The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (22 page)

Carafes of rosé now replaced the empty champagne bottles.

“Bravo!
Mère
, you have prepared another feast for us!”

“Not without Hélène by my side, as you know!” Joy responded.

Turning to Katherine, she explained, “This is a very traditional summer recipe and possibly quite unusual for you. I hope you enjoy it.”

“It’s the aioli that makes it,” Henri shouted from the other end of the table. “I guarantee it will cause you to swan.”

Katherine looked puzzled until Mirella quickly corrected, “Swoon, Henri, you mean swoon.”

Laughter filled the terrace once more as everyone began to fill plates.

“I cannot get over how everything tastes so much better here,” Katherine commented to Philippe.

“Trust me, I can show you some places that might cause you to change your mind,” he suggested. “But truly, you are right. Food is our religion. Everything is prepared to bring about the greatest pleasure in every sense.”

Mirella leaned in to explain further, “You know, Katherine, we are masters of the art of
plaisir.
It is the underlying theme of life here. In spite of the many negatives in our society today, the French continue to strive to be artful, exquisite. It is a legacy we do not want to lose.”

“It combines with the art of seduction . . .
la séduction,
” Joy interjected, with a knowing smile. “It’s a virtuous skill here to seduce and touch all the senses with fashion, cuisine, wine, scent, words . . .”

Katherine glanced at Philippe, who was gazing at the two women with bemused admiration.

Turning back to Katherine, he gestured toward them. “And here is a perfect example of how the women in France simply continue to improve with age.”

The others around the table had moved on to politics and parenting, while Mirella and Joy were interrupted by the antics of Picasso and the young grandchildren.

Someone had obviously made a funny remark, as the far end of the table erupted in laughter.

Philippe was interested in Katherine’s life in Toronto. He plied her with questions about the whole experience of home exchange, something unheard of to him.

In return he explained he was a
fromager
with a business selling cheese in the South of France near Nice.

“A
fromager
is a career you would not hear mentioned often in Canada. Please tell me about it . . . and excuse me, but I must say your English is excellent.”

“Ah,
merci
, thank you,” Philippe replied with a smile. He told her about living in England for several years as a teenager while his father worked with a British cheesemaker who wanted his goat-cheese expertise.

Katherine asked question after question about his family’s history and found it mesmerizing.

Who knew the history of making cheese could be so interesting—or is it Philippe I’m finding so interesting? His voice is like velvet.

Philippe explained he had driven up to Sainte-Mathilde as soon as he received the phone call about François. He planned to stay for a few more days until arrangements could be made for the herd of goats to be cared for. He spoke fondly of his uncle.

“He has always been a fine man. He worked hard all of his life in investment banking in Paris, very successfully, and not without a great deal of stress, and provided for his family in a very good way. My father, his brother, died in a car accident shortly after our return from England, and my uncle did all he could to fill his shoes. I love him very much.”

“And now he is a goat herder?” Katherine asked.

Philippe smiled broadly. “
Oui
,
un chevrier
. He loves the peace of the
fields, the goats, and the fresh air. The goats do not need him, but he needs
them. He spends the day meditating, thinking, reading, being at peace.”

“Plaisir,”
said Katherine. Philippe nodded.

Joy leaned in. “Did Philippe tell you that François knows the goats by name?”

“Just like his father and grandfather before him,” he said, laughing.

“It’s a dying tradition that you still find on some farms in Provence.”

Luncheon plates had been cleared, and a simple green salad arrived as the wineglasses disappeared.

“Wine with salad is not a choice we make here,” Joy explained to Katherine.

Katherine noted how relaxed everyone was, taking in food and conversation in equal portions. Each course was lingered over, and murmurs of appreciation hung in the air.

When the salad was finished, selections of cheese were brought to the table on beautiful slabs of olive wood, along with heaping bowls of freshly picked cherries.

A variety of
digestifs
were offered, including
eau de vie
, a homemade pear-plum-cherry-raspberry liqueur. Everyone insisted Katherine try it.

Henri was speaking to Joy and Mirella about their stories of the war years.

“Katherine, thank you for giving us the opportunity to raise this topic again. Mère and Mirella both have tales to tell. Provence was a hotbed of the Resistance, and there are amazing stories of bravery and daring.”

Katherine mentioned that a favorite poet she studied at university, René Char, had been involved in the Resistance in Provence.

Mirella shook her head in disbelief. “
Mon Dieu
, it’s a small world indeed.”

