“My dear,” Joy addressed her, “thank goodness you arrived home when you did. Who knows how long François would have lain there otherwise.”
“Well, thanks to Pico,” Katherine responded as she reached down to scratch his neck. “I never would have seen him were it not for this good boy.”
Speculating about the destination of the ambulance, the consensus was it would be Avignon, as their medical facilities were the best.
The men spoke of their admiration for François and his love for how he spent his days there. Joy explained that he came to Sainte-Mathilde from Paris intermittently through the year and then for most of the summer. He usually passed the better part of his days with the goat herd.
Their expressions reflected their affection.
“In spite of his successful business life in Paris,” Joy translated, “François is really a philosopher . . . a man of the earth . . . he loves nature.”
Katherine listened, adding her hopes that he would recover well.
The conversation this time was more in French than English and with the excitement they had just experienced, it was often too fast for Katherine to follow.
Joy translated when she felt Katherine was getting lost, and the others apologized for speaking so quickly. Nothing really changed, though, and Kat was reminded of how much work she needed to do on her language skills.
Politely refusing an invitation for dinner, Katherine waved good-bye from the back terrace. Everyone watched their step in order to avoid the goat poop littering the yard, and Joy assured her they would send one of the field workers to clean it up.
As Kat climbed the creaky stairs to the bathroom, the only thing on her mind was a good long soak with more of her luxurious bath oil. As the water filled the deep tub, she went downstairs and poured a glass of sauvignon blanc, calling a reluctant Pico in from his evening rounds. The smells remaining around the yard by the goat invasion had left him plenty of spots to investigate.
Katherine set her iPod in the portable travel speaker; Ella Fitzgerald pieces played softly in the background. She turned the light off, moonlight filtering through the small window creating a delicate glow.
At the open door, she heard Picasso flop down with a deep sigh. He’d had quite an adventure himself.
Sinking under the water up to her neck was a blissful indulgence that calmed her after the stressful experience of finding François. One thing she missed in her parents’ house was a deep bathtub and this reminded her she should seriously consider a bathroom renovation when she got back to Toronto.
Sipping her wine, she reflected on all that had transpired since she boarded the TGV in Paris on Saturday morning. The exchange was a big part of making this trip so special. Having a base that felt like a home added a different dimension to taking a trip. It was such fun to have all this space and not be confined to a hotel room. And Picasso—who knew? Also, she was incredibly fortunate to have met Joy, who made her feel as if she belonged there. As she counted her blessings, a feeling of shocked awareness overtook her thoughts.
“The bicycle. My God, I got on the bicycle,” she said out loud. Eight months and a bit, she quickly calculated. That’s how long it had been.
17
Katherine awoke to a loud knocking, followed by Picasso roaring down the stairs and barking ferociously. Throwing on her robe, she hurried down and peeked out the small window in the door to see a middle-aged woman waiting patiently.
“Bonjour, madame. Je suis Marie-Claude, la femme de ménage.”
“Oui, bien sûr,” replied Katherine, “entrez, s’il vous plait.” Of course, she thought, it’s Wednesday—she knew about a housekeeper coming on Wednesday and Saturday. The Lalliberts had told her in an e-mail, and it was also noted in the exchange booklet.
Katherine felt embarrassed that there wouldn’t be much for the woman to do, but Marie-Claude was as cheerful as could be and quickly set about her work. Occasionally she would ask Katherine a question about how she was enjoying her visit, but otherwise she seemed to have no trouble keeping herself busy.
Surprised to discover she had slept until after 9:00 a.m., Katherine decided to go into town for a pain aux raisins and café crème rather than stay underfoot. She could stop at the gas station and catch up on e-mails too.
She would ride the bicycle to the village.
Looking at the map in the exchange booklet, she noted she could ride through the vineyard almost right to the village with only a short distance involving the road. Walking to the potting shed, Katherine felt a moment of hesitation.
In the early weeks after “la Katastrophe,” she felt she would never ride a bicycle again. The memories she attached to cycling with James were simply too painful. Her mother had pointed out how Kat was sacrificing something important to her, but she was not to be dissuaded at the time. However, in an emergency situation where she had no time to question her actions, she had ridden a bicycle.
Now she moved the ancient Peugot into the sunshine and took a good look at it. The simplicity made her smile. With no gears to shift, this bicycle was as basic as they came. Hopping on, she headed toward the village, bumping through the vineyard with Picasso trotting along behind. When she reached the road, the dog immediately ran up onto the trail beside it. He knew what he was doing.
“Good boy!” Katherine called to him, feeling something like pride for this companion that was quickly claiming a piece of her heart.
Deeply inhaling, she marveled yet again at the abundance of fragrance in the air. Nothing was banal here. From a simple stroll or bike ride to standing on a hilltop looking out over a stunning vista, the senses were always engaged.
Leaving Pico outside the gas station with the bike, it felt wrong not locking it up.
Andrea had sent a long update on her family life, saying everything was in order and describing the busy activity at the farm, as always during the short growing season.
