The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (19 page)

Katherine still couldn’t believe the joy she was feeling from cycling again. The memory flooded back of this indescribable sensation deep inside, something like nirvana, she had always felt on her bike.
It’s liberating. It’s joyful.

She felt open, exposed, completely laid bare to the elements. Vulnerable but at the same time in charge, controlling whether she went fast or slow, where she turned, how far she rode. She was loving it again, on a simple basic bicycle.
Well, it
is
French
, she conceded. She knew when she returned to Toronto, she would be retrieving her bike from the garage, uncovering it, and riding once again. It didn’t have to be about memories with James, she realized, and the epiphany was almost overwhelming.

She was feeling somewhat close to whole again.

“Who am I without him?” she had asked her therapist so many months ago. Now she was beginning to truly sense the answer to that question and realized words were not enough.

As she rode, Picasso ran along the edge of the road or in the woods where the undergrowth was low. The sense of companionship she felt with him continued to surprise her. The bounteous farmland drew her in with its gnarled vineyards, orderly orchards, lush low rows of greens and vegetables, the soft silver-green shades of the leaves of olive trees, and always the incredibly fresh aromatic air. All of it under an impossibly blue sky.

She knew every day wasn’t necessarily like this. The winds of Provence were legendary, and a mistral, with its unkind reputation, completing its long journey from Siberia, could blow in when least expected. She had been blessed so far with the weath
er. Wind-sculpted trees dotted the landscape, along with tidy stone structures and abandoned ruins in various crumbling states. Limestone outcroppings provided dramatic contrast and perfect settings for perched villages, with rippled blue hills in the distance.

Katherine cycled for most of the afternoon, her legs surprising her. Stopping for breaks by lazy streams, Pico would lap eagerly while she used her water bottle. When she finally pedaled up her own driveway, she was feeling extremely pleased with herself and her stamina, considering her exercise regime had been less than stellar for the preceding months.

Heading straight for the bathtub, she knew her muscles would benefit from a long soak.

Later, as she organized to get an early start in the morning, she gave Picasso a tummy rub and realized she was sad to be leaving him for two days.

19

Midafternoon on Friday, Katherine turned into the lane leading to Le Mas des Oliviers with only one thought in mind. She would be in the pool as fast as humanly possible. It had turned into the hottest day of the week, and she was a mass of wrinkled linen after the fiasco she had just been through.

The day had begun perfectly. The Bonnieux market was setting up when she arrived just before nine, and she had lingered over a
crème
and a
pain aux raisins
on the terrace of a café near the “new” church.
“Only” 170 years old
, she thought with a chuckle, as she considered that would be ancient back in Toronto.

Beginning at the bottom of the town, she wandered through the small market that wended its way up the narrow streets to the square by the twelve-century-old church at the top of the hill. The food stalls toward the top of the market overflowed with temptations, but she knew most of those products would be found at her own market on Monday in Sainte-Mathilde.

Resisting the appeal of the displays and the cajoling of the vendors, Katherine finally faltered with a most delicious Cavaillon melon. The vendor offered a sample to taste, and that was that.
Sold!
To seal the deal, he assured her he would put bite-size pieces into a container so she could easily enjoy it all day. Juicy and sweet but not sugary, and so intensely full of flavor Katherine’s taste buds felt as if they would pop.
No wonder you read of them in every book about Provence.

The view from the top of the village displayed the patchwork landscape rolling right up to Mont Ventoux in the distance to the north, and to the west, the village of Lacoste perched on the next hillside. The ruin of the castle of the Marquis de Sade stood out like a beacon—she couldn’t wait to visit.

Munching on the melon, Katherine had taken the quicker route of eighty-six steps down to the bottom of the village and back to her car. Taking her time driving, she was thankful the roads weren’t busy this day and she could dawdle as she liked through the sensuous landscape.

Lunch in Lourmarin, set on the plains on the banks of the Aiguebrun River, had been all Mirella and Joy had promised. In the center of town where the roads converged, restaurants spilled their tables into the tree-lined square. Laughter and chatter filled the air. Carafes of rosé sparkled. Unable to resist stopping in a few of the shops, she discovered a glass bowl that would be the perfect gift to take to Joy’s lunch. The clerk told her it was the well-known bubbled glass from Biot, a village featuring talented glassblowers, close to Nice. The shade of green and the flowing shape were unique, and Katherine could see a number of ways to enjoy using it.

She waited for it to be gift-wrapped, free of charge, a custom she found particularly charming.

L’Antiquaire had been a challenge to find, but the delicately seasoned stew was on the menu, the service casually efficient, and the ambiance as warm as she had been promised.

