adventure.
Lionel blanched at the information before finally nodding. “If that’s the case, then by all means do whatever is necessary.”
But just when Shelley was ready to bask in her triumph, Lionel hit her with information that made her think eleven hours via Brussels might not be such a bad idea after all.
“I’m counting on you, Shelley. Dream Villas has never needed you as much as now. Because, you see—” he halted as if struggling to get the right words out “—it’s more than the Remingtons we’ll have to worry about if we don’t close the deal. It’s the government….” His voice trailed off.
Shelley blinked. “The government? What’s the government got to do with it?”
Lionel suddenly looked every one of his many mysterious years. “The Internal Revenue Service has threatened to close down Dream Villas unless I make substantial restitution for what they consider to be unpaid back taxes.”
“I don’t understand. I religiously submit the business’s revenue and expense forms to Bernie, our accountant.” A nice man, even if he did send the world’s worst Christmas cards—these atrocious paintings of Nativity scenes by, yes, his own brush, one step up from paintings on black velvet.
“But apparently you incorrectly submitted the information about all the workmen we’ve hired over the years.”
“Hold on there. I submitted those figures just as you instructed me to do—indicating that the workers were hired on a per-job basis and not as employees of the company.” Shelley took a deep breath, trying to keep panic at bay. She tasted stale air and remnants of Lionel’s Eau de Sauvage aftershave.
“Apparently the IRS no longer considers that a valid arrangement. Not only am I supposed to pay the taxes owed but there is a sizable penalty, as well.” Lionel looked at the tips of his tassel loafers. “You realize, of course, that your name appears on the correspondence to the accountant as well as on the checks.” He looked dolefully into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”
“Considering the humongous size of the checks I’ve cut over the years—checks Bernie specifically had me make out to ‘Cash’ so that he could divide them among the appropriate agencies—you’d think he’d be able to keep up on changes in the law.” The tightness that gripped Shelley’s throat had nothing to do with the stratospheric pollen count. “Are you trying to tell me that I could be liable, as well?”
“I purposely didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to worry you.” He reluctantly shook his head. “I was sure I could handle the situation myself.”
As if. The man didn’t even know how to use the fax machine, and she seriously doubted if sleeping with the IRS investigator—Lionel’s usual business ploy—would prove effective. “And somehow the Remingtons’ rental is tied in with all this mess?” she asked.
“It’s absolutely essential. The government has agreed not to assume control of the business if I can make a significant payment by next Tuesday. As the situation stands now, however, the chateau is unavailable for rent starting July first, which means we will have to return the Remingtons’ money. And without that, our cash on hand is just too low—meaning they could start to seize business and personal assets imme-e-diately.” He sniffed loudly.
“What about the money we’ll get from the Nosenbergers? They’re renting the place for two weeks at the beginning of June, and their contract is still valid before the leasing agreement runs out.”
Lionel shook his head. “It’s better than nothing but not nearly enough. June is shoulder-season rates, and their stay is wa-ay too short.”
Shelley swallowed pensively. “Next Tuesday, huh?” She rapped her fingers on the table. “Even with flying out tonight, that only gives me six days.” Less than a week to bail out the business, keep her job and pay off her student loans. And stop her belongings from becoming government property. Not that her valuables would bring much: a coral necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother, a small etching that she’d bought upon joining the ranks of the employed, a spotty collection of mostly used art-history books and her Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls.
“So now you understand why you must not fail in your dealings with the Montforts, for your sake and for Dream Villas’,” Lionel implored dramatically.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She was beyond giving him support. As far as she was concerned, he was the one who had gotten them into this mess. She was of half a mind to follow in her father’s footsteps and run away to the circus.
Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way that she could imagine herself in tights and spangles. Oh, well, she had wanted to spread her wings and take new risks—all by herself.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if the risks were being thrust upon her instead.
Maybe wearing tight blue cashmere hadn’t been such a good choice after all.
THE FATE OF DREAM VILLAS and her own personal solvency resting heavily on her shoulders, Shelley slammed the door to her tiny Renault rental car and stared at the massive entryway of the Montfort chateau. For the first time in her life, Shelley had come across a situation where neither chocolate nor red wine provided a measure of comfort. Just as long as she could hold off the panic, she figured she had a chance—maybe.
She let her eyes drift above the heavy wooden doors to a carved stone tympanum. The ravages of time and intermittent Provençal rains had nearly obliterated the bas-relief, and she had to squint to make out what was left of it. At first glance, it looked like a lumpy pancake on a circular platter, but Shelley soon realized it actually depicted a squat-shaped animal surrounded by a raised medallion. A porcupine in full profile, to be exact.
“Just great,” Shelley muttered. “A family that prides itself on its prickliness.” Still, she had a job to do—and fast—even if it meant facing aristocrats who fashioned themselves after a spiny woodland creature. “I suppose it could have been worse. They could have chosen a skunk.”
She reached for the heavy iron ring that hung at eye level and knocked. And waited.
And waited some more.
Tapping the tip of her black slide shoes on the pebbly gravel, she looked around. Enormous terra-cotta urns overflowing with red geraniums, blue lobelia and something yellow and vaguely daisylike edged the circular drive. To the side, an allée of stately cypresses led to a fountain, which splashed amidst mounds of lady’s mantle. A low stone wall defined the garden’s perimeter, and beyond, almond trees covered with loose bunches of white flowers marched in neat rows across the rolling hills. It was A Year in Provence come to life, only without the workmen in desperate need of a shave and long-lasting deodorant.
Shelley glanced at her watch. It was several minutes past the appointment time that she’d arranged over the phone. She raised her hand to knock again when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. An elderly woman walking briskly from around the back of the house came into view.
“Mademoiselle McCleery, by chance, is that you?” The woman’s English had a sibilant French accent with a distinct oddity. The r of McCleery trilled off her tongue, reminding Shelley of an extra—a most unlikely one—from Braveheart.
“Yes, I’m Shelley McCleery.” Shelley walked over and held out her hand and then realized she was holding flowers. “You’re very kind to receive me. These are for you and your family.”
