The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (24 page)

26

My last day here
, Katherine thought, stretching sleepily and feeling very much at home.
I’m going to miss this bed, this house—everything. Pico, oh, Pico . . .

Having admonished herself during the past few days not to be melancholy, clearly she was ignoring that advice.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, she looked down at her new best friend. Picasso gazed back at her with his limpid dark eyes, not lifting his nose from the floor, gently thumping his tail.

Katherine reached down and scratched the top of his head.
Crazy
, she thought.
It is crazy to feel this way about a dog.

Down to the back garden for an hour of yoga—
Lucy will be proud of me when I tell her
—and a restful half hour writing in her journal brought that up to date.

Breakfast was the last of yesterday’s croissants with homemade strawberry jam. She washed her yoga clothes and her biking outfit from the day before and hung them on the line, knowing they would be dry within hours. This was something else she was determined to continue at home. There was a clothesline at her mother’s that she never used.

With her suitcase and carry-on lying open on the floor of the bedroom across the hall, Katherine took everything out of the closet except what she would wear in the afternoon and for travel tomorrow.

Once her packing for the day was complete, she went down to the kitchen to make some preparations for her
buffet dînatoire
, grinning as she repeated the words, enjoying the sound.

It had been a surprise to learn from Joy and Mirella that, apart from little cubes on a toothpick with perhaps a cherry tomato, cheese was not served as an appetizer in France.

She had decided to make asparagus spears wrapped in prosciutto with a sliver of parmesan and curried chicken on endive and tuna-stuffed cherry tomatoes—typical North American hors d’oeuvres—as well as a small selection of the French standard salamis and olives. A small green salad and cold chicken were a tasty lunch as she read in the back garden and then spent some time editing photographs on her computer. Few things gave her more pleasure than looking through her travel photos—over and over. Her family always praised her photography skills, but she felt that it would be impossible to take bad pictures in Provence. Everywhere you looked offered a wonderful Kodak moment.

I guess that term will soon disappear
, she thought sadly.

During the afternoon, her food preparations completed, Katherine and Picasso made one last tour through the gardens and around the property. On the path bordering the goat pasture, Katherine paused, remembering the frightening experience with François, and gave Pico a big pat on his back as he stood beside her.

“You’ve been my companion, friend, protector, roommate, and confidante, you gorgeous boy.” As she kneeled down, he licked her cheek, and they sat together for a few minutes.

Back at the house, Katherine reorganized the flowers she had purchased at the market the morning before and took two arrangements out to the garden.

Pulling two of the small outdoor tables together, she laid tablecloths and placed the vases on them. Stepping back to admire the setting, she heard a car pull up her driveway.

“I thought you might like to have a little assistance,” Joy said with a smile. “So I’m early.
C’est bien?
”

Katherine mentally patted herself on the back.
Sometimes it pays to be impulsive—another lesson I’m learning.

Laughter and conversation filled the air as her guests arrived for the
buffet dînatoire
. Food and drink were consumed with gusto, and Katherine held back tears as she said her good-byes. Joy told her she would come by in the morning, so they could delay their farewell.

“Katherine, let me help you clear up,” offered Philippe.

While Picasso took care of cleaning up any goodies on the ground, Philippe and Kat moved chairs and tables to where they belonged after clearing the last of the dishes. Joy had given strict instructions that dishes were to be left on the counter for Marie-Claude to take care of in the morning, saying the housekeeper would be unhappy if there was little for her to do.

“There’s enough wine here to squeak out two more glasses,” Philippe offered. “Shall we sit and enjoy it?”

“Bonne idée,”
Katherine answered, smiling.

“A little longer here and you would be speaking fluently,” Philippe complimented her. “Even though you’re reluctant to speak French with me, I overheard you doing so with some of the family at Joy’s brunch, and again today, and I was very impressed.”

With a shy look, she admitted to an immature anxiety of making mistakes. He assured her that just making the effort was most appreciated and everyone understood.

“What do they say in North America? Just do it!”

With an air of comfort between them, they talked more personally now about their lives, but still there was much left unsaid.

“So do you enjoy your work, Katherine?”

“I do,” she replied with a smile, “but there’s a part of me that would like to run away to Provence forever. I didn’t expect to be so captured!”

Philippe nodded. “This part of the planet tends to cause that reaction in visitors.”

“Unfortunately it’s a little too far away for me to consider popping over for weekends,” Katherine commented with a sigh.

Philippe chuckled. “A weekend would never be long enough. You will just have to plan an extended holiday next time.”

“When will you return?” Katherine asked him.

“Life is getting busy on the coast now so, as long as François is in Paris, I won’t return until the autumn. I won’t have a reason to come.”

There was an awkward silence before Philippe asked Katherine her plans for her three days in Paris. Chuckling at her agenda, he teased her about accomplishing so much on a trip.

