The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (17 page)

Shaded from bright rays but still warmed by the midday sun, Katherine
dozed off with her trusty canine snoring a few feet away.

Later, writing postcards she had purchased in Gordes, Katherine picked at the roasted chicken for dinner. Her messages to her office colleagues were brief but passionate expressions of her happiness with this adventure.

Anxious to use the rose-scented
savon de Marseille
and bath oil she had purchased at the market, she wrote her journal entry, then indulged in a long soak in the claw-foot bathtub. Climbing into bed, she turned to say goodnight to Picasso, who was standing in the doorway where he had been sleeping since she arrived. Somehow she sensed he was staring at the carpet beside her bed, so she invited him to come—
viens
—leaning down to pat the rug. Before she could blink, he was lying on the rug looking up at her with the kind of gratitude only a dog’s eyes can offer.

16

Up with the sun, Katherine unfolded her bright-purple yoga mat and congratulated herself on having squished it into her suitcase. A last-minute decision when she packed the final few items on the evening before her departure, it had meant she had to sit on her bag to close it. Spreading the mat on a terrace in the early-morning light, she went through a one-hour yoga routine. Letting go had never been easier.

Picasso spent the entire hour moving from one side of the terrace to the other as he watched Katherine transition from pose to pose. Cocking his head with obvious curiosity, it appeared he wasn’t going to rest until he had it figured out. Kneeling on her mat after she had cooled down and meditated, Katherine beckoned Pico to come to her. As he sat facing her, she rubbed his ears and bent her forehead to his in a quiet moment of connection that surprised her.

The plan was to head to Roussillon bright and early to avoid the worst of the crowds. She set the GPS and headed off. While Gordes had been close to the top of her must-see list, Roussillon was without question number one.

Through the rearview mirror, she watched Picasso settle onto the front step to await her return and felt a twinge of guilt for not bringing him along.

The color of the earth began to take on tones of reddish orange as Katherine drew closer to town. She had read that the ochre in the surrounding area was a natural pigment used in paints, and the quarry here was one of the most significant deposits in the world. The village perched on the ridge of a steep cliff, and Katherine was pleased to discover she could still find a parking spot in the lot partway up the hill.

As she had expected, her camera was out and in action the minute she exited her car. All the houses were painted ochre shades that varied subtly from light yellow to dark red. Brightly colored shutters and doors added to the striking appeal of this
plus beau village
from the base of the village right up to the summit of the Castrum.

The red, yellow, and brown shades of the earth created a striking contrast to the deep green pine trees and the vivid blue of the Provençal sky. The hours passed quickly as she indulged in the sheer beauty of it all.

The small square at the top of the village was lined with restaurants, and Katherine chose a small place with an enormous patio in the back that provided a full 360-degree view. The patchwork of orchards, vineyards, lavender, and wheat fields stretched across the valley to the Grand Luberon, the slopes of Mont Ventoux, and the plateau of the Vaucluse. It was a stunning panorama that she felt was hers alone as she ate her green salad and planned which ice cream flavor she would choose for dessert.

After relaxing, consumed by the vista, she pulled her old running shoes from her backpack and changed as she lined up for a ticket to the ochre mines. Now that the mines were no longer used, the tour was recommended as an excellent opportunity to understand how ochre was produced and the important role it played in the development of the area until the end of World War II.

As Katherine walked along the trail of multicolored sand, the well-signed path described the geology, the plants, and the history of the amazing deposit that dated back millions of years.

“A palette of flamboyant color,” she read on the brochure in her hand.
Got that right.

Driving back home with her now-orange shoes stashed in a bag, Katherine entertained romantic fantasies of running away to live in Roussillon. The village had an allure and gentle luminosity that was hard to resist, in spite of the tourists. Even so, she knew the crowds would be far worse a month from now and was glad to be there in June.

As she drove up the lane to her
mas
,
Katherine blinked and shook her head in disbelief. Goats were everywhere. In the gardens. On the terraces. Lounging, grazing, wandering. Something was very wrong. Katherine also realized that Pico was nowhere to be seen, which was even stranger. Surely he would have been a little excited about this caprine invasion of his territory.

Walking around to the back of the house, she was greeted with even more goats. Laughing out loud as she spotted one on top of the potting shed, she jumped in surprise as she was lightly but firmly butted from behind. Animals were clustering around her and she couldn’t help but smile at the sweet babies with their soft coats demanding to be touched and stroked.

She was about to open the kitchen door to get the list of family numbers, to call someone to help, when she heard a bark coming from down the lane by the adjoining field. Almost as far away as she could see, she could make out Picasso.

