PRESENT DAY
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
The view owned a c’est bon-worthy description, just like in every Provençal movie Ellie had ever seen.
French doors and a private balcony presided over a span of vineyards and an abundant landscape of trees beyond. The doors had been left open, a breeze toying with white gauze curtains. Powder-blue walls and windows stretched from floor to high ceiling. A fireplace with elegant carved moldings and an oversized hearth lent the room its classic, French château feel.
Ellie sat on the edge of the bed, absently combing her fingers through her hair.
It was a perfect room. Too perfect. In an estate house basking in the heart of wine country. Nestled in hills, all laden with a coming harvest. And her grandmother’s castle—it was out there, quiet in its slumber, waiting to be discovered.
For the first time, in spite of the beauty around her, the solace pricked Ellie with the full impact of what she’d done. It had been far too easy to whisk away—run from her impending troubles. She’d given herself two weeks. Maybe three. But Laine’s e-mails and the time ticking away on the clock would determine how long she had to delve into Grandma Vi’s story.
Only two weeks. And did she expect her life to change in that time?
“Well, I’m here, Grandma. Secrets or not, I made it. So what in the world do I do now?” she whispered aloud, even exhaled, feeling the weight of nearly everything in her life coming down on her in the moment.
The sound of a boot rapping on the door startled her. Ellie shot up and turned, flattening waves behind her ear with a quick hand.
Quinn stood in the doorway, a suitcase in each hand. “Where would you like these?”
“Um . . . on the floor by the armoire is fine, thanks.”
“Right.” He stepped in and set the luggage down as she’d asked. “Towels are in the cupboard. En suite is through that door. The meal for guests is at half day—but in the dinin’ hall, the one facin’ the front drive.”
“Oh yes. Thank you.” She’d seen it. And received his veiled meaning also that the kitchen and breakfast room she’d wandered into earlier were reserved for family only.
“Your room key.” He handed it to her, tending his head in a respectful nod, and moved as if to leave without another word.
“Thank you.”
Say something . . . anything.
If Ellie didn’t at least ask him about seeing the castle, develop some rapport right then, it may prove difficult to crack the veneer of hospitality later on. That was, if he possessed it at all.
She edged a step forward. “I’m sorry about that down there . . . your grandfather? I didn’t know. He’s . . .”
Quinn stopped in the doorway, turned, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Blind. Or near enough to it anyway.”
“What I mean to say is I didn’t know. And I didn’t set out to cause any trouble. I’m sorry if I did.”
She meant it. To see the old man was struggling—it cast new light on her stay. Finding answers to the questions surrounding the castle ruins had been paramount on her mind. But seeing anyone in a similar situation as she was with Grandma Vi sparked a sudden sense of empathy she couldn’t ignore.
Thinking of how he’d taken time to fold a newspaper in his hands, she asked, “You read the paper to him?”
He nodded. “Every mornin’. He can still see some, light and shadow. Shapes. Enough to know where to walk without bumpin’ into things. But no longer type set on a newspaper. And certainly not a laptop screen. Those two ladies in the kitchen take pity on him and do his biddin’ to rent out rooms in our estate house. It won’t get better, unfortunately.” Quinn tipped his shoulders in a light shrug. “Fightin’ the world—it’s his way. He lives by the old rule of life here in the Loire—somethin’ his Irish grandson would know nothin’ about. So when I said rigid, what I really meant to say was stubborn as a hundred-year-old goat, and that’s being kind. He’s near enough in age and constitution to make it an accurate description. It’s not an argument with you.”
She smiled. Good. Apology accepted. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I interrupt a family breakfast.”
“I see you managed to sneak away from my grandmother and great-aunt before they heaped a third plate in front of ya.”
“And here I thought the French didn’t have more than a café au lait and croissant for breakfast. It’s been an education. Bread. Pastries and fruit. No cheese though. Something called brioche Suisse. And even bacon?”
“Ah yes. The rashers. My grandmother orders those special now that there’s an Irishman in the house.”
“That, and for the American tourist it seems. I’ll never need to eat again.”
“Oh, you think you won’t but ya will. And in just a couple of hours, if they have anythin’ to say about it.” Quinn checked his wristwatch and edged back toward the hall, as if time called him to walk away. “My advice—find a clever hidin’ place to stay out of sight during midday. But that tip’s free. Best o’ luck then.”
