Read Chapter 25: The Lavender Festival

The lavender fields at the edge of the village had transformed overnight, it seemed, from green rows into a rippling purple sea. Camille stood at the kitchen window of the B&B, a cup of coffee cooling in her hands, watching the early morning light catch the dew on the blossoms. Nine days until the festival. Nine days until every room in the village would be full, and every table in Provence would need to be perfect.

“You’re brooding again.” Julien’s voice came from behind her, warm with the hint of a laugh that had become more frequent in the past few days.

She turned. He stood in the doorway, flour dusting his forearms, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He looked more relaxed than she’d seen him since the hospital, the reconciliation with his father easing something tight in his jaw that she hadn’t realized she’d been watching for.

“I’m planning,” she corrected. “Lavender honey glaze for the duck. Figured it out at three in the morning.”

“Is that why you were up at three?”

“Insomnia with benefits.” She set down her coffee and moved to the counter where he’d already laid out ingredients. The overbooked B&B meant they were serving not only the terrace guests but a full breakfast and dinner service for the next week and a half, and the menu boards were covered in her handwriting, three columns of dishes that needed prep. “Mireille confirmed the last two rooms are filled. A couple from Lyon, and a food writer from London who apparently has opinions about lavender in cooking.”

Julien grimaced. “The kind who writes think pieces about how we’re doing it wrong?”

“The kind who’s staying for four nights,” Camille said. “So we do it right.”

For the next hour, they worked in the kind of rhythm she’d almost forgotten was possible. He handled the pastry, she the sauces. He prepped vegetables while she reduced stock, and when he nearly burned the garlic, she slid in front of him at the stove without a word, nudging his hip with hers until he stepped aside, laughing.

“I forgot you were a kitchen tyrant,” he said, watching her salvage the pan.

“I’m not a tyrant. I’m precise.”

“You literally just hip-checked me away from my own stove.”

“Our stove,” she said. “I’m on the lease, remember?”

The words came out lighter than she intended, and for a moment, the old tension flickered in his eyes. She caught it, and he caught her noticing, and then he nodded, slowly, like they’d had a whole conversation without speaking. *No more secrets.* They were both trying.

The doorbell rang, breaking the moment. Julien wiped his hands and went to answer, and Camille turned back to the stove, adjusting the flame. Through the window, she watched the lavender field lap against the stone wall, the bees already working the blossoms. She thought about her father, about the file still sitting unopened in her room, about what it meant that a man could disappear and leave behind a life that kept moving without him.

“Camille.” Julien’s voice was different. Tighter. She turned.

He held a long cream envelope, the kind that came from lawyers and banks and nowhere good. His face was unreadable.

“It’s from a bank in Paris,” he said. “They found the new address on file. It’s marked urgent.”

Camille took it, her fingers cold. She opened it standing right there in the kitchen, because hiding things was what had gotten them into trouble before, and whatever this was, Julien would see it on her face anyway.

The letter was brief. Official. And by the time she finished it, the lavender and the bees and the festival plans had all receded to a distant hum.

“What is it?” Julien asked.

She read the relevant line aloud, her voice flat. “‘Pursuant to the terms of your divorce settlement, the property known as Lot 14, Rue des Oliviers, has been transferred into your name. However, due to an outstanding second mortgage executed against the property prior to the transfer, the lien holder hereby exercises its right to initiate foreclosure proceedings.’”

Julien’s brow furrowed. “Your childhood home. Your mother’s house.”

“My father’s house,” Camille corrected. “The one he left to my mother, and she left to me in the divorce instead of selling, because I thought I could hold onto something.” She shook the letter. “Étienne took out a second mortgage on it, Julien. Before we separated. He signed my name, just like the accounts. The bank’s not interested in fraud—they just want their money back.”

“How much?”

She looked at the bottom line. The number sat there, stark and final. Enough to cover the B&B’s insurance threat twice over. Enough to buy a small vineyard. Enough to make her chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with her healing ribs.

“I don’t have it,” she said. “Not in cash, and not in assets. I’d have to sell the house to cover the debt, and even then, after capital gains, I’d come out with almost nothing.”

Julien stepped closer, not touching her but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. “Sell it,” he said gently. “You don’t live there. Your mother doesn’t live there. It’s a house, Camille. Not a memory.”

“It’s my father’s house,” she repeated. “If he did fake his death, if he’s out there somewhere, that house is the only thing that proves he existed. The only physical proof I have of my family before—” She stopped, her throat closing.

Julien was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “I can help. I have savings. Not enough for the whole thing, but combined with what the B&B is pulling in from the festival bookings, it might buy you time to find another solution.”

“No.” The word came out harder than she meant. She saw him flinch and softened. “Julien, I’m not letting you put your livelihood at risk for my father’s ghost. Not after everything you two have been through. You just got him back. You can’t spend that rebuilding on a problem I created by marrying the wrong man.”

“You didn’t create this.” His jaw tightened. “Étienne did.”

“And I chose him. I signed the papers. I trusted him.” She folded the letter and tucked it into her apron pocket. “I’ve spent two months in this village learning to trust again. Learning to trust you. I’m not about to undo that by letting you rescue me from my own past.”

The silence between them was heavy, but not hostile. Julien’s eyes searched hers, and she saw the effort it took for him to let the argument go.

“Then what are you going to do?” he asked.

“The festival is nine days away,” she said. “I’m going to cook the best goddamn meal this village has ever seen. And then I’m going to figure out how to save my father’s house without losing everything else I’ve found here.”

She picked up her knife and returned to the cutting board, and after a moment, Julien did the same. They worked in quiet partnership for the rest of the morning, but the letter sat in her pocket like a stone, heavy and cold.

Around noon, Julien’s father appeared in the kitchen doorway, hesitating as he always did now, waiting for permission that Julien was slowly learning to grant. Today, Julien gave him a small nod, and Alain stepped in.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Alain said quietly, addressing Camille. “Your father. Jean-Paul. The man who disappeared.”

Camille froze. “You knew him?”

“Everyone knew him,” Alain said. “The fire that took our house—your father was one of the first on the scene. He pulled my wife out through the back window. I never got to thank him properly.” He paused, glancing at Julien, who was watching his father with complicated eyes. “If Jean-Paul is alive, and if a man with his secrets found a way to leave things behind for you… maybe you should read what he left, before you decide what the house means.”

Camille looked at him, the echo of her own situation mirrored in his face. Then she nodded slowly, her hand going to her apron pocket, the unopened file in her room suddenly tugging at her like a tether.