The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1)

by Patricia Sands

  “I honestly didn’t believe you. I thought you were frickin’ exaggerating—in a good way, of course. But you’re right, I can’t help myself—the buildings, the doors, the windows, the peeling paint, the streets, even that goddamn little train that we keep seeing!”

  Katherine snorted. “Le petit train! Get used to it, because every town along the coast seems to have one. I remember that from my days in Villefranche. They’ve been around forever, a traditional French sightseeing custom.”

  They agreed they would not dawdle but rather get the lay of the land and then spend the next day poking around.

  “Apparently there’s a flea market tomorrow in another square that we can hit after the regular market,” Kat said, catching sight of a poster in a shop window.

  She had decided to leave her camera at the house so she wouldn’t be tempted to stop every few steps, but there were still plenty of distractions.

  It only took ten minutes to walk at a quick pace from one end of the old town to the other, but they could see that the many side streets and winding lanes would offer hours of wandering and stopping.

  The transition from old town to new happened seamlessly, and they were suddenly in a more modern environment yet still mixed with ornate old buildings. Place du Général de Gaulle was the main square, filled with plane trees, benches, and fountains. Several cafés bordered the square, and a tourist office was visible at one end.

  Using the map, they walked around a corner to the Orange office, where Katherine could buy a new service for the cell phone she had purchased in Provence. Molly was delighted when they discovered it was closed for lunch for two hours.

  “How civilized is that?”

  “We’ll just come back another day. I won’t need it right away.”

  Passing a number of boulangeries and cafés with mouthwatering baguette sandwiches stacked in carts or windows, they kept stopping to admire the displays. Molly sighed.

  “They all look so delicious, and I don’t even eat much bread anymore. I can see that’s not going to be the case while I’m here.”

  “Not to eat bread in France is sacrilegious,” Katherine told her, chuckling.

  Molly chose a baguette with prosciutto and goat cheese, while Katherine could not resist one with curried chicken freshly prepared as they waited.

  Following the same route back to the house, they noted little specialty shops, grocery and hardware stores tucked into the medieval structures along with restaurants, ice cream stands, and some clothing shops. Cafés, outdoor-terrace dining spots, and the ever-present pharmacies with their neon green crosses were in abundance.

  “Al fresco dining seems to be the thing to do here,” noted Molly. “Love it!”

  “And why not, with this weather. Let’s come back here for dinner.”

  “I totally agree! Bonne idée!”

  Flowering vines covered the walls of an enclosed tiled courtyard off the compact kitchen. “The perfect spot for lunch, and look, this awning unfolds over it to provide some shade,” Katherine said as she unwrapped their baguette sandwiches and Molly brought out a pitcher of iced tea.

  The little patio was big enough for a table for six and a few extra chairs. It was outside the front door and surrounded by the stone walls with the stunning purple bougainvillea where Bernadette had stopped to first show them the house. Through the heavy wooden door in the wall was the street.

  In spite of the voices of people strolling by and the noises from cars crawling at a snail’s pace with tourists distracted by the views, they were both having trouble keeping their eyes open.

  “A dip in the Med might be just what we need,” Katherine said, stifling a yawn.

  As soon as they finished eating, they changed into swimsuits and went out the front door to cross the road. A brief walk along the stone wall led to another archway, the entrance to the Plage de la Gravette.

  It was a picture-perfect crescent-shaped protected cove under the watch of the historic old town, with the ramparts of the original village walls keeping it separate from the street. Showers were dotted along the shore, and a Le Snack truck was by the entrance. The beach itself was a mixture of sand and pebbles, and walking into the water was extremely tricky as the stones shifted with each step.

  “Forget about looking anything but totally off balance getting in and out of the water,” they agreed. Laughing at themselves didn’t help. There seemed to be no graceful way to do it, until they spied some people wearing light plastic beach shoes.

  “Gotta get us some of those,” Molly said.

