Adding three jars of lavender honey to her basket, her next stop was the herb seller, whose long table blazed with vivid color and filled the air with a bouquet of fragrantly pungent smells that was almost hallucinogenic. Here she chose three mixtures prepared by the woman whose flamboyant makeup and dresses were as colorful as her wares. One packet was for preparing fish dishes, another for Mediterranean salads, and the last for lamb.
As she lingered, she was reminded of the word “la garrigue,” which Joy had used to describe the combination of earthy, herbal, floral, and other scents found in the Provençal markets. It was unique and something she felt she would not forget.
Her last stop was the soap vendor. Again, the vibrant and fragrant display of the famous savon de Marseille, oils and creams, caressed her senses. She wasn’t certain how many dozens of photos she had taken here. It was difficult to control the impulse again as she added a dozen bars of her favorite soaps—honey, lavender, rose, jasmine—to the panier. Some would be for her and some for gifts.
I wonder if that will last until my next visit to France. She reminded herself that the way the world was now, she could buy those soaps at home too. Not the same, just not the same . . .
Taking her time to enjoy every detail of the vendors and stalls, each equally enticing, Katherine captured it all yet again with her camera. There were always new angles and different perspectives to discover.
She planned to make a photo book.
The first book without James, she thought, gripped for a moment with an odd feeling that was somewhat like regret, which she quickly shook off . . .
A crème at Le Petit Café, delivered with a nod and a subtle smile from the waiter, made her morning.
After some journaling time and lunch in the garden, Katherine climbed on the rusting Peugeot. She had marked out a route on her map and, at roughly three hours including a lunch stop, this would be her longest ride.
Picasso had been pacing with anticipation. As soon as he saw the bike come out of the shed, he knew something was up.
Placing two water bottles, a container of water for the dog, and a tube of sunscreen in the rear basket along with a wedge of nicely ripe Brie and three figs, she was set.
“A few biscuits for Picoboy! D’accord?” she asked, causing warp-speed tail wagging.
A little concerned her legs were not in shape for this challenge, Katherine took time to stretch before she set off. This time she had her cell phone with Joy’s number plugged into it, just in case. She knew now there were infrequent local buses with bike racks on the front, and she certainly did not discount this option.
The day was as perfect as the others had been. She counted the fine weather among the many blessings reflected upon as she pedaled. With the breeze caressing her on this relaxed first leg of her route, she ran her mind over each day since her arrival.
Everything in Provence seemed to speak directly to her heart. She felt different here, changed somehow, and removed from the sadness that still lived within her orbit in Toronto.
People here like me for me . . . as I am right now. They don’t know my past, just my present.
She wondered if she should sell her parents’ home. As much as she loved that sweet house and all the good memories of her childhood, sadness dwelt there too. Maybe it was time to move on, literally and figuratively.
Her job was satisfying and challenging. She would not change that.
Breathing heavily as she put greater effort into a series of small inclines, her mind continued to replay her life.
As the kilometers rolled by, so did her thoughts, leaving a trail of broken memories while she rode toward bright possibilities. It felt at first cleansing and then almost as if a door was opening to a future she could not see before, like some sort of epiphany. Somehow this trip was offering her the promise of a new beginning.
Cresting another hill, the perfect spot for a rest presented itself.
“Que penses-tu, Pico? C’est bien ici?” she asked.
Picasso followed Katherine onto a grassy patch and lapped his water with gusto after she put the container on the ground.
Katherine removed her helmet, giving her head a good scratch. Patting down the grass, she settled her back against a rock while Picasso had an energetic roll in the shade of a nearby plane tree.
She unwrapped her figs and cheese, and alternated bites, savoring the delicious combination. Until this trip, she had not been particularly fond of figs. What a discovery they had been here. Never fresher, their luscious velvety sweetness combined with the light crunchiness of the tiny seeds to produce a subtle flavor Kat decided was almost orgasmic.
Now, there’s a word that hasn’t crossed my mind for a very long time.
She thought about how she had put the prospect of making love out of her head for all those months. It’s not like she never wanted it to happen again. She just couldn’t imagine ever allowing herself to get that close to any other man. Why risk the hurt?
The warmth of the sun and the buzz she was feeling from cycling turned her thoughts to fantasy as she rested on the soft grass and breathed the fragrance of the air.
What a perfect place this would be . . . right here . . . this moment . . .
She surprised herself even more by enjoying the sensations spreading up her legs and inside her to a spot that was almost climactic. Running her hands over her breasts and down to rest between her legs, she finally admitted she missed making love. Letting out a long sigh, she reveled in the fantasy a few seconds more.
It would not have happened here with James. He had never been impulsive in that way. There might be bugs or dirt, or someone might have seen them. She could just hear him now.
The thought of him burst the fantasy bubble, and she popped the final piece of fig into her mouth, followed by a bite of cheese. The wedge of Brie had ripened even more in the warm morning sun as it sat in the basket. Perfect.
Philippe had recommended that particular Brie for figs and for a sensual moment she held on to thoughts of him as her fantasy was fading.
