“How can you be so sure?” Kat noted Simone’s slip of the tongue.
“Fais-moi confiance,” Simone replied. “Trust me.”
Katherine did trust Simone. She also knew from Simone’s expression and tone of voice that the discussion was over. She remembered this attitude of Simone’s from the situation the year before. She had wondered then, in a most confused way, if Simone was somehow involved with Inspecteur Thibideau’s department. Any attempt to pursue that had been quickly dismissed.
Kind of like now, she thought.
“Eh bien! Ainsi commence l’histoire,” Simone exclaimed as she poured more tea and smoothly changed the subject . “And so it will begin in the new year! I’m excited you have received permission from the mairie! La Villa des Violettes soon will receive official guests! I know good friends stayed with you for a few nights this past August, but that doesn’t count. That was just for fun, oui?”
Kat set other thoughts aside. “Oui! That was like having family stay,” she replied emphatically, laughing at those memories before becoming serious. “We had such a good time! It will be a bit more work when strangers arrive, absolument.”
Simone smiled and repeated words she often shared with Kat. “J’accepte la grande aventure d’être moi.” It was a Simone de Beauvoir quote that translates as “I accept the grand adventure to be me,” that this Simone had adopted as a mantra after the war. Earlier in the year, when Kat had been struggling with her own decisions, she had reminded Kat of those words frequently.
Katherine’s eyes lit up. “There’s no question my life has become an adventure, and I’m loving it. Now I better get home and finish up a few details for Andrew’s welcome. I can’t wait to give him a big hug. I will bring him to meet you later tomorrow.”
“Ah, ma chérie! I think I might be as excited as you! I’m looking forward to meeting your nephew tomorrow. Perhaps he would like to help set up the crèche and santons, as you did last year. In fact, why don’t you all come for dinner? We can make a party of it!”
“Bonne idée! I think Andrew would like that very much. He may be a bit jet-lagged, so don’t be offended if we lose him halfway through the evening! Let’s collaborate on dinner.”
Katherine was filled with warm memories as she recalled helping Simone empty her boxes of treasured santons the previous year. The previous December, their first together, Philippe had introduced Kat to the small terra-cotta figurines collected and cherished by families in France. They were often passed down through generations.
Intrigued by Philippe’s santons, Kat had gone with him to the famous Foire aux Santons in Marseille. They wandered up and down rows of vendors, carefully examined all the different exhibits, and bought new santons that made Kat exclaim with delight.
“You see, minou. We are already beginning to create our own collection and make new memories,” Philippe had whispered to her.
Kat’s heart had ached when Simone revealed to her she had not set out her santons since her son and his partner were killed years before in a car accident. So that past year, together the two women had unpacked and organized them on the mantel, Simone sharing a story as she took out each one.
Simone had told Kat many times how much that small gesture had meant to her. Kat vowed that they would make it an annual activity. Hugging her, Simone had said, “Now you have begun to make traditions for Noël in France, ma chérie!”
Kat recalled how happy that recurring theme had made her. Traditions. Yes.
This was her home now, she reaffirmed to herself. France. Antibes. Traditions were exactly what she wanted to start here. Just like I had with my parents, but certainly not with James. He was not a man who went for traditions.
She shook off that last unpleasant thought and stood. Simone reached over and took her hand, gently kissing the back of it. “Katherine, ma belle, tu me rends très heureuse. You make an old woman very happy.”
Katherine blushed. “It works both ways, my dear friend.”
Memories of her mother flooded Kat’s thoughts. How she wished she could hear her soft whispers again, especially at this time of year. For a moment, she felt her heart swell with gratitude for the gift of love her mother had given her.
Though they didn’t have santons in Kat’s house growing up, other things held equal sentimental importance. She found herself describing them to Simone now.
“Hand-painted glass angels and other simple ornaments were hung on the tree, along with candy wrapped in brightly colored foil. All this was accentuated by small white candles set in brass holders that clipped on the branches.”
Simone smiled. “You paint a lovely picture with your words. I can see the tree aglow.”
“I wish I had brought some of those decorations with me to France. They’re all packed away at my cousin’s home, although I did bring my Santa collection with me.”
“Why don’t you send for the others? They could be here in time.”
Kat’s face lit up at the thought. “I may do just that. If I don’t have them this year, I’ll make certain I do next.” She glanced at her watch. “Mon Dieu! Now I definitely have to get going!”
She placed three apples from her panier on the kitchen counter. “I’m sad that I don’t have time to visit with Victor Hugo and the twins today,” she apologized, referring to Simone’s pet donkey and the two miniature donkeys she had recently acquired. “I saw they were down at the far end of the garden.”
Simone’s eyes narrowed in an uncharacteristic frown. “Oui. I noticed they seemed to be spending a lot of time down there. Since those little ones arrived, Victor Hugo has been rejuvenated! They are so curious, and he follows them everywhere—as if he’s their gardien!”
Katherine chuckled at the reference to a French cowboy. “He has a new calling!”
The two women laughed together, enjoying the moment. Kat had known nothing about donkeys until she met Simone. The unique personalities of these rather lowly animals had surprised her.