Lucy sent office news and said how she was reading all about Provence for the first time ever. She relayed greetings from the rest of the staff. Molly’s message had a worrying undertone, although she didn’t say anything specific was wrong. She mentioned she had apparently misplaced her purse at school, although she couldn’t see how it had possibly happened. It was discovered in the women’s staff powder room and returned to her by the math teacher, who said it was sitting on the counter. “Fuckin’ bizarro” was her comment.
Sending a collective message to them first, she followed with a private one to Molly, assuring her that stuff like a misplaced purse happens to all of them. Suggesting they Skype on Sunday at 4:00 p.m. Provence time, which would catch Molly with some of her rare free time, Katherine thought they should talk.
Kat was increasingly aware of how personal her interactions with Molly had become and wondered if Molly had ever had other close friends with whom she shared her feelings. She really had no idea; Molly never spoke about any other girlfriends.
But then, neither did I, thought Katherine. I told everything to James, and he always convinced me nothing was a problem. I never thought about how great girlfriends might be.
Bidding the others in the room “bonne journée,” she walked to where she had left the bike leaning against the side of the building. Picasso lay next to it, indicating clear proprietorship. When Katherine had asked Joy about locking the bike, she had been answered with a look of surprise and told it simply was not necessary. Smiling, she now understood why.
Next stop was Le Petit Café for a crème and a pain aux raisins. Picasso lay by her feet munching a biscuit the waiter had given him, and Katherine chuckled, noticing other village dogs stopping by for a treat from time to time as they made their daily rounds.
With a sandwich and the local newspaper in the basket, along with her water bottle and camera, she headed home. The pavement felt like velvet after the lumps of the vineyard trail, and when she came to the turnoff to her house, Katherine simply kept on going.
Picasso stopped and yelped a warnin
g. She looked back to see him standing and barking sternly at her to let her know she had missed the turn. When she continued, he hurried to catch up through the woods.
The warm morning breeze caressed her skin and ruffled her hair as her legs pumped rhythmically. The bike was as basic as one could find, and yet somehow a finely tuned machine. There was no need for gears with roads as flat as those nearby, and the odd incline presented a welcome opportunity to work a little harder. It had been a very long time since she had ridden like this—simply for the pleasure of it and on her own. Well, she smiled, not exactly alone. Picasso trotted barely ahead of her, just off the road, as if he knew precisely where she was headed.
The plane trees lining the narrow road provided a canopy of dappled shade. Traffic was light along this route except for two groups of bicycle tours that passed her, waving and calling bonjour.
I’m going to seriously plan to book a cycling tour in France. Maybe Andie will want to come with me.
The simple act of riding down a country road brought history to life as Katherine recalled all she had read about Napoleon ordering the planting of thousands of the trees throughout the country to shade his armies.
Taking in the details of the lush farmland, orchards, and olive groves she passed, the aromatic smells wrapping around her, and the effortless motion that carried her along, Katherine felt something building strongly inside her. I am happy. The feelings began in her heart and spread through her entire frame. I am so happy.
Pedaling on, she reached a small bridge crossing a shallow creek that bordered on a field of sunflowers blooming in full glory. The brilliant golden flower heads, bursting with dark seeds, raised up to the deepest blue sky. Brown-tinged leaves betrayed the lack of rain recently.
“Oh my, my, my,” she said out loud.
On the other side of the bridge, Katherine stopped on the almost nonexistent shoulder of the road and pulled the bike up through the long grass to rest it on a wire fence. Picking up her camera, she lost herself in the setting. Picasso wiggled under the fence and kept busy investigating areas of interest while her shutter clicked away. Close-ups, landscape settings, every conceivable angle, and some shots of Pico poking around—she took them all.
Then she sat by the edge of the creek, the sunflower field her backdrop, and ate half of her baguette sandwich. Pico eventually joined her and was rewarded with a few nibbles. She considered the immense pleasure of doing what she felt like, when she felt like it. So much for my organized, structured life.
Wrapping the remaining half of her sandwich in its paper bag, she leaned back on her elbows with her eyes closed, basking in the warm sun and serenaded by the soothing sounds of the babbling brook. Her memories took her back to the day her life had changed, and slowly she worked her way through the months to this moment. She had been there many times before. Sometimes the process had been easier than others.
Thoughts of her mother filled her now. The serenity of this setting brought back memories of the gentle woman she had been. Katherine knew how Anyu would have approved of this trip. She heard her mother’s gentle reminder after James had left: “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Katherine had been guided by those words her entire life, but now, knowing the details of her past, she realized the deep meaning they held for her mother.
Absentmindedly she reached over to stroke Picasso’s back.
I am getting stronger.
It wasn’t that James had walked all over her. He just liked to be in charge, and he did it well. He made all the decisions and she complied. He planned trips and Katherine made the bookings. It seemed to be teamwork. Now she realized it wasn’t.
He moved me like a chess piece. His story became mine. Now I’m rewriting.
Riding back to the house, she kicked up her speed a notch. Nothing like the powerful bikes she had ridden for years, but still it was satisfying. She missed cycling, she had to admit, and this experience confirmed she would get back into it in Toronto.