Calling him, she watched him come tearing toward her. Partway, he stopped—legs rigid—looked at her, and barked intensely, as if to announce this was not a game. Then he went running back. After he repeated this several times, Katherine hastened farther down the lane and saw Pico was worrying about something piled on the ground.

Breaking into a run, Katherine hurried to where Picasso was waiting and realized a person was lying in a heap. She recognized the goat herder’s clothing and knelt down. He was barely conscious and spoke haltingly,
“Au secours . . . aidez-moi . . .”

For a moment she was paralyzed into inaction before her mind kicked into gear with a plan. He didn’t need CPR, she determined; he needed an ambulance. She wrestled with the question of whether she should help him up or not and was frustrated at not knowing the right choice.

He waved at her to go.
“Allez . . . allez . . .”

Assuring him she would get help, she raced back to the yard and straight to the potting shed. Hopping on the bicycle, she pedaled as quickly as possible through the vines to the manor house, searching for the French words she would need.

She could see two men working among the vines.

“Allo-o-o-o,”
she called as she neared them. “Help!
Au secours, s’il vous plait
.
Au secours! Il y a un homme qui est blessé. Venez vite! Venez vite.
”

The men raced to the house, shouting directions as others came outside and a car took off toward the road. Then they jumped on a motorcycle and roared to the scene. Katherine pedaled furiously behind them.

Within twenty minutes an ambulance left with François strapped to a gurney, weak but conscious. The fear was he might have suffered a stroke. Joy, along with a handyman who had been working at the house, had been in the car that took off. They had called the emergency services number at the same time, and the response had been rapid. A relative of François had been called and would be waiting at the hospital.

Now they all sat around Katherine’s kitchen table, the men and Picasso having rounded up the goats and securely settled them in the field. Joy had produced a bottle of
pastis
from her brother-in-law’s cupboard, and Katherine offered a bowl of olives and some nuts.

“My dear,” Joy addressed her, “thank goodness you arrived home when you did. Who knows how long François would have lain there otherwise.”

“Well, thanks to Pico,” Katherine responded as she reached down to scratch his neck. “I never would have seen him were it not for this good boy.”

Speculating about the destination of the ambulance, the consensus was it would be Avignon, as their medical facilities were the best.

The men spoke of their admiration for François and his love for how he spent his days there. Joy explained that he came to Sainte-Mathilde from Paris intermittently through the year and then for most of the summer. He usually passed the better part of his days with the goat herd.

Their expressions reflected their affection.

“In spite of his successful business life in Paris,” Joy translated, “François is really a philosopher . . . a man of the earth . . . he loves nature.”

Katherine listened, adding her hopes that he would recover well.

The conversation this time was more in French than English and with the excitement they had just experienced, it was often too fast for Katherine to follow.

Joy translated when she felt Katherine was getting lost, and the others apologized for speaking so quickly. Nothing really changed, though, and Kat was reminded of how much work she needed to do on her language skills.

Politely refusing an invitation for dinner, Katherine waved good-bye from the back terrace. Everyone watched their step in order to avoid the goat poop littering the yard, and Joy assured her they would send one of the field workers to clean it up.

As Kat climbed the creaky stairs to the bathroom, the only thing on her mind was a good long soak with more of her luxurious bath oil. As the water filled the deep tub, she went downstairs and poured a glass of sauvignon blanc, calling a reluctant Pico in from his evening rounds. The smells remaining around the yard by the goat invasion had left him plenty of spots to investigate.

Katherine set her iPod in the portable travel speaker; Ella Fitzgerald pieces played softly in the background. She turned the light off, moonlight filtering through the small window creating a delicate glow.

At the open door, she heard Picasso flop down with a deep sigh. He’d had quite an adventure himself.

Sinking under the water up to her neck was a blissful indulgence that calmed her after the stressful experience of finding François. One thing she missed in her parents’ house was a deep bathtub and this reminded her she should seriously consider a bathroom renovation when she got back to Toronto.

Sipping her wine, she reflected on all that had transpired since she boarded the TGV in Paris on Saturday morning. The exchange was a big part of making this trip so special. Having a base that felt like a home added a different dimension to taking a trip. It was such fun to have all this space and not be confined to a hotel room. And Picasso—who knew? Also, she was incredibly fortunate to have met Joy, who made her feel as if she belonged there. As she counted her blessings, a feeling of shocked awareness overtook her thoughts.

“The bicycle. My God, I got on the bicycle,” she said out loud. Eight months and a bit, she quickly calculated. That’s how long it had been.

