I bring up the rear. “We are the Shepherd Armstrong Keogh party,” I say, because no one has answered Jacques’s initial question. Up close, his handsomeness intensifies, like heat in a sauna when you ladle water onto the coals. I become aware of my hot face, my creased clothes—a clash of green leopard-print A-line skirt and orange spaghetti-string top—and my toenails poking out of the brown gladiator sandals, with specks of last summer’s nail polish.

“Which one are you?” he asks.

“I’m Shepherd,” I say. “Terry Shepherd.”

“Terry.” The way he says my name makes it sound far more exotic than it has any right to sound.

“Allow me please.” He holds out his hand, and for a ridiculous moment, I think he wants to hold my hand and I am about to slip my hand into his—perhaps this is a local custom?—when he adds, “The keys. I will park your car and bring your packages to your rooms.”

“Oh, but... I’m not sure if we’re staying, I need to...”

“Do not worry, you can decide later.”

And then, thankfully, he is gone.

Too much beauty, up close like that, can be overwhelming.

Iris was right though. He does smell delicious. I think the heat is getting to me.

Inside the château, it is cool. It is also grander than the exterior suggests. More like a castle. Terra-cotta flagstones cover the floor in the reception area, and the walls are exposed brick, adorned with portraits of wigged, severe men in complicated shirts with ruffles to the neck, sitting behind important, mahogany desks. The largest frame contains a painting of a stately woman with dark hair piled high on her head, contained by a bejeweled tiara. No matter where I stand, her amber, almond-shaped eyes follow me. I imagine she must be Duchess Clara. There is nobody behind the reception desk—which looks very much like one of the desks in the portraits—and while there is a brass bell on the counter, I don’t like to ring it. Instead, I follow the sound of Iris’s laugh, which leads me through a door, into a bright airy room where there is a bar—at which Iris and Dad perch on high stools—and a scattering of tables, elaborately set with silver cutlery, linen tablecloths, and crystal glasses.

Jacques materializes behind the bar. “Would you care for an aperitif?” he asks.

“Would we care for an aperitif, Mr. Keogh?” says Iris.

“I don’t know,” says Dad.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” says Iris, turning to me. “What about you, Terry?”

“I’m not sure if I—”

“That’s three yeses then,” says Iris, turning to Jacques. “What do you recommend?”

“I believe champagne would be appropriate,” says Jacques.

“I concur,” Iris says. Jacques disappears down some steps into what I imagine must be a cellar. Iris’s good humor is infectious and I find myself forgetting about my need for a rest, a shower, a change of clothes. Instead, I join them at the bar, and, when the champagne arrives, in elegant flutes, I drink the entire contents of my glass in one long, glorious tilt. Iris sets her glass down, with most of the champagne remaining. Dad spins a coin on the counter and Jacques picks up my glass and says, “Encore?” and I say, “Encore,” and Iris laughs and the sun pouring through the windows catches the pale gold of Dad’s coin, pirouetting on the beautifully polished counter, making it shine like the buried treasure the girls were always hoping to find on the beach in the summertime.