Chapter 13
Her neck hurt.
Her shoulder hurt.
Her back hurt.
“Ow…” she muttered to herself as she blinked awake.
Why did she hurt so much? All thoughts, however, were completely obliterated as the events of the previous night rushed back to her, and she realized that the soft black linen she was resting her face on was not the soft black linen of a hotel pillowcase but, in fact, the soft black linen of Ian’s shirt.
She moved her hand slightly, and her fingertips brushed against a cool, round button.
Yep, definitely his shirt, she thought as she swallowed hard.
The archive came into focus now, and she remembered that they had settled on the couch that ran along the side wall when they realized that not only did they have no power or cell coverage, but the thunderstorm outside made it entirely likely the taxi would refuse them anyway.
Sunlight was peeking through the window, she noticed; it must be at least six o’clock.
If she just moved gently…
Extracting herself from Ian’s sleeping form was more challenging than she had expected.
Her jeans had pressed into her waist while she curled up, leaving a red mark in the pattern of the fabric on her skin.
As she shifted, she noticed several other spots where her body ached and understood their cause.
The air was fresh from the storm overnight, and the early morning light looked ethereal through the window.
Sitting down at the desk, Natalie avoided her thoughts about the events of the previous night by skimming through the diary in front of her.
There was little to no point since it was all in French.
Even if it hadn’t been, the text was handwritten in looping ink that had severely faded over time.
She turned the page, and her breath caught in her throat.
An ink drawing of a vine leaf, splattered with splotches like the vines in Section Nine.
“Oh my God,” she said loudly. “Ian! Wake up! Come read this.”
He bolted upright like he had been stuck with a cattle prod, clearly disoriented.
Stumbling over to her, he pulled the thin blanket around his shoulders and rifled through the pocket of his jeans, producing a packet of gum. After taking one for himself, he offered it to her, then sat down and began to read aloud.
“And the blight has returned, stronger than before. The leaves burn with red patches for a week before crumbling from the dry.” He paused, seemingly re-reading the passage. “I get it, but this can’t be the same blight. You know that, right? For one thing, it’s red.”
She looked at a line of writing, identifying the word rouge. “Well, yeah, but the fact that this happened within a year of when my grandfather was here?” She pointed to the date in the diary. “Isn’t there a chance it weakened the strain against this type of threat?”
Ian moved his head from side to side. “Potentially, but it hasn’t come up since then, so it’s unlikely. But if the shoe fits…”
“It feels like it fits, right?” she asked.
“It does,” he replied hesitantly. “The question remains—what are you going to do with the information?”
Natalie shrugged. “There isn’t really a good option, and I think this is just for research. I promised Isabelle I wouldn’t blame her family for my family’s misfortune. However, I do think we should try to buy some rootstock; it feels important to preserve at least a part of that heritage.”
Nodding slowly, Ian flipped through the pages. “Look, they had to burn a lot of their vines, too. Some survived, but they pulled the plug on anything infected for more than a week. So, how will you convince them to sell you the rootstock?”
Natalie smiled. “Well, I actually have an idea about how they could turn the place around. I know they don’t want a lot of visitors but—”
“Bonjour, overnight guests,” Sabine said, opening the door with gusto. “Did you enjoy the hospitality?” When she saw them seated at the desk, an odd look came over her face, but it was fleeting.
“We didn’t think we would be welcome in the house,” Ian said. “Didn’t want to make a nuisance of ourselves, but we also couldn’t get any signal to call a cab.”
“No, the mobile tower was struck by the lightning,” she said. “Now, I heard you say that you have a plan for my mother’s vineyard. Do tell me.”
“Not a plan,” Natalie said quickly. “An idea.” She gestured to the chair on the other side of the table, and Sabine took it, albeit begrudgingly, so Natalie could explain her idea in detail.
Natalie watched Sabine’s face closely as she spoke, nervousness building in her throat with every word.
