Sabine shrugged. “I like to make little picture books. It’s so pathetic.”
“Not at all,” said Yves. “You are an artist.” He thought a moment. “I have an idea. I’ll need to rearrange this afternoon’s meetings, but can you stay at least one more day?”
It was late morning when Marlow arrived at themairie. Rémy’s Audi was already there. Damn. She ran inside.
“Bonjour,”said Rémy, seemingly very busy opening mail.
“Bonjour,”said Marlow.
“Oh—and before we begin, about the clean-up you are doing in Mirabelle …”
Marlow wanted to say:no thanks to you, a woman who calls herself the fonctionnaire but is not doing one thing to help.
“Yes?” said Marlow instead.
“You cannot pile litter beside the Nenier bins. It must go inside the bins.”
“The bins are full.”
“Then you must wait for the change in the bins.”
Say nothing.
“Bon,” said Rémy. “I was ready to leave, so let us get to the matter at hand. I have four or five minutes to explain your situation.” She laid out papers on the counter. “These are the land transfer papers you requested. This is your tax statement. And this is payment method information for Mirabelle residents.”
Marlow looked at the tax statement. Her eyes instantly focused on the bottom line, which read, give or take, twenty thousand euros. “What’s this? I don’t understand.”
“Maison Perdue has back taxes owing in the amount of 19,794 euros. You can pay by—”
“I see the methods of payment,” said Marlow. “What I don’t understand is why I’ve never heard of this before. Why didn’t you tell me when I bought the house?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Marlow’s brain melted. She could feel it oozing out her ears. Or was that liquid rage?
“To transfer ownership, all accounts must be settled, as was stated in the conditions of sale, whether you do so, or your buyer. This document will be looked at by the board when they evaluate your appeal at the end of the month.”
“Help me understand,” said Marlow. “You have a security deposit of thirty thousand euros charged to my credit card, which you refuse to repay. There’s a ten-thousand-euro penalty if I leave the house vacant for over seven weeks. And there’s also a twenty-thousand-euro tax issue no one told me about?”
Rémy reached for her keys. “Malheureusement, I need to lock up, as I have an appointment elsewhere.”
“Don’t you want people to buy the one-euro houses? Isn’t that the whole point?”
“It most certainly is,” said Rémy, giving her a steely glare. “And for some, perhaps I might waive the back taxes, if they were minor. But these are not minor, and, far more important, when I suspect someone is flipping the house and will bring the program into disrepute, then I will not waive one cent.” She grabbed her bag and the mail. “Will you deal with the litter outside the bins? As I said—”
Marlow left before she could say anything she’d regret. Only this time, she had a new debt of twenty thousand euros. She was officially screwed, and not in the good, fun way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
That afternoon, Yves, Sabine, and Aubin borrowed a car, got on the road, and headed southwest from Paris. Yves let Aubin drive so he could take several meetings by phone; he kept his earbuds in and talked in very fast French about films, funders, and deadlines.
Sabine missed Willa and texted her. Willa was planning a picnic with Max and sent food pics of the seven-layer taco dip she’d made—her biggest wooing yet. She wanted to know how things were in France.
Sabine: No idea.
Willa: Uh-oh. What’s up? Something happen w Aubin?
Sabine: No.
