involved in making a written offer? There was, after all, a heck of a lot of money involved. Then again realtors did this kind of thing every day…unless he was just doing this to get rid of us.
Franck read the papers over line by line while the realtor rolled his eyes and rapped his fingers on the hood of his car. Franck then passed them to me. The metal of the car underneath my hip burned through my skirt but I took my time. One of the few useful things I had learned over the past two years was to never skim over a contract.
“You’ve written nothing here about there being a twenty-four hour limit on the offer,” I said once I had scrutinized the last word.
“ Bah , you are not truly serious about that?”
“ Si ,” Franck and I said in unison. I passed the paperwork back.
The realtor scrawled in the twenty-four hour clause and then passed us the pen. I couldn’t believe we were making this offer in such a rush. We didn’t even know if we would qualify for a mortgage, for heaven’s sake. But if that ache in my gut was right about Le Maître ’s meddling, we had no choice if we wanted our dream property.
I felt exactly the same way about getting this house as I did about finishing my law degree at Oxford. When I walked out of the examination schools after my final exam I was fully expecting that in that very moment all my problems would resolve themselves. Struggle, worry, and doubt would become things of the past.
Franck was there waiting for me as I came down those stairs for the final time, as well as my friends Emmeline and Melanie. They showered me with the traditional confetti and champagne and red carnations. I kept waiting for the click of everything falling into place. Elation was all around me, but it still wasn’t in me as I had anticipated.
Now I understood. It wasn’t getting my law degree that would make everything perfect, it was owning this house.
“You are going to call the sellers right away, n’est-ce pas ?” Franck’s eyes blazed at the realtor.
“ Bien sûr, bien sûr. I will try them tonight without fail. Are you sure you don’t want to extend the deadline by a week or so?”
“ Non ,” Franck said. “I will be expecting a call from you tonight after you speak to the owners.”
The realtor grimaced, then shook our hands with a perfunctory goodbye and drove off. I watched his shadow as it disappeared in the distance. He was holding his phone to his ear before even rounding the first corner in the village road.
Chapter 7
Franck and I spent that evening in his parents’ cellar staring at the old-style cord phone in shifts. We gave his family the abridged version of the perfidy of Maître Ange and everyone crept around us, murmuring in hushed tones like someone had died. Mémé brought us plates of her boeuf bourguignon to our station on the cellar floor but the succulent meat felt like rubber in my mouth.
We continued to stare at the phone until nine o’clock when Franck finally capitulated and picked up the receiver.
“I’m going to call the realtor,” he said, unnecessarily. We both waited, breathless, as he dialled. It rang three times, and then a fourth and a fifth, then clicked over to the realtor’s voice mail. Franck was left with no other choice than to leave a curt message that we were still expecting his call.
We finally dragged ourselves up to bed around eleven, and I fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams of scheming, silver-haired notaries.
We woke up early and compared headaches. Franck went over to the boulangerie to buy us some croissants while I waited by the phone. My skin prickled and my throat seemed to swell with the powerlessness of it all. Maybe I was, in fact, allergic to waiting?
We were just opening the crinkly bag from the boulangerie when the phone rang. Franck leapt up and spilled pastries all over the room.
“ Allo ?!” he yelled into the receiver. I was at his side in an instant. It all seemed quite cordial
Franck read the papers over line by line while the realtor rolled his eyes and rapped his fingers on the hood of his car. Franck then passed them to me. The metal of the car underneath my hip burned through my skirt but I took my time. One of the few useful things I had learned over the past two years was to never skim over a contract.
“You’ve written nothing here about there being a twenty-four hour limit on the offer,” I said once I had scrutinized the last word.
“ Bah , you are not truly serious about that?”
“ Si ,” Franck and I said in unison. I passed the paperwork back.
The realtor scrawled in the twenty-four hour clause and then passed us the pen. I couldn’t believe we were making this offer in such a rush. We didn’t even know if we would qualify for a mortgage, for heaven’s sake. But if that ache in my gut was right about Le Maître ’s meddling, we had no choice if we wanted our dream property.
I felt exactly the same way about getting this house as I did about finishing my law degree at Oxford. When I walked out of the examination schools after my final exam I was fully expecting that in that very moment all my problems would resolve themselves. Struggle, worry, and doubt would become things of the past.
Franck was there waiting for me as I came down those stairs for the final time, as well as my friends Emmeline and Melanie. They showered me with the traditional confetti and champagne and red carnations. I kept waiting for the click of everything falling into place. Elation was all around me, but it still wasn’t in me as I had anticipated.
Now I understood. It wasn’t getting my law degree that would make everything perfect, it was owning this house.
“You are going to call the sellers right away, n’est-ce pas ?” Franck’s eyes blazed at the realtor.
“ Bien sûr, bien sûr. I will try them tonight without fail. Are you sure you don’t want to extend the deadline by a week or so?”
“ Non ,” Franck said. “I will be expecting a call from you tonight after you speak to the owners.”
The realtor grimaced, then shook our hands with a perfunctory goodbye and drove off. I watched his shadow as it disappeared in the distance. He was holding his phone to his ear before even rounding the first corner in the village road.
Chapter 7
Franck and I spent that evening in his parents’ cellar staring at the old-style cord phone in shifts. We gave his family the abridged version of the perfidy of Maître Ange and everyone crept around us, murmuring in hushed tones like someone had died. Mémé brought us plates of her boeuf bourguignon to our station on the cellar floor but the succulent meat felt like rubber in my mouth.
We continued to stare at the phone until nine o’clock when Franck finally capitulated and picked up the receiver.
“I’m going to call the realtor,” he said, unnecessarily. We both waited, breathless, as he dialled. It rang three times, and then a fourth and a fifth, then clicked over to the realtor’s voice mail. Franck was left with no other choice than to leave a curt message that we were still expecting his call.
We finally dragged ourselves up to bed around eleven, and I fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams of scheming, silver-haired notaries.
We woke up early and compared headaches. Franck went over to the boulangerie to buy us some croissants while I waited by the phone. My skin prickled and my throat seemed to swell with the powerlessness of it all. Maybe I was, in fact, allergic to waiting?
We were just opening the crinkly bag from the boulangerie when the phone rang. Franck leapt up and spilled pastries all over the room.
“ Allo ?!” he yelled into the receiver. I was at his side in an instant. It all seemed quite cordial
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