Too bad I’m leaving so soon.
Kat tossing Pico a biscuit from time to time, the two stayed as they were for some time.
I wonder when I’ll be back here . . . if ever.
From somewhere inside, a little voice told her that the choice was hers. Hers alone. She liked it.
Licking the cheese from her fingers, she used some of her water to clean her hands and splash on her face.
Time to head back.
Consulting her map again, she was quite certain of the route after all the driving around she had done.
It was time for Zaz on the iPod.
The chorus resonated as Katherine kept hitting “Repeat” and sang along, her voice floating over the fields and through the woods.
Indeed she did wish for love, joy, good feelings. It wasn’t money that made her happy. She was discovering her freedom. Forget the clichés.
Welcome to my reality, my new reality.
She sighed. If only it were.
26
My last day here, Katherine thought, stretching sleepily and feeling very much at home. I’m going to miss this bed, this house—everything. Pico, oh, Pico . . .
Having admonished herself during the past few days not to be melancholy, clearly she was ignoring that advice.
Leaning over the edge of the bed, she looked down at her new best friend. Picasso gazed back at her with his limpid dark eyes, not lifting his nose from the floor, gently thumping his tail.
Katherine reached down and scratched the top of his head. Crazy, she thought. It is crazy to feel this way about a dog.
Down to the back garden for an hour of yoga—Lucy will be proud of me when I tell her—and a restful half hour writing in her journal brought that up to date.
Breakfast was the last of yesterday’s croissants with homemade strawberry jam. She washed her yoga clothes and her biking outfit from the day before and hung them on the line, knowing they would be dry
within hours. This was something else she was determined to continue at home. There was a clothesline at her mother’s that she never used.
With her suitcase and carry-on lying open on the floor of the bedroom across the hall, Katherine took everything out of the closet except what she would wear in the afternoon and for travel tomorrow.
Once her packing for the day was complete, she went down to the kitchen to make some preparations for her buffet dînatoire, grinning as she repeated the words, enjoying the sound.
It had been a surprise to learn from Joy and Mirella that, apart from little cubes on a toothpick with perhaps a cherry tomato, cheese was not served as an appetizer in France.
She had decided to make asparagus spears wrapped in prosciutto with a sliver of parmesan and curried chicken on endive and tuna-stuffed cherry tomatoes—typical North American hors d’oeuvres—as well as a small selection of the French standard salamis and olives. A small green salad and cold chicken were a tasty lunch as she read in the back garden and then spent some time editing photographs on her computer. Few things gave her more pleasure than looking through her travel photos—over and over. Her family always praised her photography skills, but she felt that it would be impossible to take bad pictures in Provence. Everywhere you looked offered a wonderful Kodak moment.
I guess that term will soon disappear, she thought sadly.
During the afternoon, her food preparations completed, Katherine and Picasso made one last tour through the gardens and around the property. On the path bordering the goat pasture, Katherine paused, remembering the frightening experience with François, and gave Pico a big pat on his back as he stood beside her.
“You’ve been my companion, friend, protector, roommate, and confidante, you gorgeous boy.” As she kneeled down, he licked her cheek, and they sat together for a few minutes.
Back at the house, Katherine reorganized the flowers she had purchased at the market the morning before and took two arrangements out to the garden.
Pulling two of the small outdoor tables together, she laid tablecloths and placed the vases on them. Stepping back to admire the setting, she heard a car pull up her driveway.
“I thought you might like to have a little assistance,” Joy said with a smile. “So I’m early. C’est bien?”
Katherine mentally patted herself on the back. Sometimes it pays to be impulsive—another lesson I’m learning.
Laughter and conversation filled the air as her guests arrived for the buffet dînatoire. Food and drink were consumed with gusto, and Katherine held back tears as she said her good-byes. Joy told her she would come by in the morning, so they could delay their farewell.
“Katherine, let me help you clear up,” offered Philippe.
While Picasso took care of cleaning up any goodies on the ground, Philippe and Kat moved chairs and tables to where they belonged after clearing the last of the dishes. Joy had given strict instructions that dishes were to be left on the counter for Marie-Claude to take care of in the morning, saying the housekeeper would be unhappy if there was little for her to do.
“There’s enough wine here to squeak out two more glasses,” Philippe offered. “Shall we sit and enjoy it?”
“Bonne idée,” Katherine answered, smiling.
“A little longer here and you would be speaking fluently,” Philippe complimented her. “Even though you’re reluctant to speak French with me, I overheard you doing so with some of the family at Joy’s brunch, and again today, and I was very impressed.”
With a shy look, she admitted to an immature anxiety of making mistakes. He assured her that just making the effort was most appreciated and everyone understood.
“What do they say in North America? Just do it!”
With an air of comfort between them, they talked more personally now about their lives, but still there was much left unsaid.
“So do you enjoy your work, Katherine?”
“I do,” she replied with a smile, “but there’s a part of me that would like to run away to Provence forever. I didn’t expect to be so captured!”
