PRESENT DAY
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
Ellie stood at the edge of the mist, staring out over a crossroad cutting through sun-swept vineyard hills.
The country road mirrored the landscape she’d passed for much of the drive from Tours: fog-laden hills and hollows, winding roads, the occasional gated entrance or quaint cottage. Vineyards and châteaus, of course. A rich expanse, no doubt, but not clearly mapped for a directionally challenged American who could have used a French lesson or two long before an intrepid spirit led her to hop on a red-eye bound for the Loire Valley.
Fortune had intervened before it was too late, catching her attention in the form of an old wooden sign peeking from the overgrowth on the side of the road. It boasted lovely names—in white-painted letters and accent marks near faded from the sun. They could have been châteaus or estates, just as easily as country town names. And the arrows pointing in all directions offered little help. But little was better than none. So Ellie had parked her Fiat and hopped out, trying to match names to the guidebook map she’d picked up at the airport.
Despite the sign that pointed seven ways to nowhere, the vast landscape was exactly as she’d dreamed. A never-ending span of rolling hills cut a broken line against the horizon, layered with a feast of greens, rich ciders, and autumn golds. The sun peeked over the highest crest, sweeping through the landscape like a silent protector, mingling with grape arbors spread out as far as the eye could see.
“Well, if I have to be lost, this is definitely the place to do it.”
Though the sun’s searching rays were just starting to wake the land, they offered scant warmth. Ellie was grateful for her Northern Michigan constitution right then. October could still be brutal in early morning, and she’d packed smart out of instinct: fingerless gloves, layering sweaters, and lined hiking boots—just in case. She shivered into her blanket scarf and pressed the folded map under her elbow as she turned in semicircles, arrested by the calendar-worthy landscape.
Grandma Vi had been persistent one day out of hundreds since her diagnosis. That alone would have been enough to spark some investigation on Ellie’s part. But then the brooch . . . the photo . . . the discovery of a lost love and the breaking open of a story she’d never known existed. As fairy-tale romances went, Ellie had to admit that finding the man in the photo and giving him her grandmother’s decades-long answer to a secret proposal was up there.
A quick Internet search had produced images of a castle of the same name as Perrault’s famous fairy tale. It was nestled in the Loire Valley—the area of France Grandma Vi had mentioned a time or two before. And that was it: Ellie left Grandma Vi under Laine’s watchful eye, boarded a plane with little else than a photo and raw nerve, and stepped out in their race against time.
I wish you were here, Grandma Vi. You’d love this.
And then she thought of the old photo and the long-ago captured views that might have been locked away in her grandmother’s memory.
But I wonder, have you seen this before?
Emotion dared her eyes to remain dry as she snapped photos on her phone, until the rumble of an automobile echoed up the hill and pulled her from her thoughts. She scrambled, waving, intent on flagging the driver down.
A vintage truck in faded evergreen—looked like an old Ford—which struck her as odd to have been in France. Despite impressive rust patches, wooden slats lining the bed, and an engine that sounded like it was sputtering on its last leg, it still rolled up over the rise. The brakes whistled, slamming the truck to a stop directly behind her rental.
Wistful thoughts of the view faded, replaced by the hope that the driver might be able to point Ellie in the right direction. She hadn’t seen anything but rock walls and trees, vines and the occasional cottage for ages. Maybe this passerby was better at reading maps than she was. Better yet, maybe he was a local who could solve the mystery of the crossroads and simply tell her which way to go.
Ellie trotted up to the door, but when zeal threatened to get the better of her she eased off, burying her riding boots in the dewy grasses along the field. A tourist traveling alone in a foreign country best be on the cautious side. She slipped the map behind her and smiled, ready to speak from a safe distance.
A man cranked the driver’s side window down, calling, “Mornin’,” over the sputter of the engine. Ellie could decipher little else over it but took a hopeful step forward when she heard at least one word spoken in English.
That was a good sign.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He cut the engine. “I said, good mornin’. Is there a problem with your rental?”
The man was younger than she’d expected, given the vintage ride. Thirty, maybe. Probably around her age. And not bad to look at. Not at all, with dark hair tucked behind his ears in a longer, laid-back style, and a jawline that looked like he’d purposefully avoided a shave. He proceeded to stare at her through green eyes so sharp, she bet they could knock a person flat had he wanted them to.
“My rental?”
“Rental.” He nodded over the top of the steering wheel to her Fiat. “Sticker in the back window. Gives it away every time.”
Ellie’s heart sank a little. His old rig obviously wasn’t a rental, so she’d hoped that meant he was a local. But with that Irish brogue weighing his voice down, there was no way he could be French. Chances were he knew as little about the landscape as she did.
“You’re Irish?”
The question tipped his brow a shade. “There’s a problem with an Irishman offerin’ to aid a stranded motorist?”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry—it’s just that you might not be able to help unless you’re from around here. I couldn’t understand much of anything they said in that little town back there. They know about as many words in English as I do in French, so we bumped into a bit of a crossroads, so to speak. But by your accent I’d have guessed you might be a tourist and I was hoping that’s not the case.”
