Read Chapter 16: The New Normal

The lavender festival was forty-eight hours away, and the B&B's small office had become a war room. Camille stood over Julien's shoulder, both of them hunched around the laptop where the lavender sachet supplier's website stubbornly refused to load.

"The internet hates us," Julien said, refreshing the page for the third time.

"Try calling them." Camille tapped the printed order form taped to the wall. "Their number is right there. Odette had it circled."

Julien reached for the phone, and Camille caught the faint scent of his cologne—cedar and something like warm bread. She stepped back, pretending to study the festival route map spread across the desk. Strange, how two weeks could reshape a life. She'd stopped waking at four a.m. to check her phone for Antoine's lawyer's messages. She no longer flinched when the front door opened. The kitchen had become hers—hers and Julien's—and the rhythm of morning coffee, prep lists, and guest breakfasts had settled into something almost like peace.

Julien hung up. "They're sending a courier. Sachets will be here by noon tomorrow."

"Which leaves us with centerpieces."

"Odette always used the dried lavender from the field behind the barn. There's enough for three festivals."

Camille smiled. "Then we're making centerpieces tonight after dinner. You can't escape kitchen duty just because you own the place."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Her phone buzzed on the desk. The screen flickered with an unfamiliar number, international code. Camille let it ring.

"You going to get that?" Julien asked.

"Unknown caller." She shook her head. "Probably Antoine's lawyer trying a new line."

The buzzing stopped. Then started again, same number. Persistent.

Camille picked it up. "Allo?"

"C'est Camille Roux?" The voice was female, clipped, professional.

"Speaking."

"My name is Delphine Marchand. I'm a private investigator based in Lyon. I've been retained regarding your father, Thomas Roux."

Camille's chest tightened. Her father had been gone fifteen years—dead of a heart attack the summer she turned nineteen. The world had slowed to a crawl when she'd received the news in Paris, her mother's voice crackling over the line, and now this stranger was saying his name like a case file.

"I'm sorry," Camille said, moving toward the corridor, away from Julien's curious gaze. "I think you have the wrong—"

"Your father isn't dead, Mademoiselle Roux."

The words stopped her cold. She pressed a hand against the wall of the hallway, the rough plaster grounding her.

"That's impossible. I attended his funeral."

"I'm aware of what you were told. But I've been hired by a client who believes Thomas Roux is alive and living under an assumed name in Switzerland. I was hoping you could provide me with—"

Camille hung up. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her father, alive? Thomas Roux, who had walked out on her and her mother when Camille was eleven, who had supposedly died of a heart attack eight years later without ever trying to make amends? No. That was grief speaking—or a scammer.

She returned to the office. Julien looked up, concern etched across his face.

"Everything okay?"

"Wrong number." She forced a smile. "Festival checklist. What's next?"

He studied her for a moment but let it go. "The band. They called this morning—their lead singer has laryngitis. I told them we'd figure something out."

Camille laughed despite herself. "What do we figure out? We're a kitchen, not an agency."

"Odette had a friend who plays the accordion. Old Maurice, from the village. He's almost ninety but still performs at the Sunday market."

"Julien Morel, booking an accordionist for the lavender festival. Your father will be proud."

The words came out before she could stop them, and the air shifted. Julien's jaw tightened.

"Sorry," Camille said softly. "That was—"

"There's news on that front." He ran a hand through his hair. "My attorney called this morning. Étienne's scheduled a deposition for next week. He wants the property records, bank statements, guest ledgers. Everything."

Camille stepped closer. "What does that mean?"

"It means he's serious. He's not going to drop this quietly, and he has money for a good lawyer." Julien's eyes met hers. "I might lose this place, Camille."

"You won't." The conviction in her voice surprised her. "The B&B has been in your family for three generations. Odette left it to you. He can't just—"

"He can try." Julien exhaled slowly. "But I'm not giving up without a fight. The festival is going to be perfect. And if I lose the deposit to Odette's memory, at least it'll be a good last chapter."

"Or a first chapter of something new." Camille reached out and touched his arm, a brief gesture that lingered longer than she'd intended. "We'll figure it out. Together."

Something shifted in Julien's expression. "Together," he repeated, as if testing the word.

The front door opened, and a familiar voice called out: "Julien? You back there?"

Claire.

Camille's hand dropped from Julien's arm. So much for the new normal.

Claire appeared in the office doorway, looking like she'd just come from a spa weekend—hair sleek, blouse crisp. Her eyes swept the room and landed on Camille with barely concealed disdain.

"I came to collect my personal files," Claire said. "I left some things in the back office."

"I thought you'd moved everything out," Julien said flatly.

"Apparently not." Claire's gaze flicked to the festival paperwork spread across the desk. "Looks busy. I heard about your accordionist solution. Very rustic."

"Is there something you need, Claire?" Camille asked, her voice even.

"I need nothing from you, chef." Claire walked past them into the back office. A moment later, she emerged with a box of folders. At the door, she paused. "Oh, and Julien? I ran into our insurance agent at the café in Saint-Rémy. He mentioned your coverage lapses at the end of the month unless the renewal paperwork is submitted. Thought you'd want to know."

"Thank you. I'll handle it."

"I'm sure you will." Claire's smile was thin. "Between the festival, the lawsuit, and your new sous-chef, I'm sure you have everything under control."

She left, the door closing with a deliberate click.

Julien sagged against the desk. "She's going to make this impossible."

"Insurance is just paperwork," Camille said. "We can handle paperwork."

But her phone buzzed again. The private investigator. Delphine Marchand. Camille silenced it and pressed it face-down on the desk.

Julien noticed. "You've been quiet all morning. What was that wrong number, really?"

Camille opened her mouth to deflect, but instead heard herself say: "Someone claims my father is alive."

The words hung between them. Julien's face stilled.

"Your father? The one who—"

"Walked out when I was eleven and supposedly died eight years later." Camille shook her head. "It's impossible. But she said she's been hired by someone who believes he's in Switzerland. I don't know what to do with it."

Julien was quiet for a long moment. "What does your mother think?"

"He's been dead to her for twenty-three years. She'd call it a cruel joke."

"Maybe it is." Julien's voice was gentle. "But maybe it isn't. Whatever you decide, you don't have to face it alone."

Camille looked at him, at the concern in his eyes, the patience in his posture. She'd come to Provence to escape one man's lies and had found herself anchored to another man's truth.

"There's a festival to plan," she said eventually. "Let's make centerpieces."

Julien smiled—a small, relieved thing. "Deal. But first, I'm making us lunch. No arguments."

"Who am I to argue with my boss?"

"Your boss who's falling for you," Julien said quietly, and then he was gone, out toward the kitchen, before Camille could even process the words.

The phone buzzed again, face-down on the desk. Camille stared at its dark screen, her father's name and Julien's confession tangled together in her chest.

She picked up the phone. Swiped to answer.

"Delphine," she said, her voice steady. "Tell me everything."