The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) (35 page)

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Apart from their cheese rendezvous—the thought of which always made her smile, but which were, in fact, fascinating and delicious—Katherine and Philippe met occasionally for a meal or a drink. Often the talk turned to cheese making again as Katherine discovered the whole subject was surprisingly interesting. It reflected the French history dating back to Roman times as much as nature.

To her astonishment, under Philippe’s careful tutelage, she discovered she loved the
bleus.
Her favorite was Bleu d’Auvergne, crumbled into piping hot fresh pasta, as he had recommended.

It wasn’t just the tastes but also the history of the cheeses and the often intricate methods of the craft whether from the milk of sheep, goats, or cows. She began to be aware of flavors such as those resulting from the diet of Alpine grass and spring flowers the special Tarines cows graze on to produce the Beaufort cheeses, or the sprig of savory that adds the scent of Provence to Tome de Banon.

There was so much to absorb, so much history that also included intrigue and secrets and family feuds. For centuries in ancient times some of the oldest cheese-making methods were kept alive in remote mountain monasteries.
Who knew?
Political involvement was an ongoing issue; so-called health regulations interfered with successful methods used for hundreds of years. Philippe became passionate about the discussion at times, his eyes fiery and his voice full of emotion.

Katherine was surprised and pleased to see this other side of his normally calm personality.

He sometimes dropped by in the afternoon after the market closed, bringing her a portion of a new or special cheese. It occurred to her that this was his equivalent of flowers. She liked that.

They also saw each other twice a week at the cycling club and began to ride nearer to each other as Kat’s endurance grew. Her new bike was a dream to ride, and her excitement and pleasure was immense at the diverse routes they traveled, always with spectacular views. For the most part the rides were far more challenging than any she had experienced, and she pushed herself to the limit on every ride.

Her muscles ached, but in a good way. The endorphins were working overtime, bringing her to a calm, happy place.

Socializing after a ride was a big part of this club’s regime, and it wasn’t long before Katherine began to feel accepted. She knew her connection to Philippe helped that along.

Most conversations were in French, although several members spoke English and were happy to assist with translations. She could see how those who spoke English loved to show it off. Whether they realized it or not, they made her feel she was welcome and not
l’étranger.

The last week in August, Philippe mentioned he was going to Sainte-Mathilde.

“I’m just making a quick trip up for the day on Friday. Would you like to go with me?”

“I would love to,” Kat answered with no hesitation.

Joy e-mailed her an invitation to spend the day together. She said the request was also from Picasso, which Kat loved, and the plan was set. Katherine had been feeling guilty about not going back there, so this suited her perfectly.

Walking back from a quick dip at the beach the day before, she thought how lucky she was to be living this dream.

I know this can’t last forever. In another two months I will be back in Toronto and going to work in an office somewhere, and the dream will be just that, a wonderful memory.

She also reminded herself to sign up for the cooking class she had seen advertised in town.

While I’m at it, I might as well make the dream the best it can possibly be.

At 7:00 a.m. on Friday, she walked through the relative quiet in the still-empty market hall as vendors were organizing their displays. The camaraderie of the less-established vendors was evident as they picked numbers to determine their stall placements. She had witnessed this on one of her early meetings with Philippe, and the laughter and joking between those involved was a refreshing start to the day.

In fact, she had felt this on all her early morning walks through the old town as it was just becoming alive. There was always laughter, whistling, singing, and banter. In her month of almost daily walks, she had not heard one cross exchange. She often wondered if she was applying selective hearing to the lanes and alleys that provided such pleasurable sounds, but she felt this was her true experience.

Perhaps it is the weather, so perfect now. Maybe in the winter with a bitter mistral blowing, the cheerfulness diminishes.

Philippe had arrived much earlier to set up his stalls, which were stored in a building across the street each day after the market closed. Gilles had been working with Philippe for several years and would be in charge today. Philippe had no concerns about that, although he knew some customers might be disappointed.

Setting off on the
autoroute
in his aging Citroën, they soon passed through the rugged red hills of the Esterel and turned north. Sitting in the car together for two hours felt so much more intimate than having a meal or cycling, and Katherine felt a slight shyness at first.

Philippe’s calm, gentle voice and easy manner soon erased Kat’s reticence. Before long they were speaking easily and ventured into more personal territory than ever before. He quietly described his wife’s long battle with cancer and his commitment, after losing her, to being both father and mother to their daughter. She disclosed the sudden jolt in her life. To her surprise, she found herself relating the essence of the note James had left and her shock at the sudden end to what she had thought was a good marriage. They both conveyed the loss, the despair, the aloneness, and the pain they experienced, the struggle to regain their footing.