“Well, I was actually wondering . . .” Ellie stopped him again, feeling unsure this time.
Maybe it was the room.
Maybe the color of his eyes. Or his openness about what had occurred in the kitchen. Whatever it was, something hooked in her midsection and added the slight flutter of butterfly wings to the mix.
“. . . if you could take me on a tour of the grounds this morning? I’d like to get started on my research right away.”
“Research.” Quinn leveled his eyes in a slight squint, as if the word meant she owed him more. “You here for work then?”
She nodded. “Of a sort. That’s why I paid for a tour guide. I need someone to show me the grounds. The vineyards . . . the roads in and out of town . . . especially any castle ruins or rock walls in the vicinity. I’m looking for something specific, and for lack of better words, I’ll know it when I see it. So that means I’ll need to see everything.”
“You don’t say.”
If Ellie showed him enthusiasm, a hardworking spirit, maybe he’d see value in the fact that she wasn’t just there to pass the time tasting wine and visiting tourist shops. She was there to work. For answers. Surely he’d soften up a bit when she told him what she really sought. Locals always wanted to talk about the history of their land. He’d be no different.
“Yes. So if you can just show me around, I’m sure . . .”
“It’s not a good time. I have business to attend to.”
“You mean business out there?” She tilted her head toward the window. “In the vineyard?”
“It is the reignin’ enterprise around here. And I’m still learnin’ the ropes.”
Ellie sat in an upholstered chair by the hearth and swiped the boots she’d discarded nearby. “Good. Then I’ll go with you”—she pulled a boot up one leg—“and we can stop off on the way back.” She slipped into the other boot and stood, ready to go.
He shook his head. Apparently, she’d lost him.
“Stop off where?”
Ellie pointed to the view through the open doors: a thicket of woods, with the tips of white stone turrets jutting out against the highest leaves. “There.”
Quinn shot his glance to the same view from the balcony but didn’t make a move to really look at what she was referring to. Maybe that meant he didn’t need to. He knew exactly what she wanted to see. It seemed a story he’d heard before. Had heard and, for whatever reason, didn’t appear to warm to at all.
“Don’t be tellin’ me that’s why you’re here.”
“In part. Yes. I came to see the castle,” she stated flatly, and folded her arms across her chest. “Is that a problem?”
“Well, I hate to disappoint, but that’s not goin’ to be possible.”
“Why on earth not?”
“It’s closed to the public. I may be new around here myself, but even I know it’s been that way for decades. And forgive me, but one American’s stubbornness isn’t likely to change that. Ya probably should have Googled a bit more about it before you set out.”
“If you think calling me stubborn will dissuade me, you’re on the wrong side of that argument. I take it as a compliment. And this is France’s valley of the kings, isn’t it? Tourists come here for that purpose—to see castles and châteaus, to taste some of the best wines in the world. Even a castle in ruins would garner some interest in a setting like this, right? Surely there’s an owner I can speak to? At least try to persuade them to just let me look for five minutes. Or at the very least, I could speak to your grandfather about it, with you to translate. You can’t tell me I came all this way and now it’s just . . . not possible.”
Quinn waited.
He was patient but also . . . annoyed? One could have heard a pin drop for how quiet he’d remained through her explanation. And though he was a good eight or so inches taller than her petite frame and probably thought he was a load tougher, Ellie stood her ground before him.
“You say you want to talk to the owner?”
Ellie nodded, adding a touch of surly to her tone. “Just give me the chance.”
“Fine. Grab your shades. Sun’s warmin’ things up outside.”
Turned out Ellie needed the sunglasses.
Sunlight drenched the vineyard rows in which they walked, she keeping a few steps behind Quinn.
He walked slowly, with a laid-back air that would never fly in the faster-paced America, even in her small town. He could have been strolling through a park for how little he cared for the time. If they were headed to see the castle’s owner, she expected he had little interest in reaching the destination before dark.
“So what is it?”
Ellie paused, more than a little surprised to hear him engage in conversation at all. He seemed the keep-to-himself type. “What?”
He looked back, didn’t miss a beat even while taking a few blind steps. “The story that brought you here.”
“How do you know I have a story?”
