I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face, and she leans into my touch just like she did last night. "What do you want for breakfast?"
"That's your big romantic follow-up? Breakfast?"
"Food is my love language. Get used to it."
She's still laughing when she says, "Eggs. And those potatoes you made last week. And—"
The knock at the door cuts her off.
We both freeze. It's barely eight in the morning—who would be knocking at this hour? Jacques wouldn't knock, and Monique would call first, and—
"I'll get it," I say, already moving toward the door.
The man on the other side is not anyone I recognize. He's wearing a suit that's too formal for Provence in July, carrying a briefcase that screams lawyer, and his expression is the particular blend of professional and smug that I associate with people who are about to ruin your day.
"Mademoiselle Aldridge? Mademoiselle Beaumont-Clark?"
"I'm Cat Aldridge."
"Excellent." He produces an envelope from his briefcase. "I'm here on behalf of Monsieur Jean-Pierre Beaumont. This is a formal notice of intent to contest the will of Marguerite Beaumont, as well as a request for documentation regarding your respective claims to the property."
The world tilts slightly. I take the envelope automatically, my fingers numb.
"He's actually doing it," I hear myself say. "He's actually contesting the will."
"Monsieur Beaumont believes he has grounds." The lawyer's voice is polished, practiced. "The will was made during a period when Madame Beaumont's mental capacity may have been compromised. Additionally, there are questions about the legitimacy of both beneficiaries' claims—"
"We were named in the will. By a licensed notary. In front of witnesses." Iris has appeared behind me, her voice sharp. "On what possible grounds could our claims be illegitimate?"
"That's for the courts to decide, mademoiselle." The lawyer tips his head in something that's almost a bow. "You'll find all the relevant details in the documentation. I suggest you consult with your own legal counsel. Good day."
He's gone before either of us can respond, leaving us standing in the doorway with a thick envelope and the distinct feeling that the bottom has dropped out of our morning. Somewhere down the lane, Napoleon screams at his departing car. Good goat.
"Shit," I say.
"Shit," Iris agrees.
We retreat to the kitchen table, spreading out the documents, trying to make sense of the legal jargon. It's not good. Jean-Pierre is claiming that Marguerite was showing signs of dementia in her final years—that her decision to leave the property to "strangers" is evidence of impaired judgment—that the will should be invalidated and the estate passed to the "rightful heir."
"He's saying we're not family," Iris says flatly. "He's saying Marguerite was crazy to call us her grandchildren."
"He's wrong."
"Of course he's wrong. But that doesn't mean he can't cause damage." She stares at the papers, her face pale. "If this goes to court... if we have to prove we deserve to be here..."
"Then we prove it." I reach across the table and take her hand. "We have Maître Duval. We have witnesses—the whole village,basically. We have documentation showing that Marguerite was of sound mind. And we have each other."
Iris looks at me, and I see fear in her eyes—but also something else. Determination. Steel.
"You're right," she says. "We fight this."
"Together."
"Together." She squeezes my hand. "God, we really can't catch a break, can we? One night of actually being happy, and then—"
"Hey." I move around the table, taking both her hands in mine. "This doesn't change anything. Not between us, not about how we feel, not about any of it. Jean-Pierre is a bitter old man who's been waiting for an excuse to cause trouble. We deal with him, and then we move on."
"You make it sound simple."
