Promises to Keep (5 page)

Dessert was a slice of pumpkin cheesecake, served with a selection of chèvre and a bowl of fruit. Very “un-France-like,” as Kat commented later.

“Cheesecake is a holdover from my years in America, and it’s my husband’s favorite dessert.”

“
Ma mère
’s home is seldom without one,” Jacques said, a warm chuckle interrupting his words, “although it is
mon père
who makes it.”

After coffee was poured, the two men became engrossed in a conversation about the cheese Jacques was crafting. Jacques was having some problems with new rules from the European Union and rhapsodized about his breed of goats, all individually named, and apparently all handsome and intelligent.

Kat picked up her camera and wandered the kitchen and the studio next to it, taking photographs and admiring the wall hangings. Véronique answered Kat’s many questions about her materials and techniques, as she walked with her. When they came back to the table, the men were still talking about cheese. Véronique and Katherine’s eyes met, and they smiled knowingly.
“Qui se ressemble, s’assemble,”
Véronique whispered and then motioned to Katherine to sit at the table with her.

“Birds of a feather . . .” Kat whispered back as she settled in a chair.

“Let me take you to the cathedral while they solve the world problems, at least about cheese. It’s just around the corner”—her eyes sparkled with mirth—“like everything else here.”

“Philippe told me some of its history on the way up. I’d love to go.”

“It will please you immensely. I noticed you are not just a point-and-shooter. You changed the setting often, and so quickly, when you were in the kitchen. May I see some of those shots?”

Kat passed the camera to her, showing her where to touch the screen to move the photos along.

“You are a serious artist, Katherine. That’s easy to see,” Véronique said.

Philippe looked up for a moment and nodded vigorously.
“Sans aucun doute!”

“He misses nothing,” Véronique observed. “I like that.”

“So do I,” Kat replied, feeling blessed to be here, with him.

Véronique put her hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “I am taking your
amoureuse
to Notre Dame de l’Assomption. Carry on with your shop talk.”

“It has a simple Gothic exterior, just four hundred years old,” Véronique said as they approached the cathedral, which was no bigger than a church. Two small olive trees flanked its entrance, and the women walked between them up to a massive, dark-wood double door.

Katherine drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. “They remind me of the doors to La Chapelle Saint-Bernardin in Antibes.”

The doors were elaborately carved with details from the town’s military past. Katherine couldn’t resist rubbing her palm lightly over a helmet, sword, and stirrups featured on one panel. Véronique smiled. “I do the same. It’s almost irresistible,
n’est-ce pas
?
One feels an instant connection to the craftsmen of centuries past who created these works of art.”

“I feel almost transported to the time the work was done,” Kat said. “They lived the history and emotion they’ve expressed in their work. It’s very powerful.”

They went inside and Kat was stunned. Belied by its simple exterior, this holy place was filled with exquisite, intricate religious artwork. Above the altar hung a huge painting of the assumption that was clearly centuries old, but Kat’s attention was caught by the domed ceiling above it, which was painted a luminescent Provençal blue, supported by gilded ribs, and dotted with stars.

“It’s hypnotic,” she said. “Like I’m walking into a dream.”

The cathedral’s subtle lighting accentuated the detailed stained glass windows and the copious gold trim, but somehow the rich excess of the decoration still seemed humble.

“I can’t get over finding such a treasure tucked away in a village like this, with absolutely no tourists here. It feels surreal to be standing here, and a great honor.”

“I feel the same way, Katherine. I come here for inspiration some days, for peace and meditation others. I seldom leave without noticing some detail that cries out for me to interpret it. It can be something as basic as a shade of color, a ray of light, or as ornate as a carving or sculpture. This place is a treasure chest of ingenuity, not just spirituality.”

“Have you read
The Pillars of the Earth
?” Katherine asked, reminded of Ken Follett’s novel about the building of an English cathedral in the Middle Ages.

“
Mon Dieu
, I loved that novel,” Véronique said.

On their way back, they met Philippe and Jacques. “We made the cheese transfer in the parking lot, so we can leave any time,” Philippe said. “Is that fine with you, Kat?”

“I hate to go, but we’ve already stayed much longer than we expected. I hope we didn’t spoil your plans for the day. I’ve had such a wonderful time.”

“My truck broke down for a very good reason,” Jacques laughed.

Véronique held Katherine’s hand, squeezing it gently.

“Please come back any time and stay longer, now you know where we are. The more time you spend here, the more stories your eye will discover. We are not surrounded by the same type of intoxicating beauty you find on the coast, or the charm and sensuous landscape of Provence. There’s much beauty here that only shows itself if you take the time to become familiar with the village and its past.”

