“The security deposit. Yes.”
“But now, after flying all night, exhausted from jet lag, I can’t get a refund of one measly euro. I’m out of luck is what you’re saying.”
“I did not say that. You did.”
Marlow opened her mouth to let loose, but Sabine stepped in. “So just to clarify,” she asked Rémy softly, “what do we need to do to get the security deposit back?”
“Either you take the house and make it yours, or, I suppose, appeal the purchase.”
“Great idea,” said Sabine. “Could we do that?”
“Certainly. In September.”
“What!” said Marlow. “This email said the office was on summer hours. If no one’s back until September, that’s not summer hours, that’s no hours.”
“I would not say no hours,” said Rémy. “I am here,non?”
“Fine. So you can process the appeal?”
“Oh no, it is Georgette and Bertrand who take care of such things. They return in—”
“Let me guess, September.”
“Tout à fait,”said Rémy. “I am here to collect taxes, get the mail, and deal with emergencies.”
“Thisisan emergency. We leave next Monday, and I can’t afford the penalty.”
“Security deposit,” corrected Rémy. “And that is not something I can control. I am fighting depopulation, Madame. Maison Perdue has been empty for years, like many houses in therégion. I do not want it empty. I want to sell it, then sell the next one, and the next one, until we have revitalized the community.”
“Forget the appeal,” said Marlow. “I can give back the house so you can sell it to someone else.”
“That is not the practice.”
“Maybe you need to change the practice.”
“Could we fill out the paperwork now,” asked Sabine, stepping in again like a United Nations consul mediating between two countries on the brink of war, “and come back in September to get the appeal processed?”
Marlow was glad to have a sensible, clear-thinking daughter, but she could not come back in September. The festival was in October. The run-up to it in September was a month of hair on fire and heart palpitations. Maybe she could send Sabine in September. No, Sabine would be in university. She could send Noah. Noah was never going back to the restaurant business. He’d be available, and they always backed each other up. She’d covered for him when he snuck out to see his high school sweetheart. He’d talked the variety store owner down when she’d shoplifted in Grade 5. He also had experience with difficult, demanding customers—customers at high-end restaurants were the worst. He could probably deal with Rémy better than anyone.
“You can certainly fill out the appeal now,” said Rémy, moving to a desk to sift through paper piles. “But in order to do that, you must sign the deed.”
Marlow’s tummy did an unsettled flip. Did she need to go to the bathroom?
Rémy returned and put down a paper. “Here is the application.” Then she put down more papers. “And here is the deed.”
Marlow stared at the paperwork. It was all in French and very tiny font. More tummy gurgling. Yes, she definitely needed a bathroom. “Do you have any of this in English?”
“Ah, désolée, non.And, please, read it well. When you are not so … exhausted.”
Marlow clenched her teeth.Say nothing. Say absolutely nothing.
“My time here is done,” said Rémy. “I will return tomorrow. Come with your signatures and questions. By then, you will have had the time to reflect and perhaps change your mind.”
Rémy opened a lockbox and pulled out a ring of skeleton keys like the one she had used to get into themairie. Tied to it by a string was a little paper tag that read “Maison Perdue.”
Apparently, Marlow owned a house in France.
CHAPTER SIX