“Everyone does.” He smiled. Skeptical. “Said yourself you’re researchin’. What’s it for then? Let me guess—ya one of those idealistic writer types?”
How funny that he’d nail that down. Grandma Vi had always pushed her to consider writing. But she’d let it go . . . a dream that was too far off to grasp.
“No, actually. I have a normal job as an analyst at a pharmaceutical company. I have a desk. A home. Friends who have all grown up in the same small town. No idealistic anything here.”
“But you still have a story, don’t ya?”
Ellie did of course own a story, but she hadn’t a clue how to tell it.
Hers was a photo. A brooch. A woman in lavender whose secret past had been cracked wide open by the fresh jabs of Alzheimer’s. And . . . loss. The story stirring in her heart at the moment—Ellie couldn’t speak of it, even if it was the truth.
She couldn’t say how a funeral had shattered an eleven-year-old girl’s rose-colored glasses years ago, dispelling any illusion of childhood fairy tales. On a rainy day in November, her grandmother had become both father and mother, teacher and helper, confidante and friend for the years that would follow. She’d stepped in to create a sense of normal—making blueberry scones at midnight, staying with Ellie in the kitchen long after the funeral mourners had left the house that night. But now, recalling memories like that . . . Ellie didn’t have the faintest idea how to reconcile the fact that her grandmother had kept something from her, something buried so deep inside, and had only just shared the image of a woman whom Ellie now feared she might never truly know.
How could she possibly say all that to a stranger? Death and loss and blueberry scones . . . they were heavy when they came as a package. She couldn’t even begin to work it out in her own mind, let alone try to explain it to an irked Irishman.
“Some stories can only be told when they’re ready. I’m not even to the first chapter yet.”
“So you’re lookin’ for the ideal France. The vineyard or castle photo from the desk calendar. Is that about the way of it?”
“I think I had one of those calendars once. Is that so terrible?”
“It is when tourists spend their time fantasizin’ about somethin’, and they’re let down when it’s never as good in real life.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a little dreaming. You know, France practically wrote the book on romance. Ever heard of a city called Paris?”
Quinn stopped on a dime.
He turned, staring back with a curious look in his eyes.
The sun burned down on his shoulders, illuminating a faded maroon tee with an Irish pub logo splashed across his chest. Typical, Ellie thought. And she bit her tongue against saying out loud that he had a pretty cynical outlook too. The glare confirmed it two times over.
“You’re lookin’ for romance, are ya?” His eyebrows edged in, creasing in humor. He looked to be teetering on the edge of bursting out in laughter.
“Maybe I am. But certainly not the kind you’re referring to.” It would have felt a little too good to slug him in the shoulder of that faded pub tee. Ellie turned her attention to the sky. The landscape beyond the vineyard row. Anything so she wouldn’t have to see him laugh at her. “All the romance I need is in the castle.”
He shrugged, walking on ahead of her again.
“You and all the rest. They all think they’ll find it here. Runnin’ away from a breakup. Midlife crisis. Lost a job or relationship faded out . . .” Ellie perked up at that, felt the jabs that edged so close to her own life, tried to ignore them and keep walking. “You name it. And then there’s you. People like you show up, always alone, demandin’ to see a castle they know nothin’ about. And they’re shocked when someone dares to tell ’em no.”
“Well, what would your grandfather say about it, if he knew what I’m looking for?”
“He only talks of the grapes—and that’s in French. Good luck with anythin’ else gettin’ through.”
Ellie sighed. Much like the sign at the round outside the vineyard, they weren’t getting anywhere.
She guessed Quinn Foley was one of those guys—the slightly prideful in thinking he could figure her out at first glance. A psychologist in training, no doubt. With few if any entanglements to tie him down. Maybe he lumbered along through the vineyard rows with no clock to manage or schedule to keep. There were few responsibilities she could see, other than to drive his grandfather to town and watch as their employees brought in the grape harvest.
Still, he’d turned his attention to the vines, inspecting the full-sized grapes as they walked on, bright green on the vine, and seizing an opportune time to show he was an expert craftsman nurturing the vines’ progress to greatness. Doing it all for her benefit? She wouldn’t have put it past him.
“Why this castle, when there’s hundreds of others? Have you come here because of the name: The Sleeping Beauty?”
