The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1)

by Patricia Sands

  Sitting patiently at the entrance with the nearest vendor talking to him was Picasso. Both women patted his head, and when Joy told him to wait there, he promptly flopped down.

  “We’re early, so let’s begin at the far end and buy our food last,” Joy suggested. Katherine was surprised to learn that the markets traditionally opened at 9:00 a.m. She had assumed it would be much earlier.

  Joy explained how the market vendors arrived earlier and set up and then sat down for their own coffee and gossip before opening up.

  As they passed the stalls, Katherine was reminded of how artistically everything was presented. It was the French way. Nothing was simply helter-skelter on the stands, but rather set out in a way that invited one to browse. Some vendors still used worn wicker baskets that took on richer tones as they aged, and the herb and spice display was nothing short of a prizewinning photo opportunity. The variety and mix of colors caught the eye and didn’t let go. Exotic aromas and scents filled the air.

  Katherine apologized for continually stopping to take photos, but Joy was only too happy to share in her appreciation of everything. The video camera Kat had been given at the office was being put to good use, along with her digital SLR.

  The market spilled down narrow side laneways and there was little one could not find. The multicolored display of made-in-Marseille soaps with their delicate fragrances made choosing just one an almost impossible task. A crowd of women were sorting through racks of fashionably casual linen and cotton clothing. Katherine couldn’t recall seeing more linen being worn anywhere else than in Gordes.

  “I may pick up a few pieces,” she considered, spotting an outfit she liked.

  And then there was the hat vendor. Click! The stacks of delicately woven fine straw hats with huge brims were a mix of the most vibrant and unusual shades. Joy popped one on her head with a grin and demonstrated how the brims were easily adjusted into all sorts of attractive shapes.

  “You must have one, Katherine! I doubt you will find these at home. They are from Italy, and all the tourists love them! And so do we—since we are so conscious of the sun these days.”

  Katherine agreed they were irresistible and after much deliberation settled upon a soft turquoise shade. Joy and the hat vendor exclaimed how the color complemented her skin and eyes as Katherine blushed.

  They lingered over the household linens, admiring the quilts and the ever-popular Provençal tablecloths and placemats in the classic colors and patterns. Those had been the gifts Katherine had purchased so many decades before—a lifetime ago, really, she thought—when she was in Villefranche, and she knew she would want some again.

  “I’m going to wait to buy things like that until I visit more markets,” she said to Joy, who nodded.

  Joy agreed they represented true traditions of Provence, even though they had become kind of touristy and displayed everywhere you turned. She warned Katherine to check labels to see if they were actually made in France. By law, everything made in France was so marked. “There are so many knockoffs being produced in Asia and other places, and the quality is simply not as good. But don’t worry about the hats; we know where they are produced in Italy, and again, they have been selling here forever.”

  “I know what you mean. We have the same problem at home and I always try to buy goods made in North America there. I only want to purchase things made in France while I’m here—or Italy,” Kat added with a smile.

  They continued browsing the stalls, with Katherine particularly drawn to the olive-wood items.

  “I will take you to a smaller village one day if you like,” said Joy, “where I know a craftsman whose family has been creating from olive wood for centuries. His prices and the selection of products cannot be matched.”

  “I would love that,” Katherine replied, appreciating her good fortune at meeting this thoughtful woman.

  When they returned to the food vendors, Katherine tried to control herself. Everything tempted. Joy was greeted by name by most of the vendors, and she took the time to introduce Katherine. Whenever she mentioned Kat was from Canada, bright smiles followed.

  Purchasing just enough cheese, salad greens, and a roasted chicken for the next few days, Katherine calculated she would probably have one meal a day out somewhere as she explored. The selections of tomatoes amazed her, and on Joy’s recommendation she purchased a very odd-looking variety. Plump and ribbed, they appeared slightly squashed, like none she had seen before.

