The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (23 page)

24

Wednesday morning Katherine began to organize her clothes and pack what she knew she wouldn’t need until Paris.

In the late afternoon, Joy collected her, and they drove to a nearby but secluded studio where five generations of the gifted Lalonde family had worked with olive wood to create beautiful bowls, platters, cutting boards, and other items.

Walking into the shop, Katherine felt overwhelmed by the warm shades and textures of the wood filling the space, creating a sense of tranquility. The sizes and shapes of the bowls were surprising. It wasn’t until she watched a video, playing on a flatscreen on the wall, that she understood how the initial crafting began with painstaking labor a hundred years ago, and more recently, with a chainsaw.

She chose a number of cheeseboards, each one an original piece of art in her opinion and yet so reasonably priced. They would be perfect gifts and easy to pack. Kat checked another item off her to-do list.

During the drive back, the women chatted easily.

Katherine’s curiosity could not be contained as she asked, “Philippe has been very thoughtful. Does he have a family?”

“Philippe was widowed six years ago. His wife, Genevi
è
ve, battled a virulent strain of leukemia for many years, but sadly it took her. He has struggled with his grief as he devoted himself to raising their daughter, who was fifteen at the time. Now she is a university student in Paris and goes to England in the summers to work in a business owned by a family they have known for a very long time. She’s a lovely young woman.”

“I’m so sorry for his loss.”

“He is a fine person,” Joy continued, “who made an interesting choice as a young man to carry on the tradition of his father, and grandfather, and become
un fromager
. He went to university and could have chosen any career path, but this is his passion.”

“Quite a fascinating choice,” said Katherine, “but of course not unusual in France, I guess.”

Joy laughed. “Precisely. You know the saying, I’m sure. The Holy Trinity in France is
le pain, le vin, et le fromage
. Some like to say
le pain, le vin, et le Boursin
because it rhymes. Boursin had a very clever advertising campaign like that years ago. But some cheese snobs turn their noses up at Boursin.”

“Mmm, I love it!” Katherine said, and Joy nodded in agreement.

As Joy was dropping her off, Katherine mentioned that she was going to the concert at the church that evening, and Joy assured her it would be special.

“You will truly enjoy it. I usually attend but I have a conflict this evening,
désolée
.”

Katherine drove herself to the chapel a half hour early and was surprised to see the large turnout, knowing there was little room for a crowd inside.

Mirella greeted her at the door of the chapel, where she was handing out programs, and responded to Katherine’s puzzled question by explaining that the courtyard at the back of the church was opened on such occasions with outdoor seating, speakers, and a large flatscreen.

“Even here at a fifteenth-century chapel, the digital world has invaded,” she said, sighing.

Philippe was already there and stood to greet her. The small wooden chairs, their frames rubbed smooth by the hands of the faithful through several hundred years of use, barely accommodated today’s larger-framed bodies, but somehow they were still comfortable.

As the lights dimmed, Mirella slipped in beside Katherine and the music began, with candles casting an almost eerie glow.

The piano, Philippe had explained, once belonged to Pablo Picasso and now his daughter. She loaned it to the community every year for this concert. The visiting Russian pianist had been a guest artist for years and was much loved and respected. And talented.

The experience of sitting in this darkened chapel where people had prayed, mourned, and celebrated for almost six hundred years was nearly overwhelming. Despite her lack of religious beliefs, Kat was always touched by the atmosphere of such churches.

When the final notes were played, the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause that morphed into rhythmic clapping, traditional of French audiences wishing an encore.

The artist acknowledged the response and said he would like to invite a visiting friend to join him. This man was a well-known religious singer, also Russian, whose name was obviously familiar to many in the crowd. The applause was warm.

As the first notes played, Katherine knew what was coming and steeled herself. Now that she knew her mother’s story, certain religious pieces moved her to tears as they had her mom, and this was one.

The singer’s voice was magic. Pure, clear notes, sung in Latin, filled the entire chapel and seemed to embrace the congregation.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena
. . .”

Katherine swallowed hard, blinking back tears, but emotion overtook her and she wept. Quietly. As she fumbled in her purse for a tissue, Philippe handed a handkerchief to her with a questioning look. She accepted the offer gratefully and nodded her head to indicate she really was not in distress. Rather than fight it, she allowed her tears to flow in appreciation of the depth to which she was touched by the experience.