“It sounds enchanting, but no. Not all of it, anyway.”
“No knight in shinin’ armor?”
She bristled at the intrusion into her private life. “No princesses or towers either. Just a regular person. Sorry to disappoint you, but I have a fairly normal life. I’m not looking for anything but a few answers to something you wouldn’t understand.”
“And how’s it workin’ out for ya then?”
“Not exactly as I imagined. But I’ll keep going. Roots don’t move unless you dig them up, right?”
“You won’t be moving these.” Quinn pointed, then stood back. “There’s your castle—or at least, the road down to it. Shut up tight, just like I told ya.”
They’d come to the end of the long arbor rows, in a clearing that met an old country road, grassed over, parting gangly trees in a line far down into the darkness of the forest. And what almost stopped her heart—a hopeless barrier in the form of a high stone wall. Iron gates brandished intricate scrollwork, with rust and scrub bushes growing up into the heart of where the two sides met, a heavy chain and lock . . . and a sign that screamed Passage Interdit and Propriété Privée in garish red letters.
“It can’t be.” Ellie stepped up to the gate, wrapping her hands around the scrolls. “You can’t even see the ruins from here. How far back does the road go?”
“Far enough to keep pryin’ eyes and curious minds out. Look.” He pointed at a near-invisible metal wire that cut from the sides of the gate and all the way down the tree line on both sides, as far as the eye could see. “Electric fence. And up there. See the top of the fox crest engraved in the stone wall?”
A small camera had been wired there and stood watch, a light blinking plain as day, mocking any would-be tourist’s plight.
“There’s another one every ten meters or so. Add that to random patrols around the castle itself, and you’re lookin’ for trouble if you try to go in there. Your passport won’t do ya much good if the authorities confiscate it.”
“But why show me this if we can’t get in? I thought you were taking me to speak to the owner. Where is he?”
“Unavailable. Titus says he lives away—is owner in name only. But to every question you pose, this is what he’d say.”
“How do you know what he’ll say unless you let me talk to him?”
“Because countless have asked before you, and this is what we tell them—there’s no trespassing here. It’s private property. The owner does not want the grounds disturbed, and no manner of pushin’ will change his mind. That’s how it is.”
Ellie stepped back, abhorred that he hadn’t mentioned it sooner. “You’re on the payroll to keep tourists away?”
“No. I’m not. But to my grandfather, we’re a neighbor and so we honor the owner’s wishes.”
“You’re his watchdog then.” Ellie shook her head, disappointment leveling a clean blow. “You might have said.”
He sighed, kicked his heel into the earth, and looked up, though the sun was cutting high and threatened to blind him for it. “Look. I didn’t want to make ya angry. Just discourage you from tryin’ to go any further with this. You’re booked to stay here and that’s the way of it. St. Peter himself couldn’t change my grandfather’s mind once it’s set on somethin’. So you might as well accept the terms. Go tour the other castles. Drink wine. Snap photos for the desk frame and have a grand time. Then go back home to your life, and leave this place be.”
He forced a smile, one of those gentle tips at the corners of the mouth that meant someone wanted to feel sorry but didn’t. Not enough for her to believe it, anyway.
“The castle’s earned its peace, Miss Carver.” Quinn tipped his head in a nod, then left her alone there. “Let the past stay buried.”
Strolling away to some other part of the vineyard, she guessed. Maybe so she could have some time to think about doing what he’d said. Snap some photos. Maybe post a selfie at the castle gate so she could at least tell her girlfriends she’d been there. And perhaps drown her sorrows in his family’s wine after. But that wasn’t her.
“Whether you’ve earned it or not, you don’t want peace. Do you?” Ellie whispered out into the road’s long void beyond the gate. She wrapped her hand tighter around the iron scrollwork, feeling the roughness of rust and the coolness of metal against her palm. “You don’t want it or I wouldn’t be standing here right now. You have a story to tell.”
Quinn’s warning had been valiant. And the No Trespassing sign did have a quaintness about it, printed in French she couldn’t read. But while Quinn’s revelation of his role as caretaker of the castle perimeter had come with a jolt, it only served to remind Ellie who she was in turn.
She was Lady Vi’s granddaughter—and that meant she wouldn’t take no for an answer.