Promises to Keep (10 page)

Kat stared at him in disbelief. “Come on.”

“I’m serious. I know it sounds like a low-budget movie, but it is real. Whoever was in the SUV that tried to drive us off the road to Entrevaux, was sent by them, I am sure of that. They are dangerous people. The simple solution is to leave the property as it is and walk away from our dream.”

“That’s just not right. You’re giving in to blackmail. Somehow the police need to know about this, don’t they?”

“I trust all of our local gendarmes. I’ve known most of them for a very long time. But this goes way beyond them. The department in Nice investigating the fire turned their findings over to the drug enforcement division in Paris.”

Kat looked puzzled. “And that’s not a good thing?”

“Definitely not. That’s where you can’t tell the good guys from the bad. The drug industry can buy anyone. There is so much corruption everywhere; I fear Dimitri may find out and we could all be in danger.”

Shivers ran up Kat’s spine. “I . . . I . . . don’t know what to say.”

“Minou, I am so sorry you had to know any of this. I am so sorry I have put you at risk. I understand if you want to leave. This is not what our life together promised.”

Kat struggled for a response. “This is just so unreal. It sounds like a cable TV series.”

“
Quoi?
A what?”

“Sorry. That was an insensitive comment. There’s a saying that sometimes life is stranger than fiction, and this certainly is that. This is about the woman you loved. Does anyone else know?”

Philippe shook his head. “Joy and François know about the problems when Viv was sick. They know about her initial addiction when we first met and then what happened when she went with Idelle for treatment. I have told Joy about these threats, but not François. He doesn’t need this to worry about. We all thought Idelle was out of our lives.”

“We can’t solve this by ourselves.”

Philippe looked at her. “‘We?’ Are you certain you want to get involved?”

“Do I want to be involved in something like this?
Non.
Will I walk away from you and the promise of our life together because of it?
Non, encore.
”

Philippe looked at her with surprise, as if he had not counted on this reaction from her.

“I love you, Philippe. I want to spend my life with you. I will not let this come between us.” Her voice cracked and her jaw quivered as she fought to hold off tears again.

Philippe opened his arms to her, and they clung to each other. Then he pulled back a little and stared into her eyes, saying, “I love you too, Minou. I should never have doubted that you would stay with me—that you would want to help me.”

Kat recovered her voice. “This is bigger than us. We need help. We need the police.”

“I agree we need help. I’m just worried about where to look for it.”

They sat back down and were silent for several minutes, lost in thought.

Kat struggled to sort through all she was hearing. On the one hand, her life had turned into a dream come true these past few months; on the other, she was now caught up in a terrible mess. It was difficult to compute, but she also knew there had to be a way out of the latter. Whatever the case, she had no doubt they were in it together.

“I wonder what Nick did . . . what police worked on that case?” Kat wondered out loud. “That was all drug-related too, and he got pulled in as an innocent bystander. Right?”

Nick was an Australian
bon vivant
they had both known during the summer. He usually lived on his enormous luxury yacht in Antibes’s Port Vauban, but had left abruptly the previous summer. At that time, he cut off all contact, as he knew his phone would be bugged and wished to implicate no one. Even though they heard he was finally proved innocent, he had not returned to Antibes.

Philippe stood suddenly and walked over to his computer. “That’s a thought. At least it’s a place to start. I’ve got contact information from Tim somewhere here.”

Tim was the captain of Nick’s yacht; Kat agreed that if anyone would know how to find Nick, he would.

Philippe’s eyes squinted in concentration as he two-finger typed. “
Ah bon!
Here’s Tim’s e-mail. I’ll send a message asking him to call me.”

Kat sighed. “That was a very intense hour. I feel drained—I can only imagine how you feel.”

“I feel the same, but I’m also relieved that you know everything. Keeping this from you was agonizing. I just wanted it to go away and not be part of our life together.”

“If I said I can’t believe this is happening, it would be an understatement. But that’s life, isn’t it? There’s always something . . . maybe not usually something like this, though.” Kat shook her head in exasperation. “My mother often reminded me, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. I’m hearing those words loud and clear right now.”

