The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (15 page)

After their cup of tea, Joy suggested they take a quick walk around the main floor and into the garden before darkness moved in. A large front hall, lounge, and dining room were separated by wide arches, allowing for easy movement from room to room. A magnificent fireplace with enormous mantle and hearth dominated the area. Large, comfortable-looking sofas and chairs invited casual lounging.

“I don’t think I will be using this gorgeous table,” Katherine commented with a chuckle as she ran her hand along the ancient-looking oak trestle table and twelve chairs. “The small table in the kitchen looks just my size!”

Stepping out onto a terrace, Katherine gasped audibly at the sight of the climbing rosebush in full soft-pink bloom that draped over a small stone structure Joy referred to as the potting shed. Brilliant purple and red flowering vines stretched across a stone archway, through which Katherine could see more gardens and walkways dotted here and there with stone benches and pottery.

Cicada songs filled the air as the two women strolled the little pathways through the gardens and around the back to a tumbling ruin of a former stable. “Many of the stones from this jumble are those you saw outlining some of the paths. There was really no reason to rebuild it, and to be honest, the ruin holds its own special character. I hope you don’t find it unpleasant to look at.”

Katherine assured Joy she did not, and in fact was already planning some photo angles.

As they walked back into the house, Katherine barely managed to stifle a yawn.

“You must be feeling quite tired. We have some dinner for you,” Joy said as she produced a
cassoulet
that had been heating in the oven and took a simple green salad from the fridge.

Katherine invited Joy to dine with her and felt increasingly comfortable with her easy manner.

The fridge had been left well stocked, and several bottles of local wines—accompanied by a note inviting Katherine to enjoy them—were lined up on a rustic but elegant sideboard in the dining room. Wear marks on the wooden drawers and a missing handle simply added character to the piece.

Joy explained how she and Albert had raised their children in the larger home, the
manoir
, construction of which had begun by ancestors over three hundred years before.

“During the Revolution they fled to Italy, and there was much rebuilding to be done when the property finally was returned to the family in the mid-1800s.”

She gave a brief history of how the land was transformed into a vineyard at that time and an overview of how the business functioned.

“How fascinating to know so much about your family and to have such a connection to the country’s history,” Katherine commented, her eyes bright with interest.

“You must come over for a tour. We love our home and our land and like to show it to others who appreciate its story.”

“I would love to see it,” Katherine replied.

“It is beautiful but enormous. We divided it so our two children could also live there after they married, and now I am surrounded by my four wonderful grandchildren. They are gradually away more and more but still are my
joie
, and we are a big happy family. My daughter, Marie, and her husband, Christian, work in the business. My son, Henri, is an artist and his wife, Sylvie, is a nurse-practitioner with a clinic in Roussillon.”

“Sadly,” she explained with downcast eyes, “Albert left this earth five years ago. I miss him terribly, but it was his time.”

She went on to describe how Christian managed the financial side of the business and Marie oversaw the marketing. Jean-Pierre’s son would eventually take over his father’s role.

“And this house?” asked Katherine, enjoying hearing this family history so different from any other she knew.

“When Jean-Pierre married, he wanted to live in a smaller house—and truthfully, he and Albert did not get along that well. First of all Albert was eighteen years older, and that in itself created difficulties. They ran the business together well, but they had very different temperaments. Jean-Pierre wanted some space, you might say.”

Katherine nodded and poured them each another glass of wine as Joy continued.

“He loves this
mas.
It needed quite a bit of work, but that was his pleasure to restore it. They raised their two children here, and he swears he and his precious Madeline will remain forever.”

“I can understand why,” Katherine observed. “This house has an instant magic to it. It feels like it has a history.”

“Ah oui!
This began as a shepherd’s cottage, a
bergerie
, four hundred years ago, and is the oldest building on the property. That part is now the kitchen. In fact, we still allow a goat farmer to use part of the property to graze his herd. You will see them from time to time, but they will not interfere with your use of the yard in any way.”

“Joy, I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here. I was ready for a change in my life.”

Truthfully, it was already much more than she had anticipated.

“How are you feeling about having the dog stay with you, Katherine? He appears to have made up his mind,” she said, nodding at Picasso, who was settled happily at Katherine’s feet.

“He seems to be a sweetheart,” Katherine observed, adding with just the slightest hint of hesitation, “I think I would like to have him here.”

His tail beat thickly on the floor, as if he understood.

“Obviously he is bilingual,” said Joy. Katherine chuckled.

Walking over to the deep porcelain sink, Joy pointed to the wide window ledge above it.

“We have a habit here of using this ledge for messages if no one is home, so be sure to check it every day. You never know when one of us will drop by.”

