythm, the predictability, the way my body takes over and my brain finally, mercifully, shuts up. I pull on leggings and a sports bra and slip down the hall as quietly as I can, hoping to be out of the house before Cat wakes up.
No such luck.
She's in the kitchen again—of course she is—wearing an oversized t-shirt that might be a nightgown and holding a cup of tea. Her hair is loose, auburn curls tumbling over her shoulders, and she looks soft in a way that makes something uncomfortable twist in my stomach.
"Early riser?" she asks, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Runner. I'm going to explore the roads."
"Watch out for a goat."
I stop halfway to the door. "I'm sorry?"
"The goat." Cat takes a sip of her tea, utterly casual. "Belongs to the Merciers down the road, but he's an escape artist. Thinks he owns the lane. Bit of a menace, really."
"A goat," I repeat.
"I call him Napoleon. Fair warning."
I stare at her for a moment, trying to determine if she's joking. Her expression gives nothing away.
"Right," I say finally. "Thanks for the heads up."
I escape into the morning before she can tell me about any other livestock I need to worry about.
The run helps. Not a lot, but enough.
The roads around the farmhouse wind through lavender fields and olive groves, past stone walls that look like they've been there since the Roman Empire, under a sky that's bluer than any sky has a right to be.
I run until my lungs burn and my legs ache and my brain finally stops cycling through all the ways this situation is impossible.
By the time I get back to the house, I'm sweaty and starving and almost ready to face the day. Cat is still in the kitchen—has she moved at all?—yes, she's cooking something that smells incredible.
"Breakfast?" she offers without looking up.
"I usually just have coffee."
"That's tragic." She slides a plate across the island toward me. "Eggs, tomatoes, fresh bread, Jacques dropped it off while you were out."
"Jacques?"
"Monique's husband. They run the café in the village. They were friends of Grand-mère's." Cat finally looks at me, and there's something in her expression that might be a challenge. "Eat. You'll need the energy."
I want to refuse on principle—I don't like being told what to do, and I especially don't like the way Cat moves through this kitchen like she owns it—but the smell of the eggs is making my stomach growl loud enough for both of us to hear.
I sit. I eat. The eggs are perfect—creamy and soft, seasoned with herbs I can't identify—and the bread is still warm from the oven.
"This is good," I admit grudgingly.
"I'm a chef. Or I was. Will be again, probably." Cat shrugs, settling onto the stool across from me with her own plate. "Cooking's the one thing I know how to do."
"The one thing?"
"Well. Also plumbing, basic carpentry, and how to prune lavender. Grand-mère was a practical woman."
The mention of my grandmother sends a small jolt through my chest. Our grandmother, I remind myself. Whatever else is true, she was both of ours.
"We should probably talk about logistics," I say, because focusing on practical matters is always safer than feelings. "How we're going to share the space."
Cat raises an eyebrow. "Share the space?"
"There's only one kitchen. Two bathrooms. We need some kind of schedule."
"A schedule."
"You don't have to repeat everything I say."
"Sorry, it's just—" Cat sets down her fork, and I see her wrestling with something. "I've been living here for a week. I've got a rhythm. Wake up, make tea, cook breakfast, work on the property, cook dinner, go to bed. I'm not really a schedule person."
"Well, I am." I pull out my phone, where I've already started a notes document labeled DOMAINE LOGISTICS. "I was thinking: kitchen access, alternating mornings and evenings. Separate bathrooms. Common spaces—"
"You're actually serious."
"Of course I'm serious. We're going to be living together for three months. We need structure."
Cat stares at me for a long moment. Then she laughs with genuine, surprised amusement.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing. It's just—" She shakes her head. "You really do make lists for everything, don't you?"
"Lists are how things get done."
"Lists are how you don't have to feel things." The words are gentle but pointed. "You can't spreadsheet your way through this, Iris. Trust me, I've tried."
Something hot prickles at the back of my eyes. I blink it away, focusing on my phone screen.
"We need groceries," I say, changing the subject with all the grace of a freight train. "Where do we get food?"
