The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1)

by Patricia Sands

  She stepped out of the car and hollered at the top of her lungs, “I’m here. I’ve done it! Je suis arrivée!”

  Grabbing her camera, she let the lens caress the fields, buildings, and sky, knowing this was just the beginning. The pleasure of composing each shot was like eating a divine piece of chocolate. She could almost taste it.

  Katherine leaned against the hood of the Citroën, letting the reality sink in. Not simply the scenery but the truth of it all: she was in France, of her own doing, by herself. The “by herself” part at this moment felt a bit raw. For a moment she felt as if she were on a precipice, unsure of what was coming next in her life. But it wasn’t danger or fear that she was experiencing. Rather, there was a sense of excitement and an urge to quickly proceed to see what lay ahead.

  I’ll deal with being alone. I can do it. This adventure is full on, she thought as she settled back into the car. Pulling off the grassy shoulder, she grinned, thinking, I can’t wait to see what happens farther down the road—in more ways than one. Then she laughed out loud.

  The traffic soon became more congested. Katherine read road signs indicating the turnoff for the hilltop village of Gordes a short distance away. Tourist season was already under way.

  Then it appeared before her, perched like a sculpture carved out of the rocky outcropping, just like in the travel book photos. The cluster of buildings tumbling down the hillside was dominated by the majestic castle and cathedral, presenting an almost dreamlike apparition. The beige stone of the buildings glowed softly in the afternoon sun as the village seemed to blend into a solid unit from where she viewed it.

  Katherine had a list of towns she planned to visit, and Gordes was near the top of the list. Resisting the urge to stop for another photo, she reminded herself there would be other opportunities, and the traffic wouldn’t allow it anyway.

  Five minutes later her GPS was telling her to turn right, but there appeared to be two options. At a fork, one road went left and two roads went right. Taking a chance and feeling only a little unsure, she took the first right.

  “Recalculating,” the GPS told her. “Make a U-turn when possible.”

  Katherine snorted, as the road had narrowed to the width of a single lane with deep ditches on either side. Driving slowly, she noticed some activity ahead. As she drew closer, a herd of goats was crossing the road from one field to the next. Young kids led the way, nimbly frolicking and nipping playfully at each other. The beiges and light cocoas, mixed with black and dark brown, presented a pleasing blend. Small buds of horns appeared on bigger members of the group, with many of the elder males sporting handsome horns that curved gracefully around.

  Chuckling, she stopped to wait for them to pass, certain now someone must have scripted all this for her arrival. The lightness of their collective movement was joyful, she thought. The smell, not so much.

  The herd was followed by a grizzled older man, who waved and approached her window. Having closed it to a crack, Katherine fumbled for her best French and explained, in a short sentence, she was looking for the village of Sainte-Mathilde.

  His response was as undecipherable as anything she had ever heard.

  He then smiled and made grand gestures with his arms, indicating she should turn around. Then using his hands he demonstrated a road, a corner, and a right turn. She got the message.

  Turning into the lane the goats had used, with some effort she maneuvered the car through a U-turn, stalling only once, and drove back down to the turnoff. The GPS was happy with her again.

  The fields turned into forest for a few minutes, and through her open window Katherine became aware of a most aromatic fragrance. Cedar she recognized, but she could not identify the rest. All she knew as she slowly cruised the tree-lined route was that it smelled divine.

  A tight corner caused her to brake slightly. Without warning the car was hemmed in by village buildings where the woods ended as suddenly as they had begun. Her eye caught a narrow rectangular white sign with a red border. Sainte-Mathilde!

  “I’m getting closer!” she said and slowly wound her way along the street as she noted the bakery, the wine store, the butcher shop, and, to her surprise, a casino. That didn’t compute.

  To one side she passed a sun-speckled open square surrounded by trees with trunks that appeared to be painted in a camouflage pattern. Pulling her car into a parking spot, she caught her breath before getting out.

