"I'll drive. I know the roads."
Something flickers across her face—resistance, maybe, or just discomfort at not being in control. But she nods. "Fine."
We drink our coffee in silence. The morning light grows brighter. Somewhere outside, a rooster crows.
"Is that..." Iris frowns. "Is that a rooster?"
"Neighbor's farm. About a kilometer that way." I gesture vaguely toward the east. "He starts around six. You get used to it."
"Six," she repeats, like I've told her something personally offensive. "Every morning?"
"Welcome to rural France."
The look on her face is almost worth the awkwardness of this whole situation. Almost.
The drive to Maître Duval's office takes us through Saint-Céline-sur-Sorgue, which is postcard-pretty in the morning light—cobblestone streets, stone buildings, a church tower rising above red-tiled roofs. I park in the small lot behind the notary's office and lead Iris through a narrow alley to the front entrance.
She walks like she's crossing a stage: shoulders back, chin up, every step deliberate. I wonder if she's always like this or if it's a performance for my benefit. I wonder if she knows there's a difference.
Maître Duval's office is exactly what you'd expect from a provincial French notary: wood-paneled walls, leather chairs, shelves of legal tomes that probably haven't been opened since the Mitterrand administration. The man himself rises to greet us—sixtyish, silver-haired, with the kind face of someone who's spent a career handling other people's worst days.
"Mademoiselle Beaumont-Clark." He shakes Iris's hand first, then mine. "Mademoiselle Aldridge. Please, sit. Can I offer you coffee? Tea?"
"We're fine," Iris says before I can answer. "Thank you."
I swallow my irritation and take the chair next to hers. Duval settles behind his desk, and for a moment, no one speaks. The weight of what we're here to learn fills the room like smoke.
"I want to begin," Duval says finally, "by telling you both how much Marguerite loved you. Both of you. Differently, perhaps—she had different histories with each of you—but equally. That is important to understand."
"We understand," Iris says crisply. "The terms of the will, please."
Duval's eyes meet mine for just a moment, and I see something there—sympathy, maybe, or a warning. Then he opens the folder in front of him and begins.
"The estate consists of the property known as Domaine des Lavandes—the farmhouse, the barn, the distillery, andapproximately fifteen hectares of cultivated lavender fields. The estimated value is significant, though the exact amount depends on current market conditions for agricultural land in the region."
He pauses, looking between us.
"Marguerite has divided this estate equally between you. Fifty percent to Iris Colette Beaumont-Clark, fifty percent to Catherine Vivienne Aldridge."
Fifty-fifty. Even after everything. Even though Iris is blood and I'm just... I'm just the one Grand-mère chose.
"However." Duval's voice takes on a careful quality. "There are conditions attached to this bequest."
Here it comes. I grip the arms of my chair and wait.
"The first condition is residency. Both beneficiaries must reside at Domaine des Lavandes for a period of ninety consecutive days. If either party leaves the property for more than forty-eight hours during this period, her share of the inheritance reverts to charitable donation."
The words take a moment to process. Ninety days. Three months. Living in the same house as—
"That's absurd," Iris says, and her voice is sharp enough to cut glass. "I have a job. I have a life in Chicago. I can't simply—"
"The condition is non-negotiable, mademoiselle. If you choose not to accept it, your share of the estate goes to a wildlife conservation fund in the Luberon."
Iris's jaw tightens. I watch her hands clench in her lap, then deliberately relax.
"And after the ninety days?" I ask. "What then?"
"After that, you may choose to sell the property." Duval pauses. "However, any sale must be agreed upon by both parties. If one wishes to sell and the other does not, the property remains jointly held until agreement is reached."