  The water temperature felt cooler than they expected, but once in, it was refreshing.

  “Ahhhh,” sighed Molly, floating on her back. “C’est la frickin’ vie.”

  Katherine snorted as she eased into a breaststroke and headed for deeper water.

  After exiting the water as clumsily as they had entered, they showered off the salt and slathered on sunscreen. Then they set up the umbrella they had found in a cupboard with some beach chairs. With a blistering sun beating down, they were glad to have shade and sat in their beach chairs taking in all the action.

  “I can’t believe we’re here, sitting on a beach on the French Riviera,” Molly kept repeating. They spent the afternoon dipping in and out of the Med, the cool water helping in their campaign to remain awake.

  Somehow they lasted through an early dinner of thin-crust pizza at the nearest restaurant they could find. Stumbling back to the house after a couple glasses of wine, they giggled as they admitted they couldn’t keep their eyes open any longer.

  “Remember, Moll, if you wake up before six a.m., force yourself to turn over and go back to sleep. The later we sleep in tomorrow morning, the better for our body clocks.”

  38

  By 9:00 a.m. sleep was no longer an option for either of them.

  “Grab the panier, Molly, and let’s go to the market. We’ll have a coffee and croissant there, okay?”

  “Sounds like a plan—as soon as you tell me what the fuck a panier is!”

  Katherine pointed to the straw shopping basket. “It just sounds so much better in French, doesn’t it?”

  The daily Provençal market was minutes away and already bustling.

  “Let’s make a list while we have our coffee, because I can see us totally losing control here,” Molly suggested. “In my new world of extreme budgeting, I never shop without a list now, and it sure makes a diff for me. I used to just fill up my basket with whatever struck my fancy, then have a huge bill! No more, mon amie!”

  Gleefully exploring the stalls, Molly gathered fruit, salad greens, and vegetables, while Katherine followed behind snapping one photo after another.

  They returned to the house, stored away the food, and headed out again for the flea market, where they were fascinated by the stalls laden with booty from old homes and families: sterling silver, china and glassware, jewelry, art, linens, vintage clothing, and assorted bric-a-brac.

  “Kat, wouldn’t you love to be stocking a home here with these goodies?”

  “How much fun would that be?” she agreed.

  With tourist season in full swing, the town was busy with an atmosphere of relaxed energy. Sidewalk cafés overflowed with patrons enjoying a midday beer or lunch or lined up for ice cream.

  Picking up a baguette on the way back home for lunch, they planned to spend the afternoon visiting galleries and exploring some more of the town. As they passed the tourist office, they picked up a brochure of events.

  “Somehow I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about keeping ourselves occupied,” Katherine commented, “but let’s check out what’s going on anyway.”

  Taking the coastal train on Monday, Katherine toured Molly around Villefranche-sur-Mer, once a tiny village of fishermen and artists and now, of course, a major tourist stop with a deep harbor for cruise ships to anchor.

  With excitement, Kat pointed out where she had rented a room and the language school that was still in operation, altho
ugh greatly expanded. She was surprised at how little had changed in the old area and how easily she found her favorite haunts.

  Grabbing Molly by the hand, Kat pulled her toward the steep stairs leading to the ochre-colored baroque Église Saint-Michel. “There is an extraordinary carving you must see!”

  They looked in awe at the life-size figure of a reclining Christ protected by a glass case. The description explained it was carved from a single piece of fig wood by an unknown galley slave approximately five hundred years before.

  “That image has stayed with me all this time! Thirty years, and yet it seems like yesterday. Life does have a way of slipping by.”

  “No kidding,” Molly agreed. “And when you have an experience like yours, I can believe you never forget it.”

  After wandering the thirteenth-century Rue Obscure and other colorful, winding streets, they sat at a lively bar by the water, watching the boaters and drinking Orangina. Katherine revealed the story about her passionate fling with Marc-André in Villefranche.

