Leaving behind a lifetime of memories, all fifty-six years of them, had taken a great deal of reflection. Her childhood had been filled with happy times. As an adult, some of life was painful. Beginning a completely new chapter at her age was a challenge.
There was much that was comforting in her old life, not the least of which were the memories of her deceased parents and their home, which was now hers and rented to a friend. Kat had needed to realize that her close ties to her cousin Andrea and her family, and her childhood friend, Molly, would continue no matter where she lived. Such recognition of that fact was easier said than done.
The love she and Philippe shared had, in the end, helped her find the strength to believe in the choices she was making. Kat had thought long and hard about the meaning of the word “home” before she had the epiphany that her home would be wherever her heart was.
Now she was doing it to herself again, with this self-inflicted crisis about the holidays. She needed to figure out how she could blend the best childhood memories her Hungarian parents created for her and the classic Canadian traditions shared at Andrea’s with the treasured traditions of a Provençal fête de Noël.
It shouldn’t be a problem. So why am I making it one? Why am I having an attack of homesickness even though I love my life here? I’m seriously getting annoyed with myself!
Those reflections were interrupted now by the sudden appearance of two large sticks at her feet. Rococo, as Molly had them all calling the pups collectively, bounced eagerly.
Like Brangelina, you know? Molly had explained.
Kat threw the sticks and chuckled as a pair of brown blurs raced after them.
She walked over to a large pile of evergreen boughs neatly stacked against the side of the house. Philippe had brought them home on the weekend. Breathing in the fresh smell reminded Kat of a heady Christmas potpourri, like the ones her family made during her childhood. It had been her and her father’s tradition to forage in the forest for that year’s potpourri mix, finding treasures to add to the pot.
Kat and Philippe would begin decorating the house for the holidays while Andrew was with them, to continue something Kat and her nephew had shared since his childhood. For a few moments, she imagined how transformed the villa would look after the efforts of all them pitching in.
Okay, Kat, hold on to those thoughts. Pull up those big-girl panties, like Molly said!
4
As Kat waited for the pups to reappear, she welcomed another distraction.
A soft meow drew her eyes to a path leading from the reclaimed herb garden. Kat leaned down, waiting for the large gray tabby to patter over and rub against her legs as she scratched it around the ears. Loud purring immediately filled the air, as the cat arched its back and invited more petting. Its tail switched with contentment.
Belle had appeared on their property in late October. Initially, Kat and Philippe would catch glimpses of her as she faded in and out of the plantings. Gradually, she ventured near when they remained perfectly still and softly called to her. As they gained her confidence, they left food and water on the terrace. Timid at first, she ultimately let down her defenses and became affectionate.
After two weeks of checking around as best they could for evidence of an owner but finding none, they named her Belle and welcomed her to the family. First, Katherine took her to their veterinarian, where she had a flea bath and was carefully checked for any problems. A clean bill of health had been received, with one surprise: Belle was pregnant.
“It’s early,” the vet observed. “I would expect the births in late December or early January. Or we could terminate.”
With one quick phone call, Philippe agreed with Kat that the latter was not an option. “Plus on est de fous, plus on rit,” he said, with a chuckle.
“Is that a yes?” Kat asked.
“Go for it, minou!”
“I take it that means the more, the merrier?” Kat asked, repeating Philippe’s comment to the vet, who spoke very good English.
“Something like that,” was the response.
Katherine grinned all the way home, considering which of their friends might welcome a kitten in the new year.
The pups had accepted this new playmate with their usual exuberant curiosity. As they initially poked and prodded her with their soft noses, they were blissfully unaware that her hissing and spitting was anything more than a game. They seemed not to notice any difference between her and them. In no time, Belle had established her innate feline dominance over the canines. A comfortable cohabitation ensued. Rousing chases throughout the villa became the norm.
Now, with the doors open, Kat busied herself in the kitchen, as always grateful that the dogs were safe and secure inside the fenced property. Familiar thoughts filtered through her head as she left behind her memories of misgivings. I have faith in this new life. We survived the drama last fall. I’m sure this news from Inspecteur Thibideau won’t be as bad as all that. How could it?
Calling in the pups, she tucked her to-do list in the pocket of her jeans. Looking like one big brown blob, Coco and Rocco were tugging on a shared item. When they reached Kat, she grabbed at what appeared to be a dirty rag and quickly became the third player in their tug of war.
She issued several commands of “Laissez tomber! Drop it!”
When they finally obeyed, Kat realized she was holding a filthy, tattered t-shirt that appeared to be bloodstained. Holding it delicately between her thumb and finger, she deposited it in a trash can around the side of the house.
Ew! Where on earth did they find that? More importantly, how did it get there? As she scrubbed her hands at the sink, her thoughts went back to the stirring she thought she saw in the bushes earlier.
After slurping great quantities of water, the dogs looked expectantly at Kat. Cocking their heads, they implored her with their most irresistible big-eyed expressions of hope.
“Sorry, I have to go without you, but we’ll have a long walk later, I promise.”
