The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (14 page)

Starting the car, she pulled onto the road with a lurch as she changed gears. She was overcome for a moment with memories of her dad teaching her to drive a stick shift. He had been so patient with her.

Once you learn to drive a manual transmission, you don’t forget.
She heard his words, smiling as she sailed smoothly along after she awkwardly finished the necessary gear shifting.

Leaving the more urban area, Katherine encountered her first challenge: roundabouts.
Ronds-points
, she reminded herself.
Think in
French here!

Holding her breath, she entered as confidently as possible and, as the GPS directed, made a left at the second exit. The vehicles already circling have the right of way, she had read. After a few more, Katherine felt she had them mastered.

Oops, perhaps not
, she muttered as she found herself not quite sure of her exit in a later one. Shifting gears hesitantly and going around a second time, someone swerved in front on her right, cutting off her exit, and around she went again.

Oh brother, I’m having a Griswold moment
, she sighed, remembering
European Vacation
, which she had watched with her nephews and niece many times.

Gripping the wheel, she took a deep breath as she swerved quickly, counted to the third exit, and veered off onto it.

Maybe I do need a bit more experience
, she conceded, for a moment unsure whether to laugh or cry.

The roads gradually became narrower and less busy, which allowed her to take a longer look at the pastoral countryside. As she rounded a corner, cresting a small hill, she suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road and burst into tears.

In front of her was a postcard scene from Provence in June. An enormous field of golden sunflowers glistened with an intensity that was hard to believe, as if someone had plastered a “Visit Provence” poster smack in her face. To one side was the classic
mas
, with its outbuildings, the shades of the yellow-gray limestone farm structures softened by the midafternoon sun. Traditional weathered blue shutters on the south-facing windows and doors were flung open on this fine day. It was a scene Katherine had admired in so many books and movies. She couldn’t begin to count the number of images exactly like this that had filled her computer screen in the past month. And now there it was. And there
she
was, overwhelmed by the moment.

She stepped out of the car and hollered at the top of her lungs, “I’m here. I’ve done it!
Je suis arrivée!
”

Grabbing her camera, she let the lens caress the fields, buildings, and sky, knowing this was just the beginning. The pleasure of composing each shot was like eating a divine piece of chocolate. She could almost taste it.

Katherine leaned against the hood of the Citroën, letting the reality sink in. Not simply the scenery but the truth of it all: she was in France, of her own doing, by herself. The “by herself” part at this moment felt a bit raw. For a moment she felt as if she were on a precipice, unsure of what was coming next in her life. But it wasn’t danger or fear that she was experiencing. Rather, there was a sense of excitement and an urge to quickly proceed to see what lay ahead.

I’ll deal with being alone. I can do it. This adventure is full on
, she thought as she settled back into the car. Pulling off the grassy shoulder, she grinned, thinking,
I can’t wait to see what happens farther down the road—in more ways than one
. Then she laughed out loud.

The traffic soon became more congested. Katherine read road signs indicating the turnoff for the hilltop village of Gordes a short distance away. Tourist season was already under way.

Then it appeared before her, perched like a sculpture carved out of the rocky outcropping, just like in the travel book photos. The cluster of buildings tumbling down the hillside was dominated by the majestic castle and cathedral, presenting an almost dreamlike apparition. The beige stone of the buildings glowed softly in the afternoon sun as the village seemed to blend into a solid unit from where she viewed it.

Katherine had a list of towns she planned to visit, and Gordes was near the top of the list. Resisting the urge to stop for another photo, she reminded herself there would be other opportunities, and the traffic wouldn’t allow it anyway.

Five minutes later her GPS was telling her to turn right, but there appeared to be two options. At a fork, one road went left and two roads went right. Taking a chance and feeling only a little unsure, she took the first right.

“Recalculating,” the GPS told her. “Make a U-turn when possible.”