  A column with four spouts pouring water into its circular basin sat in the middle of the square. A few people could be seen outside some small cafés sitting on metal chairs, the tables covered with bright cloths.

  Just beyond the square, a group of men stood on a long stretch of reddish-colored sand, hands clasped behind their backs as they watched others. Katherine recognized serious games of boules taking place and smiled, pleased that her fantasy continued to be coming true.

  The Lalliberts had instructed her to introduce herself to the bar owner, Jacques, who would have the keys to the house. As she stood at the counter, all eyes turned toward her and the lively conversation faded.

  “Bonjour, madame,” greeted a severe-looking man with rolled-up shirtsleeves.

  Katherine introduced herself, somewhat timidly, and explained the reason she was there. Jacque’s stern look transformed almost into a smile.

  Coming around the counter, he greeted her with a kiss on each cheek and welcomed her to the village.

  “Bienvenue à Sainte-Mathilde!” he said with obvious pride.

  The keys were presented with a flourish, and a hand-drawn map to the house accompanied them. Katherine graciously thanked him, refusing his offer of a welcome drink and promising to return another day. The warmth and sincerity of these few moments almost overwhelmed her. Everyone had warned her the French were rather cool and unfriendly. This had been anything but.

  Next she asked where she could purchase groceries since she hadn’t noticed a store. The bartender responded, “Ah oui, Casino.”

  Katherine, taken aback, smiled hesitantly, believing she had fumbled with her French vocabulary. She replied she didn’t want to go the casino but would like to buy groceries. The bartender chuckled as did several others, and he explained that “Casino” was the name of a grocery store. Taking her arm and steering her to the open door, he pointed to the “casino” she had passed.

  Feeling her face flush slightly, Katherine thanked him. As she responded to his à bientôt, madame, she heard the same farewell from the others in the bar.

  Sweet, she thought, overcome with embarrassment.

  In the grocery store, she tried not to dawdle as she admired the fruit and vegetables artfully displayed in wicker baskets. A straw-filled crate near the cash desk contained brown eggs that looked as if the farmer had just delivered them from the coop. Selecting a bottle of deep pink rosé, she paid and felt pleased with her ability to return the pleasantries of the woman behind the counter.

  “Merci et bonne journée, madame.”

  Katherine responded in turn.

  Quickly popping into the boulangerie next door, she knew she was in trouble. The selection of mouthwatering pastries demanded she not pass them by. But she resisted and planned to return the next day once she was settled. A simple baguette would suffice for today.

  “Merci et bonne journée, madame.”

  Again Katherine responded, noting how polite everyone was.

  The next stop was the fromagerie a little farther down the street. Once more she was greeted. The selection of cheese was mind-boggling. She chose a delicately soft Brie that was just beginning to show its age, and the shopkeeper nodded in approval while wrapping it.

  “Merci et bonne journée, madame, et bon fromage!”

  Katherine chuckled at the addition to the standard farewell. “Bonne journée, madame!” she replied. She was definitely liking this.

  A tomato-and-Brie baguette sandwich was calling to her as she placed her purchases in the trunk.

  Checking the map the Lalliberts
had left for her, she confirmed their property was just outside the village, as they had described in their inquiry. She followed the narrow main street, lined with stone dwellings separated occasionally by a small courtyard or vacant lot. Cottages of cream and ochre stucco topped with terra-cotta tiles and sitting on small garden properties tempted her to reach for her camera yet again.

  Later, later, she promised.

  Grape-laden rows of vineyards stretched along both sides of the road. At a pale-yellow gatepost, she turned onto a dirt lane, the entrance to which was marked by mounds of lavender not quite bursting into color. A five-foot stone wall guarded the house, its gate hanging open as if it had not been closed for a very long time. Lanky bushes of plumbago, with blooms as blue as the sky, mixed with honeysuckle and other flowering shrubs as the driveway became a circle in front of the house.