As she gave them the hand signal to go into their crates, Kat felt badly about leaving them. She always did. But the pups settled in with acquiescing sighs, flopping down for naps as she bolted the crates’ doors.
“Å bientôt, mes petits chiots,” Kat said, as she left the room with two sets of limpid eyes following her every move.
5
Kat phoned Simone, and after a brief chat they agreed Kat would stop by on her way back from the market.
“En fait, that’s better than coming right now. I’m up to my elbows in paint at the moment. I will be able to finish up this little problem I’m attempting to repair on a new canvas and be all cleaned up when you arrive … avec un peu de chance …”
Kat chuckled to herself as she heard the strains of Bob Dylan in the background singing “The First Noel.” I’ll have to ask Simone about that.
Dylan’s songs were Simone’s go-to musical accompaniment when she painted. That had been Katherine’s discovery on the day they met, when Simone’s pet donkey, Victor Hugo, had led Kat to find Simone accidentally locked inside her studio.
It was the beginning of what quickly became a close friendship. It was not unusual to find Simone daubed with paint splatters at any time of day.
“Your madeleines will be waiting, chérie,” Simone chirped, her voice full of its usual energy. “I’ve just taken them out of the oven.”
Katherine smiled to herself and shook her head in wonder at how Simone managed to do more than most women half her age.
“I can taste them already,” Katherine assured her. “I should be there in about two hours. May I collect anything for you from the market or in the village?”
“Non, merci. À tout à l’heure!”
“Oui, see you soon!” Katherine smiled as she hung up. It always amazed her how Simone was seldom in need of anything despite rarely leaving her property. The woman had connections.
A chat with Simone, no matter how brief, was always a tonic.
Katherine jott
ed a few reminders on her slip of paper, tucked it back in her pocket, and picked up her panier. The woven market basket with its strong leather shoulder handles was a treasured possession and was becoming well worn. She’d purchased it the first day she and Molly had arrived in Antibes.
Was it really just a year ago last August? she reflected as she headed for the door. The days seemed to fly by faster and faster, and she wondered if it was her age or the fact that every day here was different than the one before. For so many years her life had followed the same routine and often seemed to drag. Not anymore.
Her hand went to the phone that she had dropped into her panier. Please call soon, chouchou. I don’t want this worry to hang over me all morning. I’m glad I’m not seeing Simone until I know what’s going on. I don’t want to have to pretend that nothing is bothering me. Besides, she would see through me in an instant.
Kat took a heavy, knitted green sweater off a hook by the side door. Then she loosely wrapped a long multicolored scarf around her neck, in case the weather changed. She picked up her camera, her constant companion, from its usual spot by the door.
As she walked out to her car, she smiled as she did whenever she looked at it. Philippe had outdone himself when he gave her that as his wedding present.
This vintage pale blue Citroën 2CV, with its authentic rust spots and dents, was perfect for zipping around narrow streets and for parking.
He had presented it to her in a hilarious fashion. As they’d casually walked by the parking lot next to the marché after meeting for lunch a week after their wedding, he pointed to the row of parked cars and said, “If you could choose one of those cars, mon amour, which would it be?”
Katherine’s eyes immediately went to this obviously past-its-prime 2CV, and she pointed. “Pas de compétition! No contest!” Philippe had looked at Kat with a crooked grin.
“You don’t have to worry about anything when you drive this deudeuche,” he had replied, dangling the keys in front of her.
Kat remembered how she had gaped at him in astonishment. He did surprises better than anyone.
Now Kat patted the steering wheel lovingly. She returned her thoughts to the present as she started the engine.
Rolling down her window, she stopped at the stable a short distance from the villa.
A long, two-story structure, it matched the villa with its aged sandstone walls and terra-cotta roof tiles—or what was left of them. At one time in its storied existence, there had been six horse stalls, a supply and tack room, and a carriage shed. But for the many decades since the property had fallen into disrepair, the horses had been replaced by homeless drifters seeking shelter.
With the remodeling underway, she could once again imagine its potential—and its past. Kat and Philippe treasured a few fragile sepia prints that showed images of men and women in elegant attire from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century arriving at the property in carriages and preparing for an equestrian event on the expansive grounds. Much of the land on the Cap at that time was still held in large pastoral parcels.
Those images often floated into her mind when she looked at the work in progress. Eventually, there would be four comfortable suites, along with a salon with a kitchen, where private parties or dinners could be hosted.
“Coucou! Bonne journée, messieurs!” she called out to the crew who were replacing tiles on the roof of the structure.
The men cheerily responded.
She surmised that Auguste, the gentle giant, must be working inside. She had a special soft spot for him that had grown, as he spent a great deal of time helping in the gardens after his day’s work was done. It was clear he had a connection to the soil, often speaking poetically about working with it. In his delightfully accented English, he paraphrased Kipling, “Gardens are not made by sitting in the shade,” and Victor Hugo, “the Spirit is a garden.”