Katherine found the timbre of Philippe’s voice soothing and his ability to express his feelings quite extraordinary. “Grief,” he said, his voice gently halting but not hiding the depth of the emotion he shared, “can enter your life through many doorways, but there really is only one exit, and only you can find it. Most of the smothering, consuming pain eventually begins to fade, but part of it remains forever.”

Katherine reached over and put her hand on Philippe’s arm. “I am so sorry for your loss and your daughter’s. I truly am.”

He nodded slightly, placing a hand on hers for a moment. “And I too, for yours.”

It was easier, when Kat thought about it later, for them to have the conversation when they weren’t sitting across from each other, when eye contact
didn’t become so intense that the thread of the subject had to be snipped.

Their eyes met from time to time, but the demands of the road broke the connection. She thought that was a good thing.

They rode in silence for a while after the heaviness of their chat.

“Let’s listen to some music,” Philippe suggested. “Do you like this?” he said as some soft jazz began to play.

Their topics switched to music and cycling, familiar to both and easier to share.

The countryside began to bring back memories. Vineyards, orchards, olive groves, and fields stretched toward the backdrop of rolling hills. Hilltop villages perched on rugged peaks appeared and disappeared as the road twisted and turned.

“It’s so dramatically different from the coast,” she commented.

Suddenly they were turning into the lane of the manor house, and Katherine’s heart jumped as she caught sight of Picasso’s golden coat and wagging tail. “It feels like coming home.”

She could barely contain her excitement and opened the car door the moment it rolled to a stop.

“Pico, Pico!” Katherine whispered as she knelt to pet him and receive his happy nuzzles. She was surprised as tears sprung to her eyes. The dog moved excitedly from Katherine to Philippe and back again.

The front door opened and Joy appeared, grinning with delight, followed by a couple who were unfamiliar to Katherine at first glance. As they came up to her, she recognized them from previous photos online and at their farmhouse.

“
Bienvenue, ma chère Katherine.
Please say hello to Madeline and Jean-Pierre Lallibert, your exchangers!”

Enthusiastic greetings were shared all around.

Philippe stayed for a coffee and then made to leave, planning to have lunch with François and run some errands.

“I’m concerned about dear François,” Joy told him. “He is very slow to recover. Perhaps you can convince him to go for some physiotherapy, as he is getting very stiff with no exercise. We all think it would help.”

Philippe assured her he would try his best. “We know what a stubborn old goat he is. Just like the elders in his beloved herd!”

They laughed affectionately and waved good-bye to him before walking to the back terrace to chat. Joy told Kat they would be going to Roussillon for lunch. “Henri and Sylvie insist on seeing you as well,” she explained.

The day passed quickly. The Lalliberts were eager to talk about their enjoyable stay in Kat’s house and their visit to Toronto and the surrounding area. They were a quiet couple, doing home exchanges for over ten years. As Molly had told her, they loved Toronto.

Their English was limited, so Joy acted as translator.

“We would be happy to do another exchange with you any time,” she interpreted for Madeline.

Katherine agreed she felt the same. “As you know, this was my first exchange on my own, and I feel so fortunate that it was here. Staying in your farmhouse and meeting your family, and Picasso, was very special.”

They explained how Picasso had always stayed at Joy’s house during their other exchanges and how surprised they were to hear he had settled in with Kat.

A smile lit her face, and Katherine leaned down to scratch behind Picasso’s ears as he snoozed by her feet. Feeling at a loss for the right words in French, she said to Joy, “Please tell them that I was just as surprised and that spending that time with Picasso was one of the nicest experiences of my life. I learned a lot from him.”

The Lalliberts showed their pleasure as Joy passed on her words. They declined the invitation to come along for lunch, and Katherine felt a tinge of sadness as she said good-bye once again to Picasso. After one final nuzzle from him, she watched him happily follow his owners into the vineyard for the stroll home.

The midday crowd in town was busy, and the lunch service was even slower than usual. She was reminded how no one complained about the slow service except the tourists.
It’s the French way. Mealtimes are to be savored and enjoyed. No rush.

Katherine was greeted warmly by Joy’s son and his wife, and she enjoyed their lively company.

After lunch, Joy and Katherine went to Sainte-Mathilde to meet Mirella at Le Petit Café.

“For old time’s sake,” Joy said with her twinkling laugh.