  Awed by the unfolding scene, Katherine slowed to a stop at the path leading to the front door, which appeared slightly ajar. The heavy-looking door opened and a white-haired woman walked down the path to the car. Her smile was as warm and wide as the spread of her arms. A yellow Lab, tail wagging energetically, ambled beside her.

  Katherine parked the car and opened her door. Her first greeting was that of a wet nose and then a paw offered before the dog obeyed the command to assis from the woman.

  Laughing, Joy Lallibert introduced Picasso, the dog, and then herself.

  “He considers himself the official greeter no matter where he is!”

  Joy was a charming Englishwoman, the sister-in-law of Katherine’s exchange couple. Katherine guessed her to be in her midseventies. A well-preserved and elegant midseventies, she noted.

  Katherine admitted, with relief, she was glad Joy spoke English.

  “I’ve been reminded all day how stressful it is to try to communicate in a foreign language when it’s not a classroom situation! I’m not sure I passed the test in the village!”

  “Not to worry,” Joy reassured her with a chuckle. “The villagers are always delighted when a visitor simply makes the effort. You will find most of them know a smattering of English. There are a lot of us Anglaises around!”

  Joy reached down to scratch the top of the dog’s head, saying his nickname was Pico. Katherine noted he continued to remain sitting while his tail eagerly swept the ground and his eyes pierced hers, insisting they be friends. As she returned his gaze, he lifted a paw to shake, and when she grasped it, an explosion of dust rose from his thumping tail. He had, Joy explained, made such messes when he was a pup they decided his results looked like Picasso’s art—hence the name. Katherine laughed at the imagery.

  Joy offered to help Katherine with her things, and soon they were putting away the groceries in the kitchen, Kat’s suitcases sitting at the foot of a staircase. Joy suggested they leave the bags to take up later and plugged in the kettle when Katherine accepted her offer of a cup of tea.

  “I should be offering you a pastis or glass of rosé at this time of day, but after all your travels, it seems like a cup of tea might be in order.”

  “Absolutely,” Katherine agreed, wide-eyed but starting to feel a bit jet-lagged.

  Although the Lalliberts had photos of every room of their home on their website, there was no comparison to actually being there. The thickness of the walls, the richness of the wood, the feel of the uneven floor tiles underfoot—everything surpassed the photos and their descriptions. There seemed to be an instant sense of familiarity despite the unfamiliar setting. Peter Mayle had done his job well.

  After their cup of tea, Joy suggested they take a quick walk around the main floor and into the garden before darkness moved in. A large front hall, lounge, and dining room were separated by wide arches, allowing for easy movement from room to room. A magnificent fireplace with enormous mantle and hearth dominated the area. Large, comfortable-looking sofas and chairs invited casual lounging.

  “I don’t think I will be using this gorgeous table,” Katherine commented with a chuckle as she ran her hand along the ancient-looking oak trestle table and twelve chairs. “The small table in the kitchen looks just my size!”

  Stepping out onto a terrace, Katherine gasped audibly at the sight of the climbing rosebush in full soft-pink bloom that draped over a small stone structure Joy referred to as the potting shed. Brilliant purple and red flowering vines stretched across a stone archway, through which Katherine could see more gardens and walkways dotted here and there with stone benches and pottery.

  Cicada songs filled the air as the two women strolled the little pathways through the gardens and around the back to a tumbling ruin of a former stable. “Many of the stones from this jumble are those you saw outlining some of the paths. There was really no reason to rebuild it, and to be honest, the ruin holds its own special character. I hope you don’t find it unpleasant to look at.”

  Katherine assured Joy she did not, and in fact was already planning some photo angles.

  As they walked back into the house, Katherine barely managed to stifle a yawn.

  “You must be feeling quite tired. We have some dinner for you,” Joy said as she produced a cassoulet that had been heating in the oven and took a simple green salad from the fridge.

  Katherine invited Joy to dine with her and felt increasingly comfortable with her easy manner.

