I Promise You This (Love in Provence Book 3)

by Patricia Sands

  Katherine was checking her photos when Philippe stopped the car on the other side of the road. They were staring at the face of a cliff with a massive double door on it. Large signs offered “Degustation de vin.”

  “Wine tastings here? What the . . . ?” Kat questioned.

  “Troglodyte dwellings,” Philippe said, “There are thousands of caves like this throughout the valley. Soft pale tuffa stone, or tuffeau, was dug from these caves to build everything, including the châteaux. Peasants saw opportunities for their own shelters. Many are still lived in or are used as wine cellars or mushroom farms. With a steady interior temperature of around thirteen degrees Celsius, conditions are perfect for all of those uses.”

  He turned off the engine and beckoned her, adding, “In some places they are even becoming trendy real estate.”

  Kat picked up her camera and followed him, her curiosity aroused. The heavy-looking wooden door opened surprisingly easily, and they walked into a brightly lit wine store inside the enormous cave.

  After a warm welcome, they chose a couple of different wines to taste and were entertained with stories of other unusual cave communities to visit. One whimsical example that a shopkeeper mentioned was in the Samur area: facades in the soft tuffa stone that mimicked turreted manor houses, some of which had been turned into unique hotels and guesthouses.

  “And don’t forget that entire underground village, Rochemenier, also near Samur. The chapel is very special,” said the shopkeeper. “Excellent wines there too. Here, taste this one!”

  Along with the wine, there was a small buffet with baguette and a simple charcuterie platter. Kat and Philippe realized they needed something to eat, and this was just enough to satisfy their hunger.

  When they were back in the car, Kat quickly turned to the pages about the caves in her guidebook and marked them to read later. “More reasons to return!”

  “And now to our own petit château, before it gets dark,” Philippe announced. “Unless there is something else that draws us to pull over again. We don’t want to miss anything!”

  Thanks to the GPS, they turned up a long driveway not ten minutes later. A pair of horses grazing near the road raised their heads and lazily watched the car drive by, adding to the romantic vision that lay before the new arrivals.

  Perched on a terraced slope sat a majestic tower-flanked château that took Kat’s breath away. The light-gray stone with white accents around the windows and a black-slate peaked roof gave the former medieval stronghold a stately appearance. A welcome sign noted that the chateau dated back to the early thirteenth century.

  “This is where we’re staying? It’s magnificent—out of a historical romance novel!” Kat leaned over impulsively and kissed Philippe’s cheek.

  “I thought you might like it,” Philippe said, looking pleased. “We can check in and then dash out again to visit a château down the road that is plus grand, to say the least.”

  After admiring their spacious room and four-poster bed, they quickly inspected the manicured terraced gardens that led to a protected swimming pool area. “We’ll definitely make another visit in warmer weather,” Philippe noted. “In fact, I’m thinking about a cycling trip through here. What do you think of that?”

  “Brilliant idea! Yes! Let’s do that!”

  “The Loire à Vélo route is at least six hundred kilometers and is going to be eight hundred when they finish. We can pick what part we want to do . . . or we can do the whole thing.”

  “That would be a blast. Long and beautiful, but not terribly challenging—just right for warm weather. I can imagine how spectacular this area would all be once these gardens and the woodlands are in full bloom,” Kat agreed, her camera clicking incessantly as she captured the château, gardens, and quirky images that presented themselves.

  “Leonardo da Vinci lived just a few miles down the road for much of his life,” Philippe told her. “How’s that for a neighbor?”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in full tourist mode, driving through farmland, woodlands, and vineyards dotted with the elaborate hunting lodges of the wealthy and royalty of centuries before.

  They first toured the stunning and immense Château de Chambord, with its elaborate rooftop, which Kat commented was even more beautiful and impressive in reality than in photos.

  “Simply fascinating,” Katherine repeated excitedly as she listened to the detailed audio guide describe the history, as well as intriguing bits of information about everyday life there through the centuries. They learned that it was the largest of the Loire châteaux, started by King Francis I in 1519, and now containing more than 440 rooms and 282 fireplaces. It had often been abandoned, though, and during World War II art treasures from the Louvre and Compèigne were stored there.

  “Simply drafty too,” they agreed as the brisk winter air filled the massive, mostly empty rooms and chambers.

  Philippe shook his head. “Imagine how much wood had to be burned to even begin to warm up these spaces.”

  After a thorough tour spent completely enveloped in the historical ambiance of Chambord, they wound their way through back roads to the exquisite estate of Château de Cheverny, built a century after Chambord was begun. This was a fine example of luxurious aristocratic life, with the furnishings and décor remarkably well preserved.

  They were just in time to see the feeding of the more than a hundred hunting dogs. The barking and baying from the kennels could be heard well before the hounds came into view. “Pico would not be happy having to share with this many!” Philippe joked as they watched the mass of toned bodies and wagging tales fill the kennel courtyard with canine energy.

  “Imagine a property owned by the same family for six centuries. That just boggles my mind,” Kat commented, her face filled with wonder as they toured the elegantly furnished rooms. “How fascinating and completely appealing to have such complete knowledge of your family history.”