As she came to an end, Sabine slowly nodded. “There are a few things I will tell you to change, but, in total, I think my mother will agree…especially with me on your side.”
Swallowing hard against the lump of anxiety, Natalie managed to ask, “You are?”
It seemed almost painful for Sabine to say, but she managed it. “Oui, I am.”
*
They were seated in the same room where Isabelle had shared much more with Natalie than she intended, and Natalie felt just as nervous as before. The only difference was that now, Sabine sat next to her, and somehow, that didn’t seem like the worst thing.
Ian paced the room, appearing even more nervous than she was—which made no sense, considering he was only there to provide translation when needed.
“And you have the numbers that you showed to me earlier?” Sabine whispered.
“Uh, oui,” Natalie said, eyeing Ian as he paced. “And for the comparison venue…”
They hadn’t had a chance to discuss everything that had occurred because Sabine had been with them the entire time, helping them prepare for this afternoon. He didn’t seem strange about it… did he?
“Good,” Sabine said.
“What?” Natalie asked, turning to look at her.
The epitome of French grace and beauty regarded her like she was an idiot. “You know, I was rather taken with your Ian when you first arrived, but then it became more like a challenge. I should not have wasted my efforts on someone as far gone as him.”
“Far gone?” Natalie repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Maman,” Sabine said, standing to greet her mother. “Thank you for meeting them. I think you will find it interesting.”
Isabelle did not look impressed, but there was no drink in her hand, so Natalie was going to count it as a winning start.
“I was thinking about what you were saying to me the other day,” Natalie began.
“When you were so against having public tours, it triggered something in my mind. One of my professors told me during my first year at college that there are two ways to make a million dollars—sell one million items at one dollar each, or sell one item for a million dollars. Now, I know for a fact that your home is expansive, historic, and ultimately beautiful. I truly believe that with the right approach on social media, you could easily turn this into a luxury destination for a select clientele who value their privacy as much as you do.”
After several moments of silence, Isabelle looked to Sabine, who nodded and gestured for her mother to sit.
Isabelle sniffed. “I do not want big publicity. I do not want to be linked with your estate.”
“Well, that is part of the plan, you see. In the last few weeks, our posts have been extremely popular.” Natalie handed over the summary sheet that showed the reach, the millions of people who had seen the posts, and the revenue generated from these views across the platforms. “We haven’t posted about your estate as you requested, but if you decide to pursue this route, we could announce a big secret we’ve been keeping—we’ve been staying here as part of your launch to reconnect our comparatively young American dream with your rich French heritage. ”
Isabelle scoffed. “And how exactly would this benefit us? It only benefits you.”
“Well, the last video I posted was from the ice cream place at the lookout on the edge of town. And it got over a million views. Somehow, it was seen by someone far more important than me. You might recognize them from their most recent film, which I think sold best in France out of everywhere in the world…” Natalie slid her phone across the table for Isabelle to see the message in the estate’s direct message inbox, so far with no reply.
“Oh, mon Dieu,” Isabelle said, slipping into French and ranting at Sabine so fast that even Ian looked stunned.
“My mother asks if this is a joke or a trick, and how can she know if this really is her?”
“The account is verified as official,” Natalie said.
Isabelle stood, gripping the phone as if her life depended on it, and read aloud, “Hey love, that looks lush—I am in desperate need of a French holiday. Drop me the info, yeah?” Isabelle cleared her throat.
“This does not change anything. I will need to see much more information about how you plan to market this and get the house set up for her—or anyone’s arrival. ”
Smiling, Natalie held out a hand, and Ian placed a large binder in it. “Here’s everything you need to know.”
Isabelle flipped through the pages. “Well, this is a much better deal than the last American offered.”
Natalie forced herself to ignore it—she didn’t know how her great-great-grandfather had behaved while he was there or how much he had paid for the rootstock he purchased. This was going well, and she wasn’t about to let her ego ruin it.