"I'm sorry, I've inherited what?"
"A lavender farm. It is quite substantial. However, there are stipulations attached to the bequest that require your presence here in France. The will cannot be fully executed without you."
I lean against the wall, pressing my free hand to my forehead. This is insane. This is a fever dream, a prank, some elaborate scam targeting people with French last names. My grandmother is—was—nothing to me. A forbidden topic at dinner. A name that made my mother's face go hard and cold.
And now she's left me a lavender farm.
"Monsieur Duval," I say carefully, "I think there may be some mistake. My grandmother and I never had a relationship. I've never even met her."
"There is no mistake, mademoiselle. Madame Beaumont was quite clear. She spoke of you often, in fact." A pause, weighted with something I can't identify. "She called you her ghost."
Her ghost. The ice in my chest cracks, and something hot and painful seeps through. She thought of me. All those years of silence, all those forbidden letters, and she thought of me. She called me her ghost.
"I... I need some time to process this."
"Of course. But I must tell you—the will requires you to come to France within thirty days to claim your inheritance. After that, the property will pass to other beneficiaries. And there is one more thing, mademoiselle."
"What?"
"You have inherited half of the estate. The other half has been left to another beneficiary."
The ballroom spins slightly. I grip the wall harder. "Half? What do you mean, half? Who has the other half?"
"Another of Madame Beaumont's grandchildren. A woman named Catherine Aldridge."
"That's impossible. My mother was an only child. There are no other grandchildren."
"Ah." Monsieur Duval's voice is careful now, diplomatic. "Perhaps this is a conversation better had in person, mademoiselle. There is much to explain, and the telephone is not ideal for such matters. If you could come to Provence—"
"I have a job. I have responsibilities. I can't just fly to France because a stranger left me half a farm."
"The will requires both beneficiaries to be present for the reading. And there are... conditions. Living arrangements that must be discussed."
Living arrangements. My stomach drops. "What kind of living arrangements?"
"As I said, mademoiselle, this is better discussed in person. I can assure you that your grandmother's wishes were made with great care and great love. She wanted very much for you to have this inheritance. She wanted—" He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "She wanted you to know where you came from."
I close my eyes. Behind me, I can hear Priya calling my name, the client's voice rising in that particular pitch that means she's about to become a problem. The seared scallops and the champagne beurre blanc and the three inches of centerpiece correction—all of it waiting for me to be perfect, to be in control, to be the woman who makes chaos into order.
But somewhere in France, there's a lavender farm with my name on it. Half of my name, anyway. And a grandmother who thought of me, who left me something, who called me her ghost.
"Mademoiselle? Are you still there?"
"Yes." I open my eyes. The ballroom is still golden, still beautiful, still full of people who need me to have answers. "I'll need your contact information. And some time to make arrangements."
"Of course. I will email you the details. And mademoiselle—" Another pause. "I am sorry for your loss. Even a loss you did not know you were carrying."
He hangs up before I can respond, which is probably for the best because I have no idea what I would say. I stare at my phone screen until it goes dark, until Priya appears at my elbow again with barely concealed panic on her face.
"The client is asking about the bar again, and the AV guy says there's something wrong with the microphone at podium two, and—Iris? Are you okay?"
I straighten my spine. Smooth my face into meeting mode. Tuck my phone away like it isn't a bomb that just detonated my entire understanding of my life.
"I'm fine," I say. "The bar stays where it is. Tell AV I'll be there in five minutes. And find me the backup mic—the one in the silver case, not the black one."
Priya nods and disappears again. I take one breath, then another, counting them the way I count everything: tasks completed, problems solved, inches of distance between where things are and where they should be.
My grandmother is dead. I have inherited a lavender farm. I have to go to France.
