He happily followed the women upstairs after an assortment of cheese and a traditional plum tart had completed their meal. Joy deflected Katherine’s compliments throughout the meal, insisting it was simple fare.
After Katherine insisted on clearing the dishes, Joy suggested the suitcases be taken upstairs to the hall while they toured all four bedrooms.
Kat had only seen rooms painted such shades in French home-decor magazines, and each delighted her more than the last. The linens were crisp, white, some with embroidered edges, and, as Joy explained, many had been in the family for generations.
“There is still an old-fashioned salle de lavage—washing room—in the manoir with a huge press for the sheets. You must come and see it. A woman comes every week to launder the linens, and I cannot bring myself to end the tradition.”
“I may simply take turns sleeping in every one of these rooms,” Katherine observed with a satisfied smile.
Forty years before, after learning at their father’s side since childhood, Joy’s husband, Albert, had taken over the vineyard with his brothers, Jean-Pierre and Christian.
Their father had, before them, inherited the vineyard from his father. Over one hundred and fifty years of love, toil, and sweat were soaked into the property of Le Manoir de Sainte-Mathilde, and their Côtes de Provence wines were well recognized.
Back downstairs, Joy suggested Katherine might be ready to think about sleeping with the long travel hours surely kicking in. She leaned toward Katherine and gave her the familiar French bise at the side of each cheek. Kat smiled at this; it was just so French to her.
Saying bonsoir, Joy hopped on a small motorbike to head back to the main house. Pausing, she mentioned one final, nearly overlooked detail.
“There is an old vélo—excuse me, bicycle—inside the potting shed behind the house, my dear. Feel free to use it, such as it is,” she said, noting Katherine’s sudden downcast expression.
“It’s rather old and looks a bit beat up, but is actually in good condition. It’s great for going to market days on Monday and Thursday, when parking can be limited. You can ride it through the vineyards as a shortcut to our manoir too,” Joy told her. “It’s shorter to come through the vineyard than by car on the road. You know how it is around here. Driving, you have to go to the main road and then double back down the old road to our place.”
Watching the taillight of Joy’s motorbike disappear down the lane, Katherine waited for the dog to return from his nightly duty.
As spontaneously as they began, the cicadas abruptly ceased singing, and darkness dropped like a blanket over the landscape and around the house.
15
A gentle breeze rustled the curtains. Sunshine streamed through the uncovered bedroom window, causing Katherine to squeeze her eyes shut again after she first opened them.
Lying quietly for a few moments, her arms resting on top of the soft coverlet, she luxuriated in her current reality.
She barely recalled having a shower and falling into bed the night before. Sleep had immediately claimed her.
A sudden damp coldness on her hand popped her eyes wide open. Enormous dark eyes met her startled gaze as Picasso stood with his nose resting on the covers. Katherine laughed out loud and patted him on the head.
Sitting up and stretching, she caught sight of the orderly vineyard rows reaching as far as she could see through the French doors at the foot of the bed.
The window next to the bed offered more of the same view, but there was a field bordering the grapevines on this side, and she spied a herd of goats resting quietly. Rolling, purple-tinged hills created a backdrop, topped by a brilliant blue sky.
Slipping her light white cotton housecoat over the matching nightgown, she practically skipped down the stairs to open the front door and step outside.
On her heels, Picasso brushed by quickly through the open door and into the small thicket of trees by the driveway.
Directly in front of the house, the gravel drive circled around a perennial bed that was bursting with the liveliest mix of colors she could ever remember seeing in anything but paintings. Red and pink poppies, orange calendula, yellow strawflowers, purple phlox, blue and white hydrangeas—along with a number of other plants Katherine did not know—mixed together in wild abandon. Mounds of lavender bordered the drive, with clumps of shrubs and trees scattered on the lawns between the house and fence and the road beyond. Rows of lush grapevines rooted in rich red soil stretched in every direction beyond the farmhouse property.
Katherine sat on the stone steps, absorbing every detail of the view. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Making no attempt to stifle them she sniffed loudly.
For all her bravado and her happiness at making this fantasy come true, the other side of her reality took over. She was alone. In the midst of the beauty, the adventure, the dream—which begged for a husband, a partner, a lover, or at least a friend with whom to share it, there was none. Nada. Alone.
Burying her face in her hands, Katherine cried silent tears of sad emptiness for the moment.
Slowly aware of a warm presence by her side, she looked sideways to find Pico sitting next to her, lightly leaning on her and looking straight ahead.
Katherine slipped her arm around him. “Looks like it’s you and me, pal,” she said, moving her head just in time to avoid a sloppy lick, square on the mouth.
Laughing in surprise, she wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her housecoat, gave a melancholic sigh, and got up, in serious need of a tissue. Picasso stood and stretched. Together they walked back into the house.
French doors, the classic blue paint slightly peeling, led from every room out to pleasingly jumbled gardens, gravelly patios, or newly mown lawns. Katherine opened all of them, lingering each time as soft morning light and fresh country air flowed around her and into the house. The mild day was perfect for her plan to explore the immediate surroundings and then go into town for a stroll.