Picking up a notepad on the counter, she continued, “There is always someone at work on our property and our numbers are posted here. Call us for anything. Sadly we feel we need a person around twenty-four hours. At the same time it must be a good idea, as we have never had a problem—unlike some of our neighbors.”

Katherine nodded. “Madeline told me there was an alarm system here, and I will use it, but I want you to know I’m not nervous.”

Walking over to her luggage, she pulled the information she had been sent via e-mail out of her carry-on bag. Joy walked Katherine through the simple instructions for the system and flipped through the pages to see if anything else required explaining.

Included in the Lalliberts’ very complete instruction booklet were Pico’s meal details and a list of the commands with which he was familiar. A reasonably mature five-year-old with deep, dark eyes that missed nothing, his presence was actually comforting, Kat thought.

He happily followed the women upstairs after an assortment of cheese and a traditional plum tart had completed their meal. Joy deflected Katherine’s compliments throughout the meal, insisting it was simple fare.

After Katherine insisted on clearing the dishes, Joy suggested the suitcases be taken upstairs to the hall while they toured all four bedrooms.

Kat had only seen rooms painted such shades in French home-decor magazines, and each delighted her more than the last. The linens were crisp, white, some with embroidered edges, and, as Joy explained, many had been in the family for generations.

“There is still an old-fashioned
salle de lavage
—washing room—in the
manoir
with a huge press for the sheets. You must come and see it. A woman comes every week to launder the linens, and I cannot bring myself to end the tradition.”

“I may simply take turns sleeping in every one of these rooms,” Katherine observed with a satisfied smile.

Forty years before, after learning at their father’s side since childhood, Joy’s husband, Albert, had taken over the vineyard with his brothers, Jean-Pierre and Christian.

Their father had, before them, inherited the vineyard from his father. Over one hundred and fifty years of love, toil, and sweat were soaked into the property of Le Manoir de Sainte-Mathilde, and their Côtes de Provence wines were well recognized.

Back downstairs, Joy suggested Katherine might be ready to think about sleeping with the long travel hours surely kicking in. She leaned toward Katherine and gave her the familiar French
bise
at the side of each cheek. Kat smiled at this; it was just so French to her.

Saying
bonsoir
, Joy hopped on a small motorbike to head back to the main house. Pausing, she mentioned one final, nearly overlooked detail.

“There is an old
vélo
—excuse me, bicycle—inside the potting shed behind the house, my dear. Feel free to use it, such as it is,” she said, noting Katherine’s sudden downcast expression.

“It’s rather old and looks a bit beat up, but is actually in good condition. It’s great for going to market days on Monday and Thursday, when parking can be limited. You can ride it through the vineyards as a shortcut to our
manoir
too,” Joy told her. “It’s shorter to come through the vineyard than by car on the road. You know how it is around here. Driving, you have to go to the main road and then double back down the old road to our place.”

Watching the taillight of Joy’s motorbike disappear down the lane, Katherine waited for the dog to return from his nightly duty.

As spontaneously as they began, the cicadas abruptly ceased singing, and darkness dropped like a blanket over the landscape and around the house.

15

A gentle breeze rustled the curtains. Sunshine streamed through the uncovered bedroom window, causing Katherine to squeeze her eyes shut again after she first opened them.

Lying quietly for a few moments, her arms resting on top of the soft coverlet, she luxuriated in her current reality.

She barely recalled having a shower and falling into bed the night before. Sleep had immediately claimed her.

A sudden damp coldness on her hand popped her eyes wide open. Enormous dark eyes met her startled gaze as Picasso stood with his nose resting on the covers. Katherine laughed out loud and patted him on the head.

Sitting up and stretching, she caught sight of the orderly vineyard rows reaching as far as she could see through the French doors at the foot of the bed.

The window next to the bed offered more of the same view, but there was a field bordering the grapevines on this side, and she spied a herd of goats resting quietly. Rolling, purple-tinged hills created a backdrop, topped by a brilliant blue sky.

Slipping her light white cotton housecoat over the matching nightgown, she practically skipped down the stairs to open the front door and step outside.

On her heels, Picasso brushed by quickly through the open door and into the small thicket of trees by the driveway.

Directly in front of the house, the gravel drive circled around a peren
nial bed that was bursting with the liveliest mix of colors she could ever
remember seeing in anything but paintings. Red and pink poppies, orange
calendula, yellow strawflowers, purple phlox, blue and white hydran
geas—
along with a number of other plants Katherine did not know—mixed
together in wild abandon. Mounds of lavender bordered the drive, with clumps of shrubs and trees scattered on the lawns between the house and fence and the road beyond. Rows of lush grapevines rooted in rich red
soil
stretched in every direction beyond the farmhouse property.

