The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (18 page)

18

After another sunrise yoga session in the garden, Katherine now looked out the bathroom window as she toweled dry her hair after her shower. Hearing the familiar bells, she hung farther out and could see goats grazing just across from the house in the lower field.

By the gate, a sleek racing bicycle rested against a tree.

Dressing quickly, Katherine stopped to take a few bites of a croissant in the kitchen before she walked out the front door.

Picasso came bounding around the corner of the house when she called him, stopping in front of her for a few seconds for a morning ear rub. Giving her a look, he disappeared back from where he had come.

Following around the corner, she saw her competition for Pico’s affection. At the edge of the goat field—as she had now come to think of it—a slim young man in classic serious cycling gear sat on a boulder. Smoking and looking in the other direction, he turned when Picasso ran up to him.

Katherine noticed him give the dog a treat and wondered where on earth he had stored it, considering the tight fit of his bright yellow, red, and black spandex. The thought flitted away when he turned to look at her. She thought she had never seen a more unfriendly face.

Stepping toward him, she reached to shake hands as she would at home.

“
Bonjour
, you must be Philippe. I’m Katherine.”

Standing quickly with a sullen expression that startled Katherine, the young man nodded and made a half bow in her direction. Clearly this was his way of greeting her. No hand was extended in return. Nothing further was invited.

“Thank you for the beautiful flowers. That was most thoughtful of you!”

Her words were received with a look of confusion and incomprehension. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he looked away, blowing the smoke over his shoulder.

“Oui, je suis Philippe, mais—pas en anglais.”
He raised his shoulders in the classic Gallic shrug, spreading his hands and scrunching his face as he added,
“Désolé.”

Well, that was almost polite
, Katherine thought, then spoke to him in her best French, asking about François.

Philippe’s replies were short, fast, and definitely not encouraging of further conversation. He told her François had a
“crise cardiaque”
. . . and would be going home in a few days. He would go back to Paris for tests.

Once again Katherine thanked him for the flowers and received no response.

“Vous êtes Anglaise?”
he asked without a smile.

“Canadienne,”
she responded.

With a slightly softer shift of his face, he replied with a quiet
“Bienvenue.”

Then, after one last quick drag, he flicked his cigarette to the dirt, ground it out with his toe, and walked over to the fence. Hopping over in one swift movement, he picked up his bike. Saying
au revoir
as he strapped on his helmet, he cycled off.

Katherine stood there for a few minutes. She felt confused at the young man’s attitude but was relieved to hear François had suffered what she thought was a heart attack and not a stroke. She would confirm that with Joy.

Picasso dropped a stick at her feet. Picking it up, she threw it as far down the lane as she could as she considered the conversation. It was hard to believe this was the person who had left the bouquet. This young man had been the perfect stereotype of a sullen Frenchman. The first she had encountered anywhere on this trip.

“C’est la vie,”
she said with a shrug of her own.

Thursday morning was market day again in Sainte-Mathilde, and Katherine thought a little retail therapy might be just the thing—a couple of linen items had caught her eye on Monday. She drove to the village so she would still be fresh for trying on clothes, leaving Picasso looking disgruntled on the front steps. Joy had called to suggest they meet at Le Petit Café at eleven, and Katherine took along the itinerary of a two-day road trip she had planned, to get some opinions from her.

Joy was absolutely right about the shortage of parking spots. Katherine had to circle the small lot at the edge of town a few times before someone left. Today she chose a different passageway to walk to the market and again lost herself in the simple beauty and charm of her surroundings.

Many of the houses on this street were ringed by ancient stone walls with flowering vines tumbling down from the top or climbing helter-skelter from where a small patch of dirt provided a rooting spot between the cobblestone lane and the wall. It seemed so natural and unplanned.

The market was vibrant and clamorous. Vendors hawked their wares with humor and enthusiasm, their stalls overflowing with local produce, cheese, wine, and oil. Katherine resisted making any of these purchases, as she was leaving the next morning for an overnight trip she had planned before she came to France.

