The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1)

by Patricia Sands

  Joy was absolutely right about the shortage of parking spots. Katherine had to circle the small lot at the edge of town a few times before someone left. Today she chose a different passageway to walk to the market and again lost herself in the simple beauty and charm of her surroundings.

  Many of the houses on this street were ringed by ancient stone walls with flowering vines tumbling down from the top or climbing helter-skelter from where a small patch of dirt provided a rooting spot between the cobblestone lane and the wall. It seemed so natural and unplanned.

  The market was vibrant and clamorous. Vendors hawked their wares with humor and enthusiasm, their stalls overflowing with local produce, cheese, wine, and oil. Katherine resisted making any of these purchases, as she was leaving the next morning for an overnight trip she had planned before she came to France.

  Heading straight for the clothing stand, she checked through racks of linen and cotton skirts, dresses, pants, tops, and jackets. The selection of styles was as varied as the choice of colors, and today a very pale dusky-blue was calling to her.

  With the help of an efficient but taciturn woman, she took a dress, capris, and cropped jacket into the changing area, which was simply a large sheet hung on a circular wire. Different, she observed, but it works!

  Loving the feel and fit of the clothes, Katherine was quick to make her purchases. Gone were the days of haggling over prices, Joy had explained to her on Monday. With the economic crisis in France just as bad as it was in North America, that old tradition was now frowned upon. Everyone was struggling to make a living.

  Katherine felt the prices were still reasonable and the quality of the linen like none she had seen at home. On the other hand, when was the last time she had even looked at linen in Toronto? It was a fabric that just seemed so right over here in the South of France, and she convinced herself she would wear the items at home as well.

  Today she wandered around the periphery of the market, taking candid photos of the displays and vendors. She hadn’t noticed before how many small cafés lined the street. Their tables were filled with coffee drinkers, smoking and chatting animatedly or reading the daily journals. It was quite amazing, she thought, how smoking was still a big part of this culture.

  Losing herself in the satisfaction she found through her camera lens, Katherine suddenly realized it was almost eleven and hurried across the square.

  Joy stood and waved as she reached the café. Greeting Katherine, she introduced her to a classically beautiful, tall, and slim fiftysomething French woman—dressed in well-pressed linen, Katherine noted.

  “This is my dear friend, Mirella. I thought the two of you would enjoy meeting. Mirella knows everything there is to know about the Luberon—its history, what to see and what to miss, who’s who, what concerts are on, and the bits of folklore and, shall we say, gossip?”

  Mirella laughed easily and confidently in a quiet way. “Katherine, I’m so pleased to meet you. Joy told me about this wonderful home-exchange adventure, which intrigues me. I don’t know anyone who has done this before, and it sounds like such a . . . bonne idée!”

  They placed their orders, conversation then flowing as Mirella plied Katherine with questions about the exchange process.

  “Ah, but now I understand you might have some questions. Joy told me you are taking a little motor trip tomorrow.”

  Katherine grinned with excitement as she took the papers out of her panier.

  “I am a big Peter Mayle fan and have read all of his tales about Provence,” she began, but then stopped as she noticed a look exchanged between Joy and Mirella.

  “Oops . . . I’d heard there was some controversy as to how folks in Provence feel about his books,” Katherine said, looking apologetic.

  The Frenchwomen laughed. “Non, non!” Mirella said. “We enjoy his books too. But admittedly life did change here after he wrote them, and there was quite an inundation of British into the countryside of Provence. Some people like to blame him.”

  “We hadn’t stopped to think he had made such an impact in North America too,” Joy continued. “But . . . why not?”

  “Well, many people I know are also fans of his,” said Katherine, “and I have to tell you, I wouldn’t know nearly as much about this area were it not for his stories. So, I did some research when I knew I was coming here. Tomorrow I am taking myself on an abbreviated road trip to just a few of the towns about which Mayle wrote. I’m going to explore and stay overnight, and I would love you to tell me if I have made good choices, or if I’m missing anything.”

  They studied the map with her highlighted route.

