This is home. This man, this place, this life we're about to build together.
EPILOGUE
Isabelle
Four months later
Margot adjusts the sixth glass on the walnut bar, tilting it a fraction of an inch to the left until the wine flight forms a perfect line. Pale gold to deep ruby, each one catching the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. She steps back, evaluates with the same critical eye she brings to everything, and finally nods.
"There," she says. "That'll do."
She's still at Solstice Estates full-time—her position there is too perfect to leave—but Alex and I hired her to come once a month to curate wine pairings for our seasonal menu. She's been worth every penny and then some.
We're both giddy with nerves and excitement. The opening night of the restaurant is finally here after four months of planning. My hands are slightly unsteady as I check the reservation list for the third time, even though I have it memorized. Fully booked, which feels both thrilling and terrifying.
"This is going to beperfect," she says, looking as excited as I feel. "The Chenin Blanc with the halibut, the Pinot with the duck, the late harvest Riesling with your grandmother's fig tart. It's all going to be beautiful."
"Oh shoot, that reminds me. I think I forgot the serving platters," I say suddenly, the realization hitting me. "The vintage ones we found at that estate sale in Sonoma last month. I left them at the cottage this morning when I was testing the fig tart recipe one more time."
Margot waves a hand dismissively, already pulling her cardigan off the back of the barstool. "I can run and grab them."
I nod, grateful but guilty. "You don't have to. I can go. You've already done so much today."
"Relax," she says firmly, already heading toward the door with that elegant glide she has, like she's floating rather than walking. "The walk is gorgeous and honestly I'm jealous you get to live here, so I'm happy for the excuse to wander through your property. Plus it's like two minutes. I'll be right back."
I smile at her gratefully, feeling the tight knot of opening night anxiety loosen slightly. "Okay. I think everything else is in place. I'm going to head back to the kitchen if you're good here?"
She makes a shooing motion with her hands. "Yes, go go. I'll bring the platters to you in a few minutes. Go be brilliant."
The property is actually ten acres of rolling hills next to several vineyards. Behind a grove of ancient olive trees sits a stone cottage that the previous owners lived in while they ran the restaurant. Two stories, ivy climbing the eastern wall, blue shutters that match the ones on the main building, a small garden plot where herbs grow in wild abundance.
They moved to Provence when they sold the property to us, wanting to be closer to their family. So Alex and I live in the cottage now, and have made it completely ours over the past few months.
I watch Margot go through the doors and then I make my way through the dining room, weaving between servers who are doing their final prep. The space is everything I wanted it to be when we were sketching out the design back in November.
Warm and intimate, like a home rather than a restaurant. Dark wood floors that creak slightly in places, cream-colored walls with vintage French advertising posters in wooden frames, mismatched tables and chairs we collected from estate sales and antique shops, each one with crisp white linens and a small vase of fresh flowers from the garden.
The walls are covered with family photos in mismatched frames—my grandmother in her kitchen in Provence. Alex's family gathered outside Harbor & Ash on opening night, all five brothers together. The Midnight brothers as kids, muddy and grinning, arms around each other. Jean-Pierre and my grandmother in her garden, before I was born.
I pause by my favorite photo. It’s Alex and me outside this building on the day we signed the sale contract, both of us glowing with happiness and disbelief, his arms around me from behind, my head tilted back laughing at something he said. Joyful and completely in love.
I feel a flush of happiness and gratitude, then push through the swinging door back into the kitchen.
Alex is there, bent over the pass writing up the final prep list for tonight's service, making notes on timing and plating. He's beautiful and in his element, his grey t-shirt showing his muscled forearms as he leans over the stainless steel counter. He glances up as I come in and his face transforms into a wide smile, dimple appearing, eyes bright with excitement.
"There you are," he says warmly, straightening, his eyes tracking me as I cross the kitchen.
"I was just with Margot, going over the wine pairings one more time," I say, moving into his space, reaching up to give him a quick kiss. "Making sure we're all set."
He pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around my waist, returning the kiss. "Mmm. And how is said wine situation looking?"
"Perfection," I say against his mouth. "Like everything Margot does."
He laughs and releases me reluctantly, turning back to his prep list but keeping one hand on my hip, unwilling to let me go completely. I lean against the counter beside him and take a look at the menu written on the paper next to his prep notes, the items we've agonized over for months, testing and retesting and arguing over and perfecting until they were exactly right.
French techniques blended with Napa and Pacific Northwest ingredients. A strange mashup of who we are, three culinary worlds and two lives coming together. We also kept a few of the signature dishes from the previous owners, including the ratatouille.
I glance around the kitchen, noticing the unusual quiet. "Where'd your family go? It was complete chaos in here twenty minutes ago."