The village was yet another visual feast. The blue shutters and doors of so many houses, in a great assortment of shades and weathering, were captured from every angle by Katherine’s camera.

Window boxes and flowerpots—the more cracked and chipped, the more beautiful to her—spilled over with vibrant color and artistic combinations of verbena, cosmos, daisies, lobelia, phlox, and so many others she couldn’t identify. More than once she stopped to admire colorful geraniums, lush with greenery and enormously brilliant flower heads.

I could easily live here
, she thought, as she wandered the narrow lanes.
I just feel it. There’s something that speaks to my heart in all of these ancient towns.

Mirella had promised Cadenet was ten minutes down the road and definitely worth the detour, but not so much for beauty. Katherine agreed. As predicted, the waiter at the bar opposite the drummer boy statue proudly recounted its history, with locals sitting nearby providing further comments. Katherine sat on the terrace for some time, absorbing the lines of the statue, the determined expression of the young boy as he beat his drum. The artist had sculpted a sense of movement into the metal, and Katherine felt a lump grow in her throat at everything it represented.

History is so alive here. I love how it surrounds me.

She also felt it was time to put her camera down, jump in a pool, and cool off. Guided by the map the innkeeper had e-mailed her, she soon found herself back in the center of Cadenet. Driving out of the village for the second time, she passed a small work crew of three men at an intersection where she had slowed down on her first attempt to leave. She smiled sheepishly as they appeared to give her a look of recognition.

The road wound around, as they did, before a bifurcation presented itself that was nowhere on her little map. Guessing as much as anything, she chose the road to the left and drove along, feeling unsure of her choice. She realized her error when she passed the same work crew but from yet a different direction. This time they waved and grinned. She was headed back into the village for a third time. Flustered, Katherine pulled over and managed to explain her dilemma to the workers. After the three men had an exchange that sounded like a serious argument, one took a pen from a clipboard and drew some additional lines on the map. Speaking slowly, accompanied with much gesturing, they gave her very straightforward instructions.

“Non, madame. Non, non, non!”
Wagging fingers and shaking their heads when she picked up the GPS.

Katherine drove slowly with the map on the seat beside her.

Frustrated and perspiring from anxiety, she was grateful for the help she had received. Seeing the road sign she had been seeking, she suddenly laughed out loud.
That was truly another Griswold moment!
In her former life, she would have had to put up with a profanity-laced tirade from James.

A narrow laneway was lined with mounds of lavender against a massive backdrop of pink, red, and white oleander. Large clusters of pale-mauve blooms gracefully drooped from an obviously well-established wisteria vine that trailed over the entrance to the inn, offering a spectacular show. The property gave the appearance of being deserted, apart from a small gravel parking area that held three other cars.

Katherine knew by now that this was the more exposed north side of the farmhouse. The other side of the structure would be a very different story. This
mas
was considerably larger than “her” farmhouse, but the visceral pleasure was much the same. The stone, the shutters, the tile and beams combined to create a feeling that was warm and welcoming.

Walking into the entrance foyer with her overnight bag, she discovered directions to pull the silk cord hanging nearby to ring a bell. Minutes later she was greeted by a young woman, who asked Katherine to sign in before leading her down a pristine hallway to a small circular stone stairway. At the top, a single door opened to her room.

Decorated entirely in blending shades of cream, off-white, and taupe, the tones complemented the pale stone walls and stripped blond wood beams of the whitewashed ceiling. The furniture was simple and sleek, matching in color to the rest of the room so everything blended in a cloud of soft, subtle refinement. Somehow the clean modern lines worked with the ancient setting.

Sunlight from a large window flooded the spacious minimalist bathroom, with its modern white porcelain fittings and immaculate tiles. Just walking into the room made Kat feel clean.

“Some of our guests are by the pool and at the bar on the terrace nearby,
madame
,” said the young woman. “Please let us know if there is anything you wish.”

Katherine thanked her, wondering how anyone could wish anything more than this.

French doors opened with a decorative railing stretched across the space. These early buildings in France were not built with balconies, she had read. That was, apparently, because the people spent so much time in the sun for centuries, they wanted to be protected from it once inside. Balconies were normally found only on structures built in the last one hundred years.

After hanging her few items in the closet, she relaxed in the serenity of the room for a few minutes, then showered and changed into her bathing suit and robe. Eager to have that first splash in the pool, she walked out to the terrace.

