The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (16 page)

Picasso bounded across the grass and skidded to a stop at Katherine’s feet, dropping the stick he had been retrieving for the previous fifteen minutes. Tail wagging at warp speed, black eyes intently fixed on her hand as Katherine let the thick branch fly one more time, the Lab dashed after it again.

After only two days, Katherine was already feeling a connection to his loving, accepting personality. She had enjoyed the dogs Andrea had owned through the years, but having one around her all day was a new experience. Through some of the studies and papers at the office, she had occasionally read about the contribution pets made to the attitudes of people suffering from various pain issues. Now she had an understanding. When she had something to say, she told Pico, and as he cocked his head and made better eye contact than many people she had met, she was convinced he cared.

Joy pulled up the driveway and waved as she got out of her Smart Car. Katherine had seen them but never been in one and was thrilled at the prospect.

“Pico,
chien gâté
, you spoiled pup!” Joy said, laughing and giving him an affectionate rub as he greeted her excitedly.

“I see you two are bonding,” Joy chuckled as she and Katherine exchanged
bises
.

Nodding with a grin, Katherine picked up her
panier
, a braided wicker market basket, from the front step and climbed into the car. Picasso looked questioningly at Joy and she pointed through the vineyard.
“Au village. Vite! Vite!”
With that he took off at full speed.

As Joy climbed behind the wheel, she explained to Katherine, “Pico will be there before we will—you’ll see! I really can’t fit him properly in this little car.”

“Thanks for picking me up. I’m so excited to ride in one of these! I’ve seen the numbers slowly growing in Toronto but have never been in one.”

“In my opinion they are the only car to have for local driving in this country, with our narrow roads and shortage of space in towns—particularly now that so many foreigners have moved here. But although some do, I don’t take it on the
autoroute
.”

“That makes sense to me too,” Katherine agreed.

“So how are you doing, Katherine? Are you feeling comfortable here? What have you done?”

Katherine passionately relayed the details of the previous day, saying how she had loved her walk into Sainte-Mathilde and then later strolling around Gordes.

“Your voice betrays your emotions about being here. That’s so lovely!”

In a few short minutes they were in the village. “Oh,
mon Dieu
, look at this spot I’m going to slip into. My parking
ange
is with us!”

Walking a couple of minutes down a winding, cobbled lane, Katherine’s face lit up as they rounded the corner and entered the village square that was transformed into the twice-weekly market. Stalls of beautifully organized fruits, vegetables, herbs, and olives intermingled with those selling flowers, cheese, and meats. At the far end, she could see clothing and linens hanging and couldn’t wait to discover what else.

Sitting patiently at the entrance with the nearest vendor talking to him was Picasso. Both women patted his head, and when Joy told him to wait there, he promptly flopped down.

“We’re early, so let’s begin at the far end and buy our food last,” Joy suggested. Katherine was surprised to learn that the markets traditionally opened at 9:00 a.m. She had assumed it would be much earlier.

Joy explained how the market vendors arrived earlier and set up and then sat down for their own coffee and gossip before opening up.

As they passed the stalls, Katherine was reminded of how artistically everything was presented. It was the French way. Nothing was simply helter-skelter on the stands, but rather set out in a way that invited one to browse. Some vendors still used worn wicker baskets that took on richer tones as they aged, and the herb and spice display was nothing short of a prizewinning photo opportunity. The variety and mix of colors caught the eye and didn’t let go. Exotic aromas and scents filled the air.

Katherine apologized for continually stopping to take photos, but Joy was only too happy to share in her appreciation of everything. The video camera Kat had been given at the office was being put to good use, along with her digital SLR.

The market spilled down narrow side laneways and there was little one could not find. The multicolored display of made-in-Marseille soaps with their delicate fragrances made choosing just one an almost impossible task. A crowd of women were sorting through racks of fashionably casual linen and cotton clothing. Katherine couldn’t recall seeing more linen being worn anywhere else than in Gordes.