Katherine sat on the stone steps, absorbing every detail of the view. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Making no attempt to stifle them she sniffed loudly.

For all her bravado and her happiness at making this fantasy come true, the other side of her reality took over. She was alone. In the midst of the beauty, the adventure, the dream—which begged for a husband, a partner, a lover, or at least a friend with whom to share it, there was none.
Nada
. Alone.

Burying her face in her hands, Katherine cried silent tears of sad emptiness for the moment.

Slowly aware of a warm presence by her side, she looked sideways to find Pico sitting next to her, lightly leaning on her and looking straight ahead.

Katherine slipped her arm around him. “Looks like it’s you and me, pal,” she said, moving her head just in time to avoid a sloppy lick, square on the mouth.

Laughing in surprise, she wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her housecoat, gave a melancholic sigh, and got up, in serious need of a tissue. Picasso stood and stretched. Together they walked back into the house.

French doors, the classic blue paint slightly peeling, led from every room out to pleasingly jumbled gardens, gravelly patios, or newly mown lawns. Katherine opened all of them, lingering each time as soft morning light and fresh country air flowed around her and into the house. The mild day was perfect for her plan to explore the immediate surroundings and then go into town for a stroll.

A boiled egg for breakfast with some of the baguette she had purchased the day before would suit her just fine. Another lesson learned—yesterday’s baguette was as hard as a rock!

Katherine was filling a pot with water when her eye caught sight of something on the window ledge. A small basket sat with a white cloth over it. Opening the window, she retrieved the basket and looked under the cloth to find two fresh croissants, a
pain au chocolat
, and a round pastry she recognized as a
pain aux raisins
.

A note tucked inside read “
Bon appétit
, Joy.”

Sitting at a small metal-framed round table on the patio outside the kitchen, Kat lingered over each delicious bite as she lost herself in the view. Situated at the back of the farmhouse, the scenery was completely different as fields and pastures carried the eye across the Luberon Valley to the distant blue-tinged hills of the Vaucluse.

The tinkling of bells caught her attention as a sizeable herd of goats scrambled along a barely noticeable lane between the vineyard and fence on the east side of the property. Behind them, she recognized the same goat herder who had directed her to turn around when she chose the wrong road the day before. He waved as he passed. Katherine returned the gesture while Pico stood watching, his tail wagging lazily at a sight familiar to him. He ran over and accompanied the man partway up the lane, receiving many rubs and scratches on the head for his effort.

Watching the goats gambol up the lane and through the fence that was opened for them, Katherine stretched lazily, rose, and decided it was time to get moving.

Later, with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, she showered and dressed quickly before walking to the potting shed behind the house. As Joy had promised, inside was a bicycle that had seen better days. A green Peugeot leaned against the wall with chipped paint, rust marks all over the chrome, a large light mounted over the front wheel, and a weathered wicker basket sitting on a frame over the rear.

Katherine blinked and then laughed out loud at the simple appeal of it as she ran her hand over the frame. It appeared someone had recently wiped it clean, and when she ran her finger over the chain, she could tell it had been newly oiled.
Very thoughtful
, she acknowledged.

After a long look at the bike, she turned around and began walking down the lane with Picasso racing ahead and then looking back to make certain she was following. Searching out the bicycle had been a response to something deep inside that she realized she was still attempting to keep buried.
Not yet
, she thought.

The walk into town was an easy fifteen minutes along a well-worn path beside the narrow road. With every step, Katherine reveled in the natural aromatherapy of the herbs and shrubs tumbling from the forest onto the edge of the path. Lavender was the most obvious scent in the air, and occasionally she breathed in wafts of thyme and rosemary.

Light clouds scudded across the periwinkle-blue sky, helping to keep the temperature just right. Feeling slightly lightheaded, she kept grinning.

It’s like I’m dreaming. Everything is so perfect, so right, so just how I hoped it would be. I will be fine. I will be on my own and I will be fine.

Church bells rang out as she entered the village, signaling the end of Sunday morning Mass. A few of the faithful straggled out the beautifully carved wooden doors of the fifteenth-century church as the priest wished them good day from the steps. Katherine decided to have a
crème
at one of the spots in the square before she went to look inside.

Planning to have a quiet day settling in to her surroundings and adjusting to the time change, the view from the patio where she sat with her coffee was distracting her. She sipped slowly and tried not to think of a caffe mocha.

Amazing how the right atmosphere can convince me I like this drink.

