My Grape Escape by Laura Bradbury Read Free Book Online Page A

stood.
    Franck made the introductions. The real estate agent, taking in the gleaming personage of our notary, was struck speechless. Le Maîtrerubbed his fingers distastefully after shaking hands with the realtor; the realtor blushed, apologetic rather than offended.
    “I take it you don’t sell a lot of properties around here?” Maître Ange demanded.
    “ Non. This is quite out of my secteur . Quite an unusual set of circumstances, actually - ”
    “ Très bien ,” Le Maître said, neatly nipping what was surely going to be a tedious story in the bud. “I would like to be shown around the property, s’il vous plait .”
    Trembling, the realtor led us over to the low house first. Even though I was keeping my eye trained on Maître Ange, I couldn’t help noticing things that I hadn’t noticed before: the huge keyhole in the thick wooden door that led into the kitchen, the marvellous, heavy key to unlock it hanging on the wall by the cooking stove, the smoothness of the wooden banister in the tall house that ran under my palm like silk, not to mention the wild purple clematis growing up towards my little garret up in the far outbuilding. Each new and perfect detail drove home an undeniable fact - my future happiness depended on owning this place.
    Maître Ange remained silent during the entire tour, much to our frustration as well as that of the realtor who became more obsequious with every minute that passed. Surely Maître Ange didn’t disapprove, I told myself. How could he possibly object to such a marvellous property at such a bargain price?
    “Do you mind if we confer in private for a moment with our notary?” Franck asked the realtor finally, who remembered a pressing need to fetch something from his car.
    “ Alors ?” Franck asked Le Maîtreas soon as the realtor was out of earshot. “Do you see any problems?”
    “Not problems exactement ,” Maître Ange smoothed his hair. “The renovation costs will be extensive. I know for a fact that buyers, particularly first time buyers, tend to grossly underestimate them.”
    This was surely the truth, especially in our case, but it didn’t change the fact that it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. An old, almost forgotten, tenacity stirred behind my breastbone.
    “I understand your concern about the high renovation costs,” I said. “But look at all that property down the hill. If we needed extra money we could subdivide and sell off one or two parcels of land.”
    Le Maître’s eyes turned on me with such a patent look of dislike that I took a step backwards. French professionals such as notaries and doctors were not fans of having their revered judgment questioned. Still, I knew what I had just said wasn’t ridiculous. We were beginners, to be sure, but we weren’t idiots. I watched, my stomach sinking, as Le Maître struggled to replace his expression of disgust with one of mere exasperation.
    There was someone completely different behind that shiny façade, I realized with shock and that someone wasn’t inspecting the property for us out of the goodness of his heart.
    “I’ll have to speak to the agent about that,” he said. “You know, find out about the zoning in this village and so forth.”  He made his way quickly over to the agent, who was still rummaging around the bowels of his car. Le Maître slung his arm around him and pivoted the agent so they were moving away from us, towards the washing house.
    “What’s he doing?” I hissed to Franck.
    “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”
    Our angel now felt more like Lucifer in disguise. We had to act fast. We had to get this house. I grabbed Franck’s arm. “Let’s go ahead and make our offer.”
    Franck narrowed his eyes at the scheming going on a few feet away. “ Oui .”
    “For the asking price?” I said. It wasn’t really a question. Franck nodded. Le Maître leaned down and began to whisper into the agent’s ear while moving him even farther away from us.
    “ Tout de