Promises to Keep

by Patricia Sands

  “Please. Don’t bind me to a specific date. It’s been on my mind all afternoon. I have to make some phone calls, but I have a plan—of sorts.”

  “This is driving me crazy, so I’m simply going to try to stop speculating. I’ll keep waiting until you’re ready to tell me everything—or until I can’t any longer. I’m not asking about it now. Period. Now let’s talk about Jacques and his mother. What an intriguing woman she is.” Kat found that easy to say and was surprised she did. She couldn’t believe she was being so calm about things. The old her wouldn’t have reacted like this.

  There was much to recap from the afternoon, although Philippe kept drifting off into moments of silent preoccupation.

  “Véronique is such a warm and engaging woman—as modest as she is talented. I liked her a lot, and I’m thrilled at her invitation to come back on Friday.”

  “Bien sûr! It’s a wonderful opportunity. The more I watch you with your camera, the more I realize what an artist you are.”

  “I’ve always thought of it as a hobby, but I’ve taken lots of courses and read a ton about it. It really is an important part of me. My eyes are taking pictures even when I don’t have a camera with me.”

  “It didn’t take Véronique long to recognize that quality in you.”

  “She made it easy to feel comfortable with her. Jacques too. Their hospitality felt more North American. I mean, I find the French warm, in their own way—you know I do—but it usually takes them longer to open up. I guess her years in the States and marrying an American have something to do with it.”

  Philippe nodded. “Oui, d’accord. I’ve known Jacques for years. He has a farm farther up in the mountains where he keeps his goats, makes his special cheese, and lives very simply with his wife and children. He’s always quiet-spoken but today he was forthcoming. He told me that his father had lost a tremendous amount of money in the financial disaster of a few years ago, so even though he is around eighty, he still runs his business in Nice. Finances were a major reason his parents moved to Entrevaux. I was surprised he told me this about his family.”

  Kat smiled. “Today was a good reminder about not making assumptions. I had pictured Jacques as a short, stocky mountain-type who would be quite terse. I was sure his mother would be frail and in need of assistance. Don’t ask me why, but I did.”

  “You just never know,” Philippe said. “She’s another beautiful and engaging woman whose age does not define her, and I mean that in the most complimentary way.” He reached over and pulled Kat close to him.

  She reached up and kissed his cheek, gently moving his hand from her breast. “I know you do. I hear you and I love you, but keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the steering wheel, please. And promise to stop at all railroad crossings.”

  Philippe stared at her, surprised she could joke about it.

  Kat stared back, surprised at herself.

  Still holding her hand near her breast, Philippe said, “Only if you promise we will continue from this point when we are home.”

  Kat rolled her eyes. “That’s one way to take our minds off whatever is going on.” She traced her finger up his thigh, lightly grazing the rise in his jeans. “I’ll be happy to keep that promise.”

  The radio was tuned to TSF Jazz, dusk was settling in, and the drive was a quiet one—a good quiet. There was not a further word about the drive up. Kat’s hand rested lightly on Philippe’s neck, her fingers gently massaging from time to time.

  Back in Antibes, they made a quick stop at Philippe’s storage unit to drop off the crate of cheese, but as they pulled into their parking space at home, Kat felt him tense up. She said nothing, nor did he. Once in the apartment, they agreed they were not hungry.

  “How about crepes in an hour or so, Chouchou? I have some ratatouille we could eat with them.”

  “Bonne idée.”

  Kat settled in the window seat in the salon—her favorite reading spot—while Philippe sat down at his computer. Not long afterward he left the room, carrying his phone.

  Kat promised herself not to say another word about the note until he was ready to talk. Not to Philippe, anyway. Molly was another story, and she was going to Skype her tomorrow.

  Three hours later, they were both tidying the kitchen before bed.

  Philippe gathered her into his arms and kissed her lightly before brushing his cheek on her hair. “Here I go, apologizing again,” he said. “I’m sorry for everything that happened today. I can’t say it enough. I was shocked by that note and didn’t handle the situation well, and the unbelievable problem on the road—what can I say? The worst part is that I put you at such danger.”

  Kat was about to speak when her eyes welled with tears. A lump in her throat stopped the words. Philippe pulled his head back. He could see she was on the verge of crying. Kat looked away.

  “Non, Minou, non,” he murmured. “Go ahead, cry. You have every right to.”

  Kat found her voice by looking down. “Our conversation this morning took me back to a very bad place in my marriage, and that’s bothering me more than anything.” She sniffed, unable to hold back her tears or disguise the sadness in her voice.

  Philippe wiped away the tears and lifted her chin. “I want to wake up beside you every morning for the rest of my life,” he said. “Always remember that. This problem will go away.”

  She wanted to believe him. “Entrevaux this afternoon was so special. Let’s just think about that and forget the rest for now. I mean it. I’m so glad you took me there.”

  In the bedroom, he turned back the covers and held out his hand.

  Kat closed her eyes, savoring his scent as they folded into each other.

  They made love slowly and sweetly before drifting off to sleep.