Kat thought about Auguste as she drove down their long lane. During the summer, he had asked if he could work on the border beds in the evenings as a personal project. Kat and Philippe often toiled side-by-side with him. Now, where weeds once flourished and shrubs and bushes used to tangle together in an almost impenetrable jungle, a clear vision of orderly plantings had emerged.
She and Philippe had traded comments more than once, only half joking about the idea of Auguste becoming a full-time gardener when construction on the stable was finished. Resurrecting the large overgrown potager behind the villa was high on Kat’s priorities in the spring. And chickens! Yes!
Kat wound her way through the neighborhood on a narrow street and down a steep hill to the coast. The strong scent of pine mixed with salty air wafted in through her open window, carried by a light breeze off the sea.
A broad smile lit her face as she took in the familiar scene. I should be on my bike, not in the car.
The sun glistened on the azure waves, calm and serene this morning.
The predicted storm had not materialized. This typically perfect Côte d’Azur day did not have the feel of less than four weeks before Christmas.
Christmas … Noël—our first Noël at the villa … I will make it special … I will!
Kat succumbed to her memories and let them settle inside her, without feeling quite so anxious this time.
Although I still can’t quite shake my worries. I’ll keep working on it like I promised Molly.
Recollections flooded back of the family traditions that had made all the Christmases of her childhood so special. Baking traditional recipes from the “old country,” as her mother called it, filling the house with real pine boughs and cedar ropes, and sitting by the fire wrapping Hungarian candies in brightly colored foil to hang on the tree.
But most of all was the memory, from when she was very young, of her parents decorating the tree on Christmas Eve after she was asleep so she could believe that the angels had done it. Even after she was old enough to know the truth, a magical feeling always lingered over their glistening tree.
After the wartime horrors her parents had endured in Hungary, they wanted to ensure that their only daughter grew up with love and happy memories.
Then a nasty memory of her ex, James, inserted itself. Not until after they had married did he disclose that he never liked Christmas. He discouraged her from decorating the house as she wanted or planning elaborate presents. Instead, Kat would spend time with her parents or at the St. Jacobs farm of her cousin Andrea to get her fix of Christmas spirit.
As bittersweet as those thoughts were, she was all the more grateful that Philippe shared her eagerness to embrace the holiday together.
6
At this early hour, and it not being a street market day, there was still plenty of parking in the old town.
On market days, boisterous crowds jammed the rows between vendors, searching for bargains. Stalls overflowed with clothing, shoes, jewelry, leather goods, pots, pans, and kitchenware, along with miscellaneous music and video items and an assortment of bras in remarkable sizes, patterns, and colors—which always amused Kat. She loved to loiter, discreetly taking photos of the carnival atmosphere, and could always count on an irresistible image to capture.
Kat walked through the small garden behind the carousel, still locked and silent for another hour. Soon enough, its lively soundtrack would fill the air while excited preschoolers waited for their turn to ride the wooden animals.
There had been some talk of replacing the vintage original with its cheery hand-painted panels of local scenes. But the outcry had been so loud that they had continued to patch and repair the carousel, and somehow kept the outdated mechanical parts operating.
She noticed all the flowerbeds had been cleared of dead plants in the past few days and winter mulch spread around. A simple bouquet of daisies lay at the foot of the Martyrs de la Résistance memorial. Kat paused, always touched by the sculpture. She wondered who was being remembered with the flowers today.
Or is it a general remembrance and gratitude to all who gave their lives fo
r France through the wars? The French are so thoughtful about this. They keep their history alive—it goes straight to my heart …
As she passed some restaurants, she waved to the waiters setting up tables and chairs in front of the taupe-and-honey-toned village buildings along Rue de la République. They would interrupt their good-natured banter to offer cheery “Bonjour, madame” greetings.
Heaters were being placed amongst the tables and blankets folded over each chair. As long as the current temperatures did not drop dramatically, people would continue to sit outside.
The winter appearance of the village was still a bit of a shock to her, even though it was her second year experiencing it. After the abundance of colorful gardens in the boulevards, flowering shrubs and trees, and overflowing hanging baskets throughout the town, it all looked stark now. The trees had lost their leaves. Bare limbs stretched skyward. Some might consider it depressing.
But Kat found other details attractive in spite of the lack of color. To her eye, peeling paint and crumbling plaster only added to the character of the streets. As she strolled the streets, she loved to visually caress the timeworn buildings with their shuttered windows and centuries-old doors. With her camera lens, she captured what she considered beautiful and intriguing. But she knew that this feeling was not shared by everyone who dwelled here.
Living in these buildings that pleased her so was not easy in many respects: ancient plumbing, wiring, and other essentials were often issues. Constant maintenance was required, and there was no shortage of work for tradesmen.
In the coming days, a different look would brighten the village as holiday festivities approached. Work crews were beginning to hang lights in the leafless trees. Construction was finishing up on the peaked-roof huts for the Marché de Noël that would fill the square by the end of the week. Kat found herself hoping that winter weather would accompany the celebrations.
The First Noël at the Villa des Violettes Page 3