  “Holy shit! You’ve kept that little secret all to yourself all these years. Let’s see if he still lives here!”

  Shaking her head, Katherine said, “Don’t be crazy! He probably wouldn’t even remember me.”

  “Katski, you didn’t forget him, right? Those kind of intense affairs are never forgotten.”

  Molly confided details of some of her early relationships, most of which were brief and messy. “Nevertheless, there were moments. You’re going to be here a long time. You never know what might happen, maybe another passionate French affair.”

  Katherine looked serious for a moment and explained how she had no interest in having any sort of relationship. “I’m still healing. James hurt me so deeply, I know I will never allow myself to be vulnerable to that again—never.”

  “Never say never, my friend. I mean, really, wouldn’t you at least like to have sex again? Don’t you miss it?”

  “To be honest,” Katherine said ruefully, squinting, “at the moment it’s the last thing on my mind. I just want to feel content with myself.”

  Katherine thought about how her relationship with Molly, and Andrea too, had changed and grown over the brief period of time she had been on her own. A year ago she would never have imagined having this kind of conversation.

  Molly, of course, got right to the point.

  “You know, Katski, you might be doing yourself a big favor having an affair that’s fun and satisfying. I don’t mean just falling into bed with anyone, but I bet you’re going to meet some cool guys here. Just take a look around. My eyes have been popping out of my head!”

  As the conversation continued, Katherine surprised herself by revealing intimate details of her physical relationship with James. How their sex life had kind of slipped off the radar years before.

  Feeling her face flush, she described how in the last few years the rare times they had sex was while James watched a porn video. “It wasn’t about me or us, just about him. I really felt like a loser, you know—unattractive, undesirable, old. There was nothing romantically erotic about it. To be honest, it was degrading.”

  “Some guys need that for whatever reason. It probably had nothing to do with you.”

  Katherine’s face looked pained. “Obviously he didn’t have trouble having sex with a younger woman who attracted him.”

  Molly reached over and took her hand. “I know how deeply you were hurt. That entire situation was a horrible shock, but look at how your life has changed for the better in so many ways. You have a whole new opportunity for happiness.”

  “Maybe so,” Katherine replied, looking off over the water, “but I’m not sure it will include another relationship. As for any interest in sex . . .” Her voice broke as her eyes welled with tears. “I really don’t think I have any passion left. That part of me just feels dead . . . so I don’t think about it.”

  Molly squeezed Katherine’s hand tightly and said nothing at first, her own emotions taking over for a moment.

  The two friends looked at each other, their silence speaking for them.

  Attempting to lighten the mood, Katherine wrinkled her nose and said, “Besides, I’m getting old. I am heading for sixty, remember!”

  Molly’s humor kicked back in.

  “Oh, boo-frickin’-hoo, girl! Give yourself a shake and get over that! We both know age is just a number. You’re a good-looking woman. A lot of men will be attracted to you. Don’t be afraid to test the waters, Kat. Don’t be thinking you’re unfuckable!”

  Katherine burst out laughing. “Another Molly-ism! Come on, let’s go and take the boat cruise to Monte Carlo that we saw advertised. It’s a must to see the coast of the Riviera from the water!”

  The next day, they hopped on the train again, this time to Nice. Strolling down the main shopping street to the old town, thirty-year-old memories stirred in Katherine.

  “Apart from this ultramodern tram system and some new buildings, things don’t look all that different from what I remember,” Katherine commented as another sleek tram glided quietly by.

  Taking it all in, Molly nodded. “I see why you love it here. Even in a city like this, with its modern stores and offices, you only have to look between the new or down a side street to see the old, to find the charm.”

  “Exactly,” Katherine agreed. “It reminds me of how I felt in Paris, where so much of what is happening today is housed in buildings hundreds of years old. I keep thinking what a testament it is to the builders and artisans of those days.”