  “Here’s my plan. I’m going to leave early tomorrow morning and go to Bonnieux for the Friday market. Then I’ll check into the inn I’ve chosen, which is just down the hill from the town. I am so excited about staying there!”

  “Wait! Let me guess,” interrupted Mirella. “I imagine you are going to stay at Le Mas des Oliviers! Oui?”

  Katherine laughed. “Right you are!”

  Joy looked at Mirella in amazement. “How did you guess?”

  “Everyone I’ve spoken with lately has been dying to stay there. It’s one of the Bonnieux hot spots at the moment.”

  Joy explained to Katherine that Mirella was an English teacher at a college near Avignon, and students often ask for recommendations.

  “So then what’s next?”

  “I’m going to drive to Lourmarin, poke around, and have lunch before I go up to Ménerbes. I want to visit the village and see the bories and dolmens in that area. I might make a quick stop in Lacoste, although I understand there is not much there except the ruin of the castle of the Marquis de Sade. But I might save it for Saturday depending on my time.”

  Joy and Mirella both nodded in agreement.

  “That will be enough sightseeing for me tomorrow, and if this weather continues, I should be able to enjoy some pool time before dinner. I hear the kitchen is beyond compare!”

  “Food in France is serious business, as you know,” said Joy.

  Laughing, Mirella added, “But in Provence, it’s close to sacred.”

  “I’m not even thinking what the scale will say when I get back home,” Katherine assured them. “I’m going to enjoy every opportunity to eat while I’m here! Is there a restaurant you suggest for lunch in Lourmarin?”

  “Here’s my suggestions,” offered Mirella. “Have lunch at L’Antiquaire in Lourmarin—”

  Joy held her hand up to interrupt. “Ah mon Dieu, if their daube is on the menu, I highly recommend it. It’s a traditional Provençal recipe, really authentic local cuisine. Comme un rêve, a dream, vraiment.”

  Nodding in agreement, Mirella added, “It’s their specialty.”

  She paused as if to savor the thought before continuing. “When you’re ready to leave the village, go just a few kilometers down the road to Cadenet and stop for a coffee at a bar across from Le Tambour d’Arcole.”

  Taking one of Katherine’s papers with some blank space on it, she drew a simple map.

  “Anyone can tell you how to find it if you still get lost, which we know is so easy to do here. This town is not so pretty, but very authentic, and you will love the story of this statue. It was cast in the 1800s in honor of a little boy from the village who was a drummer boy and a hero to Napoleon when a major battle was being fought in 1796. Any local serving you at the bar will be happy to tell you the story, as they are very proud of it. But to me, the best part is this: In 1943, when France was occupied by Nazis, they were taking every bit of metal they could to melt down for weaponry—statues, gates, art. It was horrible! A number of men in the village secretly dug a huge hole, and in the middle of the night, they carried the statue out of town and buried it. Few people knew of its whereabouts, so the secret would not leak to the Germans. When the war ended, the statue was returned triumphantly to the square.”

  Joy smiled broadly while Katherine sighed. “That is a beautiful story. I do want to go see it.”

&n
bsp; “Well,” Joy said, “if you run out of time, you can always visit the Ménerbes area on Saturday too.”

  “For sure. I’m very flexible. I plan on Saturday morning to hike the three-kilometer trail through the cedar forest outside Bonnieux. After that, I’ll have the rest of the day to do whatever. I’m thinking I’ll arrive back home early Saturday evening.”

  “Don’t worry about Pico. We’ll look after him well, even though he does seem to prefer your company,” Joy said with a smile.

  Katherine laughed and replied shyly, “You have no idea what a gift he has been to me this week.”

  “Shall we order lunch, ladies? We seem to have a lot of chatting to do!” Mirella suggested, and the others agreed.

  Katherine told Joy how happy she was to know François was doing well, and Joy confirmed that he was going back to Paris for tests.

  “So you met Philippe?” Joy asked with an expectant smile.