17

Katherine awoke to a loud knocking, followed by Picasso roaring down the stairs and barking ferociously. Throwing on her robe, she hurried down and peeked out the small window in the door to see a middle-aged woman waiting patiently.

“Bonjour, madame. Je suis Marie-Claude, la femme de ménage.”

“Oui, bien sûr,”
replied Katherine,
“entrez, s’il vous plait.”
Of course
, she thought,
it’s Wednesday
—she knew about a housekeeper coming on Wednesday and Saturday. The Lalliberts had told her in an e-mail, and it was also noted in the exchange booklet.

Katherine felt embarrassed that there wouldn’t be much for the woman to do, but Marie-Claude was as cheerful as could be and quickly set about her work. Occasionally she would ask Katherine a question about how she was enjoying her visit, but otherwise she seemed to have no trouble keeping herself busy.

Surprised to discover she had slept until after 9:00 a.m., Katherine
decided to go into town for a
pain aux raisins
and
café crème
rather than stay
underfoot. She could stop at the gas station and catch up on e-mails too.

She would ride the bicycle to the village.

Looking at the map in the exchange booklet, she noted she could ride through the vineyard almost right to the village with only a short distance involving the road. Walking to the potting shed, Katherine felt a moment of hesitation.

In the early weeks after “la Katastrophe,” she felt she would never ride a bicycle again. The memories she attached to cycling with James were simply too painful. Her mother had pointed out how Kat was sacrificing something important to her, but she was not to be dissuaded at the time. However, in an emergency situation where she had no time to question her actions, she had ridden a bicycle.

Now she moved the ancient Peugot into the sunshine and took a good look at it. The simplicity made her smile. With no gears to shift, this bicycle was as basic as they came. Hopping on, she headed toward the village, bumping through the vineyard with Picasso trotting along behind. When she reached the road, the dog immediately ran up onto the trail beside it. He knew what he was doing.

“Good boy!” Katherine called to him, feeling something like pride for this companion that was quickly claiming a piece of her heart.

Deeply inhaling, she marveled yet again at the abundance of fragrance in the air. Nothing was banal here. From a simple stroll or bike ride to standing on a hilltop looking out over a stunning vista, the senses were always engaged.

Leaving Pico outside the gas station with the bike, it felt wrong not locking it up.

Andrea had sent a long update on her family life, saying everything was in order and describing the busy activity at the farm, as always during the short growing season.

Lucy sent office news and said how she was reading all about Provence for the first time ever. She relayed greetings from the rest of the staff. Molly’s message had a worrying undertone, although she didn’t say anything specific was wrong. She mentioned she had apparently misplaced her purse at school, although she couldn’t see how it had possibly happened. It was discovered in the women’s staff powder room and returned to her by the math teacher, who said it was sitting on the counter. “Fuckin’ bizarro” was her comment.

Sending a collective message to them first, she followed with a private one to Molly, assuring her that stuff like a misplaced purse happens to all of them. Suggesting they Skype on Sunday at 4:00 p.m. Provence time, which would catch Molly with some of her rare free time, Katherine thought they should talk.

Kat was increasingly aware of how personal her interactions with Molly had become and wondered if Molly had ever had other close friends with whom she shared her feelings. She really had no idea; Molly never spoke about any other girlfriends.

But then, neither did I
, thought Katherine.
I told everything to James, and he always convinced me nothing was a problem. I never thought about how great girlfriends might be.

Bidding the others in the room
“bonne journée,”
she walked to where she had left the bike leaning against the side of the building. Picasso lay next to it, indicating clear proprietorship. When Katherine had asked Joy about locking the bike, she had been answered with a look of surprise and told it simply was not necessary. Smiling, she now understood why.

Next stop was Le Petit Café for a
crème
and
a pain aux raisins
. Picasso lay by her feet munching a biscuit the waiter had given him, and Katherine chuckled, noticing other village dogs stopping by for a treat from time to time as they made their daily rounds.

With a sandwich and the local newspaper in the basket, along with her water bottle and camera, she headed home. The pavement felt like velvet after the lumps of the vineyard trail, and when she came to the turnoff to her house, Katherine simply kept on going.

Picasso stopped and yelped a warning. She looked back to see him standing and barking sternly at her to let her know she had missed the turn. When she continued, he hurried to catch up through the woods.

The warm morning breeze caressed her skin and ruffled her hair as her legs pumped rhythmically. The bike was as basic as one could find, and yet somehow a finely tuned machine. There was no need for gears with roads as flat as those nearby, and the odd incline presented a welcome opportunity to work a little harder. It had been a very long time since she had ridden like this—simply for the pleasure of it and on her own.
Well
, she smiled,
not exactly alone
. Picasso trotted barely ahead of her, just off the road, as if he knew precisely where she was headed.