There were several empty lounges by the pool; five were occupied. Saying
bonjour
to the others, Katherine settled herself on a chaise that was somewhat isolated at the far end of the pool. Although she did not want to appear antisocial, she did wish to have some quiet time. Certainly there would be plenty of chatting at dinner.

She pulled another lounge close to her and placed her Kindle, towel, and sunscreen on it. Easing herself gently into the pool, her entire body responded to the refreshing cool softness of the salt water. After a few laps and some time simply floating in peaceful contentment, Katherine settled on her lounge, applied a generous amount of sunscreen, put on her sunglasses, and began reading.

She startled suddenly to a voice at her side and realized she had been dozing.

“I’m sorry. Do you mind if I take this chair?”

“Mmmm . . . no! Oh. Excuse me . . . of course. Please take it.”

“Now my turn to apologize. I didn’t realize you were sleeping! Those glasses camouflaged it well!”

Katherine flashed an embarrassed smile as she removed her things from the lounge and looked up at a ruggedly handsome man with a veneer-perfect grin.

“Seriously, I’m sorry to have disturbed your snooze. Could there be a better spot for one?”

Smiling back, Katherine explained, “My goodness, the pool area has become popular! When I arrived there were just a few of us here, so I took the liberty of spreading my stuff to this chair too.”

“I guess everyone is back from a day of sightseeing.” Offering his hand, he introduced himself. “Matt Robertson.”

“Katherine Price,” she replied, noting his American accent with its distinct Southern twang.

Moving the chair a few feet away, Matt explained he was on a business trip to Marseille and taking a few days to explore the countryside.

“Do you know this area very well?” he asked.

Katherine told him about her mini-Mayle motor trip. After sharing her experience so far that day, she asked a few questions about Marseille and then turned back to her book as he dove into the pool.

Checking her watch later, she was shocked to see she had slept for over an hour. The pool area had filled with two other couples and three teenagers, and she hadn’t heard a sound. Before getting back to her reading, Katherine and Matt exchanged a few intermittent pleasantries about the inn and the area, and she soon heard him quietly snoring. He was still asleep as she tiptoed by to go to her room.

Admiring the freshly pressed linen dress she had brought for dinner, Katherine was glad she had made the purchase. A luminescent shade of the softest blue, it accentuated the striking blue of her eyes. The style, calf length with spaghetti straps, complemented her lean figure.

Leaner in the last six months, that’s for certain
, she thought as she studied herself in the mirror.

She was glad she was vain enough to still care how she looked. She knew that wasn’t always the way divorce affected women—for a while, anyway.

When she had arrived back from the pool, a pitcher of water with lemon and lime slices in it and a small bowl of cherries were on the desk in her room. Now she poured a glass and ate a few cherries as she looked out over the pool and the olive grove beyond. Picking up the phone, she asked the young woman in reception if it might be possible for her to stay in her room for an extra night.

“I will check,
madame
. May I confirm with you later?”

“Thank you. I have a dinner reservation for eight p.m.,” Katherine replied.

“
Très bien
, I will find you,
madame
.”

Katherine surprised herself by deciding to go to the bar for a drink before dinner.

Must be the curative powers of Provence making me feel so relaxed
.

Before going downstairs, there was time to go online to read her e-mails and send a group update as well as to remind Molly about their Skype date on Sunday. Just after seven, she walked into the intimate bar area, which extended onto a vast terrace accented with enormous terra-cotta planters overflowing with a riotous color mix of plants. Once she had her glass of sauvignon blanc, Katherine went over to confirm they were real.

“It’s hard to believe they aren’t artificial, isn’t it?” a soft British-accented voice asked. Katherine turned to see a woman she had noticed that afternoon by the pool and a young girl who appeared to be in her early teens. They chatted about the flowers on the terrace and throughout the countryside for a few minutes. “Have you been down to the coast—to the Riviera?”

Katherine replied she had not been for a very long time.

“Well, the flowers there are even more abundant. The municipalities take great pride in their gardens, even on the islands on regular streets. In some of the roundabouts—er, traffic circles, as you say—the displays are amazing. Villages and towns compete each year for the coveted
‘ville fleurie’
designation.”

The woman was obviously a gardener, and Katherine was happy to learn the names of a few species, unknown to her, that she had seen.

It turned out all three teenagers from the afternoon belonged to this family; two sons drifted in with their father to join their mother and sister.

Introductions were made and pleasing conversation quickly followed.
The British are so very good at conversation
, Katherine thought. The children were equally stimulating conversationalists, and before long the family had invited Katherine to sit at their table for dinner.

Dinner would not be served until 8:00 p.m., and Katherine did not refuse when another glass of her wine materialized. The British were also masters of social graces.