  Philippe nodded. “It’s not uncommon here.”

  Looking at her watch, Katherine said, “I can’t believe we managed to fit both of those châteaux into the afternoon. They were fabulous . . . and so different.”

  “Now let’s go back to soak in that cavernous bathtub and rest up for a very special dinner in our château’s Michelin-starred restaurant.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  They wakened to a symphony of sweet-sounding birdsong, and Katherine opened the tall windows framed by rich, silk draperies. Set in the thick stone wall of the château, the window ledge provided a perfect seat. Through the leafless trees, she could see the Loire flowing at the foot of the terraced property.

  “This could well be a definition of sublime,” she sighed, breathing in the crisp morning air and firmly fixing another unforgettable moment in her memory.

  Philippe smiled with satisfaction.

  After a sumptuous breakfast served with the same elegant efficiency as the exquisite dinner the night before, the travelers were off on another mission as a light rain fell.

  Besides introducing Kat to the Val de Loire, Philippe wanted to visit a cheese supplier of his and show Katherine the charming tiny village of Chavignol. When he first told Kat they would go there, she smiled broadly. The delicious goat cheese, Crottin de Chavignol, was among her most loved cheeses—particularly the very small nuggets.

  Philippe had often called it her addiction and had teased her about it being named after goat dung. “Well, it looks like it, doesn’t it? And you know what the word crotte means!”

  As they drove past the turn to the hilltop setting of Sancerre, they voiced regret for not having enough time to visit that grand medieval town.

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Kat sighed. “Wherever we go, we could spend days exploring all of these intriguing villages without going far afield.”

  Endless vineyards, farm fields, and walnut orchards covered the rolling hills. Although the hills were bare in their winter wardrobe, it was clear the crops thrived in this specific terroir.


  Goats grazed, their rich brown coats gleaming from dampness, seemingly oblivious to the light drizzle. Bright-yellow ear tags bobbed as they chewed.

  “There’s a sense of promise here,” Kat remarked. Her gaze brushed across the landscape, eagerly absorbing every detail. “Or is my imagination working overtime? I feel something special in the air.”

  “D’accord, I have always felt that too. The products from this area are of the highest quality.” Philippe had introduced Kat to a sauvignon blanc from Sancerre at dinner the night before, and they both agreed it would become a favorite of theirs.

  “Wine and cheese have been the outstanding products of this particular area through the ages,” Philippe told her. “This was also a regional command center for the Resistance; Simone will tell you about that.”

  “I’m so anxious to hear her stories,” Kat replied.

  Only three kilometers further, Chavignol was one of the smallest villages Kat had ever visited. Its simplicity charmed her immediately. “Blink and you’re through it!”

  “We will come back here after we visit the goat farm and you can take pictures to your heart’s content. Our flight to Nice is early tomorrow, so we will have a few hours before we have to return the car and check in to the airport hotel.” Giving Kat a light nudge, he couldn’t resist teasing, “Unless, of course, you don’t want to shoot any more photos.”

  “Hey, it’s France. It’s impossible for me to stop taking photos.”

  Just outside the village, Philippe turned onto a bumpy dirt road that led to an even bumpier dirt lane, then stopped in front of a farm that might have been straight out of a sixteenth-century painting. Outbuildings surrounded what looked to be the original structure. A jumble of attached additions created an illusion of a horizontal stone sculpture.

  A barking dog of questionable heritage heralded their arrival and greeted them with a wildly wagging tail after they parked the car.

  Katherine gave the dog a good scratch around its ears as an elderly man moving slowly with two canes appeared in one of the doorways.

  Greeting Philippe with obvious affection, he invited them into a cavernous space warmed by a roaring fire. Gesturing for them to sit at a long wooden table, he disappeared into a back room. Philippe explained that the first time he came to this chèvrerie was with his own father, who had been friends with this proprietor, Monsieur Fortin. This family had been producing their famous Crottin de Chavignol for six generations. Philippe’s father and now Philippe were among the select few to whom their product was distributed.

  The elderly man returned to the table with a young woman he introduced as his granddaughter, Céleste. She carried a tray with warm baguette, several types of chèvre, and a lightly chilled jug of white wine.

  After chatting and toasting “santé” many times, Monsieur Fortin spoke slowly with Katherine, his eyes twinkling flirtatiously, before he asked Céleste to take them on a tour. He apologized for being unable to move around well these days.

  Katherine was fascinated by the explanation of the entire cheese-making process. Céleste told them that new regulations by the European Community made their work more labor-intensive and frustrating these days. She translated for Kat: “Fortunately our results haven’t changed and our customers are happy. Our herd of alpine goats numbers around one hundred and fifty, and they must be fed cereal and only locally grown grass grown to comply with the AOC.”

  She paused and looked at Kat to make certain she understood.

  Kat indicated she did with a nod. She was well aware, from Philippe’s business, of the strict French regulations based on the concept of terroir. They were granted to certain French geographical products like butters, wines, cheeses, and other agricultural products that were held to a rigorous set of clearly defined standards. “It’s what makes them so special,” she said.