  “We English call them harem cushion tomatoes, and don’t they just look like that?” Joy asked with a laugh. The vendor smiled as he weighed them and gave Katherine clear instructions how to serve them as Joy nodded in agreement.

  “It’s the only way,” she smiled.

  Olives, tapenade, lemons, and local olive oil were essential buys. And of course, the daily baguette as well as two croissants, just because they looked as divinely delicious as she knew they would taste.

  “If you would like to buy some wine, we will pass a cave on the way back to the car. We have many fine small local vineyards, ours included, that produce labels you will want to try. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  Collecting Picasso as they left the market, they next stopped at Le Petit Café. Joy offered Katherine more history of the village and the area while they watched the bustling activity.

  “This is the oldest café in our little village, owned by the same family for six generations! In the beginning it was also an inn for voyagers passing through, but that vanished along with the horse and carriage.”

  Katherine shook her head. “That’s something that we would simply never find in North America. I can’t believe how many small independently owned businesses there are in this area. I’m glad that the big-box invasion has not found you.”

  Joy looked confused, repeating, “Big box?”

  Katherine explained how Super Walmarts and other huge merchandising outlets were destroying the main streets and small businesses of communities back home.

  “Oh, there are some over by Avignon, but so far we are resisting.”

  Lingering over their drinks—café for Joy, crème for Katherine—they chatted easily as Picasso quietly rested his head on his paws under the table.

  Katherine remarked how she admired the shopkeepers’ attitudes toward dogs in their establishments. “That’s another thing you will never see back home.”

  Joy looked puzzled, commenting that as far as she knew, every country in Europe had the same attitude toward dogs and treated them as guests. Water bowls and treats were everywhere.

  Smiling at the thought, Katherine also mentioned how happy she was at the house and with Picasso keeping her company.

  “That’s wonderful, but you know he can stay with me, if you would rather.”

  Shaking her head, Katherine assured Joy that she truly was enjoying his personality and discovering that he was such good company.

  “He’s a special dog,” Joy agreed. “And the goats? Have you met François yet?”

  Katherine looked puzzled. “I guess not,” she answered.

  “Ah, he is le berger des chèvres . . . the shepherd of the goats, I guess you would say,” she said, her English becoming more French for a moment. “He’s actually a retired investment banker from Paris! His family has had goats here forever—they make un bon chèvre—fine goat cheese—and when he retired, this is what he wished to do. You will like him, and he speaks excellent English.”

  “I guess that’s who I saw yesterday, and he waved,” Katherine said. “But . . . wait . . . I also saw him when I got lost on the first day. He didn’t speak English then!”

  Joy had a sheepish grin as she told Katherine that François sometimes did that with tourists. “He will have to apologize.”

  Now Kat laughed. “Not at all. That made the experience even more authentic! I love the sound of the goats’ bells and the gentle bleating of those sweet little kids. I feel like I’m living in a movie right now,” Katherine said, beaming with d
elight.

  Joy sighed. “I understand. I still feel the pleasure of living here, although we have had hardships through the years with drought and disease in the vineyard, and the French bureaucracy can make one crazy. Even so, I believe Provence is a special place and we who live here are blessed.”

  Stopping in at a small electronics shop that supplied Orange service, the French telephone and wireless supplier—Joy helped in choosing a simple, inexpensive pay-as-you-go phone. Katherine’s Canadian phone was turned off and packed away until the return trip to Toronto.

  The next stop was the Internet room at the gas station. Joy made introductions and Katherine was welcomed with quiet reserve. She was pleased to see there was a well-organized room with six computers, and gaining access was simple. Joy suggested Katherine take some time to send a few messages while Joy ran errands. There were inquiring e-mails from everyone, and Katherine responded with a short group message say she was “alive and well and living in paradise.”

  When Joy dropped Katherine at the house, Picasso raced to the car to welcome her back. Katherine grinned, impressed with his independence.