She could see Gordes beckoning from its perch on the hill. It was too tempting. She knew she had to go there immediately. Joining the long line for the lunch baguette, she faced a decision she hadn’t before considered.
“Baguette” isn’t just baguette! Pointy ends, round ends, flat, thick, short, long, crisp or not—and people asking for baguette
normale
,
ancienne
,
intégrale
. Yikes—what do I choose? Besides, there are all sorts of other breads and fougasse, in all its variations, seems more popular here.

She had just spotted the display of those specialty flatbreads.

Large wicker baskets full of baguettes were coming, one after the other, from the wood ovens out back as customers left with two or more. The packets of bread were held together by a small square of paper, ends twisted expertly by the cashier to secure them. More often than not, as soon as the customer left the shop, the heel of the loaf was broken off and enjoyed immediately.

As she waited, her eyes swept the shop. Shelves and counters were filled with breads, cakes, and
patisseries
as well as mouthwatering sandwiches. The shop reminded Katherine of an art gallery rather than a bakery, with displays artistically arranged.

How could I forget my camera?
she admonished herself.
Never leave home without it!

As Katherine’s turn approached, she listened to the words of the lady before her and repeated the order.

Looks good to me.

Picasso waited patiently outside the shop, happily receiving many pats on the head from villagers who obviously knew him well. Feeling like a local, Katherine munched on the heel of one of her two baguettes as they strolled back to the house.

Lunch consisted of cheese and sliced tomatoes to go with the delicious bread. Sitting in the garden, the clinking of the bells hanging on the goats’ necks pleased her immensely.

Making a list, Katherine planned her menus for the next few days. Tomorrow was market day in the village.

This afternoon she would drive up to Gordes and possibly stay there for dinner.

Adding a French phone to her list, she also planned to check out the gas station for Internet access. At this point she wasn’t missing it either, she realized with some surprise.

Washing up the dishes, she saw a visitor had dropped by and left a note on the windowsill. Thoughtful Joy suggested she would pick up Katherine the next morning at nine so they could go to the market together and she could show her around the area. Joy said if she didn’t hear otherwise, she would consider it a date. Kat looked forward to it.

Leaving Picasso snoozing happily in the warmth of the midday sun on the front doorstep, Katherine hopped into her little Citröen, set the GPS, and drove up the road toward Gordes. As she approached the village, parking signs appeared, and she soon realized she would have to try and find a spot with the hordes of other visitors and tour buses already there.

Of course! It’s Sunday. It will be crowded, but not as bad as midsummer, so I will not complain.

The walk from the lot into the village square was mere minutes. Uphill, of course, and lined by stone walls. Once she arrived at the square in front of the palace, that area was surprisingly flat and didn’t seem as packed with bodies as she had anticipated. She thought she had never seen so much stone in her life. Her guidebook explained these building materials had originally been dug up from fields as agricultural activity increased during the eighteenth century. There were still
bories
, mortarless stone huts, from those early days just outside the town, which she planned to visit another day. Any new construction in France was strictly regulated, and in the Gordes area, stone must still be used along with terra-cotta roof tiles.

No wonder these villages are so visually pleasing
, she thought as she lined up her next photo. There was something to be said for all the rules,
which must have driven the homeowners crazy.

The immense castle and church dominated the village they once protected, as she had seen from the road. Below them spread a warren of crooked laneways filled with shops, cafés, and tourists. After browsing the traditional products offered in the shops, Katherine climbed the splendid spiral Renaissance staircase of the castle to see an art exhibit displayed throughout. The sheer presence of the architecture of this carefully preserved palace, which existed in 1031 and was rebuilt in 1525, set Katherine’s imagination off with fantasies of sieges and battles.

Once again
Katherine struggled with her emotions of being on her own. She wasn’t missing James, but couples strolling arm in arm or exchanging intimate looks as they shared a glass of rosé were poignant reminders that she was alone.

As the afternoon wore on, her rumbling stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten much. Checking out the numerous restaurants, she chose a smallish bistro with a terrace overlooking an unending view back down to the flat terrain. A
salade de chèvre chaud
followed by a scrumptious lamb dish was as fine a meal as she had ever eaten, she decided. The relaxed ambiance of the al fresco dining suited her, and she studied more tourist information on her Kindle as she dined.

Before long, a British couple at the next table engaged her in conversation, curious about her Kindle and how she felt about it. They continued to regale her through dinner with tales of their motor trip and were entertaining company.

Sleep came quickly that night. The last sound she heard was Picasso’s gentle snore as he lay outside her doorway. As she drifted off, a contented smile remained.
“It will be all right” will be my new mantra.