They stood quietly at the window, seeing nothing.

Philippe spoke first. “Let’s go for a walk by the sea. La Grande Bleue always is a comfort, even on days like this. Bundle up warmly, and we’ll stop for an espresso. Tomorrow we will make a plan.”

12

Kat’s eyes flew open and she sat straight up in bed. She’d been wakened by a loud, unearthly roar outside. In the darkness, she reached for Philippe and was even more alarmed to find he wasn’t there. Now she was gripped with fear.

Shouting his name over the clamor, she switched on the light beside the bed and got to her feet. Sleep had been fleeting at best that night, with everything they had talked about on their minds.

They collided in the doorway.

“What’s that noise?” she asked, her voice filled with panic. “It sounds like the world is coming to an end.”

Laughing as he hugged her, Philippe said, “Minou, I would like to introduce you to
le mistral
. You are finally experiencing your first, and it’s going to be a big one, according to
la météo
. I was checking that the shutters were all shut tight.”

“It sounds like a locomotive roaring down the lane!”

“There’s no mistaking it. I should have warned you when the temperature dropped so dramatically yesterday, but we were distracted, to say the least. We are used to it here and, truthfully, they don’t happen that often on the coast. Our back alley is like a funnel and makes it sounds louder than it really is.”

Relieved, Kat reached for her robe. “After the recent events and our talk yesterday, I thought we were under attack. Seriously.”

“I don’t blame you, but it’s just the wind—a very big wind,” he assured her.

“I won’t be able to get back to sleep with this racket. It’s almost five. Shall I make us some breakfast for a change?”

While she cooked, Philippe told her about the famous wind—“
Mi-ange, mi-démon de la Provence
—half angel, half devil”—that was in some ways welcomed by the people of Provence.

“The cold air piles up in the Alps and then rushes down along the valleys to us,” he explained. “That’s why the trees are all bent in one direction farther along the coast. Through the Var and the Bouches-du-Rhône, it’s the worst. Marseille and Saint-Tropez get the full brunt of it as the cold air hits the sea.”

Kat shuddered. “I can’t imagine how it could be worse than this!”

“Extreme
mistrals
devastate crops and cause a lot of damage to exposed farmlands. Joy can tell some tales. But, as cold and fierce as it is, the wind blows away the dust in the air that comes to us from Africa and brings back our famous blue skies. There’s a saying: ‘Beauty comes after the wind.’”

Kat served them her special poached eggs, sprinkled with feta cheese and fresh mint, and as they ate, they returned to the problem they were facing. They were both amazed at how calmly they could talk about it now that it was out in the open.

“It doesn’t seem real,” Kat said, shaking her head in wonder. “It feels like we’re working out someone else’s problem. Honestly, I’m not at all afraid—right now, anyway. I still can’t believe it.”

“It’s real, and you can see my reaction is pure anger.”

They decided they should wait to hear what the special investigation revealed when Philippe met with the officers from Paris, a meeting that would happen by week’s end. He checked his e-mail, hoping to discover Nick did have connections in high places after being tangled in a drug-related investigation.

Tim’s e-mail response was there with a phone number, and Philippe placed a call now that went straight to voicemail. Philippe grinned and passed the phone so Kat could hear the chirpy British accent of Tim’s wife, Twig, on the recording. The sound of her friendly voice cheered them both. Tim and Twig had become friends of theirs before they left Antibes on Nick’s yacht. As far as anyone knew, they had docked it somewhere along the coast of North Africa.

Philippe left a message asking for either Tim or Nick to call back urgently at the number on this new phone, which they had purchased the night before.

“I’m going to sound completely paranoid,” Philippe had said while they were out walking then, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea to use either of our phones. This cheap throwaway model should serve the purpose.”

“I think you are being smart, not paranoid,” Kat said.

As he prepared to leave for work now, she expressed her amazement that the market would even be open in the storm.

“
Bien sûr!
We’ll drop the plastic flaps, batten them down, and carry on. I doubt we will be busy, though.”

“Business as usual seems to be the norm in France, no matter what.”