  “Call me if you need anything, and let me know when you want to go to see the olive-wood shop. Also, I wish to invite you to lunch at my home on Sunday. It will be crazy, with lots of family, and they would all be so happy to meet you. What do you think?”

  “Oh thanks! I’d love to,” Katherine responded, feeling pleased.

  The afternoon passed quickly. Lunch on a terrace by the back gardens was a celebration of delicious taste sensations as Katherine sampled her morning market purchases.

  First she followed the directions the vegetable seller had given her when she purchased those most amazing tomatoes.

  Slicing them, she drizzled olive oil and lemon juice before she sprinkled fresh basil, salt, and pepper all over. Accompanied by the crisp, fresh baguette, the result was indeed divine. She knew she would be preparing this many more times. A little pâté, some cheese, olives, and of course more baguette followed, accompanied by a glass of—Joy’s recommendation—Bandol rosé. Yawning and stretching, a nap on the chaise might be the perfect finish, Katherine thought.

  She could hear the goat bells faintly and noticed they were much farther away today. The sound of the cicadas was the only other accompaniment to the silence that surrounded her. Peace.

  She relished the quiet and the time to gather her thoughts. This whole experience is so much more than I expected it would be. I just wish I could tell Mom about it. Maybe she and Dad are watching . . .

  Turning on her Kindle, she pulled up travel information and planned more excursions. It was pleasant to have time to relax in her own space that was easily feeling like home.

  Shaded from bright rays but still warmed by the midday sun, Katherine dozed off with her trusty canine snoring a few feet away.

  Later, writing postcards she had purchased in Gordes, Katherine picked at the roasted chicken for dinner. Her messages to her office colleagues were brief but passionate expressions of her happiness with this adventure.

  Anxious to use the rose-scented savon de Marseille and bath oil she had purchased at the market, she wrote her journal entry, then indulged in a long soak in the claw-foot bathtub. Climbing into bed, she turned to say goodnight to Picasso, who was standing in the doorway where he had been sleeping since she arrived. Somehow she sensed he was staring at the carpet beside her bed, so she invited him to come—viens—leaning down to pat the rug. Before she could blink, he was lying on the rug looking up at her with the kind of gratitude only a dog’s eyes can offer.

  16

  Up with the sun, Katherine unfolded her bright-purple yoga mat and congratulated herself on having squished it into her suitcase. A last-minute decision when she packed the final few items on the evening before her departure, it had meant she had to sit on her bag to close it. Spreading the mat on a terrace in the early-morning light, she went through a one-hour yoga routine. Letting go had never been easier.

  Picasso spent the entire hour moving from one side of the terrace to the other as he watched Katherine transition from pose to pose. Cocking his head with obvious curiosity, it appeared he wasn’t going to rest until he had it figured out. Kneeling on her mat after she had cooled down and meditated, Katherine beckoned Pico to come to her. As he sat facing her, she rubbed his ears and bent her forehead to his in a quiet moment of connection that surprised her.

  The plan was to head to Roussillon bright and early to avoid the worst of the crowds. She set the GPS and headed off. While Gordes had been close to the top of her must-see list, Roussillon was without question number one.

  Through the rearview mirror, she watched Picasso settle onto the front step to await her return and felt a twinge of guilt for not bringing him along.

  The color of the earth began to take on tones of reddish orange as Katherine drew closer to town. She had read that the ochre in the surrounding area was a natural pigment used in paints, and the quarry here was one of the most significant deposits in the world. The village perched on the ridge of a steep cliff, and Katherine was pleased to discover she could still find a parking spot in the lot partway up the hill.

  As she had expected, her camera was out and in action the minute she exited her car. All the houses were painted ochre shades that varied subtly from light yellow to dark red. Brightly colored shutters and doors added to the striking appeal of this plus beau village from the base of the village right up to the summit of the Castrum.

  The red, yellow, and brown shades of the earth created a striking contrast to the deep green pine trees and the vivid blue of the Provençal sky. The hours passed quickly as she indulged in the sheer beauty of it all.