“During the war, M. Char lived in a house owned by Mirella’s family,” Joy explained. “He refused to allow his work to be published by the Germans and buried his papers in the basement of the house until the war ended.”

“He often read us stories and helped us with our homework,” Mirella added.

“His code name was Capitaine Alexandre, and he truly was a hero of the
Résistance
, commanding the famous Durance parachute drop zone,” Philippe explained.

“Not just a
résistant
, but a fighter on a moral plane his entire life,” said Mirella, her eyes shining with admiration. “None more famous than his protests against polluters or with Picasso in the sixties against the threatened nuclear installations on Mont Ventoux.”

“The village where he lived, Céreste, is not far from here,” said Joy. “But then, you can stop in any of these towns and villages and find stories of the
Résistance
.”

“And of collaboration and betrayal and pain and loss,” said Henri. “There’s no question it was hell. But we must keep the stories alive.”

“And so we will,” Joy and Mirella both promised.

Katherine had been touched by the thoughtfulness shown by every person at the table as they each made time to speak with her. Some spoke English quite well and were happy to show off their ability. Others struggled, but in a good way, with good humor, laughs, and hand gestures.

Katherine made every effort to use her limited French vocabulary and was not surprised at how she enjoyed it. She had already decided to join a conversational French group when she got back to Toronto.

Farewells were now being shared and Katherine noted how the words sweetly meant “see you soon,”
à bientôt
, rather than “good-bye”—and, of course, there were
bises
all around. Always
bises
.

Joy reminded Katherine she would tour her through the house, and Katherine asked if she might bring in her laptop to use the Wi-Fi and Skype her friend Molly.

“Of course,
ma chère
, as we discussed the other day.
Avec plaisir
.”

As this was all being organized, Philippe was chatting with the rest of the family. Now he returned to Katherine and asked if she would like him to drive her to Céreste on Monday afternoon to visit the tiny Char museum.

“It would be my pleasure to introduce you to some of our little shortcuts. Mirella would love to go as well and show us the house in which Char lived.”

“I would very much like to do that,” Katherine replied and Philippe arranged to collect her at 2:00 p.m.

22

Alone in the courtyard as the last car drove off, Katherine complimented Joy on her family.

Joy nodded. “They are the light of my life, and I feel blessed that they still love to come here and spend time with me in spite of their busy lives. It’s how we mothers hope our families will be, but it doesn’t always happen. Now come, let me show you some of the much older members of our family.”

“It’s like a private museum,” Katherine said in awe. The family history in the area went back to the 1500s, and some of the buildings on the property dated back over three hundred years, Katherine’s farmhouse being one.

Construction on the manor house had taken place in the late 1600s. The family had fled to Italy in 1789 in the early days of the French Revolution and did not regain ownership of the property until 1816, after the Napoleonic Wars had ended. The property had not been maintained properly then, and there had been much work to do afterward. Most of the valued furniture had been sold, burned, or stolen through those years. Incredibly, through many long years of searching, the odd original piece was traced and bought back.

With a typically Gallic shrug of her shoulders, Joy indicated it was what it was.

Three of the oldest oil portraits of ancestors had been saved, as they were rolled up and taken along to Italy when the family escaped there. Katherine listened, enthralled, as Joy shared stories in each room.

The enormous fireplaces in the main floor grand hall and the upper hall were still used, but much of the house was not heated or inhabited in winter.

“It is such an unusual experience to hear a history that is so old and yet still so much a part of your family’s life today. We simply do not have those kinds of stories in North America—at least, not many of us do. Thank you for allowing me this intimate glimpse into the past.”

Joy smiled graciously. “Time creates a collage with layers of history—family and events. Some of us feel privileged to have these works of art, these properties, entrusted to us, but often they present great difficulties to families and cannot be maintained. Taxes are atrocious!”

“I can imagine,” Katherine said.

“Upkeep never stops, and as the years go by, the costs are becoming a burden, but we simply don’t want to let our property go. Our grandchildren are already looking at business plans to turn the manor into a small hotel after I am gone, and I think that’s a good idea.”

“What about the vineyard?” asked Katherine.

“Oh, that will continue, from what I hear,” Joy replied in a hopeful tone. “But nothing is guaranteed these days. So much is changing. In the last fifty years, three out of four farms in France have stopped functioning. It’s a terrible shift in how our country operates, and we don’t quite know how the economy and the general population will ultimately be affected.”

