My Grape Escape Read Online Free PDF

waves of heat shimmered over the cobblestones and seemed to slide down the slopes of the vineyards that dropped from the village on either side of the road. There were worse places to wait than under the cool of the ancient lavoir , to be sure, but I still couldn’t believe there was any need for cloak and dagger furtiveness.
    “Even if the villagers are watching us,” I countered, though I was far from convinced, “surely we’re allowed to visit a house that’s for sale, aren’t we? Or is there a law against that that I wasn’t aware of?”
    He reached over and pulled me against his firm chest. “It’s not that.” He nipped my earlobe. “The fact is that if they see us visiting the property they will start to think they should take more interest in it. They’ll steal it from under our noses.”
    “Why would they want another huge property when they all own a house in the village already?”
    “To keep an outsider from buying in their village.”
    “You’re not an outsider. You’re from one village over.”
    Franck’s eyes flashed in the dim light. “I might as well be from outer Siberia. Don’t forget the fact that I also married an etrangère .”
    The roar of a car engine drowned out the chickens’ clucks. Franck used one strong arm to pin me against the wall while he peeked out. Cool humidity seeped through my T-shirt and a pointed rock poked into my back.
    “It’s him,” Franck released me. We emerged from our hiding spot and tried to walk as nonchalantly as we could across the blistering road.
    As we approached the black car that had pulled up in front of the gate, a red-faced man stumbled out of the driver’s seat. A file folder full of papers slid out and scattered over the dusty ground. Franck collected them swiftly, passed them back to the realtor, and stuck out his hand.
    “ Bonjour .”
    The real estate agent was still muttering vague mercis and merdes and fais-chiers but managed to get a solid enough grip on his file to shake Franck’s hand.
    “ Vous êtes Franck Germain ?”
    “ Oui . This is ma femme , Laura.”
    Being introduced as Franck’s wife was only a year old and still gave me a shiver of pleasure. There was a caveman possessiveness about the word “wife” in French; the word femme meant both “my wife” and “my woman” at the same time.
    The agent clasped my hand in his moist paw and then began to forage deep in his pocket for the key to the front gate. Franck was quivering with the need to get us out of the villagers’ sight. We all sighed in relief when after a seemingly interminable time the realtor extracted the key and used it to unlock the front gate.
    “So you’re from Châlon,” Franck said, his voice low as we walked into the grassy yard between the two houses. “This is a bit far away for you. Do you represent a lot of sellers in this area?”
    The agent shook his head. “Almost never. Completely out of my secteur , this is, but it is being sold by some old ladies who are friends of my mother. I’m doing it as a favour but to tell you the truth it’s a bit of a pain.”
    He led us, or rather was hustled onwards by Franck, into the first house that ran low-slung across the back of the yard.  
    He unlocked the door using a huge iron key and I stepped on to flagstones that had been perfectly polished with time and wear. The room was beautifully cool. From what I knew of these old Burgundian houses, the walls were undoubtedly made with stones equally as thick and massive. The kitchen was sparse and simple but I loved everything about it: the scratched wooden cabinets, the huge double ceramic sink, even the spiral fly tape that was dotted with several large, expired victims. The back of my neck prickled; I swear I could almost feel the sweet breath of Franck’s guardian angels.
    We continued on to the other rooms. The house was small but oozing with potential. There was the fabulous kitchen, bien sûr , and then a bedroom with a deep patina in the