Promises to Keep

by Patricia Sands

  Gesturing to a counter in the corner, she said, “I have a water dispenser and a bowl of dates and nuts, so I knew I would be fine. I even have a WC”—she nodded toward a door in the back wall—“just no window to climb out, as if I could.”

  Kat smiled, already liking this tiny woman, who radiated such good karma.

  As vivacious as she was, the elderly woman’s body language spoke of pain. Her every movement was slow and deliberate.

  “Allons, ma chérie. Let me make some tea for us.” She motioned to Kat to follow her back down the long hallway.

  The front door was still open, and the donkey was standing as Kat had left him, scuffing gravel impatiently. He nickered as Simone went to him and rubbed his nose.

  “Ah, Victor Hugo, mon petit. Merci. Thank you for taking care of me. Je t’aime.”

  Off the entrance hall was a sterile-looking kitchen. Simone gestured to it and said, “Please. There is a bowl of apples on the counter. Would you get two of them?”

  After Victor Hugo had been sufficiently rewarded and given one last scratch, they went into the kitchen.

  Kat saw a kettle on the counter. “Please sit down and let me make the tea.”

  “Eh bien. Then you can tell me your story and I will tell you mine. Everyone has one. Non?”

  Simone settled into a chair by a window that overlooked the property and pointed to a bowl filled with greens on the table beside her. “Those herbs from my garden make the most delicious tea. Just put them in the teapot and when the water is ready, let it steep for a few minutes.”

  After she filled the kettle, Kat stood beside the wooden counter taking in the purity of her surroundings. Every room she had seen so far was devoid of color—apart from the paintings, the pillows in the studio, and the tubes of paint. The whiteness of the walls was almost overpowering.

  “I wasn’t sure anyone lived here,” Kat said, “but every now and then I noticed washing on the line.”

  “That’s the way I like it. Very few people know. Most of the people I care about have left this earth, and I choose a life of seclusion with my art, my music, and my memories.”

  “Aren’t you lonely? Do you have any family?”

  Simone pointed to a silver-framed photo on a shelf. “That is my son, Jean-Luc, and his partner, Olivier. We lived in adjoining apartments in the sixth arrondissement for decades and had such a fine time. He was the light of my life, and Olivier was like a son to me as well.” A whistle pierced the air. “Ah, the kettle.”

  Kat filled the teapot and brought it to the table. She had noted Simone used the past tense.

  Simone told her where to find cups, adding, “You will not want to add anything to this tisane, I assure you.” Her eyes wrinkled with amusement but then changed as her voice became somber. “Jean-Luc and Olivier were killed in an auto accident.”

  “I’m so sorry. How tragic.”

  “It was twenty-four years ago. Some days it feels as if it was twenty-four hours ago. The ache can be sharp and immediate. Such is grief.”

  Kat sat down across the table from her, and their eyes met. She was feeling a stab of pain herself, her own grief summoned to the surface momentarily.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “I can see you have felt the anguish of loss.”

  “Yes, but not the loss of a child. I can’t imagine—”

  “I am sorry. It is never easy, any loss.”

  Kat’s eyes filled with tears, and she sniffed to hold them back.

  Simone reached over and patted her hand. “Only those who have experienced grief understand. Take a minute. Perhaps we both need to.”

  They sat in silence for a moment before Simone continued.

  “I lived through the war,” she said. “I learned the agony of loss, and how to survive it, during those years.” Her eyes darkened.

  Kat had seen that look before. Throughout her life. It would come and go in her parents’ eyes. It was the scar of war. Memories that could never be erased.

  “Those experiences helped me to go on when Jean-Luc was killed, although the pain was unique in its enormity. I lost part of myself as well.

  “Hélas, he was my only child. My lifeline, really. But he—and Olivier—left me with memories that keep me going. I left Paris for good after their accident and have lived here ever since. Every morning I wake up, I know I must be here for a reason, and I welcome that. I have no room for bitterness.”

  Simone gazed at Kat, her eyes conveying her meaning more than any words could. Then her face lit up with a smile. “Eh bien, now we must talk about happier things. Tell me about you.”

  Kat told her how her parents had also been survivors of the war, before giving her an abbreviated version of how she came to be in Antibes.

  “Ah, so you are the lover of Philippe, the fabled fromager. I knew him as a child, but he would not remember me.”

  “I must tell him. He has no idea anyone is living here.”

  “I have not wanted to be found. I am rather like his grandfather’s property next door—left to languish for some time.”

  “Did you know his grandfather?”

  “Oui, but that is a conversation for another time.” She raised her hand to indicate the subject was closed. “I hear you are the talk of the village.”

  Kat cringed.

  “And the terrible explosion,” Simone said. “I was shocked. I understand Gilles was not hurt. Grâce à Dieu! It’s not often something like that happens in our town. That is normally saved for Nice and Cannes, and then I hear it on the news on my radio or read it on the Internet.”

  “It was not as bad as it sounded,” Kat said. “Something to do with the electrical wiring of a new alarm system.”

