That must be my Canadian nature—if I can’t have snow for Christmas, at least I want it to be cold.
Passing the grocery store, she remembered she needed to pick up some milk and popped in. She responded to Albert’s greeting in the produce department and that of Emilie, stocking shelves, as she entered. Then, with a wry grin, she thought how the dulcet tone of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” was hardly appropriate seasonal music for a little French town.
Didn’t Charles Aznavour or Johnny Hallyday record Christmas songs? Or Edith Piaf? Why are they playing English Christmas songs in France?
A few steps away, she joined the pâtisserie lineup that stretched well out the door of the shop.
“Bonjour, madame,” Katherine greeted Madame LaFontaine, the local couturière, as she stood behind her. She received the same in return, accompanied by a warm smile and the standard bise.
They had gotten to know each other when Katherine visited her shop to have some cushions recovered. Since she first arrived in Antibes, Kat took great pleasure in stopping to admire the seamstress’s enticing window displays.
Inside, there was a mesmerizing collection of rolled bolts leaning against textured stone walls. Colorful satins, velvets, and weaves mixed with rich jacquard-style brocades. Cushions of every size were stacked alongside baskets filled with all types of finishing essentials like braiding, ribbons, fringes, and tassels. Vintage lace was gracefully looped over hanging bars, and Madame’s collection of antique thimbles was showcased in a glass curio cabinet.
The conversation on that first visit had resulted in Kat hiring Madame LaFontaine to make draperies for the Villa des Violettes. She had delighted Katherine and Philippe with the results.
“Any news about your parking space and the gift those ubiquitous Romans left you?” the seamstress now inquired, a twinkle in her eye. “You must be eager to greet your first guests?” News traveled fast in this village.
As Katherine told her about the letter from the mairie, the woman’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Ah, bon! Je suis contente!”
Katherine already had a sentimental connection to this woman, who like so many older French women was of seemingly indeterminate age. Madame LaFontaine reminded her of her own mother, Elisabeth, as Kat had watched her pale, delicate fingers hand stitch so deftly.
As a child, Katherine sat spellbound by her anyu’s side. Her eyes followed every delicate movement as her mother worked her magic with a needle and thread. Kat always felt a twinge of guilt for having no interest in sewing. It had been her mother’s life work, but she had not inherited that gene.
Kat swallowed a lump of emotion as the memory threatened to bring tears, coming as suddenly and unexpectedly as it did. Elisabeth’s peaceful passing just a year and half before was still painful. Their last few months together had been special in so many ways. Kat was thankful she had moved back into her childhood home after James left. Sharing the intimacy of daily life with her mother once again had allowed her to be touched by her mother’s wisdom. Elisabeth had often told her how she appreciated the unexpected opportunity to live together again. She knew her mother had gifted her with the strength to change her life in that short space of time.
As the line edged closer to the counter, Kat exchanged more greetings, welcoming the interruption to her thoughts. Delicious aromas drifted from the open ovens at the back of the bakery, wrapping her in a warm embrace.
Trays of exquisitely buttery, flaky croissants, pain aux chocolat, pain aux raisins, palmiers, rustic baguettes, batards, and delicate pâtisserie were quickly emptied into the glass-fronted shelves in orderly rows. Even after a year of living in France, Kat still remarked on the appealing way the French displayed absolutely everything. It was something she felt she always would appreciate.
She noted that sprigs of holly dotted the shelves. Twinkling fairy lights were strung around the countertops. The Christmas spirit was in full view here. She so wanted it all to make her smile.
After carefully placing her purchase of a baguette and a box of mixed pastries in her panier, Kat felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her jeans. She quickly bade her own bonne journée to everyone in the shop and hurried outside.
Seeing the call was from Philippe, her words were rushed. “Chou! Dis-moi. Tell me. Please.”
Philippe paused before responding. Katherine held her breath. She had been attempting to keep this call from taking over her thoughts ever since Philippe left the house. Just thinking about that terrifying situation last year caused her stomach to tie in knots. The whole thing had been so surreal.
Philippe spoke slowly. “It’s both good and bad news. Dimitri and Igor were killed in a mob shoot-out near Moscow. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Idelle has been spotted in Paris and—”
Kat’s voice was shaky as she interrupted. “And what? Mon Dieu, Philippe! Should we be worried?”
“Inspecteur Thibideau feels we are in no danger. He promised his people are on the case. Idelle will be escorted from France if she is caught, though she is currently being very elusive. He doesn’t think she will stay in France very long, though.”
Kat muttered an oath under her breath. Her ensuing silence spoke volumes.
“Minou, I feel Idelle will not come near us. Thibideau stressed she doesn’t seem to be involved in the drug world now that Dimitri is gone. She’s a wealthy widow who appears to be living a quiet life under the radar in Russia. She also knows she is not part of our lives, after what happened last year. We must carry on as we normally do.”
“That may be easier said than done,” she murmured, feeling nauseous. Something in Philippe’s voice did not sound right. “What else? I can sense there’s more.”
“I’ll tell you when I see you at the marché in half an hour. We will slip into the café and talk. Just don’t worry. Ne t’inquiète pas.”
