The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1)

by Patricia Sands

  ALSO BY PATRICIA SANDS

  The Bridge Club

  Anthologies

  Coffee Break Reads

  Book Club Picks

  Cooking with our Characters

  Titles in the Love in Provence Series

  The Promise of Provence

  Promises to Keep

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Patricia Sands

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com , Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503945647

  ISBN-10: 1503945642

  Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  Artwork by Scott Collie

  In memory of Elizabeth Landman, who taught me to believe that every day is a gift.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Stepping out the front door into a wash of cool autumn air, Katherine closed her eyes and inhaled its crispness.

  It doesn’t get much better than this, she thought, walking briskly through the leafy neighborhood. Little did she know how this day would end.

  Her usual 7:00 a.m. route to work caught the city in its final stretch of waking up. She loved the sense of lingering quiet while a blanket of calm lay gently in the air. Even the traffic seemed to move sleepily, preceding the honking, gesturing, and gridlock that would evolve as rush hour developed.

  From her townhouse in the Annex to the prewar gray stone office building behind Toronto General Hospital took just half an hour. The tree-lined side streets stretching through the university campus and into Queen’s Park were now a riot of gold and scarlet as autumn established its presence.

  Crossing the last major intersection, Katherine looked down the street to check the weather beacon atop the wedding-cake-shaped insurance building. A Toronto landmark, its predictions were seldom wrong. The day was looking good.

  On the corner, Benny paused in the setup of his back-bacon sandwich cart to flash his customary toothy grin.

  “Good morning, missus!”

  She had stopped reminding him of her name years earlier, accepting this was his preferred greeting. Waving, she smiled back.

  The last stop on her route was the independent coffee shop on the ground floor of her building.

  “Morning, Mrs. P. Your usual?”

  “Thanks, Barb,” Katherine replied. “Gotta have it!”

  “Extra-large nonfat half-sweet extra-foam no-whip caffe mocha, to go, please,” Barb called to an obviously new barista, who was looking a little perplexed and stressed as the line grew.

  “A day without one of these is a day without sunshine,” Katherine said, attempting to make the young girl behind the coffee machine feel better. She was rewarded with a hurried smile as the trainee pulled levers and banged the espresso filter to attend to her next order.

  Silently Katherine thought how she would be terrible at that job and seriously dislike it. Stress free and structured, she thought, that’s how I like my life to be.

  Finally she climbed the stairs to the third floor of the historic building, whose original design did not include an elevator.

  For fifteen years she had been a research assistant for Dr. Carl Henderson, a specialist in the study of pain. Katherine’s PhD in health psychology and long years devoted to study had prepared her for the demands of analyzing statistics and test results, and she loved the work.

  Dr. Henderson was an energetic seventy-two-year-old who inspired loyalty and a strong desire to succeed among his staff. The office atmosphere was upbeat as feedback indicated they were making headway in their field. That was a good thing, but every year they held their breath waiting for confirmation the necessary government funding was being renewed.

  As she settled at her desk, Dr. H. approached with a small box in his hand that Katherine immediately recognized. As busy as he was, he never failed to acknowledge the birthdays and anniversaries of his staff of seven. Four Laura Secord truffles were his signature gift. Not sharing them was his respected rule.

  “Congratulations and best wishes, my dear! Twenty-two years of marriage is a great accomplishment!” he boomed with his usual gusto.

  A flush crept up Katherine’s cheeks as she accepted the chocolates and exchanged a quick hug with her boss. “I was thinking about those on the way to work!”

  “Got some plans for tonight?”

  Nodding, she reminded him of the standard anniversary dinner at the Old Mill, where she had also been married. James would not hear of planning anything else.

  The doctor chuckled. “Well, in three more years it will be the big twenty-fifth. I’ll bet there will be a special celebration for that one.”

  “Maybe,” she replied with a smile. She didn’t mention how she had already been considering several different scenarios in anticipation of that anniversary—even though she had little confidence James would agree.

  Stopping at the liquor store after she left work, she splurged on a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon, smiling broadly when the cashier rolled her eyes at the price.

  “Must be a very special occasion, huh?” said the young clerk as she handed back the credit card.

  Katherine nodded, her eyes sparkling, as she placed the box in a pocket of her computer backpack and hurried off to the subway. She would ride home tonight to arrive a bit earlier than usual and fix some hors d’oeuvres to accompany the champagne. James would have made their traditional reservation for 8:00 p.m.

