Promises to Keep

by Patricia Sands

  “Armand, you are the best tour guide. I can’t believe how much we are squeezing in. The church looks spectacular,” Kat said. “The view from up there must be incredible.”

  “On a clear day, you can see all the way to Mont Blanc.”

  “We’ll take the funicular up the steep hill tomorrow. It will deposit us right at the front door,” Denise said.

  “Tomorrow is the eighth and that’s the highlight of the fête. We’ll see a spectacular son et lumières at La Place des Terreaux. Je te promets.” Philippe raised Kat’s hand to his lips.

  “But now it’s time for un peu de jazz, old-time American style, don’t you agree?” Armand said. He guided them into a dimly lit, dark-paneled bar, where they caught the final set of a swing band before taking a taxi home.

  At eight the next morning, they left to explore the storied covered market, Les Halles de Lyon, dedicated to the city’s favored son, chef Paul Bocuse.

  “Caffeine first,” Armand said, “and then we will sample our way through the stalls. It’s what we do.” He led the way, waving his arm in the air while Denise rolled her eyes.

  Philippe took Kat’s hand as they followed along. “This is definitely his territory,” he said.

  Aisle after aisle was lined with stalls bursting with every culinary goodness imaginable.

  “What shall we find for you, Minou? Macaron? Chocolat? Nougat? Oui? All of them?”

  For himself, Philippe had one thing in mind: Fromagerie de La Mère Richard.

  Armand’s face glowed. “Ahhh, le Saint-Marcellin!”

  Kat looked quizzically at Philippe, who explained, “Madame Renée Richard supplies cheese to all the top chefs in France. Her Saint-Marcellin cheese is world famous and without compare. I have ordered from her, but I’ve never met her in person. I hope she’s here.”

  Armand charged ahead to the shop to tell Madame Renée who Philippe was, and as soon as the others arrived, she greeted Philippe and said how pleased she was to meet him. She cut him a generous sample of the cheese, then turned her attention to the long line of people awaiting her attention. Philippe understood completely.

  He explained to Kat as he offered her a taste, “It’s a small disk with a runny, strong, nutty center and a moldy rind that is cut off. See how it sticks to the knife? The texture is unique. The secret is in the ripening.”

  Her grin said everything as she slowly savored the taste.

  Armand waved them along again. “Mission accomplished! On to the next gustatory delight.”

  All the food around them soon stirred their appetites, and they stopped into the AOC restaurant—where Armand just happened to know the chef—for an early lunch. They were seated within minutes and served wine from thick-bottomed bottles called pots. All of the food served there was provided by the market sellers, Armand explained. “Simplicity with quality,” he said as he made his suggestions. “My only rule is to save room for la tarte tatin, which is merveilleuse.”

  As they were running tight for time, they did not linger over their meals, and soon they were in a taxi on their way to the funicular to take them up to the Notre Dame basilica.

  “It’s a must,” Denise said, “even if we have to rush a bit.”

  After a quick tour of the landmark church, which Kat thought was definitely not long enough, the two couples parted company. Denise had to go to work and Armand said that he had things to attend to. Kat and Philippe went on a tour of a few of the traboules.

  Kat learned that the first traboules were built in the fourth century by area residents, who needed quick access to the Saône River for their water supply. These passageways were expanded upon later during the centuries of the silk trade. They allowed goods to be protected from the weather as they were moved between the canuts—the silk workers in the textile mills on the hill—and the merchants down by the river.

  Their tour took them down one traboule that had been fully restored. They walked along stretches of narrow corridors that opened into courtyards or led to steps—in one case, to a spiral staircase—taking them down toward the river. At one point, Kat was delighted to find herself in an Italianate galley.

  The tour guide told them stories that sounded like fiction to Kat. He described how, during the French Revolution, residents used the complex maze of passageways to hide from the enemy. Many people credited these corridors for preventing the occupying Germans from taking complete control of this area of the city during the Second World War.

  The tour ended near the river, and from there they walked over to the Resistance Museum. It was, as Kat expected, an emotional experience for her to see the exhibits about this dark time in history. By the time they returned to the apartment, they were exhausted in every way.

  “Armand, please forgive us, but we cannot face going out for a fancy dinner this evening,” Philippe said. “We need just to relax for a while before the lumières.”

  “That’s a relief to hear,” Armand said. “Denise called to say she has to stay a bit later at work, so we were thinking the same thing, but felt guilty about denying you a meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant while you are here. We will just have something light chez nous before we go out.”

  Later on, after Denise arrived, Kat discovered that the “something light chez nous” was a classic Lyonnais meal made with the food Armand had purchased at the market that morning. While they had been exploring the traboules, he had been cooking.

  The first course was a foie gras mousse topped with aspic and apples. Then a slightly warmed Saint-Marcellin, lightly brushed with white wine, was served with toasted Poilâne, on greens that included chicory and arugula dressed with walnut oil, a squeeze of lemon, and toasted hazelnuts. A charcuterie plate accompanied the salad.