Heading straight for the clothing stand, she checked through racks of linen and cotton skirts, dresses, pants, tops, and jackets. The selection of styles was as varied as the choice of colors, and today a very pale dusky-blue was calling to her.

With the help of an efficient but taciturn woman, she took a dress, capris, and cropped jacket into the changing area, which was simply a large sheet hung on a circular wire.
Different
, she observed,
but it works!

Loving the feel and fit of the clothes, Katherine was quick to make her purchases. Gone were the days of haggling over prices, Joy had explained to her on Monday. With the economic crisis in France just as bad as it was in North America, that old tradition was now frowned upon. Everyone was struggling to make a living.

Katherine felt the prices were still reasonable and the quality of the linen like none she had seen at home. On the other hand, when was the last time she had even looked at linen in Toronto? It was a fabric that just seemed so right over here in the South of France, and she convinced herself she would wear the items at home as well.

Today she wandered around the periphery of the market, taking candid photos of the displays and vendors. She hadn’t noticed before how many small cafés lined the street. Their tables were filled with coffee drinkers, smoking and chatting animatedly or reading the daily journals. It was quite amazing, she thought, how smoking was still a big part of this culture.

Losing herself in the satisfaction she found through her camera lens, Katherine suddenly realized it was almost eleven and hurried across the square.

Joy stood and waved as she reached the café. Greeting Katherine, she introduced her to a classically beautiful, tall, and slim fiftysomething French woman—dressed in well-pressed linen, Katherine noted.

“This is my dear friend, Mirella. I thought the two of you would enjoy meeting. Mirella knows everything there is to know about the Luberon—its history, what to see and what to miss, who’s who, what concerts are on, and the bits of folklore and, shall we say, gossip?”

Mirella laughed easily and confidently in a quiet way. “Katherine, I’m
so pleased to meet you. Joy told me about this wonderful home-exchange
adventure, which intrigues me. I don’t know anyone who has done this before, and it sounds like such a . . .
bonne idée
!”

They placed their orders, conversation then flowing as Mirella plied Katherine with questions about the exchange process.

“Ah, but now I understand you might have some questions. Joy told me you are taking a little motor trip tomorrow.”

Katherine grinned with excitement as she took the papers out of her
panier
.

“I am a big Peter Mayle fan and have read all of his tales about Provence,” she began, but then stopped as she noticed a look exchanged between Joy and Mirella.

“Oops . . . I’d heard there was some controversy as to how folks in Provence feel about his books,” Katherine said, looking apologetic.

The Frenchwomen laughed.
“Non, non!”
Mirella said. “We enjoy his books too. But admittedly life did change here after he wrote them, and there was quite an inundation of British into the countryside of Provence. Some people like to blame him.”

“We hadn’t stopped to think he had made such an impact in North America too,” Joy continued. “But . . . why not?”

“Well, many people I know are also fans of his,” said Katherine, “and I have to tell you, I wouldn’t know nearly as much about this area were it not for his stories. So, I did some research when I knew I was coming here. Tomorrow I am taking myself on an abbreviated road trip to just a few of the towns about which Mayle wrote. I’m going to explore and stay overnight, and I would love you to tell me if I have made good choices, or if I’m missing anything.”

They studied the map with her highlighted route.

“Here’s my plan. I’m going to leave early tomorrow morning and go to Bonnieux for the Friday market. Then I’ll check into the inn I’ve chosen, which is just down the hill from the town. I am
so
excited about staying there!”

“Wait! Let me guess,” interrupted Mirella. “I imagine you are going to stay at Le Mas des Oliviers!
Oui?
”

Katherine laughed. “Right you are!”

Joy looked at Mirella in amazement. “How did you guess?”

“Everyone I’ve spoken with lately has been dying to stay there. It’s one of the Bonnieux hot spots at the moment.”

Joy explained to Katherine that Mirella was an English teacher at a college near Avignon, and students often ask for recommendations.