“But here is one thing you have to know about Paris. You must be a
flâneur
and walk everywhere. Look down at the cobblestones and up to the zinc-and-slate rooftops and do not miss anything in between. Paris is made for strolling.”

Offering her tips about some places she would never have known, they parted with a bet between them as to whether she would actually get through her list.

Exchanging e-mail addresses, Katherine promised to give him a full report. Blurting awkwardly as Philippe took her hand and bent over it, his lips gently brushing her skin, she blushed.

“It has been such a pleasure to meet you . . .
ah, plaisir
,” she said, chuckling softly, “and to appreciate the French definition of that word. I’m so grateful for all you have done for me.”

Philippe smiled back. “
Oui . . . le plaisir
. . . it is all mine . . . but, if you like, I will come tomorrow and show you a faster road to the station.”

Katherine felt a flutter of happiness at the thought of seeing him again.

Her bags were by the front door with Picasso stretched on the floor next to them. He knew something was up. Marie-Claude bustled around the kitchen, thrilled to have a cleanup for a change. As planned, Joy had arrived earlier. Chatting, she accompanied Katherine as she made one last tour of the house to make certain all was in order and nothing left behind.

Katherine had left a gift-wrapped book about Toronto, with an illustrated history, along with a thank-you note on the hall table for the Lalliberts to find upon their return.

Handing Marie-Claude an envelope that contained a thank-you note with a hundred euros, they
bised
and said a warm good-bye.

Walking out to the car together, Joy helped with the luggage.

Both women looked fondly at each other, blinking back deeper emotion.

“Joy, it has been a singular pleasure getting to know you. I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me, for the friendship and acceptance you have offered, for touring me about . . . I’m at a loss for words.”

“Everything has been my pleasure,
ma chère
. We never know what to expect with each home exchange, and your presence here has been a very special experience for me as well. We will all miss you, and you must promise to stay in touch.”

After they kissed each other’s cheeks with more feeling than usual, Joy gave Katherine a very warm hug in a distinctly non-French way. “You bring out the British in me,” she said with a smile.

At that moment, Philippe pulled into the driveway as planned. He was going to lead Kat to the TGV station through a much shorter but more complicated route than she had taken when she arrived.

Joy greeted him through his car window as Katherine started her engine.

“Come with us!” he invited. “We will wave good-bye to Katherine at the station like good hosts! Come, Joy—and Pico! You ride with her and I’ll take the boy with me! It will be fun!”

Katherine had heard this through her open window and was eagerly nodding.

“This makes me feel like it’s not over yet,” she told Joy with an enormous grin as they drove out to the road.

Standing at the espresso bar in the station, they sipped the last of their coffee as the train pulled in. Katherine loved the fact that Picasso was welcome there too, and this spur-of-the-moment final farewell had put a more festive spin on her departure.

With
bises
all around once more, Katherine felt her eyes well with emotion as she said good-bye this last time. After a shake of the paw from Pico, Philippe loaded her bags onto the train and jumped off as the whistle blew to close the doors. French trains did not waste time lingering in stations, particularly the TGV.

Waving frantically through her window at her beaming friends, Katherine wiped her tears as she accepted this part of the adventure was over.

Gazing through her reflection on the window for a good hour, she recognized how this trip had opened so much for her. It wasn’t a sudden realization but more an awareness that revealed itself as her thoughts peeled layers away.
Hard to believe two weeks could make such a difference.

Now Paris beckoned, and her excitement turned to that.

27

Katherine had a plan for her arrival at the Gare De Lyon, and it involved three words:
Le Train Bleu.

When Philippe had teased her about all she accomplished in her two weeks’ stay at the farmhouse, she stated she had a full agenda for Paris. He had created a list for her, and a challenge had been set.

Item number one was to enjoy a
crème
and pastry at
Le Train Bleu
.

Leaving her luggage in the cloakroom, Katherine climbed the sweeping staircase to the restaurant. A survivor of France’s
Belle Époque
, it was a reminder of a time when train travel was considered an exquisite luxury. Massive chandeliers illuminated brilliantly painted ceilings and walls, many with scenes from southern France, since most trains departed south from the station. Not one square centimeter was unadorned in the grandly romantic space, with gilded statuary flanking the enormous banks of windows. Inaugurated in 1901, today it was a classified historical monument and not to be missed.

Scratch number one off the list
, she thought with satisfaction.

It was raining, but the taxi lineup was right outside the station door. She hurried quickly toward the sign, hoping to beat the rush off the TGV.

Checking in to the Hôtel Henri IV in the Latin Quarter, Katherine was pleased with the appeal of this seventeenth-century building the minute she stepped through the door into the intimate lobby.

The efficiently renovated room and bath felt cozy and, well, French.