  4

  Nothing terribly out of the ordinary had occurred in the two days since the frightening episode on the way to Entrevaux. The only thing different Kat was aware of was that Philippe was spending much more time privately on the phone.

  Both days she had arrived at the market to discover Gilles taking care of business and Philippe in the storage unit on his cell. His not serving his customers personally indicated to her the gravity of the matter, but she was sticking to her vow and was being tight lipped. She had to trust what he had promised her. She could see that he was doing his best to keep their lives together calm and happy. Whatever he was doing to take care of the problem, he was doing away from home. She could only hope it was working.

  That summer, Kat had become accustomed to eating outdoors on warm summer evenings, and now the addition of heaters on terraces still made it possible. The socializing was as important as the dining. The sense of community that she felt in this ancient town grew as waiters and other locals greeted her, not just at meals but also during the day, after just over a week.

  The few times they had eaten dinner at home, both of them prepped and laughed as they enjoyed the intimacy of it all. One evening the ingredients were left on the counter as their appetite for desire caused a delay in the dinner hour.

  Philippe was a master of the grill. The day’s catch was his favorite plat du jour. No matter where they dined, he’d teach Kat about various aspects of French culture, such as the philosophy of terroir.

  “It’s a term most often used regarding our wines,” he said as they sipped a crisp white from Cassis, “but really it encompasses everything about our obsession with food. It is simply a history or tradition, a combination of local factors, like soil, climate, and altitude, that makes what we eat and drink unique.”

  “Like these amazing wines from Cassis?”

  “D’accord.” Philippe raised his glass in a salute. “It’s something about a product that enhances community, cooking, and taste. C’est tout. Like the chickens from Bourg-en-Bresse or butter from Normandy, melons from Cavaillon.”

  “Or all of those delicious cheeses y
ou’ve introduced me to that are made from the milk of a cow that is only fed certain grasses and herbs by nubile young maidens singing soft lullabies at dusk,” she teased.

  “You get the picture,” he laughed.

  Katherine got the picture every day at the market once she understood the importance of terroir. The average shopper’s knowledge of local foods was comprehensive, and decisions about what to buy were often based upon origins.

  “I’ve got my work cut out for me,” she told Philippe as they sat down to lunch one day. “I thought I was a pretty good cook, but I rarely paid much attention to where the food I bought came from. With a fussy husband who only wanted basic meat-and-potato meals, I had no reason to be adventurous about what I ate. Olives, for example, those black ones and red and brown—”

  “This can’t be true,” he said, looking startled as he set a small bowl on the table. “You’ve never eaten any other olive than a little green one?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t ask me why, but whenever they were offered, I simply passed them by.”

  “But you served them at your buffet dinatoire in Sainte-Mathilde, non?”

  Katherine smiled as she recalled that little cocktail party she hosted her last night in the farmhouse outside Sainte-Mathilde, on her first exchange. She had invited Joy and her family and Philippe and a few others who had been so kind and welcoming to her for those two weeks.

  Now her face reddened with embarrassment. She paused before admitting, “When Joy first took me to the market, she was so enthusiastic about the choice of olives and the tapenade that I put some in my basket but never ate them. I didn’t want to admit my ignorance about them. To be honest, I didn’t know what tapenade was, apart from the fact it was made with olives.”

  “Ahhh, but you haven’t tasted olives like the ones we have here,” he said with a teasing smile as he popped one in his mouth. “Straight from the tree is definitely not recommended, but once olives are cured and seasoned, they are precious bursts of flavor. Try this one.”

  One proved not to be enough, and in a matter of days Kat found she had a new addiction. She had begun to work her way through the many choices at the market. Like so many other foods in France, the simple, artistic ways olives were displayed invited her to try them.

  Philippe’s friend, Émile, was a popular olive vendor at the market. He arranged glistening mounds of black, green, red, and brown olives—some herby, some spicy, others fruity—in large, colorful ceramic bowls. Long-handled olive-wood scoops rested on top, creating a visual Kat had photographed many times. The tastes were equally inviting. His varieties of tapenade were legendary, and he closely guarded their recipes.

  “Goutez! Trust me and taste,” Émile would cajole his customers. It was a rare person who bought without trying first, and he was a master at coaxing customers to his counter.

  Philippe would bring home just the right cheese to go with the type of olives Kat had bought. She was hooked on these small fruits that were such a staple here. After sampling them all, she especially loved tapenade, and in particular the traditional Provençal combination of finely crushed black olives, capers, anchovies, garlic, and olive oil with a touch of lemon and thyme, spread on a fresh baguette.

  Philippe and Kat would talk for hours together. For Kat, it was a refreshing change from the long periods of silence she had endured during her marriage.

  There were times Kat found it hard not to dwell on what might be behind the mysterious note and the frightening chase on the way to Entrevaux. She even tried to convince herself the chase might have been the result of mistaken identity. Maybe Philippe was paranoid because of the note and had overreacted—big-time. To distract herself from these thoughts, she would get her camera and turn her mind to observing people and places in and around Antibes.