“It is. And we’re going to attempt to live our lives as usual, too, while we wait for things to unfold. That explosion was meant to frighten us—and it did—but it could have been much, much worse. They’re not desperate yet. I think we have some time. But please, Kat, for now, don’t talk about this to anyone. Not even Andrea or Molly. Who knows who might be listening.”

13

A day later, the wind had died down, as Philippe promised. The sky was once again its familiar stunning blue as Kat walked to the property on the Cap.

Before she left, she tucked an apple into her pocket, and now she stopped to feed it to the donkey, which she had decided to name Eeyore. She cleared the growth in the ditch and leaned through the hedge. She could see him standing halfway up the hill. She knew he saw her, but he was not budging. Then he suddenly brayed.

Katherine made clucking noises. “
Viens,
Eeyore.
Viens.
Come.” Holding the apple flat on her palm, she slowly waved her arm back and forth.

Eeyore brayed again and again, but he still refused to move.

Kat had a flashback to the farmhouse in Provence. Picasso had behaved in much the same way one day. She had followed him and found François lying in the path. Could it be happening again? She had never seen a person here, although there had been signs. The washing on the line . . .

Eeyore took a few steps before standing firm, bobbing his shaggy mane and braying once more. His eyes never left her.

Kat put the apple back in her pocket and squeezed through the hedge. The paddock she found herself in was badly neglected, and she stumbled from time to time over tussocks of weeds. When she reached Eeyore, he nuzzled her pocket for his treat before poking her along and trudging beside her to the tired-looking villa.

She hollered, then knocked on the door after receiving no response.

Eeyore nudged her again.

She slowly pushed open the door and stepped into a surprisingly pristine and welcoming entrance hall, with enormous oil paintings of flowers on the walls: hibiscus, poppy, sunflower, agapanthus, and rose—grand, single blooms in vivid colors. They made her feel as if she had walked into a giant’s perennial garden.

“
Bonjour!
Hello-o-o-o!” Katherine called again.

“
Entrez, s’il vous plait!
”
An unexpectedly strong but slightly muffled woman’s voice rang out.

Kat jumped in surprise at another bray right behind her. Eeyore was waiting at the door, shuffling nervously in the gravel.

“Entrez! Venez! Aidez-moi, merci!”

The voice was coming from behind a closed door at the far end of a long hallway leading off the entrance hall. And so was the sound of someone singing. Kat was startled by it—it just didn’t fit the scene.
Bob Dylan? Really?

As she walked quickly down the hallway, the singing stopped, and Kat heard the woman call,
“
C’est qui?
”
Kat answered in French, asking if she was all right. Then she frowned when the woman responded, this time in English with a heavy French accent.
Just once
, Kat thought,
I’d like to be answered in French.

“I’m fine, but I’m locked in this room. Do you see a key on the floor? It’s big and should be easy to find.”

Kat spotted the enormous brass key right away and quickly put it in the keyhole and turned it. Then she turned it again. “Turn it once more,” the woman said. “It takes three turns to open this monster.”

Kat did so, and the door swung open to reveal a sparsely furnished, whitewashed room with skylights and a row of windows running under the ceiling along one wall, too high up for anyone to see out of them. Under the skylights were two tall easels, a wooden table covered with tubes of paint, tubs of brushes, and neat piles of white cloths. On a chest next to the table sat a turntable and a stack of vinyl record albums.
The Freewheelin’
Bob Dylan
was on the top.

On the far side of the terra-cotta tile floor was an oversized daybed filled with bright throw pillows, in the midst of which a petite, elderly woman dressed all in white sat in the lotus position, looking like a small, aged Buddha.

“
Merci, ma chérie!
I am extremely happy to see you, and don’t worry. I am fine.”

“Really? How long have you been locked in here?”

“Since yesterday afternoon, thanks to the
mistral
. I had the door and the skylights open, and this massive door normally does not budge. The key is always in it because the lock is so ancient, it is loose. There is
une petite vrillette
, a little beetle, a permanent resident inside the door by the lock who leaves a delicate deposit of sawdust each day.”

Kat bent down to look inside the lock. The key slipped easily out of place, but she could see no sign of anything.

