July 31
NATHALIE FOURNIER RANG Claire Rolon, the best friend of Nathalie’s deceased stepsister, Antoinette. The friendship between the three of them went back to childhood.
“Claire?”
“Nathalie! I’m so glad you called! It’s been ages.”
“Way too long. I’m thrilled you answered. Do you have a minute?”
“Yes. Robert is upstairs playing with the baby while I finish the dishes. Go ahead.”
She took a deep breath. “I know Antoinette would have confided in you before she got pregnant two and a half years ago. Is there anything you can tell me about her lover who disappeared on her without explanation? Our family didn’t know she’d even been involved with someone until the doctor said she was pregnant. By then she’d sunk into a deep depression.”
“Your stepsister was very secretive.”
“So secretive she never spoke his name to us and as she died from infection ten days after her baby was born, we still don’t know who his father is,” Nathalie lamented. “Now little Alain is fifteen months old and I’m taking the steps to legally adopt him. Before I do, though, I need to try to find his father.”
“You’re kidding! How could you possibly do that?”
“Hopefully with a little information you could provide.” Nathalie gripped the phone tighter. “You probably think I’m crazy.”
“Of course I don’t.”
“You were the closest person to her, Claire. If she said anything, it would have been to you. Any clue you could give me would help. Did she let it slip where or how she met him?”
“She did say he worked at the Fontesquieu vineyard.”
Her heart raced. “You’re certain of that?”
The Fontesquieu vineyards near Vence, France, were one of the largest and most prestigious, producing the legendary rosé wines of Provence. The land had been deeded to them by royalty centuries ago, and the most coveted vineyard in all Provence was currently run by a titled billionaire. She’d heard stories about the vineyard all her life.
“Yes. Apparently they met at a bistro in Vence where a lot of the vineyard workers from the Fontesquieu estate hang out during the harvest.”
“Do you remember the name of it?” Nathalie cried, encouraged by what she’d just learned.
“It was unusual. The Guingot, or some such name, but I don’t imagine he would be at that vineyard after all this time. I wish there was something more concrete to tell you. It’s not much to go on. I’m so sorry. I think you’ll need a miracle.”
“Don’t be sorry, Claire! The vineyard is the place where I’m going to start looking. One more thing. Did she say what he looked like?”
“Unfortunately not. Only that he was a Provencal and the only man she would ever love.”
That meant he’d been a local Frenchman, probably dark haired and eyed.
“You’ve given me more information than I could have hoped for. Thank you with all my heart.”
“Good luck. Let me know if you learn anything.”
“I will. You’re such a good friend. Thank you for being so honest with me. I know she swore you to secrecy.”
“She did, but it’s been a long time since then. For Alain’s sake it would be wonderful if you’re successful.”
“Wouldn’t it? Talk to you soon.”
Nathalie hung up, deep in thought.
At the beginning of the summer, Nathalie had broken up with the man she’d thought she might marry. Guy couldn’t handle her bringing Alain into their marriage—he wanted his own child with her.
That’s when she’d told him she probably couldn’t have children. When she’d explained about having primary ovarian insufficiency, he couldn’t handle that news. Guy had said he’d wanted to marry her, but he’d refused to consider adopting Alain. Because she wanted her nephew more than anything, it became clear that marriage was out of the question.
Alain meant everything to her.
August 31
ADRENALINE GUSHED THROUGH Nathalie as she sped toward the Fontesquieu vineyards of Vence—queen of the cities of the French Riviera, in her opinion. They stretched eye to eye above the blue Mediterranean, row after row of immaculately tended terroirs with their healthy grape vines dotting the undulating green hills and summits.
The August afternoon sun had ripened the luscious grapes, filling the air with a sweet, fruity smell as she neared the Fontesquieu estate with its enormous seventeenth-century chateau, rumored to contain twenty-two bedrooms. It reminded her of the book My Mother’s Castle, made famous by the French author and filmmaker Marcel Pagnol. He’d been born in Provence too and had written some of her favorite books about his childhood memories.
But the Pagnol family’s quaint little vacation home in Provence couldn’t compare to the one she could see out the window of her trusty old Peugeot. The magnificent chateau had always been closed to the public, but the estate drew artists and tourists from all over the world.
Nathalie couldn’t imagine the wealth of a family like the Fontesquieux. She’d been born in Provence and had passed by the vineyard many times, but she’d never enjoyed its scenery more than this afternoon.
With pounding heart, she followed the signs posted to find the tent set up for people seeking temporary work grape picking. After planning this since her talk with Claire a month ago, the day had come for her to get a job that would last only the three weeks of the grape harvest. In that amount of time, she hoped to find the man who had fathered her nephew, Alain, if he was still there. But as Claire had said, it would take a miracle.
When she reached the nearby mobile home park she’d visited earlier in the week, she parked