  The more accustomed she became to her surroundings, the more her eyes were drawn to the little details: the texture and color of the ancient cobblestones; the grain of a wooden door; an intricate metal keyhole; the angles of loose shutters; the variety of shades of terra-cotta in the clay roof tiles; the peeling paint and the marks of centuries of wear. She found beauty and artistry in the little things all around her.

  Now autumn had settled in, the lower angle of the light and the withered vegetation offering her new perspectives, and she returned to her favorite places to photograph the transformations.

  One evening, while they were both working at their computers, Kat remarked, “I still cannot get over how much I use my camera almost every day now. It’s become part of my life here. It’s because I have much more time for it now, but it’s also because my eye is drawn to everything around me here. Even the fruits and vegetables look more appealing.”

  Philippe drew his chair next to hers. “You know, you’ve only shown me a few shots here and there. It’s time I had a complete retrospective.”

  Kat pulled up the file in which she kept what she considered her best work from her growing collection, and the slideshow was on.

  Philippe watched it intently and with growing enthusiasm.

  “You must take these to André at his gallery and let him see your work,” he said. “I’m serious.”

  Kat thanked him, but she thought his opinion was sweetly biased.

  “I’m just a picture taker,” she said.

  5

  Late in the afternoon on Thursday—two days after their trip to Entrevaux—Katherine kissed Philippe good-bye. She was going back to visit Véronique overnight.

  “This is the first night we’ll be apart,” he said. “I’ll miss you!”

  “And I you, Chouchou! I’m excited though. Thanks for encouraging me to go. I imagine I will have a much calmer trip this time, but I will watch out for black SUVs!”

  Philippe looked chagrined.

  She packed several wines and cheeses (carefully chosen by Philippe) and set off, using the GPS to point the way through Antibes to Route E80.

  She cranked up the volume for an album of her favorite songs by French jazz singer Zaz and sang along, filling the car with happy energy. One of the things she loved about driving alone was being able to sing at the top of her lungs.

  The song felt like her anthem now—love, joy, good spirits. That was the happiness she had in her life now, or so she thought. She wished she knew what was going on with Philippe and why he would say that she might not want to stay. Those were the words she wanted to forget.

  The first rays of sunset were brushing the high, jagged peaks ahead with pink after she left the E80 for the road up to Entrevaux. She felt carefree as she left traffic and the road carried her up into the wild, remote hills. Hairpin curves demanded her focus.

  But despite her efforts not to dwell on the previous trip up this road, her thoughts kept flickering back to them. First to Philippe’s discovery of the note on the car and then to what now seemed like a bad dream: the terrifying moments in the car.

  “A frickin’ car chase? And no cops involved after?” had been Molly’s incredulous reaction when they Skyped the day after the trip to Entrevaux. Kat had shared every detail, and they had tried to come up with some logical explanation, to no avail. Molly agreed with Kat that she should be patient and wait for Philippe’s explanation.

  “As long as you’re safe, girlfriend.” Kat had assured Molly that she was. She didn’t mention his saying she might not want to stay with him. She couldn’t say that out loud. Not even to Molly.

  Blowing out a long sigh now, Kat brought her attention once again to the sharp turns on the road and felt a shiver run up her spine as she drove through the railroad crossing.

  Soon the road straightened and she was in the deep valley overlooked by the fort at Entrevaux.

  She left the car at the parking lot at the train station and walked up the hill to the gatehouse. Unable to resist, she set down the cooler and the overnight bag she was carrying to take a few photos in t
he dying light.

  Once across the bridge, she felt the same thrill walking under the ancient portcullis as before. She walked up to the first square, certain she would find the green door to Véronique’s house without a problem.

  Minutes later, back in the main square, she made a phone call. “I’m going in circles. Au secours! Help!”

  Véronique directed her to wait on the bench by the fountain and, within no time, tapped her on the shoulder.

  “I was that close?”

  “You and everyone else the first time they come back.”

  They dropped Katherine’s bag at the house and decided to go for a walk through the town in the dying light. Along the way, Véronique charmed and fascinated her with stories of some of the families who had lived there for generations.

  They ate dinner at the cozy bistro she and Philippe had noted on their visit. The wine flowed freely, and when the owner brought a tray loaded with piquant cheeses to the table, Véronique invited him and his wife, friends of hers, to join them. Since they were the only customers, another bottle of wine appeared.

  “Un cadeau—a gift,” the proprietor said with a smile.

  The conversation rolled on, drifting between French and English and shifting seamlessly from one topic to another.

  Katherine asked about their life in Entrevaux. She was reminded once more how much this country’s history was engrained in the lives of its citizens, with so many families keeping roots in an area for hundreds of years.

  As the two women strolled back to the house, their conversation turned to art and to what inspired them most for their own work. Once they were seated at the kitchen table over a nightcap of cognac, Véronique started to talk intimately about how growing old made her feel and how, as her sex life diminished, her artistry grew.

  Kat was embarrassed at first, even though she realized it was a normal topic for Véronique and not meant to make her uncomfortable.