Katherine knew by now that this was the more exposed north side of the farmhouse. The other side of the structure would be a very different story. This mas was considerably larger than “her” farmhouse, but the visceral pleasure was much the same. The stone, the shutters, the tile and beams combined to create a feeling that was warm and welcoming.
Walking into the entrance foyer with her overnight bag, she discovered directions to pull the silk cord hanging nearby to ring a bell. Minutes later she was greeted by a young woman, who asked Katherine to sign in before leading her down a pristine hallway to a small circular stone stairway. At the top, a single door opened to her room.
Decorated entirely in blending shades of cream, off-white, and taupe, the tones complemented the pale stone walls and stripped blond wood beams of the whitewashed ceiling. The furniture was simple and sleek, matching in color to the rest of the room so everything blended in a cloud of soft, subtle refinement. Somehow the clean modern lines worked with the ancient setting.
Sunlight from a large window flooded the spacious minimalist bathroom, with its modern white porcelain fittings and immaculate tiles. Just walking into the room made Kat feel clean.
“Some of our guests are by the pool and at the bar on the terrace nearby, madame,” said the young woman. “Please let us know if there is anything you wish.”
Katherine thanked her, wondering how anyone could wish anything more than this.
French doors opened with a decorative railing stretched across the space. These early buildings in France were not built with balconies, she had read. That was, apparently, because the people spent so much time in the sun for centuries, they wanted to be protected from it once inside. Balconies were normally found only on structures built in the last one hundred years.
After hanging her few items in the closet, she relaxed in the serenity of the room for a few minutes, then showered and changed into her bathing suit and robe. Eager to have that first splash in the pool, she walked out to the terrace.
There were several empty lounges by the pool; five were occupied. Saying bonjour to the others, Katherine settled herself on a chaise that was somewhat isolated at the far end of the pool. Although she did not want to appear antisocial, she did wish to have some quiet time. Certainly there would be plenty of chatting at dinner.
She pulled another lounge close to her and placed her Kindle, towel, and sunscreen on it. Easing herself gently into the pool, her entire body responded to the refreshing cool softness of the salt water. After a few laps and some time simply floating in peaceful contentment, Katherine settled on her lounge, applied a generous amount of sunscreen, put on her sunglasses, and began reading.
She startled suddenly to a voice at her side and realized she had been dozing.
“I’m sorry. Do you mind if I take this chair?”
“Mmmm . . . no! Oh. Excuse me . . . of course. Please take it.”
“Now my turn to apologize. I didn’t realize you were sleeping! Those glasses camouflaged it well!”
Katherine flashed an embarrassed smile as she removed her things from the lounge and looked up at a ruggedly handsome man with a veneer-perfect grin.
“Seriously, I’m sorry to have disturbed your snooze. Could there be a better spot for one?”
Smiling back, Katherine explained, “My goodness, the pool area has become popular! When I arrived there were just a few of us here, so I took the liberty of spreading my stuff to this chair too.”
“I guess everyone is back from a day of sightseeing.” Offering his hand, he introduced himself. “Matt Robertson.”
“Katherine Price,” she replied, noting his American accent with its distinct Southern twang.
Moving the chair a few feet away, Matt explained he was on a business trip to Marseille and taking a few days to explore the countryside.
“Do you know this area very well?” he asked.
Katherine told him about her mini-Mayle motor trip. After sharing her experience so far that day, she asked a few questions about Marseille and then turned back to her book as he dove into the pool.
Checking her watch later, she was shocked to see she had slept for over an hour. The pool area had filled with two other couples and three teenagers, and she hadn’t heard a sound. Before getting back to her reading, Katherine and Matt exchanged a few intermittent pleasantries about the inn and the area, and she soon heard him quietly snoring. He was still asleep as she tiptoed by to go to her room.
Admiring the freshly pressed linen dress she had brought for dinner, Katherine was glad she had made the purchase. A luminescent shade of the softest blue, it accentuated the striking blue of her eyes. The style, calf length with spaghetti straps, complemented her lean figure.
Leaner in the last six months, that’s for certain, she thought as she studied herself in the mirror.
She was glad she was vain enough to still care how she looked. She knew that wasn’t always the way divorce affected women—for a while, anyway.
When she had arrived back from the pool, a pitcher of water with lemon and lime slices in it and a small bowl of cherries were on the desk in her room. Now she poured a glass and ate a few cherries as she looked out over the pool and the olive grove beyond. Picking up the phone, she asked the young woman in reception if it might be possible for her to stay in her room for an extra night.
“I will check, madame. May I confirm with you later?”
“Thank you. I have a dinner reservation for eight p.m.,” Katherine replied.
“Très bien, I will find you, madame.”
Katherine surprised herself by deciding to go to the bar for a drink before dinner.
Must be the curative powers of Provence making me feel so relaxed.
Before going downstairs, there was time to go online to read her e-mails and send a group update as well as to remind Molly about their Skype date on Sunday. Just after seven, she walked into the intimate bar area, which extended onto a vast terrace accented with enormous terra-cotta planters overflowing with a riotous color mix of plants. Once she had her glass of sauvignon blanc, Katherine went over to confirm they were real.