Victor Hugo had been with Simone for many years, but the miniatures were new rescues. A local farmer had discovered them on a property where the owner had recently passed away. They were quite young but had been well looked after. Simone had been elated to give them a home.
“They make Victor Hugo and me laugh every day.” Simone chuckled.
Katherine smiled at the thought. “They are cute, no question. And I like the bells you have them wearing. It’s a lovely sound to hear.”
“I was worried about those little tykes. I got paranoid about them figuring a way off the property or getting stuck in the woods at the far end. Now I’m over that, but I still want to hear those bells.” Simone suggested, “Do you think we should have Didier see what is interesting them at the bottom of the garden? I can’t imagine … but perhaps simply they have discovered a delicious new patch for grazing.”
“Yes, maybe. We will check it out.” She did not want to worry Simone by mentioning her concern that someone had been at the bottom of the villa’s garden, too. “But now I must dash! Je suis à la bourre!”
“You do have a busy day! Alors, there are your treats!” Simone said, pointing to a plate heaped with the madeleines for which she was so well known. She had promised Kat these delicate, shell-shaped and lightly flavored sponge cakes, so beloved in France, for all the guests who would be staying at the villa.
In spite of her initial protests, Kat was looked forward to serving them. There was something so evocative about the taste and shape. And Simone had a secret ingredient she refused, always with a smile, to share.
Simone added that baking the treats for the villa let her feel a little involved in the guesthouse project, too. “After all, didn’t Philippe hold on to his childhood memory of eating my madeleines in Paris, when he visited me as a youngster with his uncle? So, why not now as well?”
She often quoted Proust’s description of the pastry in Remembrance of Things Past, “a little shell of cake, so generously sensual beneath the piety of its stern ple
ating …”
“Thanks for these.” Lifting a corner of the linen tea towel covering the plate, Kat took a deep breath. “Ahhh, that aroma! I’m going to have to hide them away from Philippe.”
“Enjoy those now, chérie, and share them with the boys.” That was how she referred to Didier and crew. “There are more than enough for tomorrow morning, and I’ll do a fresh batch the next day. Alfonso told me he is going to pick them up for you each morning.”
Katherine kissed Simone’s cheeks and picked up the plate. She knew she was leaving with a better outlook than when she arrived.
Que Dieu la bénisse. God bless her—what a treasure Simone is to have in my life.
10
Kat’s phone indicated a text message. She stopped arranging the last vase of flowers on the antique sideboard in the salon and read what had been sent.
“Chouchou!” she called to Philippe. “That was Bernadette. She has just left the airport with Andrew and says they will be here in less than half an hour as traffic is surprisingly light.”
Walking into the room from the kitchen, where he had just put the dogs in their crates for a nap, Philippe replied, “She must be bringing him by way of the Bord de Mer. It’s a perfect day for that drive.”
“Every day is a perfect day to drive the Bord de Mer, traffic or no traffic,” Kat said, as Philippe smiled. Since her first drive along the local road that borders the Mediterranean, it was always her first choice.
“When Bernadette and I were making our agreement for her business with us, she told me she was going to offer all our guests the option of either the expressway or the Bord de Mer for the same price. I don’t know any other taxi drivers who would do that.”
“Ha!” Philippe laughed. “It gives her all the more time to spin her tales about horrible Frenchmen!”
Kat nodded with a chuckle. Bernadette was a piece of work. Her daily attire consisted of tight jeans, low-cut tops, flashy jewelry, and bright stilettos. She had the body and flair to carry it off. Floating somewhere in middle age, with wild, wavy, often multicolored hair, and speaking in a thick Marseillaise accent, she would admonish, “A lady nevair discusses zee age.”
In the year she had known her, Kat had quickly learned Bernadette was 100 percent reliable, thoughtful, and a gifted driver. Even when she had her head turned to look at you as she drove, which was often. She was also 100 percent opinionated. When she got on a roll, the listener was assured of being thoroughly entertained. And Philippe was right: the lady did not care for Frenchmen.
Kat turned her attention back to arranging the mix of white- and rose-colored blooms. This particular vase had special meaning to her, as Philippe had surprised her with it the first day they officially moved into the villa. He told her that he would fill it with flowers every week, and he had not let her down even once. These were the types of small but heartfelt gestures he brought into Kat’s life that she realized had been missing for such a long time.
Then she went down the hall to check the first guest room, as she had already done multiple times that day. Leaning against the door frame, she allowed herself a sigh of contentment.
Although Philippe was completely engaged in this joint project of theirs, he had left the planning and decoration of the three guest rooms to her. Much of the furniture had been discovered bargain hunting at the brocantes in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue after several weekend road trips with friends.
On one hilarious Sunday, Bernadette had driven Kat and Véronique around in a van so they could buy larger pieces of furniture. Along the way, she regaled them with stories of her experiences at brocantes in various towns.
Without fail, there was always either a disastrous and insulting exchange with a French man or an amorous interlude with a Swede in her stories. Bernadette could not avoid either. It was a typical girls’ trip, and they laughed all the way up and back the auto route.