“A tourist like you, ya mean?” He tossed a glance down at the half-hidden map in her hand. “I didn’t think they still made maps that folded.”
“Yeah. They do, apparently. I found it in a bookstore at the airport. And good thing, because my GPS hasn’t once found a signal out here. If I could just read this thing. But I’m hoping you can help point me in the right direction.”
“So, nothin’ wrong with it then?”
Kind of gallant to ask.
Ellie turned toward the little Fiat. It sat, quiet and still, the jet-black color cutting a sharp outline against the field mist.
“The car? No, it’s fine. A little on the small side but—”
He nodded, satisfied enough by midsentence to cut her off. “I meant not broken down then. You do realize you’re parked.”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the road. With your car door open, so no one else can get by?”
“Is it?” Ellie glanced up at her car. The door was indeed open, efficient in blocking him or anyone else from getting around it on the tight one-lane road. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the roads here were so tight.”
“It’s alright.” He wasn’t annoyed, thank goodness. A man of few words, yes. But at the very least, he seemed cordial enough that Ellie felt she could ask for help.
“But if you could help me, I’ll be out of your way that much faster.”
She flipped the map so it was right side up to him and pointed her cherry-red index nail at the spot she’d circled with her Sharpie.
“I’m looking for the Domaine du Renard. You might have heard of it. It’s a vineyard around here. According to the map, it says it should be . . .” She waved her hand out over the span of rolling hills past her car, gesturing out into the heart of it. “Right there. But as you can see, it’s not. It looks like I’ve come to the ends of the earth out here. A beautiful end, but still not what I’m looking for.”
“Right there.” He tossed a glance to the span of fields and cocked an eyebrow. “You sure about that, yeah?”
What good was it to pretend? Ellie could barely handle the driving, let alone reading signs in a language she hadn’t studied since seventh grade. Finding an estate house smack-dab in the middle of the French countryside was beyond her at the moment. Best to be out with it. The sooner she got to the vineyards, the sooner she could start investigating the photo and get back home.
“No, actually. I’m not sure about much of anything anymore.”
“The Renard is up the ridge, not down.” He extended an index finger over the wheel, pointing to the treed hills out in front of them. “That way. About two kilometers, then turn left at the rock wall. Follow it back to the end.”
Ellie held the map up over her brow, blocking the rising sun as she looked up over the rise. So the vineyard was up the hill? Good. She just hadn’t gone far enough. And even though there seemed to be some old rock wall every hundred feet or so, a well-known vineyard would have to have better signage than the one she’d initially stopped for.
“What a relief. Then that’s where I’m headed.”
“There’s a tastin’ room—open until nine. The wine shop a half hour later, except on Sundays. And the restaurant is seasonal, but it’s still open for a few more weeks. That’ll save you from gettin’ lost on the way back to town, if you’re in a pinch and need a bite. Breakfast and noon meal. Night meal’s on your own, though.”
“So you work at the vineyard?”
“In a manner of speakin’.”
Finally, a real stroke of luck. He was headed right to the front door she needed to knock on.
“Great. I can’t tell you what a relief this is. Do you mind showing me the way? It’s actually freezing out here, and I would love to find my room at the estate inn—preferably one with a fireplace so I can warm up and check my limbs for frostbite.”
As if triggered by something she’d said, the man’s countenance changed in an instant. Cordiality melted away, his casual air replaced by a distance in the eyes and a firm cut to the jaw.
He kicked up the engine—a none-too-subtle signal he was ready to be on his way. “Sorry to disappoint you, miss, but the estate house is privately owned. It’s booked by reservation only. There aren’t any of those this time of year. Ya ought to head back down the hill—stay at one of the inns in town.”
“Oh, but I do have a reservation.” Ellie turned to her phone. But just like the use of the GPS, she had no Wi-Fi access. And no Wi-Fi meant she couldn’t hope to show him her e-mail reservation. “Well, I do when my e-mail’s working. Does the estate have Wi-Fi?”
“No.”
“No Wi-Fi? Really? Surprising.”
“No—you’re not goin’ to the estate.”
Ellie rocked back on her heels, sobered by the finality in his tone. While the reasoning was unclear, the look of determination in his face was not. She wasn’t getting an invitation, regardless of her purported reservation status—the same status she’d already paid for.
Ellie folded her arms over her chest and leveled her glare, challenging him with what she hoped was a look as stubborn as his.
“Sir, I’ve paid an advance deposit for two weeks—more, if necessary. My credit card has already been charged. Now, I may not need to stay the duration of the booking; it just depends on how long it takes to find what I’m looking for. But I’d prefer to speak to the owner before I make a decision.”
“What could you be lookin’ for out here?”
“Presently? The estate house where you work. I paid extra for a vineyard staff member to show me the Loire Valley, so I’ll leave the rest to my tour guide. If I could just get access to my e-mail, I could confirm it for you.”