  After dinner, they went out, and until well into the wee hours of the morning, they strolled from one imaginative son et lumières spectacle to another. A lot of the time, Katherine walked beside Armand to hear his detailed and entertaining explanations of everything. This gave Philippe the opportunity to talk more with Denise.

  On their way back to the apartment, Kat became aware that the conversation between Philippe and Denise had taken a turn for the worse. She could not hear what was being said—Philippe and Denise were too far ahead—but she could tell from their body language and gestures that things had become tense.

  Back at the apartment, Kat had the impression Denise had been crying. Goodnights were quickly exchanged in the dimly lit hall, leaving her no time to ask if all was well. Armand was leaving for a flight very early the next morning, and his invitation to them to return was warm and sincere.

  Once they were alone, Philippe confirmed Denise had become quite irritated when he pressed her about Idelle. “I’m sure her mother knows where Idelle is. They’re sisters, after all. Denise as much as said they have seen her. She obviously has been told Idelle’s life is not up for discussion, but I honestly don’t think she knows why.”

  He slipped into bed and wrapped his arms around Kat. “I guess I did upset her a bit, but even so she said they hope we will come for another visit, as long as next time I don’t ask so many questions she can’t answer. I felt badly.”

  The next morning, Denise seemed fidgety around Philippe. Kat sensed a definite reserve when she said good-bye, although she seemed sincere in her wishes for them to return.

  Philippe was distracted on the return trip.

  “Is something bothering you?” Kat asked. “I mean apart from the whole mess we have around us at the moment?”

  “Rien du tout, Kat. It’s nothing. I believe it’s under control,” he said.

  She could tell from his frown and the set of his jaw that it was not nothing. It was definitely something.

  Philippe took her hand and patted it, but it didn’t erase her concern. “I was just thinking about work and the demands of the season,” he said. “In fact, I had better spend thi
s time on the train catching up.”

  He opened his computer and was soon absorbed in work.

  Kat settled more deeply into her seat and watched the landscape flash by, although she really wasn’t seeing it.

  After Marseille, Philippe shut his laptop and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close and pressing his lips to her head.

  “You are lost in thought, Minou. À quoi tu penses?”

  Kat could not get out the words she wanted to say. “I’m just tired. It was a very busy two days. I hope the information you have will help the police investigation.”

  “Try not to think about it for now. We did what we could. Put your head on my shoulder and sleep. We’ve still got a couple of hours to go.”

  Kat pulled back and looked squarely at him. “Are we going to be able to make this threat go away? Do you believe the police will get to the bottom of it? I swing between being quite blasé about it and then feeling frightened. I’m still just not sure about what.”

  Philippe’s face clouded. “I’m sorry I don’t know the answer. Désolé. You were right earlier. This whole situation is bothering me a great deal. Perhaps you should go back to Toronto until it is resolved. I feel terrible about bringing this into your life.”

  Kat surprised herself with the ferocity of her reply. “I’m not leaving. We will work through this together. The police seem to have things under control, and we are being watched since the fire, so we’re probably safe. I understand how you feel but it’s not your fault really. Stuff happens. Just not usually quite this dramatically. Christmas is coming—our first together. I’m not going away.”

  17

  As Christmas came closer, the atmosphere of the market in Antibes grew merrier. The lively good humor of both sellers and their customers seemed to reach new heights. Kat pitched in to help make the look festive, unpacking barrels filled with decorations. Soon twinkling lights, bright tinsel garlands, and decorative combinations of fruits, vegetables, and evergreen boughs festooned the stalls and walkways. The vast space was transformed.

  Laughter, the jingling of bells, and the intoxicating scent of mulled wine from a cauldron simmering by the entrance added to the holiday atmosphere.

  Kat set aside her worries, more or less; they lay in the back of her mind like a nagging itch that came and went when least expected.

  “I can see that Philippe’s distracted and concerned, and the police speak with him regularly,” she reported to Andrea and Molly. “But I’m not aware of anything new happening. Having said that, I’ve been spending a bit more time taking photos and working on my stuff. The only really strange thing is that we have not been to the property on the Cap since we went to Lyon. He also asked me not to go on my own. And he asked me not to talk about it . . . even to you guys. So I’d better not say another word until it is over. Hopefully that will be sooner than later. I just don’t know . . .”

  Whenever she had mentioned the property to Philippe, Kat had noticed that he would hesitate before he replied. There would be a twitch in the corner of his eye as he looked past her for a second, breaking eye contact. A slight rise in his voice further gave away his concern.

  Now, at the market, watching Philippe ply his trade and share his knowledge of his cheeses filled her with pride. She admired the care he took arranging the products on his stand, like an artist composing a still life: shades of gold, cream, caramel, and copper; pockets of the blackest blue that studded the whitest of Roqueforts, which were displayed next to bleus with their ripples and dots; the gray slivers of ash that pierced the Morbier; chèvres of all sizes, some wrapped in vine leaves, rolled in ash or nestled on straw, others marinating in the finest herb-infused olive oil. Colors, shapes, textures all displayed in a way that captured the eye and tempted taste buds.