  Hesitating, Katherine smiled in return. “Yes.” After an awkward silence, the waiter arrived with menus, and the conversation turned once more to a delicious discussion about local dishes.

  When the ladies parted, Joy reminded Katherine how much her family was looking forward to meeting her at Sunday lunch at the manoir.

  “One o’clock will be perfect. À bientôt!”

  Katherine had one thing on her mind as she parked in her driveway and stepped out to be greeted by a joyful Picasso.

  “Let me change, boy, and then we are off for a ride,” she told him as she dashed into the house.

  A short time later she was back outside, retrieving the Peugeot from the potting shed. For the first time, she saw a biking helmet hanging there and strapped it on.

  “Allons, Pico,” she called, and they set off down the road together.

  Katherine still couldn’t believe the joy she was feeling from cycling again. The memory flooded back of this indescribable sensation deep inside, something like nirvana, she had always felt on her bike. It’s liberating. It’s joyful.

  She felt open, exposed, completely laid bare to the elements. Vulnerable but at the same time in charge, controlling whether she went fast or slow, where she turned, how far she rode. She was loving it again, on a simple basic bicycle. Well, it is French, she conceded. She knew when she returned to Toronto, she would be retrieving her bike from the garage, uncovering it, and riding once again. It didn’t have to be about memories with James, she realized, and the epiphany was almost overwhelming.

  She was feeling somewhat close to whole again.

  “Who am I without him?” she had asked her therapist so many months ago. Now she was beginning to truly sense the answer to that question and realized words were not enough.

  As she rode, Picasso ran along the edge of the road or in the woods where the undergrowth was low. The sense of companionship she felt with him continued to surprise her. The bounteous farmland drew her in with its gnarled vineyards, orderly orchards, lush low rows of greens and vegetables, the soft silver-green shades of the leaves of olive trees, and always the incredibly fresh aromatic air. All of it under an impossibly blue sky.

  She knew every day wasn’t necessarily like this. The winds of Provence were legendary, and a mistral, with its unkind reputation, completing its long journey from Siberia, could blow in when least expected. She had been blessed so far with the weather. Wind-sculpted trees dotted the landscape, along with tidy stone structures and abandoned ruins in various crumbling states. Limestone outcroppings provided dramatic contrast and perfect settings for perched villages, with rippled blue hills in the distance.

  Katherine cycled for most of the afternoon, her legs surprising her. Stopping for breaks by lazy streams, Pico would lap eagerly while she used her water bottle. When she finally pedaled up her own driveway, she was feeling extremely pleased with herself and her stamina, considering her exercise regime had been less than stellar for the preceding months.

  Heading straight for the bathtub, she knew her muscles would benefit from a long soak.

  Later, as she organized to get an early start in the morning, she gave Picasso a tummy rub and realized she was sad to be leaving him for two days.

  19

  Midafternoon on Friday, Katherine turned into the lane leading to Le Mas des Oliviers with only one thought in mind. She would be in the pool as fast as humanly possible. It had turned into the hottest day of the week, and she was a mass of wrinkled linen after the fiasco she had just been through.

  The day had begun perfectly. The Bonnieux market was setting up when she arrived just before nine, and she had lingered over a crème and a pain aux raisins on the terrace of a café near the “new” church. “Only” 170 years old, she thought with a chuckle, as she considered that would be ancient back in Toronto.

  Beginning at the bottom of the town, she wandered through the small market that wended its way up the narrow streets to the square by the twelve-century-old church at the top of the hill. The food stalls toward the top of the market overflowed with temptations, but she knew most of those products would be found at her own market on Monday in Sainte-Mathilde.

  Resisting the appeal of the displays and the cajoling of the vendors, Katherine finally faltered with a most delicious Cavaillon melon. The vendor offered a sample to taste, and that was that. Sold! To seal the deal, he assured her he would put bite-size pieces into a container so she could easily enjoy it all day. Juicy and sweet but not sugary, and so intensely full of flavor Katherine’s taste buds felt as if they would pop. No wonder you read of them in every book about Provence.

