Read Chapter 15: Claire's Departure

The scent of burnt butter reached Camille before the voices did.

She had been rolling pastry dough at the kitchen counter, the morning light slanting through the window in that particular way that made the dust motes dance, when the dining room door crashed open. Claire stood there, apricot-blond hair in a severe bun, brandishing a stainless-steel tray like a shield.

"Do you know what time it is?" Claire's voice cracked. "Do you have any idea what I've been doing since six? Setting tables. Folding napkins. Checking the pool pH." She threw the tray onto the prep counter with a clatter. "Meanwhile, Julien sneaks out at dawn with the help, and I'm left running this place alone."

Camille's hands kept moving, pressing the dough flat. She'd learned long ago not to flinch when people shouted. It was a chef's survival skill.

"Good morning to you too, Claire," she said evenly.

"Don't." Claire's chest heaved. "Don't you dare be civil with me. You've been here, what, four weeks? And you—" She jabbed a finger toward the door. "—took my husband to the market like he's yours."

"Your ex-husband," Camille corrected, then immediately regretted it.

The silence that followed was thick as honey. Claire's face cycled through four shades of red before landing on a mottled crimson.

"Ex-husband." Claire laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I gave that man five years. Five years of this life, this B&B, this dream he had. And you show up with your broken marriage and your dead grandmother's recipes, and suddenly I'm the one who's expendable?"

"Nobody said you were expendable—"

"You said I was a problem to be fixed." Claire stepped closer, and Camille caught the faint scent of lavender water beneath the anger. It was the same perfume she'd worn at the Lycée, Camille realized with a start. "Your condition. My condition. Our little bargain."

"Julien told you."

"No, Julien didn't tell me." Claire's voice dropped. "I heard him. He was on the phone with his lawyer, and he had it on speaker, and he said—he said he would 'deal with' me. Like I'm a pile of invoices to be organized. Like I'm nothing."

Camille's hands finally stilled on the dough. She hadn't known about the speakerphone. She hadn't known about any of it.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I didn't ask him to—"

"You didn't have to." Claire's eyes glistened, but she blinked hard. "That's the worst part. I built this place with him. I chose the paint colors for the guest rooms. I negotiated with five different suppliers to get the good linens. And he doesn't even see me in the photographs anymore."

A guest coughed in the hallway, and Claire's spine snapped straight. The mask of professionalism clicked back into place, and for a moment Camille saw the woman Claire had trained herself to be—competent, unflappable, essential.

Then Claire undid her apron with a single sharp pull.

"I quit."

The words hung in the air like a struck bell.

"Claire, don't—"

"You can't stop me." Claire folded the apron with military precision and set it on the counter. "I have a sister in Lyon. She has a guest room. This was never my dream, anyway. It was Julien's. And now it's his. All of it."

Camille wanted to say something true, something that would bridge the chasm between them. But the words wouldn't come, because the truth was complicated. The truth was that Camille had never wanted to hurt Claire. The truth was that she'd been warned the woman was dangerous, and she'd believed it for so long that she'd stopped seeing the wounded person underneath.

"Tell Julien the August reservations are on the USB drive in the office." Claire grabbed her handbag from the hook by the door. "Tell him the Henriot family expects the rose garden tour on Thursday. Tell him—" Her voice faltered. "Tell him I hope the lavender festival goes well. I've already made the centerpieces."

Then she was gone.

The dining room door swung shut with a soft click, and the B&B settled into a silence Camille had never heard before. No footsteps. No clipboard tapping. No Claire.

Julien appeared in the doorway thirty seconds later, looking like a man who'd just watched a train derail in slow motion. His hair was disheveled—he'd been running his hands through it, she could tell—and his face was pale under his tan.

"She's gone," he said. Not a question.

"She's gone." Camille wiped her floury hands on her apron. "She left you the USB drive and a warning about the Henriot family."

Julien sat down heavily on the nearest stool. "The Henriots are the ones who complained about the pool ladder being wobbly last year. Claire was going to fix it before Thursday. She was the only one who knew how the booking software worked. She was the only one who remembered to order the yogurt for the breakfast buffet."

"Then we'll learn." Camille's voice was steadier than she felt. "We'll order the yogurt. We'll fix the ladder. We'll figure out the software."

Julien looked at her, and there was something raw in his eyes. "You don't have to stay, you know. The agreement was that she'd stand down if I confronted her. Now there's no one to confront."

"You're asking me if I want to leave?"

"I'm telling you there's no reason for you to stay."

Camille had a very clear memory of being seventeen, of watching Julien Desmarais on the rugby field, all confidence and grace under the Mediterranean sun. The man in front of her now was not that boy. This man had been worn down by a divorce, by debt, by the slow erosion of a dream he'd built with someone else's hands.

But his eyes were the same. God help her, his eyes were the same.

"What if I don't need a reason?" she said softly.

The kitchen clock ticked. Outside, a cicada started its morning song.

Julien stood up slowly. "You'd help me run this place? Just like that?"

"I'd help you cook." Camille gestured at the half-rolled pastry. "I'm on kitchen lockdown anyway. Claire's rules. The guests don't see my face, but they eat what I make. So let me make it worth their while."

Something shifted in Julien's expression. A crack in the armor, a glint of the boy he'd been. "You're serious."

"I'm always serious about pastry." Camille picked up her rolling pin. "Now, are you going to stand there gawping, or are you going to help me prep the vegetable tarte? I have a feeling the Henriots are going to need something excellent when they arrive."

Julien laughed. It was a rusty sound, like a door that hadn't been opened in years, but it was real. He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the onions.

The next three hours passed in a rhythm Camille recognized from her years at Les Deux Oliviers. They worked side by side, moving around each other with a fluidity that surprised them both. Julien diced vegetables with clumsy enthusiasm; Camille corrected his knife grip without thinking. He told her the names of the guests arriving for the week—the Henrricts, the Madsens, a novelist from Berlin named Elke who always requested the top-floor room.

"She said she writes her best prose when she can hear the lavender fields rustling," Julien said, slicing a tomato with the wrong part of the blade.

"These are your hands, not a meat tenderizer." Camille came around behind him, adjusting his fingers on the knife handle. Her chest brushed his back. She felt him go very still.

"Sorry," she murmured, stepping away.

"Don't be." His voice was low. "I'm not."

The moment stretched between them like pulled caramel, sweet and dangerous. Then the phone rang, shattering it.

Julien grabbed it before the second ring. "B&B Le Lavande, Julien speaking." His face shifted through several emotions in the space of ten seconds. "Yes. Yes, this is him. What? No, I—no, that's not right. Wait, you're certain? She filed what?"

Camille's hands froze on the dough.

"With which court?" Julien's voice was climbing. "Marseille? And what date. . . . Right. Right. I see. Thank you."

He hung up and stared at the phone like it had bitten him.

"Julien?" Camille's heart was hammering. "What is it?"

He turned to look at her, and his face had gone pale again, but this time it was different. This time his eyes held something Camille hadn't seen there before: fear, yes, but also guilt.

"That was Julien's—my father's lawyer." He swallowed. "My father is suing me."

Camille blinked. "For what?"

"For the B&B." Julien's hand tightened on the phone. "He claims he never signed over his half of the property. He claims he's been the rightful co-owner the whole time—and he's coming to Provence to take it."