As people began to file out of the chapel, Mirella and Philippe turned to Katherine with concern.

“I’m sorry. I cry whenever I hear such deeply religious music. It touches my soul and I weep. But I’m fine. Really. I just had to let it go because I knew I couldn’t stop it.”

Relieved there was no problem, Mirella suggested they go out to the square for a coffee or glass of wine. It seemed as though the entire village was out there, and the perfect evening air was filled with laughter and chatter.

“Mirella, thank you so much for the opportunity to hear this concert. It was a wonderful experience.”

Philippe nodded in agreement. “No matter how often I attend concerts in these ancient churches, the effect is almost visceral—the acoustics, the ambiance, the centuries of history that cannot be denied, combined with the music . . . it touches the soul in a way that has nothing to do with religion.”

“So true. These days, the prime function of most churches here is hosting musical events,” Mirella told Katherine.

Over coffee, Katherine disclosed how her mother had often become teary when she heard religious music or tolling church bells.

“Until I read the story she wrote for me of her experience during the war, I had no idea why she reacted as she did. Now I understand, and I weep for her.”

Mirella nodded. “Many of us carry scars from those years. We buried them or covered them with makeup rather than acknowledging the imprint they left on our souls. It seemed easier that way. You were right to remind us to record those stories. Since you told us your mother’s story, I have begun to write the story of my own family during our dark time. Thank you for that.”

Philippe looked at both of them. “Women connect about these issues. I’m impressed.”

Mirella responded with a serious expression, “You know, Philippe, French women of my age do not tend to have close relationships. It was Joy and her English upbringing that brought such a friendship to my life, and what we have shared is irreplaceable!”

Katherine thought how she was just beginning to appreciate the deeper friendship of the few women in her life.

“It’s too bad you haven’t met her husband,” Philippe told Katherine as he nodded his head toward Mirella. “He’s a fine man, and together they provide the most entertaining times. They make a conversation about a potted plant an event!”

Chuckling, Mirella added, “But this is the point of conversation,
non
?”

There’s that
plaisir
attitude again.

Katherine knew Mirella’s husband was in Asia on business, and they spoke a while about his travels. Then Philippe and Mirella commented on some local political issues, with regional elections approaching, before they wished each other
à bientôt
as they
bised
and left as they had come.

Picasso was on guard duty by the front door, and Katherine laughed out loud as she scratched behind his ears and hugged him. “Pico, how am I going to say good-bye to you? That is not going to be easy.”

He cocked his head and perked up his ears, giving her the look that always made her grin.

25

Sad that this was her last visit to the local market, Katherine vowed to visit the St. Lawrence market at home more often.

Adding three jars of lavender honey to her basket, her next stop was the herb seller, whose long table blazed with vivid color and filled the air with a bouquet of fragrantly pungent smells that was almost hallucinogenic. Here she chose three mixtures prepared by the woman whose flamboyant makeup and dresses were as colorful as her wares. One packet was for preparing fish dishes, another for Mediterranean salads, and the last for lamb.

As she lingered, she was reminded of the word
“la garrigue,”
which Joy had used to describe the combination of earthy, herbal, floral, and other scents found in the Provençal markets. It was unique and something she felt she would not forget.

Her last stop was the soap vendor. Again, the vibrant and fragrant display of the famous
savon de Marseille
, oils and creams, caressed her senses. She wasn’t certain how many dozens of photos she had taken here. It was difficult to control the impulse again as she added a dozen bars of her favorite soaps—honey, lavender, rose, jasmine—to the
panier
. Some would be for her and some for gifts.

I wonder if that will last until my next visit to France
. She reminded herself that the way the world was now, she could buy those soaps at home too.
Not the same, just not the same . . .

Taking her time to enjoy every detail of the vendors and stalls, each equally enticing, Katherine captured it all yet again with her camera. There were always new angles and different perspectives to discover.

She planned to make a photo book.

The first book without James
, she thought, gripped for a moment with an odd feeling that was somewhat like regret, which she quickly shook off . . .

A
crème
at Le Petit Café, delivered with a nod and a subtle smile from the waiter, made her morning.

After some journaling time and lunch in the garden, Katherine climbed on the rusting Peugeot. She had marked out a route on her map and, at roughly three hours including a lunch stop, this would be her longest ride.