A boiled egg for breakfast with some of the baguette she had purchased the day before would suit her just fine. Another lesson learned—yesterday’s baguette was as hard as a rock!
Katherine was filling a pot with water when her eye caught sight of something on the window ledge. A small basket sat with a white cloth over it. Opening the window, she retrieved the basket and looked under the cloth to find two fresh croissants, a pain au chocolat, and a round pastry she recognized as a pain aux raisins.
A note tucked inside read “Bon appétit, Joy.”
Sitting at a small metal-framed round table on the patio outside the kitchen, Kat lingered over each delicious bite as she lost herself in the view. Situated at the back of the farmhouse, the scenery was completely different as fields and pastures carried the eye across the Luberon Valley to the distant blue-tinged hills of the Vaucluse.
The tinkling of bells caught her attention as a sizeable herd of goats scrambled along a barely noticeable lane between the vineyard and fence on the east side of the property. Behind them, she recognized the same goat herder who had directed her to turn around when she chose the wrong road the day before. He waved as he passed. Katherine returned the gesture while Pico stood watching, his tail wagging lazily at a sight familiar to him. He ran over and accompanied the man partway up the lane, receiving many rubs and scratches on the head for his effort.
Watching the goats gambol up the lane and through the fence that was opened for them, Katherine stretched lazily, rose, and decided it was time to get moving.
Later, with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, she showered and dressed quickly before walking to the potting shed behind the house. As Joy had promised, inside was a bicycle that had seen better days. A green Peugeot leaned against the wall with chipped paint, rust marks all over the chrome, a large light mounted over the front wheel, and a weathered wicker basket sitting on a frame over the rear.
Katherine blinked and then laughed out loud at the simple appeal of it as she ran her hand over the frame. It appeared someone had recen
tly wiped it clean, and when she ran her finger over the chain, she could tell it had been newly oiled. Very thoughtful, she acknowledged.
After a long look at the bike, she turned around and began walking down the lane with Picasso racing ahead and then looking back to make certain she was following. Searching out the bicycle had been a response to something deep inside that she realized she was still attempting to keep buried. Not yet, she thought.
The walk into town was an easy fifteen minutes along a well-worn path beside the narrow road. With every step, Katherine reveled in the natural aromatherapy of the herbs and shrubs tumbling from the forest onto the edge of the path. Lavender was the most obvious scent in the air, and occasionally she breathed in wafts of thyme and rosemary.
Light clouds scudded across the periwinkle-blue sky, helping to keep the temperature just right. Feeling slightly lightheaded, she kept grinning.
It’s like I’m dreaming. Everything is so perfect, so right, so just how I hoped it would be. I will be fine. I will be on my own and I will be fine.
Church bells rang out as she entered the village, signaling the end of Sunday morning Mass. A few of the faithful straggled out the beautifully carved wooden doors of the fifteenth-century church as the priest wished them good day from the steps. Katherine decided to have a crème at one of the spots in the square before she went to look inside.
Planning to have a quiet day settling in to her surroundings and adjusting to the time change, the view from the patio where she sat with her coffee was distracting her. She sipped slowly and tried not to think of a caffe mocha.
Amazing how the right atmosphere can convince me I like this drink.
She could see Gordes beckoning from its perch on the hill. It was too tempting. She knew she had to go there immediately. Joining the long line for the lunch baguette, she faced a decision she hadn’t before considered. “Baguette” isn’t just baguette! Pointy ends, round ends, flat, thick, short, long, crisp or not—and people asking for baguette normale, ancienne, intégrale. Yikes—what do I choose? Besides, there are all sorts of other breads and fougasse, in all its variations, seems more popular here.
She had just spotted the display of those specialty flatbreads.
Large wicker baskets full of baguettes were coming, one after the other, from the wood ovens out back as customers left with two or more. The packets of bread were held together by a small square of paper, ends twisted expertly by the cashier to secure them. More often than not, as soon as the customer left the shop, the heel of the loaf was broken off and enjoyed immediately.
As she waited, her eyes swept the shop. Shelves and counters were filled with breads, cakes, and patisseries as well as mouthwatering sandwiches. The shop reminded Katherine of an art gallery rather than a bakery, with displays artistically arranged.
How could I forget my camera? she admonished herself. Never leave home without it!
As Katherine’s turn approached, she listened to the words of the lady before her and repeated the order.
Looks good to me.
Picasso waited patiently outside the shop, happily receiving many pats on the head from villagers who obviously knew him well. Feeling like a local, Katherine munched on the heel of one of her two baguettes as they strolled back to the house.
Lunch consisted of cheese and sliced tomatoes to go with the delicious bread. Sitting in the garden, the clinking of the bells hanging on the goats’ necks pleased her immensely.
Making a list, Katherine planned her menus for the next few days. Tomorrow was market day in the village.
This afternoon she would drive up to Gordes and possibly stay there for dinner.
Adding a French phone to her list, she also planned to check out the gas station for Internet access. At this point she wasn’t missing it either, she realized with some surprise.
Washing up the dishes, she saw a visitor had dropped by and left a note on the windowsill. Thoughtful Joy suggested she would pick up Katherine the next morning at nine so they could go to the market together and she could show her around the area. Joy said if she didn’t hear otherwise, she would consider it a date. Kat looked forward to it.