Making certain Katherine was comfortably settled in the office, Joy said she would find her in the garden when she was through.

After reaching Molly on Skype, Kat insisted she share the latest in the ongoing mysterious and frightening incidents in her life.

“Come on, Molly, spill,” Katherine said, saying she could see from her friend’s face all was not well.

“Oh shit, Kat! I didn’t want to say anything while you are having such a fantastic holiday. The calls are still coming . . . not quite as often, though . . . but something worse happened.”

“Oh no. What now?”

“My car was keyed in the school parking lot. Badly!”

Katherine groaned.

“That was so bad in two ways,” Molly said, fuming with anger. “One, because it was a Zipcar, and two, it means the person knows where I work.”

“How do you know it was the same person?”

“They left a fucking phone message mocking me. It made me want to puke!”

“How awful! Did you report it?”

“Immediately,” Molly said, calming slightly. “One of the officers we met before actually seems to be taking an interest in the situation.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. They will get to the bottom of this. I just know it,” Kat said.

Molly plied her with questions about her life in Provence, and Katherine decided not to say anything about Matt the Asshole until she was back home with a glass of wine in her hand.

Molly reported that the Lalliberts loved Toronto. She had greeted them when they arrived at Katherine’s house the first day, and on Friday had taken them to lunch at an Italian restaurant with a patio offering a view of the lake.

“Madeline has invited me to come for a French dinner next Wednesday. They are going to shop at the St. Lawrence market and show me what I’m missing!”

“Please give them my regards and tell them I have fallen in love with their country, their home, and their dog. Molly, you would adore it here—and of course, there is jazz everywhere.”

They agreed to try to catch each other on Skype the following Sunday, when Kat would be in Paris.

23

Monday morning she wakened to the sun streaming through the open window. Lying in bed, she replayed the preceding three days, contemplating how she was wearing her independence.

Her stomach knotted as she thought about Matt’s offensive behavior, but her head overcame the anxiety, as she felt strong and empowered by her actions.

In the village later for a
crème
at Le Petit Café, she still wasn’t getting a smile from the waiter, but she sensed he recognized her even without Joy. Her goal there was to see a smile before her trip ended.

Well aware that the French did not really cotton to unsolicited smiles or offhand comments from strangers, she knew acceptance needed to be earned.

Mentally making a list of her plans for the rest of the week, she realized some things simply weren’t going to happen.

Easy good humor filled the car that afternoon as they wound their way
through the maze of narrow roadways. Philippe informed them which ones
had begun as goat and donkey paths or the routes of invading enemies.

“Philippe, you constantly amaze me with all these details.”

He gave her a modest smile and bowed his head. “We live with the stories and legends all around us and grow up hearing them from our elders.
N’est-ce pas
, Mirella?”

Mirella’s intimate knowledge of Céreste and Char’s stay there made it her turn to bring the history to life.

Before leaving the village, they sat at a small terrace and sipped pastis as they watched the afternoon pétanque players, smiling at the passionate and noisy debates over each game. Katherine had never realized what an important role this pastime played in the life of every village and town in France.

Once again she felt a sense of peace and comfort in the simple ambiance of such a village.

On the way home Mirella mentioned she was one of the conveners for a concert in the small, fifteenth-century chapel in Sainte-Mathilde on Wednesday evening.

“I would be honored if both of you would accept an invitation to be my guests.”

Tuesday, Katherine thought she might drive to Aix-en-Provence for the afternoon.

Reading in the garden midmorning while Picasso stretched by her chair and lazily snapped at flies, she looked up at one point and noticed a figure standing in the far reaches of the goat field where it met the forest.

When she went into the house to refill the water pitcher, she saw a sleek touring bike leaned against the fence and figured the young, sullen Philippe was in the field. Puttering in the garden later that morning, she heard her name called and realized it was not the sullen Philippe but rather the charming, soft-spoken Philippe. He beckoned her to the fence and asked if she might like a short walk through the trees to see a special place that François had discovered years before. The invitation pleased her and aroused her curiosity.

“Let me put on some proper walking shoes instead of these sandals.”

As she skipped up the stairs to her bedroom to find her shoes, Katherine had a moment of
déjà vu
as she flashed back to the disgusting and frightening episode with Matt the Asshole.

Philippe, on the other hand, seemed such a gentleman.

But then, she hadn’t seen the assault coming from Matt either. Maybe she was just too naive. She had been wrapped up so safely in the cocoon of her marriage for twenty-two years that it had not occurred to her to be suspicious of men. Was that it?

Pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs as she was on her way back outside, Katherine made a judgment call that she had nothing to fear this time. To be on the safe side, though, at least in her mind, she stuck her pointy manicure scissors in her pocket.

Opening a gate for Katherine, Philippe invited Picasso along before the excited pooch dashed past them and took the lead.

“Why don’t the goats simply clamber over? I mean, the fence isn’t really that high, and I’ve certainly seen what good climbers they are.” She recounted how they had invaded her yard the day of François’s accident.

“They are insatiably curious creatures, very nosy but rather lazy,” said Philippe. “They love their food and live to forage. The field and forest offer so much for them to eat, they can’t be bothered to leave. I have a theory about why they were in your yard that day. I believe the leader of the herd sensed a problem when François collapsed. When he left the field to investigate, the others followed, and that attracted Pico’s attention.”

He continued to regale her with obscure information about goats, and had her chuckling with his wry observations about their quirky and affectionate personalities.

Following behind him, Katherine took stock. Just over six feet, with thick brown hair, combed straight back and curling behind his ears, he was neither slender nor stocky, with a solid build. Well-muscled arms and legs suggested a lifestyle that demanded fitness. He didn’t appear to be much over forty, she thought. Not handsome, but very attractive in a French kind of way, with a slightly olive-toned complexion and strongly defined but not-too-big mouth, nose, and brow. Deep, dark eyes.
Nice butt
.

She smiled to herself, acknowledging she hadn’t lost her appreciation of a good-looking man, particularly the latter detail.

After twenty minutes through the lightly forested woods, a pasture-like clearing opened up and Philippe stopped before what appeared to be a jumble of rocks.

Peering more closely, she could see order in the jumble as Philippe proudly told her these were the remains of a Roman wall and a secret that remained just in their family. François had made the discovery and painstakingly dug it out. Local historians had confirmed the authenticity and agreed it was not situated in an appropriate place for officials to make it accessible to everyone.

“How exciting to know that Romans once lived on your property!” Katherine exclaimed. “Although I guess it’s not so unusual around here.”

Philippe nodded, smiling at her enthusiasm.

Katherine continued, “When I get home I’m going to go to the library and take out some books on the ancient history of this area.”

That list in my journal is getting so long it will keep me occupied for months
, she thought.

The land sloped, opening up a vista stretching across orchards and fields, dotted with the familiar lines of farmhouses and outbuildings.

They sat on the grass chatting for some time with no shortage of topics while Picasso kept busy poking his nose in groundhog holes. Feeling no anxiety, her fingers played with the scissors in her pocket as she felt mildly foolish for having brought them.

She told Philippe she was driving to Aix for the afternoon, and he genuinely seemed disappointed that he had other commitments and could not go with her.

“Aix is one of my favorite towns, and there are many special places to discover. Follow the directions straight to Cours Mirabeau, the heart of the old town, and you will have a full afternoon ahead of you.”

When they got back to the farmhouse, he looked at Katherine’s guidebook and made some notes to prioritize her touring.

“Is that your bike?” Katherine asked.

Nodding, Philippe lifted his T-shirt slightly to show his cycling clothes
underneath.

Katherine noticed then that his cycling shoes were tied around the handlebars.

“A serious cycler from the look of it,” she commented.

“It’s a passion,” he smiled.

Katherine winced inside, remembering the passion she also once had for the sport, and changed the subject back to Aix.

With more information from him than she could possibly use in one afternoon, she thanked him again and went into the farmhouse to change and set off on her next adventure.

En route to the highway, Katherine stopped in at the manor. With no one in sight, she left a note. The message invited Joy and her family, as well as Antoine and Hélène and the vineyard helpers, to come to the farmhouse for an aperitif on Friday afternoon at 4:00 p.m. She asked that Mirella be invited as well.

Impulsively she had conceived the idea while she chatted with Philippe that morning.

“We call that a
buffet dînatoire
,” he said. “You call it cocktails, right?”

Katherine nodded. “With a few hors d’oeuvres, nothing too heavy.”

When he then said he was going to change his travel plans and stay for her party, Katherine felt a surge of pleasure.

Grinning now as she drove toward Aix with a jazz station blaring, she felt energized and incredibly content with herself. Everything she was doing in her life was the result of her decisions alone. No one was passing judgment or telling her what to do.

I thought I was coming on this exchange to run away from something, but now I feel I was really running toward something—a new me.