The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (2 page)

They were both workaholics and didn’t mind. In any spare time they shared a love of reading and cycling. The bike thing turned into a focus for them early in their union, as they got serious and in shape and joined a club. Wednesday nights and three weekends a month. They loved it. Grimacing, she thought how James was even somewhat socially relaxed with that group.

Including Ashley Johnston. How could she? How could he? How could
they? She’s young enough to be his daughter. How the hell . . . what the hell . . .
when the hell . . . what is everyone going to say . . . to think? I’ll never be able
to be part of the club again . . . that bastard . . .

The champagne glass slipped from her hand to the carpet as she doubled over, wrapping her arms across her stomach. She ached at the thoughts that followed and remembered all the years they were certain it would happen for them.

He’s going to be a father. Oh my God, he’s having a child . . . with her. We tried for so long . . . had all the tests . . . I felt so guilty, so inadequate . . . he felt the same . . . time went by. He said it was okay. . . it didn’t matter . . . after a while we just stopped talking about it . . . he said everything was fine and he loved me . . . I loved him . . . I do love him . . .

Running her hands over her body, around her breasts, and down her thighs, without thinking she let them rest in the warmth between her legs.

Did it make me less of a woman to him . . . less attractive . . . less desirable . . . what else would it be . . . it’s my fault . . . how can he just walk away from all those years we’ve shared . . . how . . . why . . . I’m not sure I can do this . . . not sure I want to do this . . . I don’t even know what “this” is . . . is it my fault? . . . what the hell is happening . . . ?

Tilting the bottle to empty the last few drops directly into her mouth, she wondered why she wasn’t crying. She felt like it. But she wasn’t.

Just minutes ago I loved James and now . . . I want to kill him . . . how does this happen . . . ?

Staggering into the kitchen, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone and dialed James as she stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom. She had no idea what she would say, but she needed to say something.

No answer.

She felt mortally wounded. And very, very drunk. Passing out would be her salvation tonight.

The alarm clock broke through her fog: 5:30 a.m. For a moment her only awareness was of a terrible hangover.

Reaching over to the emptiness next to her, she remembered.
James has left me
.

Sobbing filled the room and grew into piercing wails. She clutched her pillow and, shoulders heaving, buried her face into the soft down. Dampness spread around her head.

Hurt mingled with sorrow, then anger. At times a sense of panic intruded as she pounded the bed with her fist.

She cried for her broken life, her broken dreams, and her broken heart. She cried until she ran out of tears and lay empty, it seemed, of everything.

Painful as it was to lift her head, she reached for the phone and hit the speed dial to her office. Knowing it was too early for anyone to answer, she left voicemail. “Sorry, I’ve got a terrible case of stomach flu and won’t be in today. Probably not tomorrow either, the way I feel right now. I’ll let you know.”

She already knew she would take these two days off before the week
end. Her hangover was just the beginning of her agony.

Turning over, she fell back to sleep until the phone woke her at noon. As fragile as she felt, she saw her mother’s name on call display and knew she had to answer. Her mom was eighty-five, with a heart condition, and Katherine was always a little nervous when the phone rang.

“Katica,
edesem
, I just called your office. When did you get sick? Was it something you ate last night at the Old Mill?”

Knowing she could not begin to address the truth, Katherine gave a convincing performance as she described a flu bug. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Anyu. I’m sure I’ll be feeling better. Are you okay?”

“
Igen
, I’m fine, but I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t worry. You know how these things are. A day in bed will fix it.”

“Well, James will take care of you when he comes home.”

It was such a stabbing pain, Katherine could barely hold the telephone.

“Bye.”

Turning the ringer off as she hung up, Katherine lay still while the room spun around her.

“Oh no, not the whirlies . . .” she groaned. Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to throw up.

“I am breathing in. I am breathing out,” she whispered until she felt herself get a grip.
This simply does not compute. My entire life has been predictable. This cannot be happening.

Her parents had placed great importance on a simple, predictable life as they rebuilt theirs in Toronto as Hungarian immigrants in 1949. Katerina Elisabeth Varga was born in Toronto on the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1955, Remembrance Day in Canada. They had always reminded her of this special coincidence. This day symbolized peace, and she had brought peace into their lives.

She had grown into a quiet and somewhat serious adult although under the surface there was a distinct sense of humor and avid curiosity about life. She had boundless energy, much of which she put into her love of cycling beginning with her bright-red Radio Flyer scooter at age four. With James, the cycling evolved into a passion and consumed most of their recreational time.

What the hell happened?

Lying in the softly luxurious bed, which she always hated to leave, she felt no pleasure today. Her head hurt. Everything hurt.