“It’s hard to believe they aren’t artificial, isn’t it?” a soft British-accented voice asked. Katherine turned to see a woman she had noticed that afternoon by the pool and a young girl who appeared to be in her early teens. They chatted about the flowers on the terrace and throughout the countryside for a few minutes. “Have you been down to the coast—to the Riviera?”
Katherine replied she had not been for a very long time.
“Well, the flowers there are even more abundant. The municipalities take great pride in their gardens, even on the islands on regular streets. In some of the roundabouts—er, traffic circles, as you say—the displays are amazing. Villages and towns compete each year for the coveted ‘ville fleurie’ designation.”
The woman was obviously a gardener, and Katherine was happy to learn the names of a few species, unknown to her, that she had seen.
It turned out all three teenagers from the afternoon belonged to this family; two sons drifted in with their father to join their mother and sister.
Introductions were made and pleasing conversation quickly followed. The British are so very good at conversation, Katherine thought. The children were equally stimulating conversationalists, and before long the family had invited Katherine to sit at their table for dinner.
Dinner would not be served until 8:00 p.m., and Katherine did not refuse when another glass of her wine materialized. The British were also masters of social graces.
When they were called into the dining area, the women gasped at the candlelit setting. Once again the colors were soft and earthen. The lighting was so cleverly blended, it was hard to believe that anything more than candles created the ethereal effect.
Everyone at the table chose the specialité de la maison. Katherine was surprised the teenagers were interested in such fine food, but they explained they had been holidaying in this part of
Provence every summer for ten years. They were almost as knowledgeable about the food as their parents.
“That’s so wonderful! Travel is the best educator, is it not?” Katherine commented, and they all agreed.
Not long afterward, Katherine noticed Matt come into the dining area and sit alone at a table for two. Looking around, he noticed her and waved with a smile. Katherine waved back, returning the smile.
Wine flowed through all five courses, shifting from sauvignon blanc to a full-bodied Bordeaux to complement the main course, queue de boeuf à l’orange.
The teens were anxious to get on to other activities once their meals were finished.
“Undoubtedly of a digital nature,” muttered their father as they excused themselves and politely said goodnight to Katherine. The owners of the inn appeared in the dining area to invite the ten remaining guests to join them on the terrace for a digestif—a cognac.
“On the house, as you say in America,” M. LaFontaine said with a grin. “C’est offert par la maison . . . un cadeau . . . a gift, if you please.”
Although Kat felt she had consumed more than enough alcohol, the other guests cajoled her into one more. The next thing she knew, Matt was pulling out a chair for her at a long table where everyone was gathered and chatting amiably.
“How can you not want to sit and enjoy this amazing setting?” Matt asked as he sat next to her. “It’s like something out of a magazine, isn’t it?” Katherine nodded with an appreciative smile and agreed it truly was enchanting. Again, candlelight and torches in the garden accompanied the glow of a nearly full moon. Soft jazz played in the background, and conversation flowed easily as everyone introduced themselves.
Along with the British couple, there were two couples from Paris and another from Germany, with Katherine and Matt being the only North Americans. M. LaFontaine mentioned there was another couple from the United States staying at the inn.
Everyone was interested in hearing about Katherine’s mini-Mayle motor trip that day. No one was aware of the story about the statue in Cadenet, and she enjoyed sharing it. Most of the guests had visited the area in the past, and there was much trading of restaurant names and helpful tips about lesser-known places to see. When Kat mentioned she was going to hike through the Cedar Forest outside Bonnieux on Saturday morning, the British couple told her they had already done this, and described their experience.
“As you may know, since you seem to be a well-informed visitor, it’s an easy walk, but lovely. Only one and a half hours full circle, but the views are expansive. There are signs throughout so you know what you are seeing, and we really appreciate that. It gives an excellent overview of the Petit Luberon.”
One of the couples from Paris said they planned to do the walk and suggested Katherine might like to go with them. She replied it would be fun to have company.
Lucille and Hubert seemed a delightful couple. She was a tall, slim French beauty, blond with a flawless complexion, and he was a charming dark Italian with sparkling eyes that matched an infectious sense of humor. They were enjoying their first week away from their ten-month-old daughter, Alice, but at the same time suffering the pangs of withdrawal, as new parents do. Photos of the sweet child were passed around for everyone to admire.
“Well, if y’all don’t mind,” piped up Matt, his Southern drawl slipping in, “maybe I could tag along?”
“Perché no . . . er, scusi . . . as you say, why nota?” Hubert answered.
“The more, the merrier!” Matt exclaimed.
“Get an early start,” advised M. Lafontaine. “Tomorrow is supposed to be as hot as today. Even though you will be sheltered in the forest, the heat will find you!”
The hikers agreed to meet in the lobby at 8:00 a.m., ready to leave, and Matt offered to drive.
“In that case, I’m going to stumble off to my room,” laughed Katherine. “I’ve enjoyed way too much libation this evening!”
“That makes two of us. Allow me to escort you,” said Matt, rising to leave with her.
At the foot of the staircase to Katherine’s room, she turned and casually extended her hand. “Thanks. See you in the morning.”