Leaving Picasso snoozing happily in the warmth of the midday sun on the front doorstep, Katherine hopped into her little Citröen, set the GPS, and drove up the road toward Gordes. As she approached the village, parking signs appeared, and she soon realized she would have to try and find a spot with the hordes of other visitors and tour buses already there.
Of course! It’s Sunday. It will be crowded, but not as bad as midsummer, so I will not complain.
The walk from the lot into the village square was mere minutes. Uphill, of course, and lined by stone walls. Once she arrived at the square in front of the palace, that area was surprisingly flat and didn’t seem as packed with bodies as she had anticipated. She thought she had never seen so much stone in her life. Her guidebook explained these building materials had originally been dug up from fields as agricultural activity increased during the eighteenth century. There were still bories, mortarless stone huts, from those early days just outside the town, which she planned to visit another day. Any new construction in France was strictly regulated, and in the Gordes area, stone must still be used along with terra-cotta roof tiles.
No wonder these villages are so visually pleasing, she thought as she lined up her next photo. There was something to be said for all the rules, which must have driven the homeowners crazy.
The immense castle and church dominated the village they once protected, as she had seen from the road. Below them spread a warren of crooked laneways filled with shops, cafés, and tourists. After browsing the traditional products offered in the shops, Katherine climbed the splendid spiral Renaissance staircase of the castle to see an art exhibit displayed throughout. The sheer presence of the architecture of this carefully preserved palace, which existed in 1031 and was rebuilt in 1525, set Katherine’s imagination off with fantasies of sieges and battles.
Once again Katherine struggled with her emotions of being on her own. She wasn’t missing James, but couples strolling arm in arm or exchanging intimate looks as they shared a glass of rosé were poignant reminders that she was alone.
As the afternoon wore on, her rumbling stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten much. Checking out the numerous restaurants, she chose a smallish bistro with a terrace overlooking an unending view back down to the flat terrain. A salade de chèvre chaud followed by a scrumptious lamb dish was as fine a meal as she had ever eaten, she decided. The relaxed ambiance of the al fresco dining suited her, and she studied more tourist information on her Kindle as she dined.
Before long, a British couple at the next table engaged her in conversation, curious about her Kindle and how she felt about it. They continued to regale her through dinner with tales of their motor trip and were entertaining company.
Sleep came quickly that night. The last sound she heard was Picasso’s gentle snore as he lay outside her doorway. As she drifted off, a contented smile remained. “It will be all right” will be my new mantra.
Picasso bounded across the grass and skidded to a stop at Katherine’s feet, dropping the stick he had been retrieving for the previous fifteen minutes. Tail wagging at warp speed, black eyes intently fixed on her hand as Katherine let the thick branch fly one more time, the Lab dashed after it again.
After only two days, Katherine was already feeling a connection to his loving, accepting personality. She had enjoyed the dogs Andrea had owned through the years, but having one around her all day was a new experience. Through some of the studies and papers at the office, she had occasionally read about the contribution pets made to the attitudes of people suffering from various pain issues. Now she had an understanding. When she had something to say, she told Pico, and as he cocked his head and made better eye contact than many people she had met, she was convinced he cared.
Joy pulled up the driveway and waved as she got out of her Smart Car. Katherine had seen t
hem but never been in one and was thrilled at the prospect.
“Pico, chien gâté, you spoiled pup!” Joy said, laughing and giving him an affectionate rub as he greeted her excitedly.
“I see you two are bonding,” Joy chuckled as she and Katherine exchanged bises.
Nodding with a grin, Katherine picked up her panier, a braided wicker market basket, from the front step and climbed into the car. Picasso looked questioningly at Joy and she pointed through the vineyard. “Au village. Vite! Vite!” With that he took off at full speed.
As Joy climbed behind the wheel, she explained to Katherine, “Pico will be there before we will—you’ll see! I really can’t fit him properly in this little car.”
“Thanks for picking me up. I’m so excited to ride in one of these! I’ve seen the numbers slowly growing in Toronto but have never been in one.”
“In my opinion they are the only car to have for local driving in this country, with our narrow roads and shortage of space in towns—particularly now that so many foreigners have moved here. But although some do, I don’t take it on the autoroute.”
“That makes sense to me too,” Katherine agreed.
“So how are you doing, Katherine? Are you feeling comfortable here? What have you done?”
Katherine passionately relayed the details of the previous day, saying how she had loved her walk into Sainte-Mathilde and then later strolling around Gordes.
“Your voice betrays your emotions about being here. That’s so lovely!”
In a few short minutes they were in the village. “Oh, mon Dieu, look at this spot I’m going to slip into. My parking ange is with us!”
Walking a couple of minutes down a winding, cobbled lane, Katherine’s face lit up as they rounded the corner and entered the village square that was transformed into the twice-weekly market. Stalls of beautifully organized fruits, vegetables, herbs, and olives intermingled with those selling flowers, cheese, and meats. At the far end, she could see clothing and linens hanging and couldn’t wait to discover what else.
The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Page 14