  They cruised the length of the expansive daily market, amused by the calls of vendors who were obviously enjoying entertaining the shoppers. Bordered by sherbet-colored, historic buildings—including an eighteenth-century baroque chapel—the tent-covered stalls filled the length of Cours Saleya.

  Stopping for a quick coffee at one of the many bistros and cafés extending down each side of the market, Katherine explained that by early afternoon all the stalls would be packed up and gone. “These restaurants spill their tables into the space, and the entire street becomes one enticing place after another to eat or drink.”

  There were few stalls, with their artistically arranged displays, that did not beckon them to stop.

  “There are vegetables here I haven’t seen before—and look, have you ever seen so many kinds of mushrooms and olives?”

  Along with the standard produce stands, artists and craftspeople exhibited their work. Vendors of specialty food items tempted buyers with samples as they passed.

  The fragrance from the large flower market hung in the air. “Let’s come back here before we go back to Antibes. These hand-tied bouquets are irresistible,” Katherine said.

  “And incredibly reasonable.”

  “Oh look! Chez Theresa is still here! I ate here thirty years ago, and it had been there for over a hundred years then. Let’s share a socca pancake—it’s a tradition!”

  “Crap, look at the lineup!”

  “That’s part of the tradition too. It will move quickly, though, if I remember correctly.”

  A labyrinth of winding streets and pastiche of colorful buildings of the old town led away from the market. Kat promised they would return another day to explore them. “We’ve got to dash or we’ll miss the bus, and that’s next on our agenda.”

  They hurried across the Promenade des Anglais to catch the city hop-on/hop-off bus tour.

  The overview of Nice was thorough and filled with information. The Italian influence in architecture gave a clear reminder of how this area had been part of Italy until just a century and a half ago.

  “Where did that come from?” Molly exclaimed in surprise as a colorful, onion-domed Russian cathedral suddenly came into view. She listened, wide-eyed, as the audio tour explained the long connection between the Riviera and Russian aristocracy.

  At the Chagall Museum, they hopped off and spent an hour surrounded by his enormous dreamlike canvases. They found themselves completely absorbed by the beauty and meanin
g his distinctive figurative art expressed, and Molly was moved to tears at times.

  Back where they began, they paused from time to time to look at the different beach spots as they walked along the bustling Promenade des Anglais, mixing with in-line skaters, joggers, and cyclists in their own designated lane. “After all we’ve read about the color of the Mediterranean here, it does not disappoint,” Molly said as they admired the brilliant turquoise water sparkling in the sun.

  They agreed they were “starving,” as they checked out menus displayed at the beach entrances.

  The Browns had recommended the Plage Beau Rivage, with its white-and-blue umbrellas, saying the restaurant there was excellent. Settled comfortably on their lounges after stumbling in and out of the water on the pebble beach, Molly reminded Kat, “Damn! We’ve got to buy those shoes!”

  Wednesday was a day of rest, casually exploring more of the side streets of Antibes and walking over to the busy, much bigger beach at La Salis on the other side of town.

  Sipping refreshing lemonade at one of the beach stands, they convinced each other to resist the tempting orders of frites so many others were devouring.

  “I wonder why the beaches to the west of Antibes are such beautiful sand and to the east are pebble,” Molly noted. “I’m going to google that.”

  The ongoing high temperatures guaranteed the beach was jam-packed, and it became apparent that the issue of personal space was not a high priority as people parked their towels and beach gear almost on top of each other.

  “It’s the way they do it here. Take it or leave it, eh?” Katherine said, laughing as several far-from-perfect bodies stretched topless nearby.

  Molly rolled her eyes.

  As they stopped to watch some of the afternoon boules games nearby on their walk home, they agreed that La Gravette was more their style, in spite of the pebbles.

  On Thursday, the forty-minute train ride to Monaco was on the agenda.

  “I’m telling you,” Molly murmured during the trip, “it’s so tempting to get off the train at any one of these beach towns we are passing through. They all look so charming and inviting.”