Slowly, gilt-framed mirrors, zinc-topped demilune side tables, grand lamps, and eighteenth-century heirloom quilts on equally aged bed frames had all come together to offer a deliciously vintage French ambiance. The bed in this guest room was a hand-carved oak four-poster. A soft shaded palette of white-on-cream antique linens, with the palest touch of rose on pillows and chair upholstery, offered a sense of peace and comfort without being too feminine or frilly.
In one corner, a battered wood-and-canvas steamer trunk was tucked neatly out of the way. It had been purchased at the same market as many of the smaller household items and contained packets of old photographs. That was Kat’s one weakness at both the brocantes, where professionals sold their wares, and vide greniers, where anyone who had emptied their attic could set up a stand.
She often spent hours sifting through the boxes of old postcards and personal photos. The pleasure she felt from the faded sepia tones was almost visceral. Her curiosity was inevitably piqued as she wondered about the story behind the image.
Kat had discovered a crumpled box in one almost-hidden compartment of the steamer trunk. Inside were a few letters and envelopes with what looked to be a faded family photo collection. In one of the envelopes, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, was a string of pearls.
Philippe had taken the pearls to the local jeweler, who had appraised them at four thousand euros. “Exceptional natural pearls—a superb vintage necklace,” the jeweler had told Philippe and then made him an offer. That made Kat determined to track down the family.
“As if you aren’t busy enough already,” Philippe had commented. But at the same time, Kat knew he admired her wish to do this.
She had gone through almost all of the family’s photos thus far, cataloguing them by time period and organizing them as much as she could. It was a labor of love. She had pieced together a loose family history that intrigued her. After all the hours she had spent looking at their faces, they seemed alive to her, and she often wondered if any relatives might still be found.
What a thrill it would be to return the pearls to the family. She had held on to that thought ever since she had discovered their worth.
She planned to continue the task after Andrew left.
“Do you think this room is too froufrou for a young man?” Kat asked as she felt Philippe’s presence behind her.
“Pas de tout!” he assured her.
Kat felt her lover’s hands slip onto her shoulders and give a gentle squeeze. He kissed the back of her neck. “I hope you feel as proud of yourself as I feel of you. After you returned from Toronto, you made decorating these rooms such a focus. What you accomplished through the summer is nothing short of a miracle, à mon avis.”
Putting her hands on his, she returned the squeeze. “I do feel proud of myself—of both of us. We’ve worked hard to make this happen. With some luck along the way, of course. I can’t believe Didier was able to get so much of the restoration accomplished without any major problems. That’s so not the French way!”
Philippe laughed. “C’est vrai. True. It’s been nothing short of a miracle. Although I don’t think we will be quite so lucky with the work on the stable. They’ve already run into some plumbing challenges there. But never mind, we’re in no hurry with that. Now that the issue with the parking area has been resolved, on y va!”
Katherine nodded. Creating the four guest suites in the stable was part two of their plan. Part one had been to have the three guest rooms in the villa ready around this time. She had to admit this had become an obsession of hers in the months since she and Philippe married.
At fifty-seven, Kat still desired a career in one form or another, as she had for almost thirty years before leaving her former life behind for her new one in France. Taking on the mission of building this new business together felt like it would be a challenging and exciting substitute for the years she had spent as a scientific researcher in a highly regarded pain clinic.
Kat turned her head to smile at this man who had stolen her heart. Their lips met in a long and tender kiss. Philippe moved his mouth gently along her cheek, up to h
er ear, as Kat pressed her body into his and tightened her arms around him. “How long before Andrew arrives?” he whispered in a husky voice.
“Not long enough,” she whispered back. “To be continued tonight, mon chou.” They kissed again with promise, and stepped apart, their eyes locked in a loving gaze.
“Oui, minou. Ce soir … ,” Philippe murmured.
The grin they shared acknowledged their passion.
Philippe shook his head slightly and cleared his throat. “I’m going to make some phone calls. You stay here and bask in glory as long as you like. You deserve it.”
Katherine remained leaning against the doorframe. She knew she was basking in a cloud of love more than a cloud of glory about the villa.
She walked over to the French doors that led to a private part of the front terrace. Stepping out, she sat in one of the wrought-iron chairs at the antique patio set. She wrapped her sweater tightly around herself and zipped it up.
Hmmm, it might be cool enough for a fire tonight. The smell of woodsmoke was frequently in the air once fall set in. She and Philippe loved to snuggle in front of a fire, either indoors or out. Another change in her life.
Her thoughts about how this was now her home continued to play in her mind. Simone is right. Planning this fête de Noël, our first Christmas in our home, should be a pleasure in every way. I need to turn my head around and make it so.
But an element of fear remained. What if I blow it? What if those Russian thugs come around again?
Pull yourself together, Katherine, she berated herself. This is not you! Time to focus on the positive!
Looking across the bay, she allowed her thoughts to drift, fantasizing about the ghosts who might have enjoyed this splendid view from one century to another.
Feelings of satisfaction warmed her at the thought of bringing life and laughter here again. There was a spirit in the walls and beams and shutters of this villa and the lawns and gardens that spread all the way down to the sea. She just knew it.
The First Noël at the Villa des Violettes Page 6