Unfolding her travel raincoat and running shoes, she was ready to explore and eat.

That small pastry had simply been a teaser.

Only 4:00 p.m., she knew her choices would be from one of the many student haunts in this lively area that was home to the Sorbonne. No serious French restaurant would be serving anything at that hour. It simply wasn’t done.

Philippe had given her helpful tips along with the exact location of his favorite Latin Quarter shop to have
le snack
—a light bite of something to tide her over until her 9:00 p.m. dinner reservation at La Petite Chaise. This was Paris, after all, and she was determined to make every minute count.

Noticing a basket of umbrellas in the lobby, she was encouraged by the desk clerk to help herself.

Grinning, she stepped out onto the sidewalk, crossed the busy avenue, and headed down a narrow street teeming with life in spite of the weather. Often considered the heart of Paris and named for the days when the language of learning was Latin, this area buzzed with the energy of the young student population.

Exploring the maze of cobblestone alleys, the artistic history of the west bank came alive.
Hemingway, Stein, Fitzgerald, Sartre, de Beauvoir, Picasso, Matisse
—the endless list filtered through her thoughts.

Following her map, she wound her way to Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Touristy as it was, a glass of wine in Les Deux Magots was on her list as she envisioned the ghostly spirits of its famous past patrons. Her excitement was barely concealed.

I’m already in love with Paris!

Thankful for the umbrella’s protection, Katherine began to make her way back toward her hotel. Almost there, she stopped and gasped. Rue de la Bûcherie!

I knew it was close but, there it is . . .

Shaking the rain from her umbrella, she leaned it under the protected canopy of the entrance and stepped into a wonderland of literary history. Browsing the overflowing shelves of the legendary Shakespeare and Company bookshop, she stayed far longer than she intended. Everything about the worn, comfortable ambiance invited her to sink into one of the armchairs with a book in her hands.

Checking another item off her list, she hoped she would have time for another visit before she left the city.

I simply have to come back to Paris . . .

The rain had turned to a drizzle as she strolled the short distance to her hotel. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down on the bed with her laptop to answer e-mails before she showered and changed for dinner.

She had told Philippe she wanted to eat in the oldest restaurant in Paris—if it was still reputable, of course. He explained that the famous La Tour d’Argent was hands down the oldest, dating back to 1582, and probably one of the most expensive. However, he had continued, La Petite Chaise was considered the winner because it was still in the original location. In fact, he added, it still had the same grillwork from 1680 when it opened. It was much smaller and less elegant, and Katherine decided to go there.

Philippe had called from the farmhouse right then and there and booked her reservation.

The rain had stopped when she headed out for dinner, directions clasped in her hand, drawn by the helpful young woman at the front desk.

As she ordered her French onion soup and roasted duck breast, Katherine thought of Philippe and how considerate he had been. The meal did not disappoint.

Walking back to the hotel, Katherine felt absolutely safe, enchanted by
her surroundings and refreshed by the cool dampness hanging in the air.

Sunday morning dawned drizzly again. Undeterred, Katherine had a quick
pain aux raisins
downstairs in the breakfast room and headed down Avenue Saint-Philippe to Notre Dame, a few minutes’ walk away.

The sky was brightening by the time she crossed the bridge. She sat on a bench for a while, taking in the splendid cathedral, and planned to take a tour later in the afternoon when services were not on.

Stopping at the Point Zéro marker in front of the church, she mentally checked that off her list as well. Her guidebook explained this was the point from which all distances in France were measured. Who knew?

Katherine strolled by the
bouquinistes’
stalls lining the street along the Seine, taking photos and looking through prints and books as well as original art.

Following her map, she arrived at the famous flower market, knowing that on Sundays the bird traders were also there.

Housed in iron pavilions with glass roofs since 1808, the colors and scents of the flower market drew her in like a bee. Never had she seen such a selection. Pleased with herself for remembering to recharge her camera battery overnight, she was quickly filling her chip.

From the hop-on/hop-off bus she received a full overview of the city. At noon in Montmartre the streets were full of activity and the Place du Tertre, the artists’ square was bustling. Mindful of the scammers who would approach you to sketch your portrait, Katherine avoided eye contact and gave them a firm
non
. She noted there were several talented, serious artists and settled on a small watercolor of the rooftops of Paris as a treat for herself.

Stopping early for a lunch of steak tartare and a fine glass of red Côtes du Rhône, she sat on the terrace at Chez la Mère Catherine and chuckled, remembering how Philippe had warned her it was a tourist trap and suggested there were far better places down the side streets.

She had told him it didn’t matter because she had read too much about this spot and wanted to go. Established just four years after the end of the Revolution, the story went that the use of the word “bistro” began here. In the 1800s, Russian soldiers occupying France after the Napoleonic Wars would pound on the tables and yell
“Bystro, bystro,”
which meant “hurry.”