The Peugeot survived the workout and in fact gave her a great ride. She gratefully gave it a pat as she put it back in the potting shed. Walking through the garden to the kitchen door, she noticed she had missed a visitor. On the windowsill sat a bouquet of flowers—a colorful and fragrantly exotic mix made up of possibly the most spectacular selection of blooms she had ever seen. She was not even certain what half of them were.
She had noted cleverly creative bouquets like this in shops in Gordes and Roussillon. With the stems gently twisted and tied, the bouquet sat in a water-filled colored plastic bag that gave the impression of a vase. Picking it up, she breathed in the fragrance and stood for a moment enjoying the blend of colors and textures. Taking the card she discovered tucked in the center, she went into the kitchen and set the flowers on the table. For a moment, but ever so briefly, she remembered the last bouquet she had received and then banished the thought.
The note was simply handwritten.
I am the nephew of François. He is becoming better, and we say merci mille fois. I would like to meet you and will be with the goats tomorrow morning. Philippe
Marie-Claude was gone and the house was spotless. Katherine had planned to do some laundry in the afternoon and was shocked when she saw her clothes neatly folded on the bed. Done.
The rest of the day was spent reading in the garden, where she immediately noticed the absence of the clinking goat bells. With some surprise, she realized she missed the sound and hoped it would soon return. As dusk fell, she moved to the comfort of the living room.
The evening was devoted to what she thought might be her new addiction: playing bridge on her laptop. Molly had lent her some beginner and intermediate bridge programs by Canadian bridge guru Audrey Grant, and Katherine discovered a keen enjoyment of the game. At home she had even gone so far as to play with real people in online card rooms but still didn’t feel ready to sit down to a serious game otherwise.
After the events of the previous day, Katherine had felt she needed a quiet day off, and this one had been just fine.
18
After another sunrise yoga session in the garden, Katherine now looked out the bathroom window as she toweled dry her hair after her shower. Hearing the familiar bells, she hung farther out and could see goats grazing just across from the house in the lower field.
By the gate, a sleek racing bicycle rested against a tree.
Dressing quickly, Katherine stopped to take a few bites of a croissant in the kitchen before she walked out the front door.
Picasso came bounding around the corner of the house when she called him, stopping in front of her for a few seconds for a morning ear rub. Giving her a look, he disappeared back from where he had come.
Following around the corner, she saw her competition for Pico’s affection. At the edge of the goat field—as she had now come to think of it—a slim young man in classic serious cycling gear sat on a boulder. Smoking and looking in the other direction, he turned when Picasso ran up to him.
Katherine noticed him give the dog a treat and wondered where on earth he had stored it, considering the tight fit of his bright yellow, red, and black spandex. The thought flitted away when he turned to look at her. She thought she had never seen a more unfriendly face.
Stepping toward him, she reached to shake hands as she would at home.
“Bonjour, you must be Philippe. I’m Katherine.”
Standing quickly with a sullen expression that startled Katherine, the young man nodded and made a half bow in her direction. Clearly this was his way of greeting her. No hand was extended in return. Nothing further was invited.
“Thank you for the beautiful flowers. That was most thoughtful of you!”
Her words were received with a look of confusion and incomprehension. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he looked away, blowing the smoke over his shoulder.
“Oui, je suis Philippe, mais—pas en anglais.” He raised his shoulders in the classic Gallic shrug, spreading his hands and scrunching his face
as he added, “Désolé.”
Well, that was almost polite, Katherine thought, then spoke to him in her best French, asking about François.
Philippe’s replies were short, fast, and definitely not encouraging of further conversation. He told her François had a “crise cardiaque” . . . and would be going home in a few days. He would go back to Paris for tests.
Once again Katherine thanked him for the flowers and received no response.
“Vous êtes Anglaise?” he asked without a smile.
“Canadienne,” she responded.
With a slightly softer shift of his face, he replied with a quiet “Bienvenue.”
Then, after one last quick drag, he flicked his cigarette to the dirt, ground it out with his toe, and walked over to the fence. Hopping over in one swift movement, he picked up his bike. Saying au revoir as he strapped on his helmet, he cycled off.
Katherine stood there for a few minutes. She felt confused at the young man’s attitude but was relieved to hear François had suffered what she thought was a heart attack and not a stroke. She would confirm that with Joy.
Picasso dropped a stick at her feet. Picking it up, she threw it as far down the lane as she could as she considered the conversation. It was hard to believe this was the person who had left the bouquet. This young man had been the perfect stereotype of a sullen Frenchman. The first she had encountered anywhere on this trip.
“C’est la vie,” she said with a shrug of her own.
Thursday morning was market day again in Sainte-Mathilde, and Katherine thought a little retail therapy might be just the thing—a couple of linen items had caught her eye on Monday. She drove to the village so she would still be fresh for trying on clothes, leaving Picasso looking disgruntled on the front steps. Joy had called to suggest they meet at Le Petit Café at eleven, and Katherine took along the itinerary of a two-day road trip she had planned, to get some opinions from her.
The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Page 16