“I may pick up a few pieces,” she considered, spotting an outfit she liked.

And then there was the hat vendor.
Click!
The stacks of delicately woven fine straw hats with huge brims were a mix of the most vibrant and unusual shades. Joy popped one on her head with a grin and demonstrated how the brims were easily adjusted into all sorts of attractive shapes.

“You must have one, Katherine! I doubt you will find these at home. They are from Italy, and all the tourists love them! And so do we—since we are so conscious of the sun these days.”

Katherine agreed they were irresistible and after much deliberation settled upon a soft turquoise shade. Joy and the hat vendor exclaimed how the color complemented her skin and eyes as Katherine blushed.

They lingered over the household linens, admiring the quilts and the ever-popular Provençal tablecloths and placemats in the classic colors and patterns. Those had been the gifts Katherine had purchased so many decades before—
a lifetime ago, really
, she thought—when she was in Villefranche, and she knew she would want some again.

“I’m going to wait to buy things like that until I visit more markets,” she said to Joy, who nodded.

Joy agreed they represented true traditions of Provence, even though they had become kind of touristy and displayed everywhere you turned. She warned Katherine to check labels to see if they were actually made in France. By law, everything made in France was so marked. “There are so many knockoffs being produced in Asia and other places, and the quality is simply not as good. But don’t worry about the hats; we know where they are produced in Italy, and again, they have been selling here forever.”

“I know what you mean. We have the same problem at home and I always try to buy goods made in North America there. I only want to purchase things made in France while I’m here—or Italy,” Kat added with a smile.

They continued browsing the stalls, with Katherine particularly drawn to the olive-wood items.

“I will take you to a smaller village one day if you like,” said Joy, “where I know a craftsman whose family has been creating from olive wood for centuries. His prices and the selection of products cannot be matched.”

“I would love that,” Katherine replied, appreciating her good fortune at meeting this thoughtful woman.

When they returned to the food vendors, Katherine tried to control herself. Everything tempted. Joy was greeted by name by most of the vendors, and she took the time to introduce Katherine. Whenever she mentioned Kat was from Canada, bright smiles followed.

Purchasing just enough cheese, salad greens, and a roasted chicken for the next few days, Katherine calculated she would probably have one meal a day out somewhere as she explored. The selections of tomatoes amazed her, and on Joy’s recommendation she purchased a very odd-looking variety. Plump and ribbed, they appeared slightly squashed, like none she had seen before.

“We English call them harem cushion tomatoes, and don’t they just look like that?” Joy asked with a laugh. The vendor smiled as he weighed them and gave Katherine clear instructions how to serve them as Joy nodded in agreement.

“It’s the only way,” she smiled.

Olives, tapenade, lemons, and local olive oil were essential buys. And of course, the daily baguette as well as two croissants, just because they looked as divinely delicious as she knew they would taste.

“If you would like to buy some wine, we will pass a
cave
on the way back to the car. We have many fine small local vineyards, ours included, that produce labels you will want to try. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

Collecting Picasso as they left the market, they next stopped at Le Petit Café. Joy offered Katherine more history of the village and the area while they watched the bustling activity.

“This is the oldest café in our little village, owned by the same family for six generations! In the beginning it was also an inn for voyagers passing through, but that vanished along with the horse and carriage.”

Katherine shook her head. “That’s something that we would simply never find in North America. I can’t believe how many small independently owned businesses there are in this area. I’m glad that the big-box invasion has not found you.”

Joy looked confused, repeating, “Big box?”

Katherine explained how Super Walmarts and other huge merchandising outlets were destroying the main streets and small businesses of communities back home.

“Oh, there are some over by Avignon, but so far we are resisting.”

Lingering over their drinks—
café
for Joy,
crème
for Katherine—they chatted easily as Picasso quietly rested his head on his paws under the table.