The woman chuckled. “Oh, you will never catch sight of her. I call her Bernice. She’s been with me forever—a constant companion who requires no care.

“I never lock the door from the inside, but I do sometimes from the outside, which is why the key is on that side. Yesterday the
mistral
slammed the door shut. I heard the lock click in the door as the key fell out, and knew I was in trouble.”

“But you don’t seem too worried.”

“
Mon Dieu!
Where are my manners?” The woman winced as she slowly unfolded her legs, and Kat reached out to help steady her as she got to her feet. Her head barely reached Kat’s shoulders. Her white hair, which was wound in an elegant knot, framed her softly wrinkled face. Her bright eyes, the color of the Provençal sky, studied Kat intently.

She reached for a cane propped against the daybed. “I am Simone Garnier. And you?”

Kat introduced herself, explaining she had befriended Simone’s donkey. “He alerted me to a possible problem.”

“Victor Hugo is a clever
baudet
.”

“I’ve been calling him Eeyore,” Kat said. “Perhaps he responded because it rhymes with Victor. But, Madame Garnier, tell me why you weren’t worried.”

“Please,
chérie
, call me Simone. I have no time for formalities.”

Katherine smiled an acknowledgement and shared she was often called Kat. “Simone. Do you not have a cell phone?”

“I do have one,
mais, malheureusement
, it was not here in my studio. I keep forgetting where I put it. But tomorrow is Friday, when Monsieur Rousseau delivers my groceries. He would have released me.”

Gesturing to a counter in the corner, she said, “I have a water dispenser and a bowl of dates and nuts, so I knew I would be fine. I even have a WC”—she nodded toward a door in the back wall—“just no window to climb out, as if I could.”

Kat smiled, already liking this tiny woman, who radiated such good karma.

As vivacious as she was, the elderly woman’s body language spoke of pain. Her every movement was slow and deliberate.

“
Allons, ma chérie.
Let me make some tea for us.” She motioned to Kat to follow her back down the long hallway.

The front door was still open, and the donkey was standing as Kat had left him, scuffing gravel impatiently. He nickered as Simone went to him and rubbed his nose.

“Ah, Victor Hugo,
mon petit
.
Merci.
Thank you for taking care of me.
Je t’aime.
”

Off the entrance hall was a sterile-looking kitchen. Simone gestured to it and said, “Please. There is a bowl of apples on the counter. Would you get two of them?”

After Victor Hugo had been sufficiently rewarded and given one last scratch, they went into the kitchen.

Kat saw a kettle on the counter. “Please sit down and let me make the tea.”

“
Eh bien.
Then you can tell me your story and I will tell you mine. Everyone has one.
Non?
”

Simone settled into a chair by a window that overlooked the property and pointed to a bowl filled with greens on the table beside her. “Those herbs from my garden make the most delicious tea. Just put them in the teapot and when the water is ready, let it steep for a few minutes.”

After she filled the kettle, Kat stood beside the wooden counter taking in the purity of her surroundings. Every room she had seen so far was devoid of color—apart from the paintings, the pillows in the studio, and the tubes of paint. The whiteness of the walls was almost overpowering.

“I wasn’t sure anyone lived here,” Kat said, “but every now and then I noticed washing on the line.”

“That’s the way I like it. Very few people know. Most of the people I care about have left this earth, and I choose a life of seclusion with my art, my music, and my memories.”

“Aren’t you lonely? Do you have any family?”

Simone pointed to a silver-framed photo on a shelf. “That is my son, Jean-Luc, and his partner, Olivier. We lived in adjoining apartments in the sixth
arrondissement
for decades and had such a fine time. He was the light of my life, and Olivier was like a son to me as well.” A whistle pierced the air. “Ah, the kettle.”

Kat filled the teapot and brought it to the table. She had noted Simone used the past tense.

Simone told her where to find cups, adding, “You will not want to add anything to this tisane, I assure you.” Her eyes wrinkled with amusement but then changed as her voice became somber. “Jean-Luc and Olivier were killed in an auto accident.”

“I’m so sorry. How tragic.”

