A surge of love rushed through Kat, as she thought about her cousin, Andrea, Terrence, and their three children. Just months apart in age, Andrea and Kat had been the closest of friends since birth.
When it gradually became apparent, in the early years of her first marriage, that Kat could not conceive, Andrea’s daughter and two sons had filled that gap, as best as could be. A deeply rooted ache had a permanent place in Katherine’s heart about that disappointment in her life. Most often, she did not let her thoughts dwell there.
James had been painfully indifferent to Kat’s feelings throughout their marriage. She had embraced her niece and nephews with all her heart, and they loved her in a special way, too.
“Your brother and sister could not have cared less, but you have biking in your blood! We’ve had some good rides through the years. You’re going to love it here.”
Andrew smiled as they remembered past adventures, and he gave Kat a hug. “My favorite aunt!”
She laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Your only aunt!”
He hugged her closer. “Doesn’t matter … you’ve always been such a special part of my life.”
“Allons.” Kat nodded. “We’ll ride over to the marché first and have coffee with Philippe and Gilles. Then be prepared to feel the burn!”
The bustle at the marché was lively as locals bantered with each other before the usual parade of tourists began. The previous Saturday, half the town had turned up to string festive lights, while the vendors likewise festooned their areas. The evening had ended in rollicking music and dancing in the typical French fashion.
Now woven ropes of ivy and greenery draped along beams, wreaths hung from counters, and evergreen boughs covered shelves displaying wicker baskets full of products. The strong scent of pine and cedar hung in the air. Twinkling fairy lights created an enchanting atmosphere even in broad daylight.
Andrew stopped to stand by two cauldrons and breathe in the aromatic combination of cinnamon, cloves, and other rich scents.
“Ahhh, mulled wine,” he murmured. “But there is something slightly different from ours at home. What is it?”
“Vin chaud, we call it in France,” Kat explained. She pointed out that along with red wine, there was a touch of brandy, apple cider, and oranges in this mix.
“The weather may not show it, but there’s no question Christmas is coming once you step in here,” Andrew commented to Philippe and Gilles as he stood behind their stall with them.
“Putting up the decorations is always a great excuse for a party,” Gilles said. “And your aunt had lots of creative ideas. She’s the one who directed all this draping of cedar ropes around our stall, and everyone comments on how great it looks.”
Andrew explained how Kat always would come out to their farm for a weekend early in December. “She and my mom had us all organized with stepladders, boughs, ribbons, and glue guns. Christmas music filled the house—”
“Often accompanied by bad singing,” Kat interjected. “The kids would drive us crazy with their Alvin and the Chipmunks imitations!”
Andrew laughed. “I’d forgotten that! Yeah, we thought we had it nailed! But, by Sunday night, the farmhouse was transformed. As kids we often complained, but in the end we loved it all—and the hot chocolate, toasted marshmallows in the fireplace, and Christmas cookies helped!”
“If they were Kat’s shortbread cookies, I can understand that!” Philippe said. “We need to get busy and make some, minou!”
Gilles clapped his hands. “Oui! I remember them from last year—to die for!”
Kat laughed. “I love the ‘we’ part. I will bake, and Philippe and Gilles will make them disappear just as quickly as I pull them out of the oven.”
Their grins told the story.
After sharing a few more moments of conversation, Gilles shooed them over to the adjacent café so he could attend to customers.
The three of them enjoyed some strong coffee and a short break for Philippe before Katherine and Andrew waved goodbye and set off on their bikes. A few minutes later, they left behind the narrow, crowded streets.
Traffic was heavy on the roads out of town. Kat led the way, always grateful for how French drivers and cyclists respected each other.
Within a few minutes, they were cycling up past the picturesque town of Biot, known for its distinctive glassblowing history, and onto quieter back roads. She was well aware of shortcuts now.
They rode at a good pace up into the hills, through thickly forested areas with birdsong as their background music. After a half hour, they pulled into a picnic area for a short water break.
“The quiet up here is remarkable—and such a short distance from the coast,” Andrew commented. “Biking always makes me so aware of how quickly we can have a complete change of atmosphere. Just going on some of the extensive bike paths in the middle of cities can allow us to lose ourselves. I’m so glad more communities have created those opportunities.”
Kat agreed, and they chatted a bit more about some of their favorite bike routes.
“Okay, ready to work now?” she asked. “We will have about fifteen minutes to warm up on a fairly easy grade, and then the climb will get serious.”
“Let’s do it!”
There was no conversation for the next hour. Once in a while they would yell an encouraging exchange to each other. Otherwise they saved their breath for the strenuous effort of conquering one switchback after another before they finally reached their destination.
Breathing hard, Kat pulled onto a rocky ledge and collapsed on a large boulder. Andrew followed. Their faces were flushed and covered in perspiration. They worked at getting their gasps under control before they each drank deeply from their water bottles.
The view was panoramic. Diaphanous clouds floated gracefully across the sky while the Mediterranean spread before them, shimmering in stunning shades of blue. The greens of the heavily forested region covered the hillside from top to bottom.