Philippe nodded. “This part of the planet tends to cause that reaction in visitors.”
“Unfortunately it’s a little too far away for me to consider popping over for weekends,” Katherine commented with a sigh.
Philippe chuckled. “A weekend would never be long enough. You will just have to plan an extended holiday next time.”
“When will you return?” Katherine asked him.
“Life is getting busy on the coast now so, as long as François is in Paris, I won’t return until the autumn. I won’t have a reason to come.”
There was an awkward silence before Philippe asked Katherine her plans for her three days in Paris. Chuckling at her agenda, he teased her about accomplishing so much on a trip.
“But here is one thing you have to know about Paris. You must be a flâneur and walk everywhere. Look down at the cobblestones and up to the zinc-and-slate rooftops and do not miss anything in between. Paris is made for strolling.”
Offering her tips about some places she would never have known, they parted with a bet between them as to whether she would actually get through her list.
Exchanging e-mail addresses, Katherine promised to give him a full report. Blurting awkwardly as Philippe took her hand and bent over it, his lips gently brushing her skin, she blushed.
“It has been such a pleasure to meet you . . . ah, plaisir,” she said, chuckling softly, “and to appreciate the French definition of that word. I’m so grateful for all you have done for me.”
Philippe smiled back. “Oui . . . le plaisir . . . it is all mine . . . but, if you like, I will come tomorrow and show you a faster road to the station.”
Katherine felt a flutter of happiness at the thought of seeing him again.
Her bags were by the front door with Picasso stretched on the floor next to them. He knew something was up. Marie-Claude bustled around the kitchen, thrilled to have a cleanup for a change. As planned, Joy had arrived earlier. Chatting, she accompanied Katherine as she made one last tour of the house to make certain all was in order and nothing left behind.
Katherine had left a gift-wrapped book about Toronto, with an illustrated history, along with a thank-you note on the hall table for the Lalliberts to find upon their return.
Handing Marie-Claude an envelope that contained a thank-you note with a hundred euros, they bised and said a warm good-bye.
Walking out to the car together, Joy helped with the luggage.
Both women looked fondly at each other, blinking back deeper emotion.
“Joy, it has been a singular pleasure getting to know you. I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me, for the friendship and acceptance you have offered, for touring me about . . . I’m at a loss for words.”
“Everything has been my pleasure, ma chère. We never know what to expect with each home exchange, and your presence here has been a very special experience for me as well. We will all miss you, and you must promise to stay in touch.”
After they kissed each other’s cheeks with more feeling than usual, Joy gave Katherine a very warm hug in a distinctly non-French way. “You bring out the British in me,” she said with a smile.
At that moment, Philippe pulled into the driveway as planned. He was going to lead Kat to the TGV station through a much shorter but more complicated route than she had taken when she arrived.
Joy greeted him through his car window as Katherine started her engine.
“Come with us!” he invited. “We will wave good-bye to Katherine at the station like good hosts! Come, Joy—and Pico! You ride with her and I’ll take the boy with me! It will be fun!”
Katherine had heard this through her open window and was eagerly nodding.
“This makes me feel like it’s not over yet,” she told Joy with an enormous grin as they drove out to the road.
Standing at the espresso bar in the station, they sipped the last of their coffee a
s the train pulled in. Katherine loved the fact that Picasso was welcome there too, and this spur-of-the-moment final farewell had put a more festive spin on her departure.
With bises all around once more, Katherine felt her eyes well with emotion as she said good-bye this last time. After a shake of the paw from Pico, Philippe loaded her bags onto the train and jumped off as the whistle blew to close the doors. French trains did not waste time lingering in stations, particularly the TGV.
Waving frantically through her window at her beaming friends, Katherine wiped her tears as she accepted this part of the adventure was over.
Gazing through her reflection on the window for a good hour, she recognized how this trip had opened so much for her. It wasn’t a sudden realization but more an awareness that revealed itself as her thoughts peeled layers away. Hard to believe two weeks could make such a difference.
Now Paris beckoned, and her excitement turned to that.
27
Katherine had a plan for her arrival at the Gare De Lyon, and it involved three words: Le Train Bleu.
When Philippe had teased her about all she accomplished in her two weeks’ stay at the farmhouse, she stated she had a full agenda for Paris. He had created a list for her, and a challenge had been set.
Item number one was to enjoy a crème and pastry at Le Train Bleu.
Leaving her luggage in the cloakroom, Katherine climbed the sweeping staircase to the restaurant. A survivor of France’s Belle Époque, it was a reminder of a time when train travel was considered an exquisite luxury. Massive chandeliers illuminated brilliantly painted ceilings and walls, many with scenes from southern France, since most trains departed south from the station. Not one square centimeter was unadorned in the grandly romantic space, with gilded statuary flanking the enormous banks of windows. Inaugurated in 1901, today it was a classified historical monument and not to be missed.
Scratch number one off the list, she thought with satisfaction.
It was raining, but the taxi lineup was right outside the station door. She hurried quickly toward the sign, hoping to beat the rush off the TGV.
The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Page 22