Promises to Keep

by Patricia Sands

  In the morning Joy packed them a basket of Hélène’s still-warm croissants and pains au chocolat, fresh eggs, and slices of Antoine’s cured jambon.

  When Joy said good-bye to Katherine, she hugged her and whispered, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I know it is not easy to wait, but Philippe is doing his best. I’ll be here for you.”

  Kat’s eyes filled with tears, and she quickly wiped them away. “Thank you,” she whispered back. “I’ll talk to you soon. It has to happen soon.”

  After bidding a fond au revoir to Picasso, they waved and called out “Merci mille fois” to Antoine and Hélène, who were leaning out the kitchen doors by the long driveway.

  “Can you feel it?” Philippe asked, his voice husky.

  Kat nodded, “It’s almost as if we were there to receive blessings from Joy and François.”

  Philippe agreed with a smile, saying he had not seen his uncle so at peace in a very long time. There was a long silence before Katherine responded.

  “Being here is always such a happy time for me, but I’m not feeling at peace now” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I can’t wait much longer for you to be straight with me. You need to know that. It’s not fair. I’ve explained to you before how I feel about our being honest with each other. It’s essential to me, and you had me believing it was to you as well.”

  “It is. You know it is,” he said. “I’m not being dishonest. I just haven’t told you everything. I can’t yet, but I promise I will.”

  Kat shook her head. “I’m running out of patience. It’s got to be soon.”

  Neither of them spoke for a while, then Philippe said, “You have no idea how hard I am working to make this problem go away. If it doesn’t, you may want to leave, and that is my greatest fear. But it also may be the best thing for you.”

  Kat was shocked, and it took her a minute to respond. “Don’t you understand how awful it is for me to hear you say that? For you to suggest I might walk away from our life together? I can’t imagine what you’re thinking.”

  Philippe nodded solemnly, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Just a little longer, Kat, just a little longer. Fais-moi confiance. Trust me.”

  She sighed heavily and looked out the window, thinking that she must be crazy to accept his assurance, or at least crazy in love. He was right, though. He was being honest. She just had to wait until he fixed whatever it was that was broken.

  She settled back in her seat and tried to sleep.

  8

  Kat e-mailed Molly and Andrea as soon as she arrived home that evening. To her surprise Molly Skyped her first thing the next morning.

  “What are you doing home?” Kat exclaimed.

  Molly squeaked out a response. “Laryngitis. It’s flu season here again.”

  “Oh no! Why don’t you call me when you feel better?”

  Molly shook her head. “I’ll just listen—mostly. You talk. Sounds like you need to.”

  Kat filled her in.

  “Trouble in paradise,” was Molly’s first comment.

  Kat ran her hands through her hair, her frustration showing.

  “Katski, don’t get bent out of shape about this. It could be something relatively simple.”

  “Well, it seems to be a bit more than that. Obviously there are others involved, or at least know about whatever it is.”

  “Yeah, whateverthefu— . . . I mean, whateverthefrickitis. Sorry, still working on that,” Molly rasped. “You said Philippe has mentioned a few times that he has something he needs to tell you.”

  “When the time is right, is what he keeps saying. Sometimes I can forget about it, but other times it makes me crazy. On the way back from Sainte-Mathilde, I kind of lost it.”

  Molly was silent. Then she blew her nose and cleared her throat. “The good news is that he isn’t trying to hide anything. He’s just sifting through some sort of shit before he can explain it to you. Trust him. He’s been so good to you in every other way.”

  Kat sighed, long and hard. “You’re right. He’s sweet, loving, fun, kind, and all the things I never knew were missing in my life. We talk about everything, so I hadn’t pegged him as someone to keep secrets from me.”

  “He’s just stalling. You need to trust him.”

  “Trust. I’ve been thinking about that all night. It sounds kind of crazy, but trust is something I never really thought about until James left me.”

  “That’s the thing, my friend. Trust isn’t an issue until you’ve been deceived. After that, it moves right up the ladder to hang with love and respect. Trust me—I couldn’t resist that—with my history of failed expectations, I know. You know I know.”

  Kat nodded. Molly did indeed know about deception. She had lived with it through all of her dysfunctional childhood.

  “Should we stop talking? How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not finished with my two cents’ worth yet, my friend.”

  “Tell me when you need to stop.”

  “Listen, Kat, you had such a grounded life. No one let you down until you were fifty-frickin’-whatever”

  “And I remember clearly you telling me, after James left, that trust takes only seconds to break and forever to rebuild. Now I feel like trust is something I need to believe in. It’s a strange mindset for me. I don’t want to be suspicious of Philippe.”

  “But remember, we were talking about trust and James. He deceived you in the worst way, and it would be very difficult to trust him again. Philippe isn’t deceiving you. He’s asking you to wait till he sorts something out. That’s very different.”

  Both women sat quietly for a few seconds, looking at each other. Then Molly cocked her head and gave Kat a wide-eyed look that demanded a response.

