Read Chapter 14: The Village Fete

The square had been strung with paper lanterns since dawn, their faded reds and yellows already bleached by the afternoon sun. Élise stood at the edge of the crowd, a glass of mediocre rosé in her hand, watching the village of Sainte-Cécile arrange itself into celebration.

Tables groaned under bread and cheese. Children chased a goat that had escaped its tether. The old men had claimed their benches beneath the plane trees, pipes lit, voices low, eyes tracking everyone who passed.

She had not wanted to come. The ledger sat hidden beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom, and every hour away from it felt like a betrayal of the urgency it demanded. But Julien had insisted—*you cannot hide in the vineyard forever, the village will talk more if you stay away*—and so she had put on her best cotton dress, the one with the small blue flowers, and walked the half-mile into town alone.

"You are the Parisienne."

The voice came from her left. An old man, seated on a crate outside the baker's shop, his hands folded over the top of a knotted walking stick. His face was a map of wrinkles, sun-carved and deep, and his eyes were the pale gray of the sea before a storm.

"I am Élise Delacroix."

"I know who you are." He did not smile. "I knew your aunt."

Élise felt the familiar jolt, the same one she'd felt when the baker had mentioned Joséphine's departure. There were so few people left who spoke of her aunt willingly. She took a step closer. "You knew her well?"

"Better than most." He shifted on his crate, gesturing with his stick at the empty space beside him. She sat, careful to keep her dress from the dust. "Name's Marcel. I worked the vines at Mas des Oliviers for forty years, until my knees gave out. Your aunt, she was something else. A woman with a head for numbers and a nose for wine that would shame a Bordelais."

"You worked for her?"

"For her and for the man who came before her. The whole story, I saw it." He paused, studying her. "You look like her, you know. The same stubborn set to the jaw."

Élise smiled despite herself. "I've been told."

"I expect you've been told a great many things." Marcel turned his gaze toward the square, where the goat had been cornered and was now being led back to its pen. "But I doubt anyone has told you about the partner."

A chill moved through her, despite the heat. "Partner?"

"Around 'forty-nine, fifty. A man came to the mas. Young, handsome, full of ideas about modernizing. He and Joséphine were inseparable. Not in the way the gossips liked to whisper—though they whispered plenty—but in the way of two people who shared a vision." He tapped his stick against the ground. "He was there for nearly three years. Then he vanished. Just like that. One week he's ordering trellises, the next he's gone, and Joséphine never spoke his name again."

"Do you remember his name?"

Marcel scratched his chin. "I remember his initial. She had a cup made, a present for him, or maybe for herself. French porcelain, very fine. It sat on her desk for years. It had a single letter painted on it, gold leaf."

"Which letter?"

"L." He looked at her directly. "Just an L. I never knew if it was a surname or a Christian name. She never said, and I never asked. It wasn't my place."

The square seemed to tilt. L. The cup in her aunt's Paris apartment, the one Élise had packed away with the other belongings, the beautiful thing she'd assumed was simply a decorative piece. She had held it in her hands not three months ago, turned it over, admired the craftsmanship. She had never once thought to ask whose letter it bore.

"Did this partner have anything to do with her leaving?" Élise asked, her voice careful.

Marcel shrugged. "He left first. She stayed. Whatever happened between them, it happened before she went to Paris. And when she came back here, she was a different woman. Harder. Quieter. She buried herself in the harvest and spoke to no one."

"She came back?"

"Of course she came back. This was her home. She ran the mas until the year she died, even with the trouble." He paused, his gray eyes sharpening. "You didn't know?"

"No. I didn't know." Élise's mind raced. Joséphine had fled Paris in scandal, yes—but she had come here, to the vineyard, and stayed. The loan from 1952. The mysterious partner who vanished. The payment to Mercier & Colle. Threads, tangling together into a knot she couldn't yet untie.

"She died in the vineyard, you know." Marcel's voice had softened. "Collapsed among the Grenache rows, middle of August. The pickers found her. She'd been dead maybe an hour. They said she was smiling."

Élise felt tears prick her eyes and blinked them back. "Thank you for telling me."

"Telling you what?" Marcel's face creased into the first smile she'd seen from him. "I told you nothing. Just an old man rambling at a fête. You enjoy the evening, girl. Dance with someone. Your aunt would have wanted that."

She stood, her legs unsteady, and moved back into the crowd. The lanterns had been lit while she'd sat, their warm glow spreading across the square. The musicians had arrived—an accordion, a fiddle, a double bass—and were tuning in the corner of the dance floor.

She found Julien by the wine table, speaking with the baker. He caught her eye and excused himself, crossing the square toward her.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just an old man with stories." She forced a smile. "Nothing to worry about."

Julien studied her for a moment, and she knew he didn't believe her. But he didn't press. Instead, he offered his hand. "The band is starting. And I was told the Parisienne knows how to dance."

"I was told the Provençal winemaker only has hands for pruning."

For a heartbeat, he smiled. Then the music swelled—a slow musette, wheezing and sweet—and he took her hand properly. His palm was warm and rough, calloused from years of work, and when he pulled her close, she felt the solid warmth of him through his shirt.

They moved together with surprising ease. He danced simply, with no pretense, but his steps were sure and he guided her through the crowded space without jostling a single neighbor. Around them, the village watched with barely concealed curiosity—the Parisienne and the winemaker, spinning slow circles in the lantern light.

"You're thinking about something," Julien said close to her ear. "Your shoulders are tight."

"I'm always thinking about something."

"Tonight, don't." He pulled her a fraction closer, and she let herself lean into him. The wine was warm in her stomach, the music was soft, and for one moment she allowed herself to forget the ledger, the debt, the poisoned harvest, the boy in jail.

His hand pressed against her lower back, steady and sure.

"Élise." His voice was low, almost lost beneath the accordion. "Whatever you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone."

She looked up at him. The lantern light caught the planes of his face, softened the severity she was used to seeing there. For the first time, she saw the man beneath the winemaker—tired, worried, hopeful.

She opened her mouth to tell him about Marcel. About the partner. About the cup with the gold letter L.

The music ended. He released her hand, and the moment dissolved.

The baker was suddenly beside them, his face tight. "Julien. You need to come. The gendarme just arrived from Avignon."

"What is it?"

The baker glanced at Élise, then back at Julien. "They found another body. In the canal, south of the village." He lowered his voice. "They're saying it's the Burgundian. The one who came about the cooperage."

The square seemed to dim around her. Julien's face went still, all the softness gone.

"I'll take you," he said to the baker. Then he turned to Élise. "Wait for me in the square. I'll come back."

"No." She shook her head. "I'm coming with you."

"Élise—"

"If this is connected to the vineyard, to André, to any of it, I need to know." She met his eyes. "I'm not waiting in the square like a child."

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, once. "Come."

They crossed the square together, leaving the music and the lanterns behind. And as they walked into the dark, Élise thought of Marcel's words, of the vanished partner, of the man in the canal—and she wondered, for the first time, whether the vineyard had ever been safe at all.