Katherine snorted, as the road had narrowed to the width of a single lane with deep ditches on either side. Driving slowly, she noticed some activity ahead. As she drew closer, a herd of goats was crossing the road from one field to the next. Young kids led the way, nimbly frolicking and nipping playfully at each other. The beiges and light cocoas, mixed with black and dark brown, presented a pleasing blend. Small buds of horns appeared on bigger members of the group, with many of the elder males sporting handsome horns that curved gracefully around.

Chuckling, she stopped to wait for them to pass, certain now someone must have scripted all this for her arrival. The lightness of their collective movement was joyful, she thought. The smell, not so much.

The herd was followed by a grizzled older man, who waved and approached her window. Having closed it to a crack, Katherine fumbled for her best French and explained, in a short sentence, she was looking for the village of Sainte-Mathilde.

His response was as undecipherable as anything she had ever heard.

He then smiled and made grand gestures with his arms, indicating she should turn around. Then using his hands he demonstrated a road, a corner, and a right turn. She got the message.

Turning into the lane the goats had used, with some effort she maneuvered the car through a U-turn, stalling only once, and drove back down to the turnoff. The GPS was happy with her again.

The fields turned into forest for a few minutes, and through her open window Katherine became aware of a most aromatic fragrance. Cedar she recognized, but she could not identify the rest. All she knew as she slowly cruised the tree-lined route was that it smelled divine.

A tight corner caused her to brake slightly. Without warning the car was hemmed in by village buildings where the woods ended as suddenly as they had begun. Her eye caught a narrow rectangular white sign with a red border.
Sainte-Mathilde!

“I’m getting closer!” she said and slowly wound her way along the street as she noted the bakery, the wine store, the butcher shop, and, to her surprise, a casino. That didn’t compute.

To one side she passed a sun-speckled open square surrounded by trees with trunks that appeared to be painted in a camouflage pattern. Pulling her car into a parking spot, she caught her breath before getting out.

A column with four spouts pouring water into its circular basin sat in the middle of the square. A few people could be seen outside some small cafés sitting on metal chairs, the tables covered with bright cloths.

Just beyond the square, a group of men stood on a long stretch of reddish-colored sand, hands clasped behind their backs as they watched others. Katherine recognized serious games of
boules
taking place and smiled, pleased that her fantasy continued to be coming true.

The Lalliberts had instructed her to introduce herself to the bar owner, Jacques, who would have the keys to the house. As she stood at the counter, all eyes turned toward her and the lively conversation faded.

“Bonjour, madame,”
greeted a severe-looking man with rolled-up shirtsleeves.

Katherine introduced herself, somewhat timidly, and explained the reason she was there. Jacque’s stern look transformed almost into a smile.

Coming around the counter, he greeted her with a kiss on each cheek and welcomed her to the village.

“Bienvenue à Sainte-Mathilde!”
he said with obvious pride.

The keys were presented with a flourish, and a hand-drawn map to the house accompanied them. Katherine graciously thanked him, refusing his offer of a welcome drink and promising to return another day. The warmth and sincerity of these few moments almost overwhelmed her. Everyone had warned her the French were rather cool and unfriendly. This had been anything but.

Next she asked where she could purchase groceries since she hadn’t noticed a store. The bartender responded,
“Ah oui, Casino.”

Katherine, taken aback, smiled hesitantly, believing she had fumbled with her French vocabulary. She replied she didn’t want to go the casino but would like to buy groceries. The bartender chuckled as did several others, and he explained that “Casino” was the name of a grocery store. Taking her arm and steering her to the open door, he pointed to the “casino” she had passed.

Feeling her face flush slightly, Katherine thanked him. As she responded to his
à bientôt, madame
, she heard the same farewell from the others in the bar.

Sweet
, she thought, overcome with embarrassment.

In the grocery store, she tried not to dawdle as she admired the fruit and vegetables artfully displayed in wicker baskets. A straw-filled crate near the cash desk contained brown eggs that looked as if the farmer had just delivered them from the coop. Selecting a bottle of deep pink rosé, she paid and felt pleased with her ability to return the pleasantries of the woman behind the counter.

“Merci et bonne journée, madame.”

