Read Chapter 6: The Lawyer's Visit

The man on the doorstep was exactly as Élise remembered from the Paris office—starched collar, spectacles, a briefcase clutched like a shield. Maître Renard, her late husband’s notary, had traveled south to finalize the inheritance paperwork, and he looked profoundly out of place among the olive trees and dust.

“Madame Delacroix,” he said, extending a damp hand. “The journey was… bucolic.”

She led him into the salon, where the morning light cut through grime-caked windows and illuminated the faded wallpaper. Renard’s nose twitched at the smell of old stone and wine. He set his briefcase on the table and began extracting documents with the practiced efficiency of a man who wished to be elsewhere.

“The deed transfers are simple,” he said, sliding papers toward her. “Your aunt’s estate was modest, but the property is entirely yours, provided you remain resident for three years. I trust the vineyard is… progressing?”

“It’s surviving,” Élise said dryly.

He gave a tight smile and reached for another folder. “Now, the administrative details. The death certificate, the succession declarations—” He paused, flipping through pages. “You’ll need to sign where marked.”

Élise uncapped her pen, but her hand hesitated above the line. “Tell me about her death,” she said.

Renard’s fingers went still. “Heart failure,” he said too quickly. “She was eighty-one, Madame Delacroix. It was expected.”

“Expected,” Élise repeated. “And yet she left the vineyard to a niece she never met.”

The notary adjusted his spectacles. “Your aunt was… private. Her instructions were precise, I’m assured. She left a sealed letter for you, which I forwarded.”

“I received no letter.”

“You did not?” His brow furrowed, genuine confusion flickering across his face. “I sent it myself, a week after the funeral. To your Paris address.”

Élise thought of the pile of unopened mail that had choked her hallway—bills, notices, creditors’ threats. A letter could have vanished beneath them. But something in Renard’s hesitance made her press further.

“My aunt,” she said, watching him carefully, “did she have visitors in her final weeks?”

Renard’s gaze slid toward the window, toward the vineyard rows outside. “I wouldn’t know, Madame. I only handled the legalities. Your aunt’s affairs were… unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox how?”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “I was instructed to forward a substantial portion of her liquid assets to a merchant in Avignon. A standing arrangement, I believe. Nothing irregular.” The words came out clipped, rehearsed.

Élise thought of the ledger in her room, the decades of payments. “The merchant’s name?”

“I don’t recall,” Renard said, but his eyes betrayed him—a flicker, a downward glance at his briefcase.

Before she could press, he stood abruptly. “Forgive me, but I must catch the afternoon train. I’ll leave the remaining files for you to review.” He set a stack on the table, gathered his coat, and was halfway to the door before Élise spoke.

“Maître Renard.”

He stopped.

“My aunt’s personal effects,” she said. “Was there anything else? Belongings, photographs, correspondence?”

He hesitated, then reached into his briefcase and pulled out a battered leather case, scuffed at the corners. “The estate’s executor sent this. I’d nearly forgotten.” He placed it on the table with a look of relief, as if shedding a burden. “Good day, Madame.”

The door clicked shut. Élise stood alone in the silence, heart hammering.

She lifted the suitcase onto the table and worked the worn latches. They yielded with a sigh. Inside: folded linens, a tarnished hairbrush, bottles of dried perfume, and photographs. Old ones, browned at the edges. A woman she recognized as her aunt stood in a vineyard—younger, laughing, arms crossed over her chest.

Élise sifted deeper. A stack of letters tied with twine. A silk scarf. And then, beneath a layer of yellowed newspaper, a photograph torn in half.

The image showed two figures. One was Aunt Joséphine, perhaps forty years old. The other was a man, taller, dark-haired, with a strong jaw and familiar eyes. His arm was around her shoulders, and they stood before a trellis of young vines, the landscape behind them unmistakably Provençal.

Élise turned the photograph over. A date on the back, faded ink: 1929.

She stared at the man’s face, then at the torn edge where the other half might have shown a third person. Something cold settled in her stomach.

The man in the photograph was younger, but there was no mistaking it—the way he held himself, the set of his mouth, the simmering intensity she’d seen in the cellar.

She found Julien in the yard, repairing a broken trellis post. He looked up as she approached, and his expression shifted when he saw her face—guarded, wary.

“Julien,” she said, holding out the photograph. “Who is this?”

He took it, his hand hesitating just long enough to betray him. His jaw tightened. He stared at the image for a long moment, then set it on the workbench with deliberate care.

“My father,” he said quietly. “Lucien Vasseur.”

Élise’s breath caught. “Your father knew my aunt?”

Julien straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers. He didn’t meet her eyes. “Better than I knew,” he said. “He was her winemaker.”

“Her winemaker,” Élise repeated. “Joséphine ran this vineyard with your father.”

“She didn’t just run it,” Julien said, and his voice dipped low, rough. “She owned it. The land, the vines, the entire domaine. It was hers.” He looked up then, and there was something raw in his expression. “My father worked for her. He loved her. And when she died, he followed her within the year.”

Élise’s mind raced. “But you told me you barely knew her. You spoke of her like a stranger.”

Julien’s silence stretched, heavy as the summer heat. He turned back to the trellis, hands gripping the post. “I wasn’t honest with you,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “I knew her. She was like family to me.”

“Why lie?”

His laugh was hollow, broken. “Because whatever your aunt was hiding,” he said, “whatever she left you—it isn’t just a debt. It’s a legacy of secrets. And my father died keeping them.”