Gingerly sliding her legs over the side of the bed, she sat with her head in her hands, hoping the nausea would pass. After a few long minutes she went across the hall to her desk. For a moment she contemplated phoning James again but just as quickly decided against it. Pride, anger, hurt prevailed.

First she decided she needed to call a locksmith, one who would be there that day. Next, a lawyer. She recalled a card she had in her drawer. A friend of Molly’s needed a divorce lawyer a while ago, and James had suggested this one, who it turned out was away until Monday. Katherine wondered whether hiring her was really a good idea but couldn’t think of anyone else. Then again, with a touch of irony she thought, the woman
was
highly recommended.

She lay back in bed for half an hour, numb, and then threw on some workout clothes before halfheartedly running a comb through her shoulder-length blond hair.

In the kitchen, a wave of nausea washed over her again—partly from the hangover but more so from the gut-wrenching anguish that hit her as she stared at the roses on the island and the note on the floor. Feeling faint, she picked the biggest glass from the cupboard. Pressing the crushed-ice button on the fridge door, she half filled the glass and then topped it up with water.

She drained it in a few gulps. The cold began to clear her head and, with deep breaths, she felt some balance returning. Pouring a refill, she jumped as the doorbell rang.

Moving about his work very efficiently, the locksmith took just over an hour to replace three locks and show Katherine how to reset the combination for the garage.

Turning her new front door lock, she watched him drive off, then without a thought, climbed the stairs to the bedroom, fell into bed, and pulled the covers over her head. Tomorrow would be here all too soon.

Around noon the next day, Katherine dragged herself out from under the duvet and lay staring at the ceiling. Still in her workout clothes, she had slept fitfully for almost twenty-four hours, alternately quietly crying during her wakeful times or simply feeling drained.

She knew she wanted to get up but couldn’t think of a good reason why.
What’s the point?
she asked as she slowly sat up.

Picking up the phone, she heard the insistent beeping that indicated messages were waiting.

She called the office first, confirming she was still not well.

Her mom needed to know she was okay. That would be her next call after she listened to the messages.

Her cousin Andrea, who was also her very dear and only truly close friend, had left a message. “Hey there, lovebirds! Hope you had a beautiful anniversary evening at the Old Mill. Don’t forget we’re expecting you for lunch on Sunday. Are you bringing your bikes? We thought we might drag you over to a neighbor’s pumpkin patch so you can help pick out the perfect ones to carve for Halloween.”

She swallowed hard, fighting that stabbing pain again. She would have to respond.

The final message was from her next oldest and only other friend, Molly (the Moaner, as James had dubbed her, and not without reason), apologizing for forgetting their anniversary, and sending belated good wishes.

“Oh God,” Kat groaned, realizing she was soon going to have to find words to tell those closest to her what had happened.

Briefly she again considered talking to James. It felt instinctive, like the right thing to do. She shook that thought off. The finality of his words in that damn note cut through, and she knew there was no going back.

Taking a deep breath, she counted to ten to slow her heart rate. Then she forced some normalcy into her voice and phoned her mother.

“Hi, Anyu.”

“Katica, how are you now?”

“I’m feeling much better today, but I’m not going to work. I thought I might pop over later this afternoon.”

“Of course, come for tea. Come whenever. If James is working late, stay for dinner.”

“I’ll come around four and we’ll have tea.”

Swinging her feet gently to the floor, she pushed herself up, stretched long and hard, and headed for the shower.

Before Katherine got into her car, she took a quick inventory in the garage. She couldn’t believe James hadn’t taken his prized possession with him: the S-Works Venge road bike that he spent hours tuning and cleaning every week. He loved that bike. She noticed the car rack was still hanging on the wall and figured he had run out of time packing up his things before she came home.

Obviously that’s what he was talking about in the note . . . that self-serving, self-centered note . . . and he’ll come back for it
. . . “When I say he may,” she said out loud, her face tight with anger.

She slammed the door to her silver Toyota harder than she ever had before. The usual twenty-minute drive to her parents’ home in the west end of the city seemed to take forever as she put all thoughts into how she would break her news. Taking deep breaths, she tried to stop crying before she arrived, knowing that would only upset her mother more.

More than once she pulled over to sob, beating her hands on the steering wheel.

Anger as much as anything fueled the outbursts now.

James was a liar and a cheat—this she knew. She wondered if she had really loved him or just loved the idea of being married. They had known each other for so long and become each other’s habit before they ever married. She was beginning to feel like a fool. The midafternoon sky was low and gray. A light but steady drizzle infused a sense of gloom beyond the rhythmic slapping of the wipers.