My Grape Escape by Laura Bradbury Page A

kitchen with André hovering behind us, squinting at the note in an attempt to decipher the Maître Lefebvre’s hieroglyphics.
    “I think that this says ‘ maison .”’ André pointed to one of the more legible scrawls.
    “And that looks like the number eighteen written in Roman numerals,” Franck said.
    “Doesn’t that say ‘Magny’”? I asked them, pointing to another word.
    Mémé came out and swatted us off the steps with her dishtowel. She had no patience for loungers in her path. She had just finished making about thirty or so quiches and needed to take them across to the freezer in the grange .
    “What’s that in your hand?” she demanded of Franck.
    “We’re not quite sure,” Franck said. “It’s from Maître Lefebvre.” She plucked it out of Franck’s hand and scanned it with her habitual authority.
    “Charming Eighteenth Century Village house located in the centre of Magny-les-Villers,” she read, without pausing. “Wonderful view on the Roman church across the street and exquisite oak beams in attic. Call for further information.” She passed the note back to Franck and marched across the gravel courtyard with her bags of quiches.
    “How could you read that?” Franck called after her.
    She emerged from the barn a few seconds later, mid-shrug. “His writing is exactly the same as his father’s. His father wrote my divorce settlement.” She snapped her dishtowel at an errant wasp, dismissing any further questions on that subject.
    Franck touched my arm. “His office must be closed now, but do you want to go to Magny and see if we can find the house he’s talking about?”
    I grimaced. My heart had been broken over the property in Marey. I couldn’t picture wanting to buy any other house for several months, maybe years, at least.
    His touch turned into a light caress. “It’s not far for us to go. It would be a nice walk.”
    “It’s probably already sold,” I said.
    “I doubt it,” Mémé said. “Why would he bother sending you the note otherwise? I don’t think Le Maître would make such an effort unless he really needed to get rid of something.”
    I sighed, realizing that Franck was not going to give up until he had seen the house, one way or another. “There’s no point in going to Magny today. We probably wouldn’t even be able to tell which house he is talking about. Go ahead and call him tomorrow morning to make an appointment, just to satisfy your curiosity. Don’t forget we’re leaving in five days, though.”
    Franck scanned the note again. “I have a good feeling about this.”
    I had no feelings about it at all. I wasn’t ready to fall in love again.
     
     

     
     
    The next morning, Franck had called Le Maître before I had even crawled out from under our duvet. Of course Franck urged the secretary to make the appointment as soon as possible, but apparently it was unthinkable for Le Maître to meet us before three o’clock that afternoon.
    Leaving for the scheduled rendezvous, I felt as cynical as a jaded divorcée in the lead up to a blind date. By three o’clock the temperature was hovering around forty degrees Celsius. Standing in the sun, even for a few seconds in my light dress, gave me the impression I was being baked alive. We took shelter in the alcove’s shade of the little Roman church where I had poured my heart out to the Virgin Mary statue just days before. I didn’t even spare a cursory glance around me to try and figure out which of the six or so village houses we would be touring. It didn’t really matter; I was determined to be unimpressed.
    Half an hour later Le Maître came roaring up in his Renault and took out two of the scarlet rose bushes planted alongside the church in his attempt to park. Le Maître emerged, shrugged an apology to the flattened flowers, and made his way over to us. We stood up and he shook our hands.
    “Madame, Monsieur Germain,” he intoned with an air of unshakable professionalism that was undermined by