"There's a market in the village on Thursdays. Today's Friday, so we'll have to go to the épicerie—Chez Sylvie. She's got most of the basics."
"Fine. I'll make a list."
"Of course you will." Cat's voice is dry, but when I look up, she's smiling. "Come on, then. Finish your eggs and we'll go introduce you to Saint-Céline."
The village is exactly as charming as it looked when we drove through yesterday—maybe more so, now that I'm walking the cobblestone streets instead of viewing them through a car window.
The morning light is golden, the air smells like bread and flowers, and everywhere I look there are window boxes overflowing with geraniums.
It's insufferable, really. Too pretty to be real.
Cat navigates the narrow streets like she was born here, stopping to exchange greetings in rapid French that I can follow but couldn't replicate. Everyone knows her, everyone is delighted to see her, and everyone looks at me like something she dragged in off the road.
"L'américaine," I hear an old woman mutter to her companion as we pass. "La petite-fille."
The granddaughter.
"They're just curious," Cat says, clearly reading my expression. "It's a small village. Everyone knew Grand-mère. The fact that she had another grandchild—one no one ever met—well. It's gossip."
"Wonderful."
"They'll adopt you by August." She pushes open the door to a small shop with épicerie Chez Sylvie painted on the glass. "And then they'll be just as nosy, but in a loving way."
The shop is tiny and stuffed to the gills with everything from canned goods to wine to mysterious packages labeled only in handwritten French. A woman behind the counter—Sylvie, presumably—looks up as we enter, and her face transforms into something that can only be described as delighted horror.
"Catty!" She bustles around the counter to embrace Cat, kissing both cheeks. "We heard you were back. Marguerite would be so happy. And this must be—" She turns to me, eyes sharp with assessment. "The other one."
"Iris," I say, extending my hand. "Iris Beaumont-Clark."
Sylvie ignores my hand and kisses my cheeks instead, which I endure with what I hope is good grace. "Beaumont. Yes. You have Marguerite's eyes. Come, come, let me look at you."
She holds me at arm's length and studies me with an intensity that makes me want to flee.
"She talked about you, you know," Sylvie says finally. "Marguerite. Always wondering. Always hoping. 'Mon fant?me américain,' she called you. My American ghost."
Apparently I have a title in two languages.
"I never knew her," I manage.
"No. But she knew you. In here." Sylvie taps her chest. "A grandmother knows. Even from far away."
I don't know what to say to that. Thankfully, Cat intervenes.
"We need provisions, Sylvie. The basics—eggs, cheese, whatever vegetables you have. We're going to be at the domaine for a while."
"Yes, yes, I heard. Three months, the lawyer said.
Very Marguerite, that. She always had to make a point.
" Sylvie moves behind the counter and starts pulling items from shelves with practiced efficiency.
"You should go see Monique. She's at the café—she'll want to see you both.
She was Marguerite's closest friend, you know. Knows all the stories."
Cat and I exchange a look. All the stories.
"We will," Cat says. "After we bring the groceries home."
"Good, good." Sylvie bags up our purchases and names a price that seems impossibly low for the amount of food she's given us. "And Catherine—" She catches Cat's hand as she reaches for the bag. "It's good you're home. Both of you. It's what Marguerite wanted."
We leave the shop laden with enough food to last a week and enough questions to last considerably longer.
The Café des Platanes is across the square from the church, its terrace shaded by the plane trees that give it its name. A woman with silver hair and sharp eyes is wiping down tables when we arrive, and her face lights up the moment she sees Cat.
"Mon dieu, look at you!" She abandons her cloth and pulls Cat into a fierce embrace. "Jacques said you were back, but I didn't dare believe it. Let me see you. Let me see."
"Hello, Monique." Cat's voice is warm in a way I haven't heard before. "You look exactly the same."
"Liar. I look old. But you—" Monique holds her at arm's length, much as Sylvie did to me. "You look like her. More and more every year."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"As you should." Monique's gaze shifts to me, and her expression goes complicated—curious and cautious and something else I can't name. "And you must be Iris."