  “Although I seldom go out,” Simone continued, “I hear much. Some things have not changed for centuries in la vieille ville. Gossip is one. J’adore les cancans! Philippe is much loved, and people are curious.”

  Kat blushed and looked down at her hands. “Really? I’m embarrassed to think so many people are interested.”

  “Take it as a compliment, chérie. I, too, have been the subject of much gossip for most of my life. What fun it is to live a life that gives others the pleasure of conversation. Now pour us each a cup of this magic potion.”

  Kat closed her eyes at the taste. “Mmmm. Nectar of the gods.”

  “Une bonne bouche,” Simone said.

  Both women sipped in silence for a minute, and Kat looked around her at the small paintings on the kitchen walls. “These colors fill the room with such light and energy. They are truly joyful,” she said.

  “There is no pain in my work now,” Simone said. “After the war, much of my work was very dark. For a few years after Jean-Luc and Olivier died, I could not paint at all. When I began again, I decided to express only joy, and so now I summon only radiant reminders of the past. There were so many wonderful times.”

  They talked for a while about composition, color, and inspiration, and the more Simone said, the more Kat felt drawn to her, impressed by her relaxed and positive outlook on life and on creating art.

  Kat stood to leave after two refills of tea, not wanting to overstay her welcome.

  “Thank you for listening to Victor and releasing me from my confinement,” Simone said. “It was hardly a calamity, as I had what I needed. I often stay all day and night in my studio when I am painting. In fact, I was inspired to begin something new while I was shut in. Between painting, meditating, and sleeping, I was a contented captive.”

  “Are you certain you will be fine? Is there someone I can call?”

  “Chérie, I am as fine as I am on any other day. My needs are few and well taken care of. I enjoyed our visit. If you would like to share a cup or two of tea again another afternoon, please do come back.”

  “I would like that, thank you.”

&nbs
p; Simone wrote something down on a notepad and slid the page across the table. “Here’s my cell number. Call me first, but do come again.”

  Kat wrote her number on another page. “And you must call me any time I can be of help.”

  Simone began to stand up, but Kat put out her hand. “Please don’t get up. I will let myself out.”

  “Merci, chérie. À bientôt.”

  Simone explained there was a short path at the front of the house, which could not be seen from where Kat had found Eeyore.

  The path led to a long driveway, ending at a locked gate, which Kat realized was on a different street than Philippe’s property. The gate was slowly swinging open as she approached. Overgrown shrubs and grasses camouflaged where one had to turn in from the street, and a sharp turn was necessary to get around them. She could see how it would easily be missed.

  “It was quite remarkable,” she told Philippe that evening at home as he poured their apéros. “Simone Garnier must be getting on. I’m guessing she is at least in her mideighties, but she has a luminescent beauty about her that some women that age have. It shines from within and wraps itself around you in her presence. She is an intriguing woman, and her paintings burst with color and passion. I want to get to know her better.”

  “There you go again. Yet another adventure.”

  Kat took a long sip of her pastis. “My life here is definitely not dull,” she said.

  Philippe had been stunned to hear that someone lived on that property. And a little worried. “I wonder if she has ever noticed any activity in the cove by Dimitri’s gang,” he said. “I guess she wouldn’t pay attention to it anyway if she is housebound. The house is far enough away from the water, and I believe the view is blocked by trees.”

  “Well, she doesn’t miss much. She has her sources, from what she said. If she had seen anything, she probably would have alerted the police about it.”

  He shrugged. “They appear to be completely ignorant about anything going on down there, but now they are watching.”

  “Do we need to be worried?”

  Philippe shrugged again, in the typical Gallic manner, with his arms spread and his hands open. “They assure me they have their best undercover team on the case and we are not to be worried.”

  “Then let’s not be,” Kat said, still surprised she was not feeling more anxious about it.

  “Her land adjoins ours along the length of the property line, but it is quite thickly forested until a point down by the water. There is a dilapidated boathouse and a stone storage barn down there, but nothing else. Until you discovered your donkey friend, there was never any sign of life. You will have to show me the driveway entrance tomorrow. It’s such a surprise.”

  14

  A few days later, Philippe was called to Nice to be questioned about Dimitri and Idelle, even though it had been years since he had seen either one. He also had to look through police photos to see if he could identify anyone connected to them.

  “The narcs, as you call them, have been after this gang for a very long time,” Philippe explained over dinner that night, “but they have been a slippery bunch. Dimitri is one of the kingpins of the drug trade now, and has built quite a fortress around him. This may be their first break in trapping him.”

  “And what are we to do while this operation is ongoing?”

  “They’ve put some undercover security people at the market, and someone will be assigned to watch us.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “I agree, but they said we would never know their people were around. There is one thing they have asked me to do. They want me to go to Lyon to speak with Denise to find out if she knows anything. I have to be casual about it. If she really knows nothing, they don’t want her to learn about it from me. Do you want to come with me and help with the charade?”

  “Lyon? Yes, please. Not exactly the circumstances I’d pick, but I’m in.”

  “I’ll see when works best for Denise and Armand. You’ll like them. I do. It’s the older generation that’s causing the problem.”

  They cleared the table and took their unfinished glasses of wine into the salon.