“So then what’s next?”

“I’m going to drive to Lourmarin, poke around, and have lunch before I go up to Ménerbes. I want to visit the village and see the
bories
and
dolmens
in that area. I might make a quick stop in Lacoste, although I understand there is not much there except the ruin of the castle of the Marquis de Sade. But I might save it for Saturday depending on my time.”

Joy and Mirella both nodded in agreement.

“That will be enough sightseeing for me tomorrow, and if this weather continues, I should be able to enjoy some pool time before dinner. I hear the kitchen is beyond compare!”

“Food in France is serious business, as you know,” said Joy.

Laughing, Mirella added, “But in Provence, it’s close to sacred.”

“I’m not even thinking what the scale will say when I get back home,” Katherine assured them. “I’m going to enjoy every opportunity to eat while I’m here! Is there a restaurant you suggest for lunch in Lourmarin?”

“Here’s my suggestions,” offered Mirella. “Have lunch at L’Antiquaire in Lourmarin—”

Joy held her hand up to interrupt. “
Ah mon Dieu
, if their
daube
is on the menu, I highly recommend it. It’s a traditional Provençal recipe, really authentic local cuisine.
Comme un rêve
, a dream,
vraiment
.”

Nodding in agreement, Mirella added, “It’s their specialty.”

She paused as if to savor the thought before continuing. “When you’re ready to leave the village, go just a few kilometers down the road to Cadenet and stop for a coffee at a bar across from Le Tambour d’Arcole.”

Taking one of Katherine’s papers with some blank space on it, she drew a simple map.

“Anyone can tell you how to find it if you still get lost, which we know is so easy to do here. This town is not so pretty, but very authentic, and you will love the story of this statue. It was cast in the 1800s in honor of a little boy from the village who was a drummer boy and a hero to Napoleon when a major battle was being fought in 1796. Any local serving you at the bar will be happy to tell you the story, as they are very proud of it. But to me, the best part is this: In 1943, when France was occupied by Nazis, they were taking every bit of metal they could to melt down for weaponry—statues, gates, art. It was horrible! A number of men in the village secretly dug a huge hole, and in the middle of the night, they carried the statue out of town and buried it. Few people knew of its whereabouts, so the secret would not leak to the Germans. When the war ended, the statue was returned triumphantly to the square.”

Joy smiled broadly while Katherine sighed. “That is a beautiful story. I do want to go see it.”

“Well,” Joy said, “if you run out of time, you can always visit the Ménerbes area on Saturday too.”

“For sure. I’m very flexible. I plan on Saturday morning to hike the three-kilometer trail through the cedar forest outside Bonnieux. After that, I’ll have the rest of the day to do whatever. I’m thinking I’ll arrive back home early Saturday evening.”

“Don’t worry about Pico. We’ll look after him well, even though he does seem to prefer your company,” Joy said with a smile.

Katherine laughed and replied shyly, “You have no idea what a gift he has been to me this week.”

“Shall we order lunch, ladies? We seem to have a lot of chatting to do!” Mirella suggested, and the others agreed.

Katherine told Joy how happy she was to know François was doing well, and Joy confirmed that he was going back to Paris for tests.

“So you met Philippe?” Joy asked with an expectant smile.

Hesitating, Katherine smiled in return. “Yes.” After an awkward silence, the waiter arrived with menus, and the conversation turned once more to a delicious discussion about local dishes.

When the ladies parted, Joy reminded Katherine how much her family was looking forward to meeting her at Sunday lunch at the
manoir
.

“One o’clock will be perfect.
À bientôt!
”

Katherine had one thing on her mind as she parked in her driveway and stepped out to be greeted by a joyful Picasso.

“Let me change, boy, and then we are off for a ride,” she told him as she dashed into the house.

A short time later she was back outside, retrieving the Peugeot from the potting shed. For the first time, she saw a biking helmet hanging there and strapped it on.

“
Allons
, Pico,” she called, and they set off down the road together.