"Monique was Grand-mère's best friend," Cat explains. "They knew each other for forty years."
"Forty-three." Monique studies me with an intensity that makes Sylvie's assessment look casual. "You have the Beaumont eyes. You look like your mother. I met her once, a long time ago. Before."
Before. The word hangs in the air like a warning.
"Before what?" I ask.
Monique's face closes slightly. "Before she stopped coming. Sit, sit, both of you. I'll bring coffee. And then we'll talk."
She disappears inside before either of us can protest.
Cat and I take seats at a small table under the trees. The morning has grown warm, the light dappling through the leaves, and somewhere nearby a fountain is burbling. It would be peaceful if I weren't so tense.
"She knows something," I say quietly.
"She knows everything. Grand-mère and Monique had no secrets from each other."
"Then why won't she tell us?"
"Because it's not her story to tell." Cat leans back in her chair, gazing at the church tower. "That's what the letters are for, I think. And the locked room. Grand-mère wanted us to learn things in the right order."
I think of the envelope still sitting unopened in my suitcase. The one with my name in my grandmother's handwriting. I'm not ready to read it yet—not ready for whatever truth it contains.
Monique returns with coffee and a plate of pastries, settling into the third chair at our table like she belongs there.
"So," she says, pouring cream into her cup. "You've been to see Duval. You know about the conditions."
"Ninety days," Cat confirms. "Together."
"Marguerite was nothing if not thorough." Monique's smile is sad. "She planned this for years, you know. Ever since Hélène died."
The name lands like a stone dropped in still water. Hélène.
"Who was Hélène?" I ask.
Monique and Cat exchange a look. Something passes between them that I can't read.
"Hélène was..." Monique pauses, choosing her words. "Hélène was Marguerite's companion. For many years. They met in 1980 and were together until Hélène's death in 2015."
Companion. The word is weighted with meaning I'm only beginning to understand.
"The paintings," I say slowly. "In the farmhouse. They're signed H.V."
"Hélène Voclain. She was a painter. Very talented." Monique sips her coffee. "She came to Provence to work, and she found Marguerite. Or Marguerite found her. However it happens, when two people are meant to be."
"She's the reason I'm here at all," Cat says.
I turn to look at her. Her jaw is tight, her eyes fixed on the middle distance.
"My mother knew Hélène—years before, from the art world.
Two painters, chasing the same light." Cat's voice is quiet, careful.
"So when my mum ended up pregnant and alone, it was Hélène who wanted to bring her here.
To help her. And Grand-mère..." She finally looks at me.
"Grand-mère would have given Hélène the moon if she'd asked for it.
Instead Hélène asked her to take in a broken stranger and her baby. So she did. She kept us."
Monique nods slowly. "Marguerite loved fiercely. Hélène most of all. But that love spilled over onto everyone Hélène loved." She reaches over and squeezes Cat's hand. "Including you, petite."
"I didn't know," I say. "About any of this."
"No. Your mother made sure of that, I think." Monique's voice is gentle but pointed. "There is much you don't know, Iris. Much that Marguerite wanted you to learn. That's what these three months are for."
We stay at the café for another hour, talking about nothing and everything—the village, the weather, the upcoming lavender harvest. But the whole time, a name echoes in my head like a bell.
Hélène. Marguerite's companion. Marguerite's...
We walk back to the farmhouse in silence. Inside, I stop in front of one of the paintings—a landscape of lavender fields at sunset—and look at the initials in the corner. H.V. Hélène Voclain.
"She loved her," I say quietly. "Didn't she."
Cat stands beside me, also looking at the painting. "Yes."
"And my mother..." I can't finish the sentence.
"I don't know what your mother knew or didn't know. But I know Grand-mère loved Hélène. And I know that whatever happened with our moms, it started there."
Our mothers. Our grandmother. Our inheritance of secrets.
I look at the painting—beautiful, vibrant, made by a woman who loved my grandmother—and I feel the shape of a truth I'm not yet ready to name.
"Who was Hélène?" I ask again, but this time it's not really a question.
Cat doesn't answer. She doesn't need to.
I already know.