  “Now I have a surprise,” Philippe said. “Close your eyes. This will take a few minutes.”

  Kat could hear boxes being set down and a great deal of paper rustling, but despite her curiosity, she kept her eyes shut.

  “Eh bien, mon amour. Regarde!”

  A smile spread across her face as she saw he had set up a primitive papier-mâché crèche on the mantle. He’d placed several small clay figures around it, and she moved closer to examine them.

  “Santons!” she exclaimed. “They are so sweet.”

  Philippe grinned. “Oui, santons. Small saints. My parents and I spent many messy days making this crèche, and they insisted that we use it year after year. For a while, as a teenager, it was an embarrassment for me. You know how that is.”

  “It’s obviously been a treasure ever since,” she said.

  He told her how Adorée had refused to make a new one when she was a child. From the beginning, she too had wanted to use only this one, and it had been carefully stored away every year. Instead, with a little help, she had made some barns and stables, to add to the Christmas setting.

  Ever since Philippe had told her the story of Viv and her final days, Kat was aware of a slight change in his demeanor around the topic. It seemed as if he’d been relieved of the tremendous pressure he’d put himself under all those years when he kept the real story of his wife’s illness a secret.

  His excited voice broke into her thoughts, and she was soon caught up in his enthusiasm. “There are a lot more santons in the box. Tiens, help me put them out. I only did a few as a surprise. I thought we would set up the rest together.”

  Kat opened another bottle of wine. Philippe lit the fire. Soon the mantle was covered with the painted clay figures, none more than two inches high, representing village characters from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries: farmers, fishmongers, a doctor, a priest, a wine merchant, a teacher, a shepherd, a few children, musicians, and dancers, along with an assortment of farm animals.

  “At home, the crèches only have biblical figurines,” Kat said, picking up a miller with a sack over his shoulder. “Their faces are all so expressive. The painting is simple but yet so detailed.”

  “En fait, the whole social structure of a Provençal village is here, all ages and occupations. During the Revolution, when churches were being looted and practicing religion was forbidden, people began to make crèches secretly in their homes. Later, as santons grew in popularity, some would even resemble celebrities. Families pass them from one generation to the next.”

  She inspected each one carefully.

  “The painted figures are santons d’argile and the ones with fabric clothes are santons habillés,” Philippe said.

  “They are so detailed. J’adore tous.”

  Closer to Christmas, he explained, they’d place the Holy Family around the manger in the center. Then, at midnight on Christmas Eve, they would add the baby Jesus, along with the three kings and an assortment of angels. “That’s how we do it in our family, but everyone is different.”

  Kat laughed. “You’re going to need to extend the mantle if you add any more to your collection.”

  “You’ll find some irresistible ones when I take you to the Foire aux Santons in Marseille,” he told her, grinning as she clapped her hands in delight at the news of another trip. “Then, if you like, we’ll go on up to Aubagne. That’s where we will find some of the finest santons. Some families there have been crafting them for generations, ever since the first ones were shown in Marseille in 1803.”

  Kat hugged Philippe, she was so excited.

  They finished the wine while they decided when they would make this trip. Their calendar was quickly filling up. As the market was
closed on Mondays, they decided that would be the day to go out of town.

  Later that evening, the throwaway phone rang. They both stopped what they were doing and looked at each other. Philippe answered it and had a brief, terse conversation while he wrote something on a piece of paper. Kat was surprised that the call ended with him laughing.

  “Tim and Twig send their love,” he said. “They are well but longing for a fresh baguette from Le Palais du Pain. They hope to be back by the summer. Tim says that Nick has information for us. I told him we are going to Marseille and he gave me a number to call when we get there. Someone will meet us.”

  “It’s good news that they plan to be back here in the summer, but this is all sounding very cloak-and-daggerish,” Kat said.

  At nine thirty the following Monday, once rush hour had eased on the autoroute, they headed off on the two-hour drive to Marseille. Cold weather had set in, and they were bundled up.

  “I’ve both read and heard that Marseille is not the safest place to visit. Some say that it’s best avoided,” Katherine said.

  “Pffft!” Philippe shrugged. “Every city has its rough spots, and Marseille is no different. But not every city has the history and character of this grande dame. You will find it is a welcoming place”—he chuckled—“as long as you are not from Paris.”

  He glanced at her and saw her puzzled look. “The two cities have been archrivals forever. Parisians say Marseille is sleazy. Marseillais say Paris is snooty. The bottom line these days, à mon avis, is the rivalry between their football teams—that’s soccer to you—Paris Saint-Germain and Olympique de Marseille. It’s intense, very intense.”

  With a grin, Philippe nudged her, “Ne t’inquiète pas. Don’t worry. With your accent, no one will think you are from Paris.”

  Kat snorted and punched him on the arm. “Too true!”

  “You know, Marseille was the 2013 European City of Culture. That included the surrounding area over to La Ciotat and up to Aix.”

  “I read that in Nice-Matin. I get all the good info from my morning newspaper. You know, I think M. Bouchard is beginning to like me. He almost smiled the other day.”