Katherine responded in turn.

Quickly popping into the
boulangerie
next door, she knew she was in trouble. The selection of mouthwatering pastries demanded she not pass them by. But she resisted and planned to return the next day once she was settled. A simple baguette would suffice for today.

“Merci et bonne journée, madame.”

Again Katherine responded, noting how polite everyone was.

The next stop was the
fromagerie
a little farther down the street. Once more she was greeted. The selection of cheese was mind-boggling. She chose a delicately soft Brie that was just beginning to show its age, and the shopkeeper nodded in approval while wrapping it.

“Merci et bonne journée, madame, et bon fromage!”

Katherine chuckled at the addition to the standard farewell.
“Bonne journée, madame!”
she replied. She was definitely liking this.

A tomato-and-Brie baguette sandwich was calling to her as she placed her purchases in the trunk.

Checking the map the Lalliberts had left for her, she confirmed their property was just outside the village, as they had described in their inquiry. She followed the narrow main street, lined with stone dwellings separated occasionally by a small courtyard or vacant lot. Cottages of cream and ochre stucco topped with terra-cotta tiles and sitting on small garden properties tempted her to reach for her camera yet again.

Later, later
, she promised.

Grape-laden rows of vineyards stretched along both sides of the road. At a pale-yellow gatepost, she turned onto a dirt lane, the entrance to which was marked by mounds of lavender not quite bursting into color. A five-foot stone wall guarded the house, its gate hanging open as if it had not been closed for a very long time. Lanky bushes of plumbago, with blooms as blue as the sky, mixed with honeysuckle and other flowering shrubs as the driveway became a circle in front of the house.

Awed by the unfolding scene, Katherine slowed to a stop at the path leading to the front door, which appeared slightly ajar. The heavy-looking door opened and a white-haired woman walked down the path to the car. Her smile was as warm and wide as the spread of her arms. A yellow Lab, tail wagging energetically, ambled beside her.

Katherine parked the car and opened her door. Her first greeting was that of a wet nose and then a paw offered before the dog obeyed the command to
assis
from the woman.

Laughing, Joy Lallibert introduced Picasso, the dog, and then herself.

“He considers himself the official greeter no matter where he is!”

Joy was a charming Englishwoman, the sister-in-law of Katherine’s exchange couple. Katherine guessed her to be in her midseventies. A well-preserved and elegant midseventies, she noted.

Katherine admitted, with relief, she was glad Joy spoke English.

“I’ve been reminded all day how stressful it is to try to communicate in a foreign language when it’s not a classroom situation! I’m not sure I passed the test in the village!”

“Not to worry,” Joy reassured her with a chuckle. “The villagers are always delighted when a visitor simply makes the effort. You will find most of them know a smattering of English. There are a lot of us
Anglaises
around!”

Joy reached down to scratch the top of the dog’s head, saying his nickname was Pico. Katherine noted he continued to remain sitting while his tail eagerly swept the ground and his eyes pierced hers, insisting they be friends. As she returned his gaze, he lifted a paw to shake, and when she grasped it, an explosion of dust rose from his thumping tail. He had, Joy explained, made such messes when he was a pup they decided his results looked like Picasso’s art—hence the name. Katherine laughed at the imagery.

Joy offered to help Katherine with her things, and soon they were putting away the groceries in the kitchen, Kat’s suitcases sitting at the foot of a staircase. Joy suggested they leave the bags to take up later and plugged in the kettle when Katherine accepted her offer of a cup of tea.

“I should be offering you a
pastis
or glass of rosé at this time of day, but after all your travels, it seems like a cup of tea might be in order.”

“Absolutely,” Katherine agreed, wide-eyed but starting to feel a bit jet-lagged.

Although the Lalliberts had photos of every room of their home on their website, there was no comparison to actually being there. The thickness of the walls, the richness of the wood, the feel of the uneven floor tiles underfoot—everything surpassed the photos and their descriptions. There seemed to be an instant sense of familiarity despite the unfamiliar setting. Peter Mayle had done his job well.