“Immediately,” Molly said, calming slightly. “One of the officers we met before actually seems to be taking an interest in the situation.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. They will get to the bottom of this. I just know it,” Kat said.
Molly plied her with questions about her life in Provence, and Katherine decided not to say anything about Matt the Asshole until she was back home with a glass of wine in her hand.
Molly reported that the Lalliberts loved Toronto. She had greeted them when they arrived at Katherine’s house the first day, and on Friday had taken them to lunch at an Italian restaurant with a patio offering a view of the lake.
“Madeline has invited me to come for a French dinner next Wednesday. They are going to shop at the St. Lawrence market and show me what I’m missing!”
“Please give them my regards and tell them I have fallen in love with their country, their home, and their dog. Molly, you would adore it here—and of course, there is jazz everywhere.”
They agreed to try to catch each other on Skype the following Sunday, when Kat would be in Paris.
23
Monday morning she wakened to the sun streaming through the open window. Lying in bed, she replayed the preceding three days, contemplating how she was wearing her independence.
Her stomach knotted as she thought about Matt’s offensive behavior, but her head overcame the anxiety, as she felt strong and empowered by her actions.
In the village later for a crème at Le Petit Café, she still wasn’t getting a smile from the waiter, but she sensed he recognized her even without Joy. Her goal there was to see a smile before her trip ended.
Well aware that the French did not really cotton to unsolicited smiles or offhand comments from strangers, she knew acceptance needed to be earned.
Mentally making a list of her plans for the rest of the week, she realized some things simply weren’t going to happen.
Easy good humor filled the car that afternoon as they wound their way through the maze of narrow roadways. Philippe informed them which ones had begun as goat and donkey paths or the routes of invading enemies.
“Philippe, you constantly amaze me with all these details.”
He gave her a modest smile and bowed his head. “We live with the stories and legends all around us and grow up hearing them from our elders. N’est-ce pas, Mirella?”
Mirella’s intimate knowledge of Céreste and Char’s stay there made it her turn to bring the history to life.
Before leaving the village, they sat at a small terrace and sipped pastis as they watched the afternoon pétanque players, smiling at the passionate and noisy debates over each game. Katherine had never realized what an important role this pastime played in the life of every village and town in France.
Once again she felt a sense of peace and comfort in the simple ambiance of such a village.
On the way home Mirella mentioned she was one of the conveners for a concert in the small, fifteenth-century chapel in Sainte-Mathilde on Wednesday evening.
“I would be honored if both of you would accept an invitation to be my guests.”
Tuesday, Katherine thought she might drive to Aix-en-Provence for the afternoon.
Reading in the garden midmorning while Picasso stretched by her chair and lazily snapped at flies, she looked up at one point and noticed a figure standing in the far reaches of the goat field where it met the forest.
When she went into the house to refill the water pitcher, she saw a sleek touring bike leaned against the fence and figured the young, sullen Philippe was in the field. Puttering in the garden later that morning, she heard her name called and realized it was not the sullen Philippe but rather the charming, soft-spoken Philippe. He beckoned her to the fence and asked if she might like a short walk through the trees to see a special place that François had discovered years before. The invitation pleased her and aroused her curiosity.
“Let me put on some proper walking shoes instead of these sandals.”
As she skipped up the stairs to her bedroom to find her shoes, Katherine had a moment of déjà vu as she flashed back to the disgusting and frightening episode with Matt the Asshole.
Philippe, on the other hand, seemed such a gentleman.
But then, she hadn’t seen the assault coming from Matt either. Maybe she was just too naive. She had been wrapped up so safely in the cocoon of her marriage for twenty-two years that it had not occurred to her to be suspicious of men. Was that it?
Pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs as she was on her way back outside, Katherine made a judgment call that she had nothing to fear this time. To be on the safe side, though, at least in her mind, she stuck her pointy manicure scissors in her pocket.
Opening a gate for Katherine, Philippe invited Picasso along before the excited pooch dashed past them and took the lead.
“Why don’t the goats simply clamber over? I mean, the fence isn’t really that high, and I’ve certainly seen what good climbers they are.” She recounted how they had invaded her yard the day of François’s accident.
“They are insatiably curious creatures, very nosy but rather lazy,” said Philippe. “They love their food and live to forage. The field and forest offer so much for them to eat, they can’t be bothered to leave. I have a theory about why they were in your yard that day. I believe the leader of the herd sensed a problem when François collapsed. When he left the field to investigate, the others followed, and that attracted Pico’s attention.”
He continued to regale her with obscure information about goats, and had her chuckling with his wry observations about their quirky and affectionate personalities.
Following behind him, Katherine took stock. Just over six feet, with thick brown hair, combed straight back and curling behind his ears, he was neither slender nor stocky, with a solid build. Well-muscled arms and legs suggested a lifestyle that demanded fitness. He didn’t appear to be much over forty, she thought. Not handsome, but very attractive in a French kind of way, with a slightly olive-toned complexion and strongly defined but not-too-big mouth, nose, and brow. Deep, dark eyes. Nice butt.