“It was twenty-four years ago. Some days it feels as if it was twenty-four hours ago. The ache can be sharp and immediate. Such is grief.”

Kat sat down across the table from her, and their eyes met. She was feeling a stab of pain herself, her own grief summoned to the surface momentarily.

“I understand,” she said.

“I can see you have felt the anguish of loss.”

“Yes, but not the loss of a child. I can’t imagine—”

“I am sorry. It is never easy, any loss.”

Kat’s eyes filled with tears, and she sniffed to hold them back.

Simone reached over and patted her hand. “Only those who have experienced grief understand. Take a minute. Perhaps we both need to.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Simone continued.

“I lived through the war,” she said. “I learned the agony of loss, and how to survive it, during those years.” Her eyes darkened.

Kat had seen that look before. Throughout her life. It would come and go in her parents’ eyes. It was the scar of war. Memories that could never be erased.

“Those experiences helped me to go on when Jean-Luc was killed, although the pain was unique in its enormity. I lost part of myself as well.

“
Hélas
, he was my only child. My lifeline, really. But he—and Olivier—left me with memories that keep me going. I left Paris for good after their accident and have lived here ever since. Every morning I wake up, I know I must be here for a reason, and I welcome that. I have no room for bitterness.”

Simone gazed at Kat, her eyes conveying her meaning more than any words could. Then her face lit up with a smile. “
Eh bien
, now we must talk about happier things. Tell me about you.”

Kat told her how her parents had also been survivors of the war, before giving her an abbreviated version of how she came to be in Antibes.

“Ah, so you are the lover of Philippe, the fabled
fromager
. I knew him as a child, but he would not remember me.”

“I must tell him. He has no idea anyone is living here.”

“I have not wanted to be found. I am rather like his grandfather’s property next door—left to languish for some time.”

“Did you know his grandfather?”

“
Oui
, but that is a conversation for another time.” She raised her hand to indicate the subject was closed. “I hear you are the talk of the village.”

Kat cringed.

“And the terrible explosion,” Simone said. “I was shocked. I understand Gilles was not hurt.
Grâce à Dieu!
It’s not often something like that happens in our town. That is normally saved for Nice and Cannes, and then I hear it on the news on my radio or read it on the Internet.”

“It was not as bad as it sounded,” Kat said. “Something to do with the electrical wiring of a new alarm system.”

“Although I seldom go out,” Simone continued, “I hear much. Some things have not changed for centuries in
la vieille ville
. Gossip is one.
J’adore les cancans!
Philippe is much loved, and people are curious.”

Kat blushed and looked down at her hands. “Really? I’m embarrassed to think so many people are interested.”

“Take it as a compliment,
chérie
. I, too, have been the subject of much gossip for most of my life. What fun it is to live a life that gives others the pleasure of conversation. Now pour us each a cup of this magic potion.”

Kat closed her eyes at the taste. “Mmmm. Nectar of the gods.”

“
Une bonne bouche
,” Simone said.

Both women sipped in silence for a minute, and Kat looked around her at the small paintings on the kitchen walls. “These colors fill the room with such light and energy. They are truly joyful,” she said.

“There is no pain in my work now,” Simone said. “After the war, much of my work was very dark. For a few years after Jean-Luc and Olivier died, I could not paint at all. When I began again, I decided to express only joy, and so now I summon only radiant reminders of the past. There were so many wonderful times.”

They talked for a while about composition, color, and inspiration, and the more Simone said, the more Kat felt drawn to her, impressed by her relaxed and positive outlook on life and on creating art.

Kat stood to leave after two refills of tea, not wanting to overstay her welcome.

“Thank you for listening to Victor and releasing me from my confinement,” Simone said. “It was hardly a calamity, as I had what I needed. I often stay all day and night in my studio when I am painting. In fact, I was inspired to begin something new while I was shut in. Between painting, meditating, and sleeping, I was a contented captive.”

“Are you certain you will be fine? Is there someone I can call?”

“
Chérie
, I am as fine as I am on any other day. My needs are few and well taken care of. I enjoyed our visit. If you would like to share a cup or two of tea again another afternoon, please do come back.”