Page 193 of Boss of the Year
I was halfway to the cottage when I saw the sign, half-hidden by blackberry brambles on the other side of a stone bridge that crossed the creek running alongside the road and led through a copse of beech trees framing a view of a small chateau down a gravel path.
Propriété à Vendre.
Property for Sale.
The site drew me like a flower angling for extra rays of sun, and I crept through the copse to get a closer look.
It wasn’t a palace-like building that usually showed up in tourist photos of French towns. This was more like an oversized farmhouse, built of honey-colored stone with red roof tiles, blue shutters, and an overgrown rosebush that climbed up one wall and dangled the last of its blooms with rose hips waiting to be harvested. A few smaller outbuildings dotted the perimeter of the property with matching stonework and paint.
Unkempt gardens stretched out to one side, large enough that they could have supported the whole estate and then some. On the other side was a small pool, dry and empty, with a pergola under which a long wrought-iron dining table and chairsbegged for someone to remove their rust and lay bounty for visitors.
It needed work. Well, that was the understatement of the year. It needed a complete overhaul to make it shine. But I didn’t see its current condition as I looked around. Instead, I saw its future. People milling around the table, laughing and drinking and tasting the dinner I had prepared. Guests walking to and from the outer cottages, some of them families traveling through the countryside, maybe a couple or two on their honeymoon, or a professor on sabbatical.
A small, stormy-eyed, black-haired child chasing a bumblebee through a patch of lavender. They turned and called me Mama.
Without thinking, I pulled out my phone and called the number on the sign. A few rings later, an agent picked up.
“Allô,” I said, and continued in French. “I’m interested in the chateau for sale on Route du Sel. My name is Marie Zola.”
“Wonderful,” said the agent, a friendly woman who introduced herself as Mélodie. “It has been available for some time. Would you like a tour? Maybe tomorrow? Feel free to look in the windows if you like. No one has lived there for a few years.”
We arranged to meet the following morning, and she also agreed to send me the listing and any information she had on the property that night so I could review it on my own. But already, I knew the price fit, and even more, the rest of the details screamed home in a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt before.
Not at the little brown house on Hughes Street.
Not in the tiny apartment in Paris.
Not above the garage at Prideview.
The closest I’d ever experienced was in Lucas Lyons’s arms, and even then, it wasn’t quite the same.
This place would be mine. In a way, it already was.
My heart beat faster as she spoke, and I did indeed peek through the leaded windows next to the arched front door. The building was old, but looked better inside than out, with exposed beams and an enormous stone fireplace, terracotta floors, and old paintings on the walls. There was also a kitchen that needed some mild updates but had been renovated for commercial dining not terribly long ago.
This wasn’t just a house. It was a business, once upon a time.
“Yes, the previous owners ran it as a bed-and-breakfast for thirty years,” Mélodie explained when I mentioned the kitchen. “Very successful, but they retired a few years ago to be closer to their grandchildren. All the permits, all the licenses—everything transfers with the sale.”
Which meant I could start almost immediately. Depending on the speed and how many updates were needed, I could potentially be serving guests within a month.
This was what I’d been training for without realizing it. Three years as a maid at Prideview, learning how to manage a household and anticipate everyone’s needs. Seven more as a chef, learning to cook for demanding clients and plan elaborate meals. A year at the Institute, perfecting my technique and understanding the food culture of France, in particular.
Here, I could do it all. Work in my home. Be a part of a community. Put love and care and design into every aspect of my life, just like I’d always wanted.
Maybe even raise a family here when the time came.
My hand dropped to my stomach, and I knew then what my decision there would be too.
Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
But I was capable of far more than I’d ever imagined. I’d already reinvented myself once. I could do it again. This time on my own terms.
As I walked out, I caught a glimpse of an old sign for the chateau, half-hanging on its rusty hinges, blue and white paint peeling around the carved wordsSonge du Soir.
Evening’s Dream.
I looked up to where the stars glimmered at the far horizon, opposite where the sun would soon set.