  “Thanks, Moll. You’re right. That was about James, and this isn’t.”

  Molly nodded, waiting for more.

  “It’s so helpful to talk to you about this,” Kat continued. “I feel better already. I do believe in Philippe. I’ll wait for him to find the right moment to tell me what this is all about.”

  “Attagirl! Now tell me more about everything else. What’s happening with your photography? Are you still thinking about committing to it full time?”

  “I’m a little nervous about it.”

  “Those photos you sent from that town, Antrawhatsit—”

  “Entrevaux.”

  “Sheesh. Pardon my French. Well, they were outstanding. What a fascinating place, and so different from the coast.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you liked them. Google the history of the area, Moll, you’ll find it intriguing. Honestly, this country continues to amaze me. Blah, blah, blah, there I go again.”

  “Oh, you do go on about France and I love it, but I’m beginning to fade. I think I need to lie down for a while. Are you good now?”

  “I’m feeling better. Thanks for being you.”

  Later that morning, Andrea called, and their conversation brought Kat to the same place, although via a different route. The cousins’ lives had mirrored each other’s in that they had grown up in loving, stable families, which encouraged them to achieve and believe in themselves. They had both been in long marriages.

  “Until mine blew up in my face,” Kat said.

  “A hurt that will have a lasting impact,” Andrea said. “But then, look at the good that’s come into your life now. You took a chance and—wow! I agree with everything Molly said. Don’t judge Philippe based on your experience with James.”

  Kat was soon pouring her heart out to her cousin.

  “Most of the time everything is great and we truly feel like a couple. We’re happy with each other in every small way, and our passion is strong and deep.”

  “And the problem is?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s keeping a secret from me.”

  “
But he said he would tell you what it is when the time is right.”

  “I know. I’m not certain I can wait any longer. I’ve opened my heart to him in every way, and now I’m suddenly feeling afraid. In true love there can be no secrets.”

  “I agree, but this is a little different.”

  Kat was quiet for a few seconds. “A secret is a secret. It means you’re hiding something, and when you do that you compromise your relationship. I just never expected Philippe to do something like that.” Her voice became tight. She was close to tears. “And now I’m afraid I don’t know him as well as I thought. It’s all about trust. How can I trust him?”

  Andrea spoke slowly and with great care. “Kat, I understand where you’re coming from, but I think you need to keep your composure. Keep believing in what you do know about him. It sounds like he’s trying to protect you, not deceive you.”

  “I know, I know. We’ve had this conversation before, but it’s really beginning to bother me, obviously.”

  “Kat, you told me before you were willing to wait until after Christmas. Do that, and keep trusting the love you were feeling last night. Go to yoga and clear your head.”

  Kat nodded. “I’m so blessed to have you in my life.”

  “Me more!”

  One thing Kat and Philippe never ran out of was conversation. They laughed at times, saying they had obviously been storing it for years. For Kat, it was a refreshing change from the long periods of silence she had endured during her marriage. More and more, their conversation switched back and forth between French and English.

  She was often frustrated by the mistakes she made, and Philippe would gently correct them and praise her improving skill. Other times they fell about, laughing at some major blooper. Her friend, Annette, was also very patient, and they agreed some days just to speak French to each other. It all helped.

  Kat knew it would take time to become proficient in French and was pleased to have found Ida, a language instructor, whom she met in a café across the street a few times a week. It was a casual arrangement, at times that worked for both of them, and the instruction was entirely in French.

  Ida spoke perfectly articulated Parisian French that was a pleasure to hear. She would have Katherine read a newspaper article, and they would discuss the details and vocabulary. That inevitably led to a chat about this and that.

  Parisian-born, Ida was candid about the difficulties in learning a foreign language. “It’s not simply a matter of vocabulary, grammar, and syntax. Culture and history affect language in subtle ways too—in double entendres, for instance—that are almost impossible to learn. Don’t let it deter you; it’s something you will have to accept.”

  Kat hoped she could do just that and counted herself lucky in having an instructor who looked at the big picture and didn’t focus solely on grammar and vocabulary.

  “There are times when I just can’t work my way around certain words. The letters seem to get stuck in my mouth.”

  Ida laughed. “C’est une forme de gymnastique quelquefois—verbal gymnastics. That’s often what speaking French feels like.”

  “That’s the perfect description for those moments,” Kat said.

  “Then at other times it all comes together and it’s smooth and easy—une ballade dans la bouche—a song in your mouth.”

  Kat’s face lit up. “I love speaking this language, even when I know I’m making mistakes.”

  “And that’s why you will do just fine,” Ida said. “The love of the language is half the battle.”

  9

  The market was closed on Mondays through the winter, but Philippe had a busy day planned. The investigators from Nice had e-mailed to say they would be at the fire site to meet with him early in the morning. He expected to hear that they had finished examining the storage unit, and so he had arranged for him and Gilles, with other friends helping, to install new shelving and refrigeration in the unit that afternoon. Then they could move their stock back into it.

