The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1)

by Patricia Sands

  Introductions went around the table, with each person standing to greet Kat with bises. Joy’s son and daughter, each with their spouse; two of her four twentysomething grandchildren; as well as Mirella and her two youngest grandchildren, ages six and eight, had all taken their seats again when a man rose at the end of the table. Joy turned to Kat.

  “My dear Katherine, this is Philippe Dufours. He is the nephew of François and the Philippe I thought you met the other day.”

  He smiled somewhat shyly and took Katherine’s hand, bending over it in a most gracious and flattering manner as he murmured, “Enchanté.” The gesture, unfamiliar to her, momentarily stunned her, and she blushed furiously.

  “I’m confused,” she said to Joy as she looked from one to the other. “Who was the Philippe I met?”

  With a chuckle, Philippe explained the young man was the son of a friend in the village who had helped him out that day.

  Katherine felt better having that perplexing encounter explained. She had been wondering why it had felt so bizarre.

  “Well then, thank you so much for the beautiful bouquet you left on the windowsill. It was stunning!”

  “De rien! It was my pleasure. We are all so grateful to you and Pico for saving François. It was such good fortune you were there,” Philippe replied, his English accompanied by a charming accent.

  Katherine’s attempts to play down her role were waved aside.

  Joy indicated Katherine should sit next to Philippe as she then took the chair on the other side of her.

  Conversation flowed easily as champagne corks popped and flutes were placed on the table by a couple that appeared to help serve. When everyone’s glass was filled, Joy stood and held her glass to make a toast.

  “Ma chère Katherine, we are so pleased to welcome you here as a friend and hope by the time you leave, you will feel part of our family. Not only are you a lovely person, but now, you see, we feel you have saved our dear François, and we are forever in your debt. Bienvenue et merci mille fois.”

  Everyone at the table raised their glass to join the toast while Katherine’s face once again turned a deep pink.

  Shyly, she lifted the slender flute. “Merci beaucoup. Je suis très heureuse d’être ici, et vous êtes très gentils. It is my honor to be here at your beautiful home. You make me feel very welcome.”

  Glasses were emptied and more corks popped. It would be a champagne beginning to the lunch, which consisted of bowls of olives, baskets of baguettes, platters of small sliced salami accompanied by bite-size tomatoes, and a selection of pâté. As a quiet elderly couple tended to filling glasses and keeping the little ones busy, Joy introduced them as Antoine and Hélène.

  They beamed with pride when Joy said, “They are the third generation of their family to help us run the manoir and so are also very special members of our family. We could not manage without their talents.”

  Everyone was interested in hearing Katherine’s opinion of the villages she had visited, and of course the inn that was getting so much attention. Recounting her adventures with great enthusiasm, she omitted the worst and realized she could completely isolate the bad from the good. Philippe had quietly listened, asking the odd question as Mirella and Joy pressed her for details.

  She tried not to gush over everything, which was what she truly wanted to do. At length, Katherine pretended to take a deep breath, confessing she was talking too much. The others assured her she was not.

  “It’s a pleasure to listen to visitors that don’t complain! Many have long lists.”

  She was relieved when someone else picked up the chatter so she could indulge in the melt-in-your-mouth pâté.

  Philippe chuckled as he prepared a portion for her and passed it on a small plate. With a look of bemusement, he said, “I believe you have seen as much in a week as most people see over the course of several visits to the Luberon!”

  “There’s more on my list for this week, but I doubt if I will be able to see them all.”

  “If you were asked to choose one moment from those two days that really stood out, one thing that you saw, ate, heard, what would it be?” Mirella asked.

  “Without question, I loved seeing the statue in Cadenet.” They all nodded knowingly. “That tale struck a chord in my heart. I was most touched there—reminded of how terrible the war must have been here.”

  There was silence around the table briefly as Katherine’s remark resonated. Then Joy’s son, Henri, spoke up.

  “My mother’s generation does not speak of those times very often—”

  Katherine interrupted, feeling flustered, “I . . . I’m sorry . . . of course, I should have thought before mentioning . . .”

  Joy put her hand on Katherine’s arm and patted it. “Non, non. It’s not a problem, ma chère.”

  Henri quickly continued, “Non . . . sorry, Katherine, I did not mean to make you feel badly. I actually wanted to say that my generation is trying to encourage my mother and others to tell their stories because they are important. So I’m very glad you brought that up.”

  “Yes,” broke in his wife, Sylvie, “we must insist these stories are shared. You made a very good point right now about how meaningful they are . . . really, I’m so glad you did.”

  All faces were turned toward Joy and Mirella, who were looking into each other’s eyes and nodding.

  “Nous vous écoutons . . . we hear you,” Joy replied quietly. Mirella nodded in agreement.

  Katherine thought for a moment before speaking up. The champagne had relaxed her just enough to let the story spill from her lips.

  “I had the same situation in my own family . . .”

  She went on to tell Elisabeth’s story in a shortened version and how finally she now had the written account in her mother’s own words. “I cannot express how much it means to me. I so agree that these stories must be told.”

  There were sympathetic expressions around the table. Katherine could feel this was an important topic here too.