The plane trees lining the narrow road provided a canopy of dappled shade. Traffic was light along this route except for two groups of bicycle tours that passed her, waving and calling
bonjour
.

I’m going to seriously plan to book a cycling tour in France. Maybe Andie will want to come with me.

The simple act of riding down a country road brought history to life as Katherine recalled all she had read about Napoleon ordering the planting of thousands of the trees throughout the country to shade his armies.

Taking in the details of the lush farmland, orchards, and olive groves she passed, the aromatic smells wrapping around her, and the effortless motion that carried her along, Katherine felt something building strongly inside her.
I am happy
. The feelings began in her heart and spread through her entire frame.
I am
so
happy.

Pedaling on, she reached a small bridge crossing a shallow creek that bordered on a field of sunflowers blooming in full glory. The brilliant golden flower heads, bursting with dark seeds, raised up to the deepest blue sky. Brown-tinged leaves betrayed the lack of rain recently.

“Oh my, my, my,” she said out loud.

On the other side of the bridge, Katherine stopped on the almost nonexistent shoulder of the road and pulled the bike up through the long grass to rest it on a wire fence. Picking up her camera, she lost herself in the setting. Picasso wiggled under the fence and kept busy investigating areas of interest while her shutter clicked away. Close-ups, landscape settings, every conceivable angle, and some shots of Pico poking around—she took them all.

Then she sat by the edge of the creek, the sunflower field her backdrop, and ate half of her baguette sandwich.
Pico eventually joined her and was rewarded with a few nibbles. She considered the immense pleasure of doing what she felt like, when she felt like it.
So much for my organized, structured life
.

Wrapping the remaining half of her sandwich in its paper bag, she leaned back on her elbows with her eyes closed, basking in the warm sun and serenaded by the soothing sounds of the babbling brook. Her memories took her back to the day her life had changed, and slowly she worked her way through the months to this moment. She had been there many times before. Sometimes the process had been easier than others.

Thoughts of her mother filled her now. The serenity of this setting brought back memories of the gentle woman she had been. Katherine knew how
Anyu
would have approved of this trip. She heard her mother’s gentle reminder after James had left: “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Katherine had been guided by those words her entire life, but now, knowing the details of her past, she realized the deep meaning they held for her mother.

Absentmindedly she reached over to stroke Picasso’s back.

I am getting stronger.

It wasn’t that James had walked all over her. He just liked to be in charge, and he did it well. He made all the decisions and she complied. He planned trips and Katherine made the bookings. It seemed to be teamwork. Now she realized it wasn’t.

He moved me like a chess piece. His story became mine. Now I’m rewriting
.

Riding back to the house, she kicked up her speed a notch. Nothing like the powerful bikes she had ridden for years, but still it was satisfying. She missed cycling, she had to admit, and this experience confirmed she would get back into it in Toronto.

The Peugeot survived the workout and in fact gave her a great ride. She gratefully gave it a pat as she put it back in the potting shed. Walking through the garden to the kitchen door, she noticed she had missed a visitor. On the windowsill sat a bouquet of flowers—a colorful and fragrantly exotic mix made up of possibly the most spectacular selection of
blooms she had ever seen. She was not even certain what half of them were.

She had noted cleverly creative bouquets like this in shops in Gordes and Roussillon. With the stems gently twisted and tied, the bouquet sat in a water-filled colored plastic bag that gave the impression of a vase. Picking it up, she breathed in the fragrance and stood for a moment enjoying the blend of colors and textures. Taking the card she discovered tucked in the center, she went into the kitchen and set the flowers on the table. For a moment, but ever so briefly, she remembered the last bouquet she had received and then banished the thought.

The note was simply handwritten.

Marie-Claude was gone and the house was spotless. Katherine had planned to do some laundry in the afternoon and was shocked when she saw her clothes neatly folded on the bed. Done.

The rest of the day was spent reading in the garden, where she immediately noticed the absence of the clinking goat bells. With some surprise, she realized she missed the sound and hoped it would soon return. As dusk fell, she moved to the comfort of the living room.

The evening was devoted to what she thought might be her new addiction: playing bridge on her laptop. Molly had lent her some beginner and intermediate bridge programs by Canadian bridge guru Audrey Grant, and Katherine discovered a keen enjoyment of the game. At home she had even gone so far as to play with real people in online card rooms but still didn’t feel ready to sit down to a serious game otherwise.

After the events of the previous day, Katherine had felt she needed a quiet day off, and this one had been just fine.