In spite of his reassurances, the fact that he was holding back was unsettling.
They hung up, and Katherine sank onto a bench by the still-silent carousel. Exhaling, she raked her fingers through her hair and clasped her hands behind her head. She leaned back and lost herself in a swirl of memories.
She thought about the lesson in forgiveness she had learned last year. She had been heartsick that Philippe was keeping secrets from her. He had never lied to her, but rather had not disclosed everything about his past. In the end, she realized he was trying to protect her. Once the truth was laid bare, forgiveness followed. They had become strong together. The truth tends to make that happen.
Staying on the bench for several minutes, she tried not to focus on the undercurrent of uncertainty she detected in Philippe’s voice. There was no question she was concerned.
7
Finally, Katherine blew out another long sigh and stood up. Her favorite café was across the square.
A creamy café au lait might be just what I need.
On her way, she waved at Beau the butcher through his shop window, another colorful village personality. As well as being a maître boucher, his contagious laugh and long history in town made every visit to his sawdust-strewn shop an occasion for the latest entertaining gossip.
Walking across the square, she paused to read the schedule of upcoming events and watched lights being artistically strung across the ornate bandstand, a replica of one that had stood there a hundred years before.
In spite of Philippe’s reassurances, she realized she was fighting the urge to check over her shoulder as she entered the café.
“Bonjour, madame! Comme toujours?” The owner greeted her from behind the bar.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Oui, merci.”
As she sat at her table by the window, Kat enjoyed the comfortable feeling of such familiarity. She loved how people addressed each other as madame and monsieur. Last names were not necessary. This courtesy was ingrained in the French culture, as she was constantly reminded.
She picked up a copy of the morning edition of Nice-Matin from the newspaper stand by the bar
and began working her way through the day’s news. Her French comprehension was coming along, but there were still plenty of challenges. She figured her private weekly language lessons would never come to an end. She opened the French/English app on her phone.
A half hour passed quickly. Without any traffic problems, Philippe would be back at the market by now. He kept a supply of work clothes in their storage locker and would be ready to help Gilles, his good friend and market partner, serve customers in no time.
The melodic chimes of Kat’s cell phone rang as she was putting away the paper and preparing to leave. It was Molly calling.
“I hope you didn’t think I was taking your concerns too lightly last night,” she said without preamble.
“Oh, Molly, you should still be sleeping! Talking to you was the best thing. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I thought I’d be able to call you back tonight, but Tony let me know last night we’ve had to switch days helping at the shelter. I’ve got to buzz over there for the day, and then serve dinner to the crowd of usual suspects. I just woke up for a glass of water and decided to call. Couldn’t stop thinking about your state of mind and also about Philippe’s meeting this morning.”
Molly and her partner, Tony, otherwise known as Father Anthony DeCarlo, organized a downtown shelter for street kids and other homeless people. It was a labor of love they built into their busy lives. Tony, formerly a Catholic priest, had been asked to leave the church when he refused to end his relationship with Molly. Now he was the popular Anglican minister of a large congregation. Molly was a music teacher during the day and featured singer at local jazz club The Blue Note on the weekends.
“Well, that’s a frickin’ nuisance!” she said, after Kat brought her up to date on what was going on with the drug cartel. “But ain’t it the way—just when everything seems to be moving along nicely, boom! There’s always something.”
Molly’s advice was to stay calm and wait until Philippe could share the full story. “Remember, it all ended in a bit of a fizzle last time, thanks to the cops being on the job.”
“You’re right. And I’m on my way to the marché now to meet Philippe to talk more. He should be there soon.” Kat hesitated.
“Okay, so how are you feeling about your jingle-bell jitters this morning?” Molly asked.
Kat snorted. Trust Molly to come up with something like that.
“Somewhat better since our chat, but I’m still struggling, when I let it get to me … ”
“That’s not like you. Hoist those panties, like I said. And do your thing, Katski. I want pictures! We’ll talk next week—unless you decide to have a meltdown, ’cause you know I have to be present for that on FaceTime.”
It took Kat a moment to stop laughing. “Thanks, you! I promise all those things and will send pictures. Now go back to sleep.”
“Will do! Ciao, bella!”
Molly’s call back could not have been timed better. Just what I needed …
She straightened her back purposefully. Her panier on her shoulder, she hurried through the narrow cobbled streets that led to the daily Provençal market. These streets had enchanted and entranced her when she first arrived in Antibes, and still she felt that same attraction, no matter how many times she walked them. It was all part of the inexplicable magnetism that was her love for France. The fact that this country was now her home always gave her goosebumps.
She had learned a lot of lessons about the meaning of the word “home” as she wrestled with moving her life from Canada after she fell in love with Philippe. But, in this technology-powered world that enables people to stay in touch no matter where they live, she could keep her close connections with loved ones no matter where she was.
Home is where my heart is had become her mantra. But from time to time she faltered a little. Transferring your life from one country to another wasn’t always the easiest thing, no matter how badly you wanted it.
There are moments—with language, unfamiliar traditions, missing friends, bureaucracy … No question, having a French husband helps.