  “Absolument! The work here is all by hand and very intensive at times, but we love our goats . . .” Céleste smiled proudly. “And that’s one of our secrets.”

  Philippe explained that the farm was a small but exclusive supplier compared to others, and there was always a waiting list to become one of their customers. A sharp, pungent smell wafted out of the cheese-making room, where the wet cheese glistened in wooden molds. Sold at different ages, the smell and color changed as it matured, and now Céleste offered them samples from various stages.

  Céleste looked pleased as Philippe told Kat, “The older cheese from this farm is renowned for its particular odor of undergrowth. That’s another one of their secrets.”

  When they returned to the table, more wine was poured and several selections of chèvre tempted them on a thick board. Sliced sausage and jambon appeared, along with olives and the typical salad of fresh greens accompanied by fresh baguette. A warm tarte tatin sat to the side as the final touch for dessert. Lunch was served.

  Philippe explained how Katherine was addicted to their crottin. She sighed with pleasure and smiled broadly as she enjoyed some of the samples. The old man cackled with delight. Katherine later told Philippe she was convinced that every one of the numerous lines on Monsieur Fortin’s face was the result of laughter.

  Before they left, Céleste invited Katherine to photograph whatever she wished and accompanied her around. They went outside to where some of the herd was grazing nearby. Katherine found herself mesmerized by the innocent faces of the goats, whose widespread eyes made them appear to be full of curiosity and bursting to say something.

  She was charmed as Céleste told her the names of many of the goats and saw the gentle way they responded to her.

  Meanwhile, the two men sat at the table and carried on a conversation filled with uproarious chortles and guffaws. Philippe told Kat later that the old man had endless amusing stories about local characters and some of his own youthful escapades. “He’s a sheer delight, that fellow! Always has been!”

  They ended their visit with Katherine taking photos of grandfather and granddaughter, which she promised to send to them. It was easy to see the family tradition of cheese making was in good hands.

  The rain stopped by the time Katherine and Philippe left the warm hospitality of the chèvrerie. As promised, Philippe returned Kat to Chavignol and turned her loose with her camera. He waited in the local bar, reading a book and sipping an espresso in front of the embers left from the morning’s fire.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon driving narrow back roads. Philippe suspected there would be many places Katherine would want to stop as they happened upon estates and vistas too inviting not to photograph. He loved watching her work.

  They ended their Loire Valley excursion with a hearty daube at a small country auberge. The menu blackboard boasted that the ingredients were from the latest local hunt and from surrounding farms. Philippe nodded as Katherine declared they could not have found a better spot.

  Driving to the airport hotel, Philippe said, “I know it’s frustrating to be this close to Paris and not go there. But we’ve got the first flight out tomorrow morning, so I figured this would be a better plan. No traffic worries.”

  “Definitely a good idea. We can sleep longer! This visit was a very special excursion, Chouchou. Thanks so much for thinking of it, and for planning it for me.”

  “I did it for one reason,” Philippe said with a smile.

  They looked at each other with wide grins and in unison said, “Le plaisir!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Katherine could almost taste her anticipation as the plane banked for its descent. Visibility was bright and clear, and the early-morning sun threw a vivid splash of light over the landscape.

  She relished the view of the snowcapped Alps backing the ocher-colored villages and rooftops tumbling down to the turquoise waters of the sea. Even the massive high-rise construction of Monaco could be forgiven in that light. Her shutter clicked away; as she told Philippe, she could never have too many of these shots from the air.

  He leaned over for a glimpse and kissed Kat’s cheek.
“As you say, ’ome sweet ’ome.”

  Bernadette and her taxi waited at their usual spot. She greeted them with the customary bises, accompanied by her bright smile and her delightfully thick Marseillaise accent, and wearing—as only French women of any age could—five-inch-high scarlet stilettos. Katherine smiled as she noticed that Bernadette’s wild mane of gunmetal-gray hair was vividly streaked with mauve highlights.

  “I am so ’appy to ’ear zat Molly goes well,” she told them.

  Her smile widened as Philippe told her Molly would probably be coming to Antibes before too long.

  As Bernadette steered them quickly onto the Bord de Mer, knowing this slower route was their favorite, she provided a running commentary of the latest news during their absence.

  “Marc-Antoine’s wife ’ad twin girls, and the boulangerie made special double beignets to mark zee occasion. Paul, zee poisonnière, is enlarging ’is store and ’is wife Giselle will sell ’omemade fish soup and frozen entrées. C’est un peu scandaleux—everything is always fresh at fish markets, and now zee other shopkeepers’ wives are feeling zee pressure to come up with similar ‘to-go’ ideas.”

  Philippe and Kat chuckled. They were home indeed.

  As they passed the familiar scenery of the pebble beaches bordering the turquoise water of the Mediterranean, the more content Katherine felt. The usual number of fishing poles dotted the beach, and the snack trucks were surrounded by patrons in their folding chairs sipping espressos.

  Bernadette continued her news broadcast.

  “Oh-là-là, vous avez de la chance—you are wiz ze luck!” she continued, her voice dropping to a lower and more dramatic tone. “You missed le déluge! But you must check your place on le Cap. The rainstorms ’ave been terrible.”