  The day she helped with the decorating, he brought home a Vacherin Mont d’Or for her. Made only in the winter months and perfectly timed for the Christmas table, it was packaged in a spruce-wood box to keep it from spreading all over the place.

  “Here,” said Philippe, handing her a spoon, “you need this to keep it from—how do you say—woozing all over before you spread it. It’s another sexy cheese.”

  “Oozing,” Kat corrected with a grin. She loved his mispronunciations and was certain he sometimes made them up for her entertainment. She tasted the cheese and felt a burst of pleasure in her mouth. He laughed when she accused him of having ulterior motives with his “fromage passion.” But there was a sensual quality to his voice when he looked at her and spoke about his choices of cheese just for the two them. His eyes became deep pools of ardor, and his lips softened at the corners, lush with pleasure.

  “Is it the cheese or me that does this to you?” she asked with a throaty laugh.

  Teasing her slightly, he described how this cheese was first crafted in the eighteenth century. “Only milk from cows of the Montbéliard breed is acceptable. They are fed exclusively grass and hay and at an altitude of not less than seven hundred meters above sea level.”

  Take me now, she thought, melting inside as his voice massaged the words with an accent that never lost its appeal to her.

  He toasted some country bread and presented some of the cheese at room temperature, some lightly oven baked with garlic cloves. He poured them each a glass of Chardonnay, also from the Jura Mountains.

  Spooning cheese on the bread, they fed luscious bites back and forth, gazing into each other’s eyes, until kisses began to mix with the cheese and bread, a delicious communion that finally succumbed to lust.

  They spread a throw from the sofa on the floor in front of the fire and took time undressing each other, whispering endearments as they caressed in the flickering light. Words of intense desire drew them more deeply into intimacy. Their lovemaking was long and slow.

  Minutes away from the daily market, the Christmas market with its traditional peaked-roof stalls was soon set up around Place Nationale, magically transforming the vieille ville. Sparkling strings of lights were hung on the outside of houses throughout the narrow streets, and a small train gave children free rides while their parents browsed the market and sampled foods. The air was filled with the smells of gingerbread, baking apples, mulled wine, and apple cider, and with the strains of festive music. Vendors worked at perfecting their pitches to convince strollers of the need for their holiday wares to ensure plaisir.

  “I can’t believe that this time last year I was helping my mother prepare for Christmas, and she was helping me to get back on my feet again,” Kat said, nostalgia washing over her as she stopped for a café au lait one morning with Annette.

  Annette smiled and raised her espresso cup in a salute. “Yours is a wonderful story. I think it is true love you found in Antibes.”

  Kat nodded, her eyes flicking past her friend into nothingness for a moment. “I don’t think I will ever stop wondering how I settled into the controlling, emotionless marriage I had. To think I never saw it for what it was until I was out of it.”

  “You aren’t the only one, mon amie.” Annette’s tone of voice implied something more than simple understanding, and it did not go unnoticed by Kat. It wasn’t the first time her new friend had hinted at a less than happy marriage, and Kat had once spotted nasty bruises on her arms below the sleeves, which Annette quickly adjusted.

  Kat had an uneasy feeling that something might be very wrong, but felt she did not know Anette well enough yet to inquire. Still, she thought, I’m going to ask her, and soon. I’ll take a chance.

  Annette had convinced Kat to consider applying for a part-time position in the English-language research department of the company she worked for. Kat was starting to miss working, after having had her own career for almost thirty years before her French adventure began. Her days were busy and full and happy, but she felt the need for some other kind of fulfilment. She had planned to apply for the position in January, but the encouragement o
f Véronique and the other artists at the workshop in Entrevaux had steered her thoughts in another direction.

  Kat and Philippe chatted about what kind of work she might do from time to time, and she knew she could not work full time. She wanted a few days a week to spend with Philippe and to work with him on the property on the Cap, assuming that they would soon learn it was all right for her to resume working there.

  While she was working on her photography portfolio one evening, her thoughts went back to her conversations with the artists in Entrevaux, and the talks they’d had about possibilities and dreams. Perhaps she should make her photography her profession.

  “You could showcase your photographs and sell prints online, and make beautiful cards,” Philippe suggested. “And André recently told me he wants you to hang some of your work in his gallery. He was impressed with your photography and is going to call you.”

  Kat knew she had an eye. Whether she was taking candid shots or composing a still life, the task of getting it perfectly balanced and framed felt effortless and rewarding. She could spend a lot of time and thought, when she had a particular goal in mind, trying the shot from various angles and at different times of day to see how the light changed it. She had taken courses in studio photography but preferred to work with natural light.

  Philippe’s excitement mounted. “Think about it. Your time would be your own and you would not be bound to any company’s schedule.”

  “I love the idea,” she said. “It just never occurred to me before that I could make my photography my career.”

  “Pourquoi pas? C’est une idée merveilleuse!”

  Kat looked at him as a mischievous smile slowly spread across her face. “How about this?” she said. “A website about cheese and photography?”

  Now it was Philippe’s turn to look perplexed.

  “You always have exotic and entertaining stories about cheese, and you have so many customers who come to you with questions—why not put all that on a website?”