  The view from the top of the village displayed the patchwork landscape rolling right up to Mont Ventoux in the distance to the north, and to the west, the village of Lacoste perched on the next hillside. The ruin of the castle of the Marquis de Sade stood out like a beacon—she couldn’t wait to visit.

  Munching on the melon, Katherine had taken the quicker route of eighty-six steps down to the bottom of the village and back to her car. Taking her time driving, she was thankful the roads weren’t busy this day and she could dawdle as she liked through the sensuous landscape.

  Lunch in Lourmarin, set on the plains on the banks of the Aiguebrun River, had been all Mirella and Joy had promised. In the center of town where the roads converged, restaurants spilled their tables into the tree-lined square. Laughter and chatter filled the air. Carafes of rosé sparkled. Unable to resist stopping in a few of the shops, she discovered a glass bowl that would be the perfect gift to take to Joy’s lunch. The clerk told her it was the well-known bubbled glass from Biot, a village featuring talented glassblowers, close to Nice. The shade of green and the flowing shape were unique, and Katherine could see a number of ways to enjoy using it.

  She waited for it to be gift-wrapped, free of charge, a custom she found particularly charming.

  L’Antiquaire had been a challenge to find, but the delicately seasoned stew was on the menu, the service casually efficient, and the ambiance as warm as she had been promised.

  The village was yet another visual feast. The blue shutters and doors of so many houses, in a great assortment of shades and weathering, were captured from every angle by Katherine’s camera.

  Window boxes and flowerpots—the more cracked and chipped, the more beautiful to her—spilled over with vibrant color and artistic combinations of verbena, cosmos, daisies, lobelia, phlox, and so many others she couldn’t identify. More than once she stopped to admire colorful geraniums, lush with greenery and enormously brilliant flower heads.

  I could easily live here, she thought, as she wandered the narrow lanes. I just feel it. There’s something that speaks to my heart in all of these ancient towns.

  Mirella had promised Cadenet was ten minutes down the road and definitely worth the detour, but not so much for beauty. Katherine agreed. As predicted, the waiter at the bar opposite the drummer boy statue proudly recounted its history, with locals sitting nearby providing further comments. Katherine sat on the terrace for some time, absorbing th
e lines of the statue, the determined expression of the young boy as he beat his drum. The artist had sculpted a sense of movement into the metal, and Katherine felt a lump grow in her throat at everything it represented.

  History is so alive here. I love how it surrounds me.

  She also felt it was time to put her camera down, jump in a pool, and cool off. Guided by the map the innkeeper had e-mailed her, she soon found herself back in the center of Cadenet. Driving out of the village for the second time, she passed a small work crew of three men at an intersection where she had slowed down on her first attempt to leave. She smiled sheepishly as they appeared to give her a look of recognition.

  The road wound around, as they did, before a bifurcation presented itself that was nowhere on her little map. Guessing as much as anything, she chose the road to the left and drove along, feeling unsure of her choice. She realized her error when she passed the same work crew but from yet a different direction. This time they waved and grinned. She was headed back into the village for a third time. Flustered, Katherine pulled over and managed to explain her dilemma to the workers. After the three men had an exchange that sounded like a serious argument, one took a pen from a clipboard and drew some additional lines on the map. Speaking slowly, accompanied with much gesturing, they gave her very straightforward instructions.

  “Non, madame. Non, non, non!” Wagging fingers and shaking their heads when she picked up the GPS.

  Katherine drove slowly with the map on the seat beside her.

  Frustrated and perspiring from anxiety, she was grateful for the help she had received. Seeing the road sign she had been seeking, she suddenly laughed out loud. That was truly another Griswold moment! In her former life, she would have had to put up with a profanity-laced tirade from James.

  A narrow laneway was lined with mounds of lavender against a massive backdrop of pink, red, and white oleander. Large clusters of pale-mauve blooms gracefully drooped from an obviously well-established wisteria vine that trailed over the entrance to the inn, offering a spectacular show. The property gave the appearance of being deserted, apart from a small gravel parking area that held three other cars.