“This view,” said Kat. “Inhaling the scents and sounds around us. For a brief interlude, everything is right with the world.”
Andrew’s grin as he nodded silently spoke volumes, and Kat nodded back. Finally catching his breath, Andrew said, “Worth the effort, Aunt Kat. Worth the effort.”
“Come on,” Andrew said, “let’s take the obligatory selfie here. It’s too good to pass up!”
“That will definitely be a shot for my gratitude journal,” Kat told him. Every day, she saved one photo in her special file rather than writing a journal as many others did.
Then they moved to a cleared area and sat for a while at one of the picnic tables.
“It’s so easy to see why you love it,” Andrew said. “Thanks for bringing me here. It’s at moments like this that it seems possible to clarify what I want my life to be.” He paused and looked almost awkward for a moment. “Um, does that sound lofty? Is this rarefied air making me delusional?”
They both laughed.
Kat’s tone was thoughtful. “There’s something about the peace of nature that leads us to moments like that. I agree. I’ve done some of my best reflecting on bike trips or hiking—away from noise and electronics.”
He admitted to Katherine that he was in love with Magda. They talked about commitment and marriage, and somehow in that breathtaking setting, everything seemed to make sense.
That evening, Katherine, Philippe, and Andrew arrived at Simone’s precisely at seven p.m. as requested.
“I have never been fêted with so much champagne,” Andrew exclaimed as Simone asked Philippe to do the honors and pop the cork. “Now I see why it’s called the national drink of France.”
“It took me a little while to get used to having champagne so often, too,” Kat admitted to him. “But it soon began to feel right—for so many reasons.”
Simone chuckled. “Alors, let’s give a toast to Dom Pierre Pérignon! The Benedictine monk from the sixteenth century who we thank for making important improvements to
our favorite drink.”
“Santé!” Their voices chorused.
“But he didn’t invent the sparkle in it. That part is a myth,” Philippe added.
“Then we won’t toast him for that part!” Simone said as they all laughed.
Conversation moved easily around their comfortable circle, as Simone asked Andrew about his life in Canada and his experiences in Ukraine. In return, Andrew was interested in knowing more about the stunning paintings that graced the walls of Simone’s home.
Simone had the baskets of santons sitting by the hearth, waiting to be unpacked. They decided to begin the process while they were sipping their champagne and then finish after dinner if necessary.
“Um, excuse me, but is that Bob Dylan singing Christmas carols?” Andrew asked. His eyes sparkled with amusement as Simone explained her penchant for the music.
“He made a Christmas album! That’s news to me!”
“It’s not that old! It was released in 2009, and all proceeds go to programs to feed the hungry around the world. Bob’s my guy!” Simone enthused.
They all chuckled. Simone’s charming accent created an even more humorous twist to her passion for Dylan’s music.
Andrew had never heard of santons and was fascinated by their history. Simone gave a succinct recap of the history of these “little saints” and how the craft of being a santonièr evolved. She entertained with colorful descriptions of the variety of the clay characters that represented the entire spectrum of postrevolutionary France, some touching and others amusing.
“You will see they represent the common people. There are no aristocrats included, except for the Royal Magi. And for whatever reason, we French are in love with them.”
She explained how some were painted and how others wore fabric costumes. “Every detail is done by hand, and being a santonièr or santonièrre is a talent that is often passed from one generation to another in a family. You must come back another time and visit the town of Aubagne, Capitale du Santon.”
“Yes,” agreed Kat. “That’s a good idea. Next visit!”
“After hearing all this, I would love to do that one day,” Andrew said.
Unwrapping each santon and setting up the crèche was far less emotional for Simone this time. Kat’s eyes met Simone’s several times as she helped her friend. She could see that painful memories remained, but Simone was choosing to remember the good ones. The atmosphere was, in fact, jolly.
Simone was delighted and Philippe was amused as Katherine and Andrew sang along with practically all of the songs that played in the background.
“But of course! These are your songs!”
They paused at one point to adjourn to the dining room. Simone had prepared a classically French dinner, after checking with Kat to make sure Andrew was not a picky eater.
Katherine had agreed to Simone’s insistence that she wanted to prepare a fine French meal for Andrew. But only with the caveat that she and Philippe function as the servers.
Bathed in the right combination of butter, parsley, and garlic, the entrée was escargots with warm brioche sliced in rounds and placed on top of each escargot.
“There’s a subtle flavor here that I can’t identify,” Kat said, closing her eyes and savoring the taste.
“Fresh tarragon blended in the sauce, chérie,” Simone shared, with a wink.
Katherine brought a small serving of a delicate lime sorbet to the table.
“You probably are familiar with this, Andrew,” Simone offered. “It’s called an intermezzo and cleanses the palate to prepare for the rest of the meal.”
Philippe interjected, “What it really does is remind us to slow down!” Simone shot him an exaggerated look of dismay as they all laughed.
Next, Katherine and Philippe went to the kitchen, under Simone’s instruction, and brought a platter with duck à l’orange accompanied by small roasted potatoes to the table. A pitcher of the luscious sweet and tangy sauce was served on the side. All four diners indulged in adding more to the perfectly pink slow-roasted meat.