  The moment was interrupted by platters of food, theatrically delivered from the kitchen by Antoine, Hélène, and Joy’s daughter, Julie.

  “Bravo! Le grand aioli especially for Katherine!” announced Henri.

  Three large platters heaped with chunks of whitefish and a colorful array of beets, potatoes, cauliflower, artichokes, carrots, and beans were set on the table. Large bowls of freshly prepared chickpea sauce and aioli accompanied each platter.

  Smaller plates with hard-boiled eggs and wedges of lemon also arrived as the eager diners waited to begin.

  Carafes of rosé now replaced the empty champagne bottles.

  “Bravo! Mère, you have prepared another feast for us!”

  “Not without Hélène by my side, as you know!” Joy responded.

  Turning to Katherine, she explained, “This is a very traditional summer recipe and possibly quite unusual for you. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “It’s the aioli that makes it,” Henri shouted from the other end of the table. “I guarantee it will cause you to swan.”

  Katherine looked puzzled until Mirella quickly corrected, “Swoon, Henri, you mean swoon.”

  Laughter filled the terrace once more as everyone began to fill plates.

  “I cannot get over how everything tastes so much better here,” Katherine commented to Philippe.

  “Trust me, I can show you some places that might cause you to change your mind,” he suggested. “But truly, you are right. Food is our religion. Everything is prepared to bring about the greatest pleasure in every sense.”

  Mirella leaned in to explain further, “You know, Katherine, we are masters of the art of plaisir. It is the underlying theme of life here. In spite of the many negatives in our society today, the French continue to strive to be artful, exquisite. It is a legacy we do not want to lose.”

  “It combines with the art of seduction . . . la séduction,” Joy interjected, with a knowing smile. “It’s a virtuous skill here to seduce and touch all the sens
es with fashion, cuisine, wine, scent, words . . .”

  Katherine glanced at Philippe, who was gazing at the two women with bemused admiration.

  Turning back to Katherine, he gestured toward them. “And here is a perfect example of how the women in France simply continue to improve with age.”

  The others around the table had moved on to politics and parenting, while Mirella and Joy were interrupted by the antics of Picasso and the young grandchildren.

  Someone had obviously made a funny remark, as the far end of the table erupted in laughter.

  Philippe was interested in Katherine’s life in Toronto. He plied her with questions about the whole experience of home exchange, something unheard of to him.

  In return he explained he was a fromager with a business selling cheese in the South of France near Nice.

  “A fromager is a career you would not hear mentioned often in Canada. Please tell me about it . . . and excuse me, but I must say your English is excellent.”

  “Ah, merci, thank you,” Philippe replied with a smile. He told her about living in England for several years as a teenager while his father worked with a British cheesemaker who wanted his goat-cheese expertise.

  Katherine asked question after question about his family’s history and found it mesmerizing.

  Who knew the history of making cheese could be so interesting—or is it Philippe I’m finding so interesting? His voice is like velvet.

  Philippe explained he had driven up to Sainte-Mathilde as soon as he received the phone call about François. He planned to stay for a few more days until arrangements could be made for the herd of goats to be cared for. He spoke fondly of his uncle.

  “He has always been a fine man. He worked hard all of his life in investment banking in Paris, very successfully, and not without a great deal of stress, and provided for his family in a very good way. My father, his brother, died in a car accident shortly after our return from England, and my uncle did all he could to fill his shoes. I love him very much.”

  “And now he is a goat herder?” Katherine asked.

  Philippe smiled broadly. “Oui, un chevrier. He loves the peace of the fields, the goats, and the fresh air. The goats do not need him, but he needs them. He spends the day meditating, thinking, reading, being at peace.”

  “Plaisir,” said Katherine. Philippe nodded.

  Joy leaned in. “Did Philippe tell you that François knows the goats by name?”

  “Just like his father and grandfather before him,” he said, laughing.

  “It’s a dying tradition that you still find on some farms in Provence.”

  Luncheon plates had been cleared, and a simple green salad arrived as the wineglasses disappeared.

  “Wine with salad is not a choice we make here,” Joy explained to Katherine.

  Katherine noted how relaxed everyone was, taking in food and conversation in equal portions. Each course was lingered over, and murmurs of appreciation hung in the air.

  When the salad was finished, selections of cheese were brought to the table on beautiful slabs of olive wood, along with heaping bowls of freshly picked cherries.

  A variety of digestifs were offered, including eau de vie, a homemade pear-plum-cherry-raspberry liqueur. Everyone insisted Katherine try it.

  Henri was speaking to Joy and Mirella about their stories of the war years.

  “Katherine, thank you for giving us the opportunity to raise this topic again. Mère and Mirella both have tales to tell. Provence was a hotbed of the Resistance, and there are amazing stories of bravery and daring.”

  Katherine mentioned that a favorite poet she studied at university, René Char, had been involved in the Resistance in Provence.

  Mirella shook her head in disbelief. “Mon Dieu, it’s a small world indeed.”

  “During the war, M. Char lived in a house owned by Mirella’s family,” Joy explained. “He refused to allow his work to be published by the Germans and buried his papers in the basement of the house until the war ended.”