Picasso had been pacing with anticipation. As soon as he saw the bike come out of the shed, he knew something was up.

Placing two water bottles, a container of water for the dog, and a tube of sunscreen in the rear basket along with a wedge of nicely ripe Brie and three figs, she was set.

“A few biscuits for Picoboy!
D’accord?
” she asked, causing warp-speed tail wagging.

A little concerned her legs were not in shape for this challenge, Katherine took time to stretch before she set off. This time she had her cell phone with Joy’s number plugged into it, just in case. She knew now there were infrequent local buses with bike racks on the front, and she certainly did not discount this option.

The day was as perfect as the others had been. She counted the fine weather among the many blessings reflected upon as she pedaled. With the breeze caressing her on this relaxed first leg of her route, she ran her mind over each day since her arrival.

Everything in Provence seemed to speak directly to her heart. She felt different here, changed somehow, and removed from the sadness that still lived within her orbit in Toronto.

People here like me for me . . . as I am right now. They don’t know my past, just my present.

She wondered if she should sell her parents’ home. As much as she loved that sweet house and all the good memories of her childhood, sadness dwelt there too. Maybe it was time to move on, literally and figuratively.

Her job was satisfying and challenging. She would not change that.

Breathing heavily as she put greater effort into a series of small inclines, her mind continued to replay her life.

As the kilometers rolled by, so did her thoughts, leaving a trail of broken memories while she rode toward bright possibilities. It felt at first cleansing and then almost as if a door was opening to a future she could not see before, like some sort of epiphany. Somehow this trip was offering her the promise of a new beginning.

Cresting another hill, the perfect spot for a rest presented itself.

“Que penses-tu, Pico? C’est bien ici?”
she asked.

Picasso followed Katherine onto a grassy patch and lapped his water with gusto after she put the container on the ground.

Katherine removed her helmet, giving her head a good scratch. Patting down the grass, she settled her back against a rock while Picasso had an energetic roll in the shade of a nearby plane tree.

She unwrapped her figs and cheese, and alternated bites, savoring the delicious combination. Until this trip, she had not been particularly fond of figs. What a discovery they had been here. Never fresher, their luscious velvety sweetness combined with the light crunchiness of the tiny seeds to produce a subtle flavor Kat decided was almost orgasmic.

Now, there’s a word that hasn’t crossed my mind for a very long time.

She thought about how she had put the prospect of making love out of her head for all those months. It’s not like she never wanted it to happen again. She just couldn’t imagine ever allowing herself to get that close to any other man.
Why risk the hurt?

The warmth of the sun and the buzz she was feeling from cycling turned her thoughts to fantasy as she rested on the soft grass and breathed the fragrance of the air.

What a perfect place this would be . . . right here . . . this moment . . .

She surprised herself even more by enjoying the sensations spreading up her legs and inside her to a spot that was almost climactic. Running her hands over her breasts and down to rest between her legs, she finally admitted she missed making love. Letting out a long sigh, she reveled in the fantasy a few seconds more.

It would not have happened here with James. He had never been impulsive in that way. There might be bugs or dirt, or someone might have seen them. She could just hear him now.

The thought of him burst the fantasy bubble, and she popped the final piece of fig into her mouth, followed by a bite of cheese. The wedge of Brie had ripened even more in the warm morning sun as it sat in the basket.
Perfect.

Philippe had recommended that particular Brie for figs and for a sensual moment she held on to thoughts of him as her fantasy was fading.

Too bad I’m leaving so soon.

Kat tossing Pico a biscuit from time to time, the two stayed as they were for some time.

I wonder when I’ll be back here
. . . if ever.

From somewhere inside, a little voice told her that the choice was hers. Hers alone. She liked it.

Licking the cheese from her fingers, she used some of her water to clean her hands and splash on her face.

Time to head back.

Consulting her map again, she was quite certain of the route after all the driving around she had done.

It was time for Zaz on the iPod.

The chorus resonated as Katherine kept hitting “Repeat” and sang along, her voice floating over the fields and through the woods.

Indeed she did wish for love, joy, good feelings. It wasn’t money that made her happy. She was discovering her freedom. Forget the clichés.

Welcome to my reality, my new reality.

She sighed.
If only it were
.