that to be our future.
“We have your grandfather’s forty thousand dollars.” His thumb rubbed the humid skin in the palm of my hand.
That was true and it would help. But if we were to buy the house, did it mean Franck and I were finally embarking on our life as a married couple, or were we just extracting ourselves from the untenable situation in Oxford in order to pitch ourselves into another one?
“I think we should offer the asking price,” Franck said, looking down at the pink vineyard dust that swirled around our ankles.
“How are we going to pay the mortgage every month? What if we can’t find jobs in Vancouver?” The house needed a lot of work, and as far as renovations – especially in a house several centuries old – neither Franck nor I knew what we were doing. There were so many unknowns.
“It’ll work out one way or another,” Franck said. “I know that it will.”
“But…”
“It will .” How I wanted to go through life like my husband and be certain that any path I encountered in life would lead somewhere interesting and good. “Remember the fireplace?” Franck’s hazel eyes glowed almost gold. “And the cheese cupboard?”
Need seized me by the throat. Nobody could appreciate the cheese cupboard the way I could. I felt just like I did when I was eight and stood contemplating a massive double looping roller coaster in an amusement park in California. Should I get on? The wild part of me itched to jump on the ride and feel the thrill of losing control while the anxious part of me worried a pin was loose and I might plummet to my death.
Franck watched me. He plucked a grape off a vine and popped it in his mouth. “Did you see the date that was carved in the stone at the bottom window of the neighbor’s house?”
“ Non .”
“It said 1789. That must have been when the farm was built. Maître Lefebvre told me it was all one big house that was split up over the centuries.”
“1789,” I echoed. “The year of the French Revolution.” So when the Bastille was being stormed, our house was being built, stone by stone and huge oak beam by huge oak beam. Uh oh. Our house? A clap of thunder boomed close by and the clouds began to squeeze out fat drops of rain.
I took a last, fleeting glance at the ground beneath my feet and braced myself for the ride. “OK,” I said to Franck. “Let’s offer the full amount.”
Franck lifted me up and spun me around until the vineyards around us became a green blur. He planted a long kiss on my lips before setting me down – a kiss that made me feel as though I was home already. We grabbed each other’s hand and tried to outrun the storm.
We were soaked by the time we got back but we were safely inside before the lightning started to crash all around Franck’s house. I hopped in the shower, mainly because I needed a few minutes of solitude to clear my head before we called Le Maître and made it official. I wouldn’t go back on what I said – I had been brought up to follow through on my commitments, hence the two years at law school – but I just needed a few minutes of quiet and hot water.
When I emerged from the bathroom, still combing my wet hair, I was confronted with a full-blown celebration in the kitchen. Apparently, Franck had announced to his entire family that we were about to become property owners. Franck’s family never really subscribed to that whole “don’t count your chickens before they hatch” philosophy that I had been reared on.
“It’s not done yet!” I protested to my husband. “We have no idea if they’re even going to accept our offer!” I was convinced in the deepest depths of my soul that to boast or even share hopes that something good was in the offing was to jinx that very thing.
“It’s never too early to celebrate!” Mémé said and disappeared into the cellar only to reappear a few seconds later brandishing one of the bottles of chilled crémant she always kept on hand
“We have your grandfather’s forty thousand dollars.” His thumb rubbed the humid skin in the palm of my hand.
That was true and it would help. But if we were to buy the house, did it mean Franck and I were finally embarking on our life as a married couple, or were we just extracting ourselves from the untenable situation in Oxford in order to pitch ourselves into another one?
“I think we should offer the asking price,” Franck said, looking down at the pink vineyard dust that swirled around our ankles.
“How are we going to pay the mortgage every month? What if we can’t find jobs in Vancouver?” The house needed a lot of work, and as far as renovations – especially in a house several centuries old – neither Franck nor I knew what we were doing. There were so many unknowns.
“It’ll work out one way or another,” Franck said. “I know that it will.”
“But…”
“It will .” How I wanted to go through life like my husband and be certain that any path I encountered in life would lead somewhere interesting and good. “Remember the fireplace?” Franck’s hazel eyes glowed almost gold. “And the cheese cupboard?”
Need seized me by the throat. Nobody could appreciate the cheese cupboard the way I could. I felt just like I did when I was eight and stood contemplating a massive double looping roller coaster in an amusement park in California. Should I get on? The wild part of me itched to jump on the ride and feel the thrill of losing control while the anxious part of me worried a pin was loose and I might plummet to my death.
Franck watched me. He plucked a grape off a vine and popped it in his mouth. “Did you see the date that was carved in the stone at the bottom window of the neighbor’s house?”
“ Non .”
“It said 1789. That must have been when the farm was built. Maître Lefebvre told me it was all one big house that was split up over the centuries.”
“1789,” I echoed. “The year of the French Revolution.” So when the Bastille was being stormed, our house was being built, stone by stone and huge oak beam by huge oak beam. Uh oh. Our house? A clap of thunder boomed close by and the clouds began to squeeze out fat drops of rain.
I took a last, fleeting glance at the ground beneath my feet and braced myself for the ride. “OK,” I said to Franck. “Let’s offer the full amount.”
Franck lifted me up and spun me around until the vineyards around us became a green blur. He planted a long kiss on my lips before setting me down – a kiss that made me feel as though I was home already. We grabbed each other’s hand and tried to outrun the storm.
We were soaked by the time we got back but we were safely inside before the lightning started to crash all around Franck’s house. I hopped in the shower, mainly because I needed a few minutes of solitude to clear my head before we called Le Maître and made it official. I wouldn’t go back on what I said – I had been brought up to follow through on my commitments, hence the two years at law school – but I just needed a few minutes of quiet and hot water.
When I emerged from the bathroom, still combing my wet hair, I was confronted with a full-blown celebration in the kitchen. Apparently, Franck had announced to his entire family that we were about to become property owners. Franck’s family never really subscribed to that whole “don’t count your chickens before they hatch” philosophy that I had been reared on.
“It’s not done yet!” I protested to my husband. “We have no idea if they’re even going to accept our offer!” I was convinced in the deepest depths of my soul that to boast or even share hopes that something good was in the offing was to jinx that very thing.
“It’s never too early to celebrate!” Mémé said and disappeared into the cellar only to reappear a few seconds later brandishing one of the bottles of chilled crémant she always kept on hand
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