  On the quick ten-minute walk from St. George Station, she cranked up her iPod, listening to whatever tunes she chose instead of the classical pieces James always wanted. A mix of her favorite Charles Aznavour songs carried her back to memories of France.

  Was it really so long ago? Thirty years?

  A six-week immersion course in storybook Villefranche-sur-Mer when she was just twenty-five years old. She felt her face burn at how she had fallen madly in love—with that town, the Mediterranean, the scenery, the langu
age, the history, the food, everything—even Marc-André, although she had never told anyone that part. Her plan to return hadn’t happened. She met James instead. Then came more grad school, her career, marriage, and the fact James wouldn’t set foot on an airplane or cross the ocean in any manner.

  The only way she ever revisited France was during extended soaks in the bath, when she often let her imagination slip into the framed map of the Côte d’Azur on the wall at the foot of the tub.

  The late-afternoon chill caused her to quicken her pace even as memories of France warmed her from within.

  Katherine was mildly surprised that James’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Their anniversary was the one day he promised not to work late, and without fail he had kept that vow.

  Great! she thought, knowing she was a bit early. Maybe I’ll have time to shower and put on my new outfit before he gets here. We might even have sex tonight.

  Although their social life was mainly restricted to functions that revolved around his law practice and their biking club, Katherine knew how much James appreciated the way she looked when she put some effort into it.

  At fifty-four she’d kept trim thanks to cycling, which was her passion, next to her job. Her figure was still a little fuller than she wanted, although at five-foot-seven she could carry it off. Add some four-inch heels and a pencil skirt, and magic happened—at least, that’s what James often told her.

  “Damn!” she muttered as she turned the key in the lock and bumped the side entrance door with her hip. Making a mental note to get that warped door fixed, she walked up the short flight of stairs into the kitchen.

  Placing her purse and computer bag on the granite counter, as usual, she opened the wine fridge door and set the champagne in its special cooling section. Turning around, she inhaled as deeply as she possibly could and smiled at the same time. On the island was the standard anniversary bouquet of Perfume Delight roses. Twenty-two this year, if she counted them, and they presented a spectacular cloud of deep pink. The fragrance filled her head.

  Obviously James had been home and gone out for something. Leaning against the vase was a card-sized envelope, also part of the tradition. Some things never change, she thought, without regret.

  Holding the envelope in her hand, she paused for a moment. Breathing in the sweet perfume of her beautiful bouquet, Katherine felt a rush of affection tingle through her body right down to her fingertips.

  Realizing she had forgotten something, she dropped the envelope on the counter and dashed upstairs to her desk. Taking an anniversary card and a small gift box for James out of the top drawer, she placed them on the vanity beside his bathroom sink. They had begun this tradition with the cards on their first anniversary: hers next to the flowers, and his on the vanity, where he would go to shave before they went out.

  Taking the stairs back down two at a time, she hurried to the kitchen to open her card before hitting the shower.

  Rather than a card, she pulled a folded piece of paper from the envelope.

  Ohhh! He’s planned something different. A flutter of excitement mixed with pleasure as she opened the note.

  Time stopped.

  Her head jerked as if recoiling from a punch.

  Squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head in an attempt to collect herself, she leaned on the kitchen counter for balance.

  Slowly she slid to the floor.

  This can’t be happening . . . something gasped from within her.

  Seconds passed before she became aware she was not breathing, as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus.

  With effort, she inhaled. Struggling at first, she finally began to breathe, gulping for air. She forced herself to look at the message still held tightly in her grasp.

  Read the first line again.

  And now the next.

  Keep reading.

  Nausea and dizziness took over. It felt as if the blood in her body were draining to her feet, leaving her cold and weak.

  This cannot be . . . her heart was screaming as she sat on the floor and opened the paper again.

  Dear Katherine,

  There’s no simple way to say this without hurting you, and I’m sorry. I am leaving our marriage.

  For a time now I have felt there was something very important missing from our life together. I’m guessing you will agree.

  Here are the facts—I am in love with Ashley Johnston and wish to marry her. We are expecting a child together.

  I cannot imagine what you are feeling as you read this, and I’m a coward for telling you this way, but I think it is the best.

  I have taken most of my things out of the house today and will come back to clear my belongings from the garage in a few days, or when you say I may.

  I want to talk to you whenever you are ready. This isn’t your fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just something that happened.

  I’m grateful for everything we shared. In time I hope you will forgive me.

  James

  Numb, she stretched out on the cool limestone tiles, unable to process anything.