She smiled to herself, acknowledging she hadn’t lost her appreciation of a good-looking man, particularly the latter detail.
After twenty minutes through the lightly forested woods, a pasture-like clearing opened up and Philippe stopped before what appeared to be a jumble of rocks.
Peering more closely, she could see order in the jumble as Philippe proudly told her these were the remains of a Roman wall and a secret that remained just in their family. François had made the discovery and painstakingly dug it out. Local historians had confirmed the authenticity and agreed it was not situated in an appropriate place for officials to make it accessible to everyone.
“How exciting to know that Romans once lived on your property!” Katherine exclaimed. “Although I guess it’s not so unusual around here.”
Philippe nodded, smiling at her enthusiasm.
Katherine continued, “When I get home I’m going to go to the library and take out some books on the ancient history of this area.”
That list in my journal is getting so long it will keep me occupied for months, she thought.
The land sloped, opening up a vista stretching across orchards and fields, dotted with the familiar lines of farmhouses and outbuildings.
They sat on the grass chatting for some time with no shortage of topics while Picasso kept busy poking his nose in groundhog holes. Feeling no anxiety, her fingers played with the scissors in her pocket as she felt mildly foolish for having brought them.
She told Philippe she was driving to Aix for the afternoon, and he genuinely seemed disappointed that he had other commitments and could not go with her.
“Aix is one of my favorite towns, and there are many special places to discover. Follow the directions straight to Cours Mirabeau, the heart of the old town, and you will have a full afternoon ahead of you.”
When they got back to t
he farmhouse, he looked at Katherine’s guidebook and made some notes to prioritize her touring.
“Is that your bike?” Katherine asked.
Nodding, Philippe lifted his T-shirt slightly to show his cycling clothes underneath.
Katherine noticed then that his cycling shoes were tied around the handlebars.
“A serious cycler from the look of it,” she commented.
“It’s a passion,” he smiled.
Katherine winced inside, remembering the passion she also once had for the sport, and changed the subject back to Aix.
With more information from him than she could possibly use in one afternoon, she thanked him again and went into the farmhouse to change and set off on her next adventure.
En route to the highway, Katherine stopped in at the manor. With no one in sight, she left a note. The message invited Joy and her family, as well as Antoine and Hélène and the vineyard helpers, to come to the farmhouse for an aperitif on Friday afternoon at 4:00 p.m. She asked that Mirella be invited as well.
Impulsively she had conceived the idea while she chatted with Philippe that morning.
“We call that a buffet dînatoire,” he said. “You call it cocktails, right?”
Katherine nodded. “With a few hors d’oeuvres, nothing too heavy.”
When he then said he was going to change his travel plans and stay for her party, Katherine felt a surge of pleasure.
Grinning now as she drove toward Aix with a jazz station blaring, she felt energized and incredibly content with herself. Everything she was doing in her life was the result of her decisions alone. No one was passing judgment or telling her what to do.
I thought I was coming on this exchange to run away from something, but now I feel I was really running toward something—a new me.
24
Wednesday morning Katherine began to organize her clothes and pack what she knew she wouldn’t need until Paris.
In the late afternoon, Joy collected her, and they drove to a nearby but secluded studio where five generations of the gifted Lalonde family had worked with olive wood to create beautiful bowls, platters, cutting boards, and other items.
Walking into the shop, Katherine felt overwhelmed by the warm shades and textures of the wood filling the space, creating a sense of tranquility. The sizes and shapes of the bowls were surprising. It wasn’t until she watched a video, playing on a flatscreen on the wall, that she understood how the initial crafting began with painstaking labor a hundred years ago, and more recently, with a chainsaw.
She chose a number of cheeseboards, each one an original piece of art in her opinion and yet so reasonably priced. They would be perfect gifts and easy to pack. Kat checked another item off her to-do list.
During the drive back, the women chatted easily.
Katherine’s curiosity could not be contained as she asked, “Philippe has been very thoughtful. Does he have a family?”
“Philippe was widowed six years ago. His wife, Geneviève, battled a virulent strain of leukemia for many years, but sadly it took her. He has struggled with his grief as he devoted himself to raising their daughter, who was fifteen at the time. Now she is a university student in Paris and goes to England in the summers to work in a business owned by a family they have known for a very long time. She’s a lovely young woman.”
“I’m so sorry for his loss.”
“He is a fine person,” Joy continued, “who made an interesting choice as a young man to carry on the tradition of his father, and grandfather, and become un fromager. He went to university and could have chosen any career path, but this is his passion.”
“Quite a fascinating choice,” said Katherine, “but of course not unusual in France, I guess.”
Joy laughed. “Precisely. You know the saying, I’m sure. The Holy Trinity in France is le pain, le vin, et le fromage. Some like to say le pain, le vin, et le Boursin because it rhymes. Boursin had a very clever advertising campaign like that years ago. But some cheese snobs turn their noses up at Boursin.”