  The small square at the top of the village was lined with restaurants, and Katherine chose a small place with an enormous patio in the back that provided a full 360-degree view. The patchwork of orchards, vineyards, lavender, and wheat fields stretched across the valley to the Grand Luberon, the slopes of Mont Ventoux, and the plateau of the Vaucluse. It was a stunning panorama that she felt was hers alone as she ate her green salad and planned which ice cream flavor she would choose for dessert.

  After relaxing, consumed by the vista, she pulled her old running shoes from her backpack and changed as she lined up for a ticket to the ochre mines. Now that the mines were no longer used, the tour was recommended as an excellent opportunity to understand how ochre was produced and the important role it played in the development of the area until the end of World War II.

  As Katherine walked along the trail of multicolored sand, the well-signed path described the geology, the plants, and the history of the amazing deposit that dated back millions of years.

  “A palette of flamboyant color,” she read on the brochure in her hand. Got that right.

  Driving back home with her now-orange shoes stashed in a bag, Katherine entertained romantic fantasies of running away to live in Roussillon. The village had an allure and gentle luminosity that was hard to resist, in spite of the tourists. Even so, she knew the crowds would be far worse a month from now and was glad to be there in June.

  As she drove up the lane to her mas, Katherine blinked and shook her head in disbelief. Goats were everywhere. In the gardens. On the terraces. Lounging, grazing, wandering. Something was very wrong. Katherine also realized that Pico was nowhere to be seen, which was even stranger. Surely he would have been a little excited about this caprine invasion of his territory.

  Walking around to the back of the house, she was greeted with even more goats. Laughing out loud as she spotted one on top of the potting shed, she jumped in surprise as she was lightly but firmly butted from behind. Animals were clustering around her and she couldn’t help but smile at the sweet babies with their soft coats demanding to be touched and stroked.

  She was about to open the kitchen door to get the list of family numbers, to call someone to help, when she heard a bark coming from down the lane by the adjoining field. Almost as far away a
s she could see, she could make out Picasso.

  Calling him, she watched him come tearing toward her. Partway, he stopped—legs rigid—looked at her, and barked intensely, as if to announce this was not a game. Then he went running back. After he repeated this several times, Katherine hastened farther down the lane and saw Pico was worrying about something piled on the ground.

  Breaking into a run, Katherine hurried to where Picasso was waiting and realized a person was lying in a heap. She recognized the goat herder’s clothing and knelt down. He was barely conscious and spoke haltingly, “Au secours . . . aidez-moi . . .”

  For a moment she was paralyzed into inaction before her mind kicked into gear with a plan. He didn’t need CPR, she determined; he needed an ambulance. She wrestled with the question of whether she should help him up or not and was frustrated at not knowing the right choice.

  He waved at her to go. “Allez . . . allez . . .”

  Assuring him she would get help, she raced back to the yard and straight to the potting shed. Hopping on the bicycle, she pedaled as quickly as possible through the vines to the manor house, searching for the French words she would need.

  She could see two men working among the vines.

  “Allo-o-o-o,” she called as she neared them. “Help! Au secours, s’il vous plait. Au secours! Il y a un homme qui est blessé. Venez vite! Venez vite.”

  The men raced to the house, shouting directions as others came outside and a car took off toward the road. Then they jumped on a motorcycle and roared to the scene. Katherine pedaled furiously behind them.

  Within twenty minutes an ambulance left with François strapped to a gurney, weak but conscious. The fear was he might have suffered a stroke. Joy, along with a handyman who had been working at the house, had been in the car that took off. They had called the emergency services number at the same time, and the response had been rapid. A relative of François had been called and would be waiting at the hospital.

  Now they all sat around Katherine’s kitchen table, the men and Picasso having rounded up the goats and securely settled them in the field. Joy had produced a bottle of pastis from her brother-in-law’s cupboard, and Katherine offered a bowl of olives and some nuts.