  However long she lay there was of no consequence. Trying to understand what or how she was feeling was impossible. There were no tears, no sounds. There was nothing. For however long it was, there was nothing.

  Aware that dusk was filtering in through the windows, she vaguely acknowledged the ringing of her cell phone. She felt a brief urgency to see if it was James. James calling to say he had made a terrible mistake. James calling to say of course he loved her. But then it might be James calling to see if she was okay after reading his note. That she could not bear.

  She pushed herself up to a sitting position, her back supported by the elegant cherrywood cabinets. Dusk was changing to dark. No tears. No sounds. Nothing.

  Finally she stood and flicked on the nightlight over the stove. The note lay abandoned on the floor, almost disappearing into the earthen shades of the tiles.

  As if to confirm the truth of what seemed to be happening, she moved trancelike up the stairs. In the master bedroom she opened the doors to the walk-in cupboard and stared at the vacant space where his clothes had hung, always so neatly. She opened all his orderly drawers in the bedroom, the bathroom, the office.

  Empty.

  He was gone.

  Filled with a sudden heaviness, she returned to the kitchen and took the champagne from the fridge. As she popped the cork, the cold wetness fizzled down the side of the bottle and over her hands, dripping onto the granite.

  Raising the bottle to her lips with both hands, she drank deeply. She closed her eyes and held the cool bubbles in her mouth, savoring the special quality of this slightly sweet golden liquid before she swallowed.

  Stifling the thought that this was their special celebration beverage, she moved to the bar and picked up a delicately etched Waterford crystal champagne flute. A wedding gift, she noted with a wince.

  The light had almost faded from the living room as she stumbled through to her favorite spot. Her hand rested briefly on the silky alpaca velvet fabric before she slipped onto the plump cushions. She loved this chair, which seemed to invite her now to be comforted. What she wanted was to sink right through it and slip down the rabbit hole, like Alice.

  Kicking magazines off the top, she propped her feet on the leather ottoman.

  Robotically refilling her glass, she stared through the window into the darkened garden. Still there were no tears. No sounds apart from the fizzing of the champagne. Nothing except an unstoppable rush of thoughts flooding over and through her, cresting and threatening to pull her under.

  Am I crazy? she wondered. I feel crazy . . . can’t grab onto a thought that makes sense. Have I been blind and stupid? What did he see that was missing in our life together . . . that hadn’t always been missing . . . and we had accepted . . . or so I thought. He never wanted to talk about “problems.” He always shrugged and said everything was fine . . . everything is fine. We’re fine. That’s what he always said . . . so I bel
ieved him . . . even when everything didn’t seem fine to me . . . I accepted this was the norm. We had so many good things . . . didn’t we . . . don’t we . . . ? When did it stop being good for him and not stop for me . . . ?

  She parsed through those good things as they tumbled from her memory.

  She thought all the way back to when she had first met James, a serious articling student competing for recognition in a large law firm, to the seven years they had dated without ever breaking up while she lived at home with her parents, through the twenty-two years in which they had built a life together.

  They were both workaholics and didn’t mind. In any spare time they shared a love of reading and cycling. The bike thing turned into a focus for them early in their union, as they got serious and in shape and joined a club. Wednesday nights and three weekends a month. They loved it. Grimacing, she thought how James was even somewhat socially relaxed with that group.

  Including Ashley Johnston. How could she? How could he? How could they? She’s young enough to be his daughter. How the hell . . . what the hell . . . when the hell . . . what is everyone going to say . . . to think? I’ll never be able to be part of the club again . . . that bastard . . .

  The champagne glass slipped from her hand to the carpet as she doubled over, wrapping her arms across her stomach. She ached at the thoughts that followed and remembered all the years they were certain it would happen for them.

  He’s going to be a father. Oh my God, he’s having a child . . . with her. We tried for so long . . . had all the tests . . . I felt so guilty, so inadequate . . . he felt the same . . . time went by. He said it was okay. . . it didn’t matter . . . after a while we just stopped talking about it . . . he said everything was fine and he loved me . . . I loved him . . . I do love him . . .

  Running her hands over her body, around her breasts, and down her thighs, without thinking she let them rest in the warmth between her legs.

  Did it make me less of a woman to him . . . less attractive . . . less desirable . . . what else would it be . . . it’s my fault . . . how can he just walk away from all those years we’ve shared . . . how . . . why . . . I’m not sure I can do this . . . not sure I want to do this . . . I don’t even know what “this” is . . . is it my fault? . . . what the hell is happening . . . ?