  The fridge had been left well stocked, and several bottles of local wines—accompanied by a note inviting Katherine to enjoy them—were lined up on a rustic but elegant sideboard in the dining room. Wear marks on the wooden drawers and a missing handle simply added character to the piece.

  Joy explained how she and Albert had raised their children in the larger home, the manoir, construction of which had begun by ancestors over three hundred years before.

  “During the Revolution they fled to Italy, and there was much rebuilding to be done when the property finally was returned to the family in the mid-1800s.”

  She gave a brief history of how the land was transformed into a vineyard at that time and an overview of how the business functioned.

  “How fascinating to know so much about your family and to have such a connection to the country’s history,” Katherine commented, her eyes bright with interest.

  “You must come over for a tour. We love our home and our land and like to show it to others who appreciate its story.”

  “I would love to see it,” Katherine replied.

  “It is beautiful but enormous. We divided it so our two children could also live there after they married, and now I am surrounded by my four wonderful grandchildren. They are gradually away more and more but still are my joie, and we are a big happy family. My daughter, Marie, and her husband, Christian, work in the business. My son, Henri, is an artist and his wife, Sylvie, is a nurse-practitioner with a clinic in Roussillon.”

  “Sadly,” she explained with downcast eyes, “Albert left this earth five years ago. I miss him terribly, but it was his time.”

  She went on to describe how Christian managed the financial side of the business and Marie oversaw the marketing. Jean-Pierre’s son would eventually take over his father’s role.

  “And this house?” asked Katherine, enjoying hearing this family history so different from any other she knew.

  “When Jean-Pierre married, he wanted to live in a smaller house—and truthfully, he and Albert did not get along that well. First of all Albert was eighteen years older, and that in itself created difficulties. They ran the business together well, but they had very different temperaments. Jean-Pierre wanted some space, you might say.”

  Katherine nodded and poured them each another glass of wine as Joy continued.

  “He loves this mas. It needed quite a bit of work, but that was his pleasure to restore it. They raised their two children here, and he swears he and his precious Madeline will remain forever.”

  “I can understand why,” Katherine observed. “This house has an instant magic to it. It feels like it has a history.”

  “Ah oui! This began as a
shepherd’s cottage, a bergerie, four hundred years ago, and is the oldest building on the property. That part is now the kitchen. In fact, we still allow a goat farmer to use part of the property to graze his herd. You will see them from time to time, but they will not interfere with your use of the yard in any way.”

  “Joy, I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here. I was ready for a change in my life.”

  Truthfully, it was already much more than she had anticipated.

  “How are you feeling about having the dog stay with you, Katherine? He appears to have made up his mind,” she said, nodding at Picasso, who was settled happily at Katherine’s feet.

  “He seems to be a sweetheart,” Katherine observed, adding with just the slightest hint of hesitation, “I think I would like to have him here.”

  His tail beat thickly on the floor, as if he understood.

  “Obviously he is bilingual,” said Joy. Katherine chuckled.

  Walking over to the deep porcelain sink, Joy pointed to the wide window ledge above it.

  “We have a habit here of using this ledge for messages if no one is home, so be sure to check it every day. You never know when one of us will drop by.”

  Picking up a notepad on the counter, she continued, “There is always someone at work on our property and our numbers are posted here. Call us for anything. Sadly we feel we need a person around twenty-four hours. At the same time it must be a good idea, as we have never had a problem—unlike some of our neighbors.”

  Katherine nodded. “Madeline told me there was an alarm system here, and I will use it, but I want you to know I’m not nervous.”

  Walking over to her luggage, she pulled the information she had been sent via e-mail out of her carry-on bag. Joy walked Katherine through the simple instructions for the system and flipped through the pages to see if anything else required explaining.

  Included in the Lalliberts’ very complete instruction booklet were Pico’s meal details and a list of the commands with which he was familiar. A reasonably mature five-year-old with deep, dark eyes that missed nothing, his presence was actually comforting, Kat thought.