The sun was well up now, and the old town was beginning to come alive as shutters were opened, doorways were swept, and greetings were exchanged. Locals, up early to miss the crowd at the marché, were already making their way home with bulging paniers and pull carts.
A few years ago, the carts would not have been seen in such numbers, but their popularity was growing, particularly amongst the elderly. It was another change in the traditional way of life in France that Kat lamented, in spite of understanding that change was often for the better.
Putting on a smile, she tried to appear relaxed. She greeted the vendors she knew so well now and immersed herself in finding what she needed for the day’s menu she had planned.
After checking her list, she stopped first at the selection of greens displayed in their attractive wicker baskets. Then she moved on to other vegetables and fruits. Cheese, of course, would be delivered personally by her favorite fromager, and she would collect the flowers and fish after meeting him for coffee—and reassurance, she hoped.
Kat smiled, seeing the line already formed at Philippe’s counter. She stood back and watched him. A little frisson of pleasure ran through her. His handsome profile and striking dark eyes had not lost any of the allure they’d held for her from the first day they were introduced in Antibes. Sixteen months ago, to be exact, she told herself. The day they instantly realized they actually had met two months earlier in Sainte Mathilde. The memory of that coincidence would never fade.
She admitted often to herself what pleasure she received just from looking at him. Knowing he was as exquisite a man on the inside caused Kat to wonder how she had fallen upon such good luck.
Philippe leaned across the counter toward an elderly gentleman wearing a worn, weathered beret. In his outstretched hand he held a piece of paper on which sat a wedge of cheese. He and his customer engaged in an intense discussion over it. It was a déjà vu moment, right back to that first day. Her smile deepened as Kat recognized the intensity in Philippe’s eyes and expression. It’s all about cheese. He takes it to another dimension.
Plying his trade was Philippe’s passion. No question about that. She admired the pride he took in setting up the displays on his stand, like an artist composing a still life. Cheese was arranged not simply by taste and terroir but also by colors, shapes, and textures. All presented in ways that captured eyes and tempted taste buds.
Gilles waved to Kat. She motioned that he shouldn’t interrupt Philippe and indicated she would be waiting for her husband at the café at the edge of the marché. Gilles gave her a thumbs-up.
As she ordered her second café au lait of the morning, Kat chuckled at how she had gotten used to this coffee drink in France. She still needed to add sugar, but her early yearnings for the café mochas of her years in Toronto had faded.
In a matter of minutes, Philippe had slipped into the chair across the table from Kat. She was studying photos on her phone as he leaned over and kissed her cheeks. Her lifelong hobby of photography had blossomed into something more serious in Antibes. She now exhibited and sold some of her work in a local gallery. In addition, she and Philippe had plans to set up a website about cheese, and she was working on images to use for that.
As Kat looked up, a stray lock of ash-blonde hair fell over her face.
Philippe trailed his fingers along the side of her face, tucking the strand of hair behind her ear before stroking her cheek with his thumb. She took his hand and kissed his palm.
“You’re already worrying about this,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes.”
She nodded silently.
“I’m here to instruct you to stop that immediately,” he said, in a tone Kat recognized as almost teasing. “This is not going to involve us.”
He stopped, raised his eyebrows, and gave her a hard look that said, “Tu m’écoute, minou? Are you hearing me?”
Katherine raised her eyebrows back and asked,
“How can you be so certain?”
“Here’s what happened. On a hunch, I called my cousin Denise in Lyon while I was in the inspecteur’s office. At first, Denise pretended not to have heard anything about Idelle since you and I visited Lyon last year. When I told her where I was calling from, she spilled beans all over the place.”
Katherine laughed in spite of herself. “She spilled the beans. That’s good. But what beans?”
Philippe smirked. Kat suspected he butchered some English expressions purely to entertain her.
“Denise confirmed that Idelle had been in touch with her sister, Denise’s mother, who was rushed to a clinic in Paris last month. She is quite ill. However, tests are still being done. Denise hadn’t told us anything because she was waiting until they knew something specific.”
“That’s terrible,” Kat murmured. “I’m so sorry.” She and Philippe had spent one weekend in Lyon with his cousin and her husband for the spectacular Fête des Lumières, and Kat liked them very much.
Philippe nodded. “Apparently, two weeks ago Idelle showed up at the clinic in Paris to be with her sister. Idelle wants to pay all expenses and take her sister to a hospital in Switzerland.”
It was Kat’s turn to nod. “That doesn’t sound like the evil side she showed us. It’s like this is just about the two sisters … and maybe nothing else. That would be a relief. I’ll try to convince myself of that.”
“Yes. Inspecteur Thibideau all but promised me that Idelle is not involved in any criminal activity. She knows what a close call she had while she was under Dimitri’s control. He said she is out of that life altogether, and you know the narcotics department surveillance is topnotch.”
Katherine noticed Philippe’s jaw tighten and his eyes cloud slightly. “There’s one more thing, though.”
He took Kat’s hands in his. Her breathing caught. What now?
“Apparently, something was tossed overboard just as the sting was going down last year. There’s some concern there may be an attempt to recover it by whoever is in charge of the cartel now. Undercover has picked up some talk about it—a large sum of money.”
The First Noël at the Villa des Violettes Page 4