Taking her hand, Matt said, “Merci beaucoup! Let’s be French.” Leaning in, he grazed each cheek with his in the French way.
Caught a little off guard, Katherine smiled politely and turned to go up the stairs. His behavior seemed more pushy than gracious, she thought with displeasure.
“Bonsoir,” she said.
“Bonsoir, Kathy!” He didn’t see Katherine wrinkle her nose in annoyance as she quickly opened her door. Inside her room, she rolled her eyes, wondering why some people automatically used common nicknames without asking.
Closing her door, Katherine discovered a handwritten note on the desk indicating she was more than welcome to stay another night in the room.
I’m okay traveling on my own, and every day seems to reaffirm that, she thought contentedly.
Sitting up, she filled out a menu form to hang on her door, ordering a glass of orange juice and croissants for breakfast, then slipped into her nightgown. Sinking into the luxurious comfort of the plump mattress and collection of plush pillows, a smile lingered as she fell asleep in an instant.
20
After a restful night with fresh air streaming through the windows and breakfast at a small table by the open French doors, Katherine arrived in the lobby to find Matt, Lucille, and Hubert ready for the hike. She apologized for keeping them waiting, but they assured her they had all just arrived that minute.
Instructions in hand, they climbed into Matt’s car and headed off for the Cedar Forest. The morning was clear, but already a hint of the heat to come was in the air.
Three hours later the bedraggled foursome arrived back and in no time were submerged in the pool. It had been a hot morning for a hike—even an easy one—and the cool water was just the tonic before they continued with the agenda they had cooked up while walking. Katherine’s plan was to visit Ménerbes, then explore the countryside, looking for the ancient stone bories and dolmens. On the way back to the inn she would stop at Lacoste. It was decided all four would go together, and Katherine was happy to have their company. They were delighted she had provided a tour.
After a light poolside salad, Katherine phoned Joy to let her know she was staying an extra night at the inn.
“Pico will be sad,” Joy told her. “He keeps walking down to the farmhouse to see if you are there. But I’m so glad you are having such a lovely time. À demain!”
When the others had finished their meals, Matt offered to continue his chauffeur services, and they wound their way the short distance to the hilltop village of Ménerbes.
Once again, the views were breathtaking.
“This is the nature of Provence,” explained Lucille. “One gasp after another and all in the name of beauty.” She had grown up in Normandy, and her stories caused Katherine to decide she must visit that area one day.
Ménerbes was the town Peter Mayle first immortalized in his 1989 book A Year in Provence. He was so successful in painting an immensely appealing village and way of life with his words that he eventually was hounded by the tourists who sought out his house. He had done too good a job describing the joys of the area. Everyone felt he was just the type of person with whom it would be lovely to sit and sip wine while listening to his amusing tales. Katherine read aloud that since he had moved to a more private property, the town had returned—somewhat—to a quiet medieval village exquisitely poised over the Luberon Valley. Exploring the paths and laneways past grand village houses and up to the massive Citadelle provided wonderful views over the countryside.
Stopping at a café in the Place de l’Horloge for a break, they consulted travel information on Katherine’s Kindle and decided to take a small detour out of town to the Musée du Tire-Bouchon, or Corkscrew Museum. It displayed more than a thousand corkscrews, and Matt wanted to buy a souvenir there.
The winding drive was thrilling,
and Katherine had to admit Matt was doing a remarkable job of navigating the twists and turns.
“I love this kind of driving,” he assured them with a wide grin. “You don’t find roads like this in Florida. It’s all flat swampland.”
Next on the agenda was the village of Lacoste with the castle ruin of the Marquis de Sade, now owned by Pierre Cardin. Parking at the bottom of the hill, they stopped for a beer at the Café de France, with its popular hanging terrace. Then they continued past the mairie and back into the Middle Ages as they walked on the cobblestones through the Portail de la Garde, into the ancient heart of old Lacoste. There were no shops or cafés here, but a delightful jumble of ornately decorated doors, mullioned windows, and intriguing architectural details. And of course the castle.
Dominating the town at the top of the hill, the castle was still in partial ruin, although restoration had been ongoing since the 1950s. The town was busy with activity in preparation for the music festival held every summer in July and August. Looking over the schedule of concerts, the four visitors bemoaned the timing.
Watching Lucille and Hubert stroll hand in hand all afternoon with the occasional PDA, Katherine felt a pang of regret at her lack of romantic memories. James had considered any public show of affection to be juvenile.
Maybe I just don’t inspire it.
The heat was getting to all of them, and an ice cream cone was deemed a necessity as they walked back down to the car. There were few villages where there was not a glacier selling its own brand of delicious ice cream.
“Katherine, I can’t believe you would want to trade your nice modern facilities in Canada to live in a three-hundred-year-old house with bad plumbing and no air conditioning,” Hubert commented.
“And who knows what other problems,” added Lucille.
Katherine chuckled. “I guess when you have lived with these kinds of villages around you all your life, and so much history, you feel differently about them. Perhaps I’m not being realistic, but I have to say the attraction is overwhelming. I feel the challenge would be worth it!”
The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Page 18