  Kat planned a full day on the Cap to work in the garden there. Massive flowerbeds, once overgrown and untamed, were beginning to show the results of the care and hard labor she and Philippe had put into trimming everything back and rooting out the weeds. They were beginning to slowly replace missing shrubs and vines, using old photos and paintings of the property that had been saved, some carefully and some accidentally.

  It still astonished her that this stunning property—with its panoramic views across the sea to the old town of Antibes and over the Baie des Anges to Nice and the hills beyond—had been abandoned for decades. Left to fall into ruin, hidden behind thick hedges and now-crumbling walls, it was the victim of a long-simmering family feud. Philippe told her that after his grandfather’s death, two branches of his family had fought over the archaic inheritance laws and legal details that had not been properly addressed. By the time the issues were settled and Philippe was named the legal heir, his wife, Geneviève, had become terminally ill.

  The villa, close to derelict when Philippe first took Katherine to see it, was now the focus of their dream of building a future here. That vision was evolving into a detailed restoration plan almost complete on paper and ready to commence as soon as possible. In the meantime, they continued to attack the overgrown gardens.

  Philippe’s days began early, so late nights for him were rare. But still, they had stayed awake on several nights exchanging and refining their ideas on how to turn the villa into the small inn they would open one day. It was a fantasy they were determined to make happen.

  In some ways, the evolution of this land and the storied villa reflected the growth of the bond between the two lovers. Their pledge to the project and to each other grew stronger as the days passed. Their friendship had been a few months. Their courtship, a few weeks. Their love felt like it would last forever.

  If only Philippe would tell her his secrets. Despite Molly and Andrea’s advice, Kat was still feeling hurt that Philippe was keeping something important from her.

  On her way to the Cap property that morning, Kat paused to shoot a close-up photo of a cluster of unusual mushrooms growing by the roadside. A rich, caramel color with delicate rust-colored gills and silky beige stems, the mushrooms were the largest she had ever seen.

  She had once jokingly told Philippe she thought she could put together a photo book only about mushrooms in France. The vendor’s stall at the market in Nice, which constantly displayed exotic-looking varieties, was a favorite spot for her to shoot. It was there that she witnessed customers ask for a mushroom to be cut open for them to inspect before buying. She had never seen that happen before.

  Philippe told her how he and other friends would often go into the countryside during the short mushroom season.

  “The peak time is from mid-August to mid-September,” he said. “We pick only on public property, and most of us guard our secret places. C’est vrai! We don’t want anyone to know.”

  He explained how they would set up a grill to cook the freshly picked bounty right where they had found it. “Can’t get any fresher than that. We will go next year.”

  He had also told her of the number of fatal accidents that occured because many varieties were poisonous. “You can take your basket of mushrooms into almost any pharmacy and they will be able to tell you whether yours are edible. Most French mushroom lovers are well educated about them, but accidents do happen.”

  “Mushrooms are definitely an art here,” she mentioned to Andrea one day on Skype. “I basically thought that if you’ve tasted one mushroom, you’ve tasted them all. I thought they were all like the portobello and those little button ones. I mean, even I knew those. But they’re just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Andrea had laughed. She ran an organic farm, so she knew a lot about mushrooms. “When Terrence and I visit you the next time, we’ll spend a lot more time at the markets. I want to take a look at those fungi.”


  Now, as Kat stepped closer to the mushrooms in the ditch, adjusting her camera lens, she became aware of a faint snuffling coming from behind the tall hedge. When she heard it again, she carefully picked her way through the ditch to peer between the bushes.

  She jumped back in surprise, swallowing a squeal, as a pair of deep, dark eyes rimmed by long, thick lashes peered back. A mottled coat of varied shades of gray mixed with white came into view, followed by the creature’s square-jawed head, which sported two enormous ears separated by a thick black Mohawk-like mane. The animal emitted a loud, nasal bray.

  An old donkey, only slightly disheveled, was staring at her through the bushes and twitching its ears at the flies buzzing around.

  She reached her hand across the wire fence behind the hedge and held it there for the dappled critter to sniff. After a moment, a silky, moist nose shyly and hesitantly nuzzled her fingers. After pulling back a few times and then quickly returning, it allowed her to lightly rub its velvety muzzle. There was an inquisitive look in its eyes that seemed to invite more communication.

  Kat had been holding her breath, but she slowly realized the air held only a hint of an offensive smell. This was a well-cared-for animal.

  “Salut, little fellow. Petit ami.” She snapped a few shots, zooming in on the coarse texture of its coat, as the donkey slowly backed away and calmly began grazing.

  “Parlez-vous anglais ou français?” she asked with a grin.

  She could see no sign of anyone as she leaned through the hedge to look at the property. Beyond the paddock where the donkey stood, she could see a garden that appeared moderately tended and, beyond it, a somewhat neglected-looking cottage that seemed to be inhabited. Its shutters were open and a few items of clothing hung on a line.

  Philippe was surprised when she told him about it that evening and said, “Un petit âne? I thought that property was abandoned like mine.”