Philippe had assured her this was an urban legend, but she liked the story anyway.

Katherine stared for a while at the majestic Basilique du Sacré-Coeur before entering, thinking it was even more stunning in reality than in photos. Built in the late 1800s, although it did not share the mantle of history as so many other Paris attractions, its beauty was indisputable.

Taking the funicular down from the hilltop, she strolled the crowded street to Place Pigalle and hopped on the tour bus again.

Her next stop was the massive Arc de Triomphe, where she decided she did not have time to go to the top.

Crossing the Champs-Élysées, she strolled down Avenue Kléber.

After a half hour, she arrived at the Place du Trocadéro and bought a bottle of water from a snack truck. Finding a spot to sit behind the Palais de Chaillot, she overlooked the beautiful gardens and fountains and felt overwhelmed by emotion.

There it was. In real life. The Eiffel Tower.

The lawns of the Champ de Mar stretched beyond, filled with people of all ages enjoying the day. Strollers, dog walkers, children playing, people lounging on the grass. It was full of activity.

This moment had been a long time coming.

She had wondered if the tower would appear commonplace after the countless times she had seen images of it through her life. Somehow seeing it for real was breathtaking.

Making her way down through the gardens and across the bridge to the tower, her shutter clicked madly. Directly under the tower was a vantage point for some amazing shots.

The lineup for the elevator to the top was long, and Katherine decided that was one item on her list she would not get to check off.

You’ve really bitten off a bit more than you can chew
, she admitted. If she wanted to tour Notre Dame, she couldn’t continue walking, as she would run out of time. There was a small square near the church Philippe had suggested that she very much wanted to visit.

Hopping on the Métro, she was soon at the cathedral and glad she had made that choice.

The last tour of the day was with a small group and an excellent guide, just the way she liked it. It was almost unimaginable that construction had begun in 1163. Finished just under two hundred years later, Katherine couldn’t help but think of the novel
Pillars of the Earth
—she’d read it three times—and how generations of families worked on building such magnificent structures.

Severely damaged during the Revolution, it had gone through some extensive restoration, resulting in the spire being added in the nineteenth century. The last work, done in the 1990s, paid close attention to preserving the historic architecture.

The rose windows sparkling like jewels, imposing sculptures, fantastically grotesque gargoyles—she was awestruck.

Exiting the cathedral, she took a piece of paper from her purse on which Philippe had written directions. Crossing Le Petit Pont from Île de la Cité to the Left Bank’s Quai Montebello, a short walk brought her to the Square René-Viviani.

The view of Notre Dame from here was the best, and she was surprised at how few people were around.

Resting on a bench in the midst of lush gardens, she tried to absorb the fact that the tree in front of her, dramatically leaning and supported by concrete pillars, was believed to be the oldest in Paris. A variety of locust tree, healthy and flowering, it was planted in 1602 by Jean Robin, a gardener and herbalist to several French kings, who introduced this plant species to Europe. A plaque also informed it was hit by a shell in World War 1, which did nothing but shorten the height.

Discovering these surprises off the typical tourist path made Katherine’s visit even more special.
Thanks to dear Philippe.

In fact, he had told her about this park when she was sharing some of her mother’s story. That had caused him to think of the special sculpture. Among other things, it showed infants with wings and others appearing lifeless that commemorated more than 11,000 Jewish French infants deported by the Nazis to Auschwitz. Many were from this
arrondissement
. Philippe had added that most guidebooks did not mention this component of the statue.

Feeling heartache, Katherine considered her mother and all the family she had lost.
I wonder if there is any sort of commemoration in her village. I guess we will find out after Andrew makes his trip there.

So much history in such a small plot of land. It would require many visits to Paris for her to even begin to discover everything she wished.

Allowing herself the luxury of sleeping in until 8:00 a.m. Monday, she first slipped in to see the Church of Saint-Séverin, right across the street from her hotel. One of the oldest remaining churches on the left bank, the holy place had been there since before the Vikings. She read, to her delight, that among the bells to which she had wakened was the oldest in Paris, cast in 1412.

Meandering and window shopping through the Latin Quarter, she made her way once again to the Marché aux Fleurs.

Choosing something to take to François was no easy task.

She wandered through the whole area thinking how her mother would have loved to see this market.

Eventually Katherine retraced her path to one stall selling the most creative and beautiful bouquets. After much deliberation, she chose a spectacular but understated arrangement in shades of the palest pinks and soft greens that combined antique garden roses, orchids, pale-green dahlias, ranunculus, Queen Anne’s lace, and seeded eucalyptus. Her photo of it ensured it would last forever.

Hailing a cab, Katherine realized she was hungry. She was also looking forward to meeting François under better circumstances than the last time.