“Sorry. Not able to help.” He rolled the truck forward, adding inches. “If you please, then.”
Maybe he was a looker not two minutes ago. But the Irishman had developed a bit of a surly smirk for no apparent reason. Ellie made the command decision that one moody local wasn’t going to put a damper on the trip, just because he’d decided to wake up on the wrong side of the vineyard that morning. It didn’t matter if it was two kilometers more or two hundred—she’d come this far, and she was going the rest of the way.
“Fine. Thank you for your time.” Ellie dipped her head in a polite nod. “I can always go knocking on doors up the hill. Maybe they can help me find this Titus Vivay.”
The truck engine cut off with an abrupt, coughing jolt.
If the poor auto had finally died on that last sputter, the man might be regretting the clipped edge to his conversational skills. Ellie may not know much about the metric system, but a couple kilometers’ walk was bound to be far enough to be a nuisance, especially when he wanted to be on his way. But no way was he in line to receive a ride after the cool reception he’d just dished out.
Ellie turned on the sound of the driver’s-side door creaking open.
He’d stepped out, then clicked the door closed behind him. Odd, but he wasn’t boorish as she might have expected. Instead, he took a few steps toward her but stopped still a healthy distance away, then looked down on her with an amiable attitude once again in place.
Something flashed in his eyes. Narrowed, but with a softer crinkle between the brows. Was it . . . concern? She wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“I’m sorry—what name did you say?”
“My reservation was made with the estate owner, a Mr. Titus Vivay. Why?”
“Judas!” He slapped a palm against his leg, then turned to stare out over the fields with his hands braced on his hips. He hung his head, shaking it back and forth. “That’s what I thought you said.”
“Is . . . that a problem?”
“It is when the man has been fightin’ any form of modern technology for the last sixty years and only now decides to use a computer just so he can defy me. And my own grandmother helped him. What makes him think he can just rent out rooms in our house?” He exhaled low, as if frustration had mounted to tipping. “I’ll kill him. No—first he’s goin’ to make this season’s wine, then I’ll kill him. Or at the very least, break his laptop so he’ll stop invitin’ strangers to set up housekeeping under our roof.”
“Your roof?” The barb struck her then. “Hey, what kind of stranger do you think I am, anyway?”
“You’re American.”
She shifted onto a cocked hip. “Meaning?”
“That’s quite enough chancer for this morning.”
Chancer? Ellie made a mental note to research the term as soon as she had Wi-Fi access. It didn’t sound favorable in the least, and she wanted to be on his level if she needed to dole out a zinging comeback later.
He turned back around, greeting her with irritation flashing in those eyes of his. “And yes. It’s my roof. Or ours. The family’s home. And he probably used my laptop too. The one he didn’t care to turn on to update the books in the last two years, as fate would have it. But that’s beside the point. We have a harvest to bring in. You can see the fields, yeah? That’s fog. That means it’s cold. Another week of this and there’ll be frost, and then we can kiss the melon harvest good-bye.”
“Melons?”
He sighed. “Not melons. Melon de Bourgogne—white grapes. But it would be an entire label lost for the year and I’m not going to let that happen, no matter what harebrained scheme my grandfather finds himself a part of. We don’t have guests durin’ the harvest. Period.”
That didn’t make sense. “But I read somewhere that vineyards do take in tourists and pay them to hand-cut the grapes. It stands to reason that you would need help instead of turning it away at harvesttime.”
“I’m not interested in what all the other wineries are doin’.”
The man’s temper hadn’t truly flared—just his frustration at the surprise of a reservation at an inopportune time. That was something Ellie could at least try to understand. But flying thousands of miles and trekking through tourist towns with only a rental car, a guidebook, and some inherited grit meant she wasn’t backing down either. Not when she had her grandmother’s photo in her pocket, an abandoned castle to find, and precious time ticking away with each passing hour.
“He’s your grandfather, this Titus?”
The man ran a hand through his hair on a half eye roll to the sky. “Yeah, heaven help me. He is.”
“And he lives at the estate house, does he?”
“Until he finds a way to displace the lot of us. But for the moment, yeah. He’s there.”
“Good.” Ellie marched over to her car and tossed the map on the passenger seat. Followed by her phone. She got in and poked her head back out, calling over her shoulder, “Since you speak English, I might need you to translate to work this out. So if you please, kindly show me to the estate. I’ve had a rough night in town and a long drive already this morning, and that’s all before I’ve had any coffee. What I’d like is just a bit of perspective and a lot of caffeine. And hospitality, if you can manage it. Then I’ll retire to my room and be out of both your and your grandfather’s way.”
“It’s Quinn Foley. Not Vivay—grandfather on my mother’s side. But you’re in luck, miss.” He motioned around a bend in the road, the one that trekked up over a rocky ridge. “He hasn’t gone into town yet this mornin’. So come on. Let’s go get your money back so we can send you packin’.”