“Mmm, I love it!” Katherine said, and Joy nodded in agreement.
As Joy was dropping her off, Katherine mentioned that she was going to the concert at the church that evening, and Joy assured her it would be special.
“You will truly enjoy it. I usually attend but I have a conflict this evening, désolée.”
Katherine drove herself to the chapel a half hour early and was surprised to see the large turnout, knowing there was little room for a crowd inside.
Mirella greeted her at the door of the chapel, where she was handing out programs, and responded to Katherine’s puzzled question by explaining that the courtyard at the back of the church was opened on such occasions with outdoor seating, speakers, and a large flatscreen.
“Even here at a fifteenth-century chapel, the digital world has invaded,” she said, sighing.
Philippe was already there and stood to greet her. The small wooden chairs, their frames rubbed smooth by the hands of the faithful through several hundred years of use, barely accommodated today’s larger-framed bodies, but somehow they were still comfortable.
As the lights dimmed, Mirella slipped in beside Katherine and the music began, with candles casting an almost eerie glow.
The piano, Philippe had explained, once belonged to Pablo Picasso and now his daughter. She loaned it to the community every year for this concert. The visiting Russian pianist had been a guest artist for years and was much loved and respected. And talented.
The experience of sitting in this darkened chapel where people had prayed, mourned, and celebrated for almost six hundred years was nearly overwhelming. Despite her lack of religious beliefs, Kat was always touched by the atmosphere of such churches.
When the final notes were played, the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause that morphed into rhythmic clapping, traditional of French audiences wishing an encore.
The artist acknowledged the response and said he would like to invite a visiting friend to join him. This man was a well-known religious singer, also Russian, whose name was obviously familiar to many in the crowd. The applause was warm.
As the first notes played, Katherine knew what was coming and steeled herself. Now that she knew her mother’s story, certain religious pieces moved her to tears as they had her mom, and this was one.
The singer’s voice was magic. Pure, clear notes, sung in Latin, filled the entire chapel and seemed to embrace the congregation.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena . . .”
Katherine swallowed hard, blinking back tears, but emotion overtook her and she wept. Quietly. As she fumbled in her purse for a tissue, Philippe handed a handkerchief to her with a questioning look. She accepted the offer gratefully and nodded her head to indicate she really was not in distress. Rather than fight it, she allowed her tears to flow in appreciation of the depth to which she was touched by the experience.
As people began to file out of the chapel, Mirella and Philippe turned to Katherine with concern.
“I’m sorry. I cry whenever I hear such deeply religious music. It touches my soul and I weep. But I’m fine. Really. I just had to let it go because I knew I couldn’t stop it.”
Relieved there was no problem, Mirella suggested they go out to the square for a coffee or glass of wine. It seemed as though the entire village was out there, and the perfect evening air was filled with laughter and chatter.
“Mirella, thank you so much for the opportunity to hear this concert. It was a wonderful experience.”
Philippe nodded in agreement. “No matter how often I attend concerts in these ancient churches, the effect is almost visceral—the acoustics, the ambiance, the centuries of history that cannot be denied, combined with the music . . . it touches the soul in a way that has nothing to do with religion.”
“So true. These days, the prime function of most churches here is hosting musical events,” Mirella told Katherine.
Over coffee, Katherine disclosed how her mo
ther had often become teary when she heard religious music or tolling church bells.
“Until I read the story she wrote for me of her experience during the war, I had no idea why she reacted as she did. Now I understand, and I weep for her.”
Mirella nodded. “Many of us carry scars from those years. We buried them or covered them with makeup rather than acknowledging the imprint they left on our souls. It seemed easier that way. You were right to remind us to record those stories. Since you told us your mother’s story, I have begun to write the story of my own family during our dark time. Thank you for that.”
Philippe looked at both of them. “Women connect about these issues. I’m impressed.”
Mirella responded with a serious expression, “You know, Philippe, French women of my age do not tend to have close relationships. It was Joy and her English upbringing that brought such a friendship to my life, and what we have shared is irreplaceable!”
Katherine thought how she was just beginning to appreciate the deeper friendship of the few women in her life.
“It’s too bad you haven’t met her husband,” Philippe told Katherine as he nodded his head toward Mirella. “He’s a fine man, and together they provide the most entertaining times. They make a conversation about a potted plant an event!”
Chuckling, Mirella added, “But this is the point of conversation, non?”
There’s that plaisir attitude again.
Katherine knew Mirella’s husband was in Asia on business, and they spoke a while about his travels. Then Philippe and Mirella commented on some local political issues, with regional elections approaching, before they wished each other à bientôt as they bised and left as they had come.
Picasso was on guard duty by the front door, and Katherine laughed out loud as she scratched behind his ears and hugged him. “Pico, how am I going to say good-bye to you? That is not going to be easy.”
He cocked his head and perked up his ears, giving her the look that always made her grin.
25
Sad that this was her last visit to the local market, Katherine vowed to visit the St. Lawrence market at home more often.
The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Page 21