  “He often read us stories and helped us with our homework,” Mirella added.

  “His code name was Capitaine Alexandre, and he truly was a hero of the Résistance, commanding the famous Durance parachute drop zone,” Philippe explained.

  “Not just a résistant, but a fighter on a moral plane his entire life,” said Mirella, her eyes shining with admiration. “None more famous than his protests against polluters or with Picasso in the sixties against the threatened nuclear installations on Mont Ventoux.”

  “The village where he lived, Céreste, is not far from here,” said Joy. “But then, you can stop in any of these towns and villages and find stories of the Résistance.”

  “And of collaboration and betrayal and pain and loss,” said Henri. “There’s no question it was hell. But we must keep the stories alive.”

  “And so we will,” Joy and Mirella both promised.

  Katherine had been touched by the thoughtfulness shown by every person at the table as they each made time to speak with her. Some spoke English quite well and were happy to show off their ability. Others struggled, but in a good way, with good humor, laughs, and hand gestures.

  Katherine made every effort to use her limited French vocabulary and was not surprised at how she enjoyed it. She had already decided to join a conversational French group when she got back to Toronto.

  Farewells were now being shared and Katherine noted how the words sweetly meant “see you soon,” à bientôt, rather than “good-bye”—and, of course, there were bises all around. Always bises.

  Joy reminded Katherine she would tour her through the house, and Katherine asked if she might bring in her laptop to use the Wi-Fi and Skype her friend Molly.

  “Of course, ma chère, as we discussed the other day. Avec plaisir.”

  As this was all being organized, Philippe was chatting with the rest of the family. Now he returned to Katherine and asked if she would like him to drive her to Céreste on Monday afternoon to visit the tiny Char museum.

  “It would be my pleasure to introduce you to some of our little shortcuts. Mirella would love to go as well and show us the house in which Char lived.”

  “I would very much like to do that,” Katherine replied and Philippe arranged to collect her at 2:00 p.m.

  22

  Alone in the courtyard as the last car drove off, Katherine complimented Joy on her family.

  Joy nodded. “They are the light of my life, and I feel blessed that they still love to come here and spend time with me in spite of their busy lives. It’s how we mothers hope our families will be, but it doesn’t always happen. Now come, let me show you some of the much older members of our family.”

  “It’s like a private museum,” Katherine said in awe. The family history in the area went back to the 1500s, and some of the buildings on the property dated back over three hundred years, Katherine’s farmhouse being one.

  Construction on the manor house had taken place in the late 1600s. The family had fled to Italy in 1789 in the early days of the French Revolution and did not regain ownership of the property until 1816, after the Napoleonic Wars had ended. The property had not been maintained properly then, and there had been much work to do afterward. Most of the valued furniture had been sold, burned, or stolen through those years. Incredibly, through many long years of searching, the odd original piece was traced and bought back.

  With a typically Gallic shrug of her shoulders, Joy indicated it was what it was.

  Three of the oldest oil portraits of ancestors had been saved, as they were rolled up and taken along to Italy when the family escaped there. Katherine listened, enthralled, as Joy shared stories in each room.

  The enormous fireplaces in the main floor grand hall and the upper hall were still used, but much of the house was not heated or inhabited in winter.

  “It is such an unusual experience to hear a history that is so old and yet still so much a part of your family’s life today. We simply do not have th
ose kinds of stories in North America—at least, not many of us do. Thank you for allowing me this intimate glimpse into the past.”

  Joy smiled graciously. “Time creates a collage with layers of history—family and events. Some of us feel privileged to have these works of art, these properties, entrusted to us, but often they present great difficulties to families and cannot be maintained. Taxes are atrocious!”

  “I can imagine,” Katherine said.

  “Upkeep never stops, and as the years go by, the costs are becoming a burden, but we simply don’t want to let our property go. Our grandchildren are already looking at business plans to turn the manor into a small hotel after I am gone, and I think that’s a good idea.”

  “What about the vineyard?” asked Katherine.

  “Oh, that will continue, from what I hear,” Joy replied in a hopeful tone. “But nothing is guaranteed these days. So much is changing. In the last fifty years, three out of four farms in France have stopped functioning. It’s a terrible shift in how our country operates, and we don’t quite know how the economy and the general population will ultimately be affected.”

  Making certain Katherine was comfortably settled in the office, Joy said she would find her in the garden when she was through.

  After reaching Molly on Skype, Kat insisted she share the latest in the ongoing mysterious and frightening incidents in her life.

  “Come on, Molly, spill,” Katherine said, saying she could see from her friend’s face all was not well.

  “Oh shit, Kat! I didn’t want to say anything while you are having such a fantastic holiday. The calls are still coming . . . not quite as often, though . . . but something worse happened.”

  “Oh no. What now?”

  “My car was keyed in the school parking lot. Badly!”

  Katherine groaned.

  “That was so bad in two ways,” Molly said, fuming with anger. “One, because it was a Zipcar, and two, it means the person knows where I work.”

  “How do you know it was the same person?”

  “They left a fucking phone message mocking me. It made me want to puke!”

  “How awful! Did you report it?”