Katherine remarked how she admired the shopkeepers’ attitudes toward dogs in their establishments. “That’s another thing you will never see back home.”

Joy looked puzzled, commenting that as far as she knew, every country in Europe had the same attitude toward dogs and treated them as guests. Water bowls and treats were everywhere.

Smiling at the thought, Katherine also mentioned how happy she was at the house and with Picasso keeping her company.

“That’s wonderful, but you know he can stay with me, if you would rather.”

Shaking her head, Katherine assured Joy that she truly was enjoying his personality and discovering that he was such good company.

“He’s a special dog,” Joy agreed. “And the goats? Have you met François yet?”

Katherine looked puzzled. “I guess not,” she answered.

“Ah, he is
le
berger des chèvres . . .
the shepherd of the goats, I guess you would say,” she said, her English becoming more French for a moment. “He’s actually a retired investment banker from Paris! His family has had goats here forever—they make
un bon chèvre
—fine goat cheese—and when he retired, this is what he wished to do. You will like him, and he speaks excellent English.”

“I guess that’s who I saw yesterday, and he waved,” Katherine said. “But . . . wait . . . I also saw him when I got lost on the first day. He didn’t speak English then!”

Joy had a sheepish grin as she told Katherine that François sometimes did that with tourists. “He will have to apologize.”

Now Kat laughed. “Not at all. That made the experience even more authentic! I love the sound of the goats’ bells and the gentle bleating of those sweet little kids. I feel like I’m living in a movie right now,” Katherine said, beaming with delight.

Joy sighed. “I understand. I still feel the pleasure of living here, although we have had hardships through the years with drought and dis
ease in the vineyard, and the French bureaucracy can make one crazy. Even
so, I believe Provence is a special place and we who live here are blessed.”

Stopping in at a small electronics shop that supplied
Orange
service, the French telephone and wireless supplier—Joy helped in choosing a simple, inexpensive pay-as-you-go phone. Katherine’s Canadian phone was turned off and packed away until the return trip to Toronto.

The next stop was the Internet room at the gas station. Joy made introductions and Katherine was welcomed with quiet reserve. She was pleased to see there was a well-organized room with six computers, and gaining access was simple. Joy suggested Katherine take some time to send a few messages while Joy ran errands. There were inquiring e-mails from everyone, and Katherine responded with a short group message say she was “alive and well and living in paradise.”

When Joy dropped Katherine at the house, Picasso raced to the car to welcome her back. Katherine grinned, impressed with his independence.

“Call me if you need anything, and let me know when you want to go to see the olive-wood shop. Also, I wish to invite you to lunch at my home on Sunday. It will be crazy, with lots of family, and they would all be so happy to meet you. What do you think?”

“Oh thanks! I’d love to,” Katherine responded, feeling pleased.

The afternoon passed quickly. Lunch on a terrace by the back gardens was a celebration of delicious taste sensations as Katherine sampled her morning market purchases.

First she followed the directions the vegetable seller had given her when she purchased those most amazing tomatoes.

Slicing them, she drizzled olive oil and lemon juice before she sprinkled fresh basil, salt, and pepper all over. Accompanied by the crisp, fresh baguette, the result was indeed divine. She knew she would be preparing this many more times. A little
pâté
, some cheese, olives, and of course more baguette followed, accompanied by a glass of—Joy’s recommendation—Bandol rosé. Yawning and stretching,
a nap on the chaise might be the perfect finish
, Katherine thought.

She could hear the goat bells faintly and noticed they were much farther away today. The sound of the cicadas was the only other accompaniment to the silence that surrounded her. Peace.

She relished the quiet and the time to gather her thoughts.
This whole experience is so much more than I expected it would be.
I just wish I could tell Mom about it. Maybe she and Dad are watching . . .

Turning on her Kindle, she pulled up travel information and planned more excursions. It was pleasant to have time to relax in her own space that was easily feeling like home.