“I always start off with the less is more philosophy, in case someone does not want too much sauce,” Simone explained.
“And everyone wants more!” Philippe enthused as he passed it around.
“It’s incredibly delicious,” Andrew kept repeating.
Simone modestly brushed aside the repeated murmurs of appreciation. “When you have cooked this recipe for as many decades as I have, c’est facile, comme un, deux, trois!”
A simple green salad with a light vinaigrette came next, before Philippe presented the cheese tray. He had included four of Simone’s favorites.
They lingered over the meal with conversation that was at times serious and other times filled with laughter. Topics even touched on global politics, bringing interesting and varied viewpoints from the span of generations at the table.
After two hours, Simone announced, “Pour le dessert, café gourmand! Sweets from our favorite pâtisserie.”
Philippe prepared the coffee in the kitchen, while Kat placed four mignardises on each person’s plate. The mini-desserts consisted of a tiny crème brûlée topped with three raspberries, a pistachio macaron, a two-bite flourless chocolate cake, and a profiterole.
Once again, Andrew expressed his pleasure, as Philippe described how this way of presenting dessert had been gaining popularity over the past few years. “Not just after meals, but also as a great way to enjoy your coffee at any time—and to fool yourself that you are not eating an exquisitely high-calorie dessert.”
Kat snorted quietly. “Pretend is the operative word! Enjoy every bite!”
14
The next morning Katherine sent the pups to jump on Andrew’s bed just before noon.
He laughed groggily when she told him the time. Then he pulled the covers over his head to protect himself from the barrage of busy tongues and damp noses.
When he poked his head back out, he said, “I guess that takes care of my jet lag!” As he lay there, Coco nestled up against his legs and Rocco attempted to burrow under the covers.
“I would say so,” Kat agreed with a chuckle. “I will be in the kitchen whenever you feel like surfacing. No rush!”
The dogs jumped off the bed to follow her. “Allez les chiots.”
“Can we squeeze in a bike ride today?”
“It’s very windy today. We’ll watch le météo and see what the forecast says. I honestly have been so preoccupied this morning, I haven’t checked. I will take a look now.”
Andrew joined Katherine in the salon a half hour later. He found her at a side table surrounded by stacks of black-and-white photos.
“A new undertaking?” he inquired.
“This has become a bit of an obsession with me,” Kat replied. She explained how she had purchased the old trunk filled with letters and photos when perusing the brocantes at L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue.
Andrew examined a few photos. “I can see why you find them so intriguing. Right away, I want to know what the story is. Who are these people, and what were they doing in these pictures?”
“Exactly. Surprisingly, an overall story is beginning to unfold. It’s hard to pull myself away from these photos, but I’ve got to ease up now until after Christmas. To say it is time-consuming is an understatement!”
Andrew studied the photos for a few more minutes. “Aunt Kat, I hope you keep on doing this. Perhaps you can start on the genealogy for our family, too.”
Kat nodded. “That’s definitely in my plans. Come into the kitchen, and I’ll make us something to eat.”
She moved aside three shallow white bowls on the kitchen island.
He looked at her in confusion. “What on earth are you doing? It appears you’ve been working on a school science project.”
“Ha! You’re right! It does look like that.” She motioned to the bowls, in which she had placed seeds. A wad of cotton batten sat beside the bowls.
“Today is December fourth. It’s the beginning of la
Calendale, the festive season in Provence. This was the first tradition I learned last year. It’s la fête de la Sainte-Barbe—Saint Barbara’s feast. People plant wheat or grass seeds or a combination of both on a saucer or whatever else they want. Then the seeds are covered with dampened cotton to get them germinating.”
“And the purpose is?”
“If the wheat/grass grows straight and tall, it means a good harvest or good luck in the coming year. We put the bowls on the table, tied with red ribbon, at Christmas … unless of course you’ve not had success and they’ve flopped over or died. In that case, I can rush to the market and replace them—but that’s not the point, is it? It’s a fun tradition, and you will see these in all the stores, the bank, the post office. These traditions are part of what I love about living here.”
“I can see that you do, Aunt Kat,” Andrew said as he gave her a hug. “It makes us all very happy to see that!”
“Okay, lunchtime! Or brunch for you … What’s your pleasure?”
“What are you going to have?”
Kat held her palm up to him. “I asked you first! Philippe has a meeting with a supplier today, so he won’t be eating lunch here.”
“In that case, how about some of your perfectly poached eggs? With crumbled feta cheese and dried mint on top?”
“Done! Since the wind is still blowing like crazy, biking is not an option. I thought we could start putting the pine boughs around the house, and—”she paused and grinned at him.
“And?”
“What did we usually do when we were decorating your place?”
“Bake shortbread! Really? Fantastic!”
“I even found golden yellow sugar at the imported food shop. So we can make Elisabeth’s recipe right down to the last detail. You know how she insisted on that specific type of sugar.”
“I think of Néni Elisabeth often,” Andrew said. “I will always remember her as such a calm source of strength. ‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’ Right?”
The First Noël at the Villa des Violettes Page 8