“There’s a completely different enchantment here. A captivating allure.”

Véronique’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “I have an idea! Some friends—artists who live in the area—are coming here on Friday. I know it’s only three days from now, short notice, but we take turns at each other’s places once a month to share ideas. We begin with coffee early in the morning and go out for a walk with our sketchpads and cameras. We come back for lunch and eat and talk and talk and eat. Why don’t you come the night before so you can join us? It would be my pleasure to have you stay here.”

Kat was surprised by the invitation so soon after meeting Véronique, but she had felt a kinship from the beginning. Perhaps the artistic sensibility they shared, and the North American influence when it comes to hospitality, was behind the offer.

She looked briefly at Philippe. He seemed pleased.

“
Merci mille fois
, Véronique! How kind of you. I will come for sure.”

Jacques insisted on walking back to the car with them, where he thanked Philippe again for coming out of his way to meet him. He stood waving as they drove off.

“Being back in the car and driving normally feels very weird,” Kat said.

“Very,” Philippe agreed.

“Except for your reaction to that note and those minutes of terror on the way here, I would say this has been a perfect day.”

“Saying I’m sorry doesn’t feel like it’s enough now, and it isn’t.”

“Okay, let’s move on,” Kat said, unsure whether fear or strength was powering her words. “You asked me to wait and I will, but give me a time frame. A day? A week? Two weeks?”

“Please. Don’t bind me to a specific date. It’s been on my mind all afternoon. I have to make some phone calls, but I have a plan—of sorts.”

“This is driving me crazy, so I’m simply going to try to stop speculating. I’ll keep waiting until you’re ready to tell me everything—or until I can’t any longer. I’m not asking about it now. Period. Now let’s talk about Jacques and his mother. What an intriguing woman she is.” Kat found that easy to say and was surprised she did. She couldn’t believe she was being so calm about things. The old her wouldn’t have reacted like this.

There was much to recap from the afternoon, although Philippe kept drifting off into moments of silent preoccupation.

“Véronique is such a warm and engaging woman—as modest as she is talented. I liked her a lot, and I’m thrilled at her invitation to come back on Friday.”

“
Bien sûr!
It’s a wonderful opportunity. The more I watch you with your camera, the more I realize what an artist you are.”

“I’ve always thought of it as a hobby, but I’ve taken lots of courses and read a ton about it. It really is an important part of me. My eyes are taking pictures even when I don’t have a camera with me.”

“It didn’t take Véronique long to recognize that quality in you.”

“She made it easy to feel comfortable with her. Jacques too. Their hospitality felt more North American. I mean, I find the French warm, in their own way—you know I do—but it usually takes them longer to open up. I guess her years in the States and marrying an American have something to do with it.”

Philippe nodded. “
Oui, d’accord.
I’ve known Jacques for years. He has a farm farther up in the mountains where he keeps his goats, makes his special cheese, and lives very simply with his wife and children. He’s always quiet-spoken but today he was forthcoming. He told me that his father had lost a tremendous amount of money in the financial disaster of a few years ago, so even though he is around eighty, he still runs his business in Nice. Finances were a major reason his parents moved to Entrevaux. I was surprised he told me this about his family.”

Kat smiled. “Today was a good reminder about not making assumptions. I had pictured Jacques as a short, stocky mountain-type who would be quite terse. I was sure his mother would be frail and in need of assistance. Don’t ask me why, but I did.”

“You just never know,” Philippe said. “She’s another beautiful and engaging woman whose age does not define her, and I mean that in the most complimentary way.” He reached over and pulled Kat close to him.

She reached up and kissed his cheek, gently moving his hand from her breast. “I know you do. I hear you and I love you, but keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the steering wheel, please. And promise to stop at all railroad crossings.”

Philippe stared at her, surprised she could joke about it.

Kat stared back, surprised at herself.

Still holding her hand near her breast, Philippe said, “Only if you promise we will continue from this point when we are home.”

Kat rolled her eyes. “That’s one way to take our minds off whatever is going on.” She traced her finger up his thigh, lightly grazing the rise in his jeans. “I’ll be happy to keep that promise.”

The radio was tuned to TSF Jazz, dusk was settling in, and the drive was a quiet one—a good quiet. There was not a further word about the drive up. Kat’s hand rested lightly on Philippe’s neck, her fingers gently massaging from time to time.

Back in Antibes, they made a quick stop at Philippe’s storage unit to drop off the crate of cheese, but as they pulled into their parking space at home, Kat felt him tense up. She said nothing, nor did he. Once in the apartment, they agreed they were not hungry.

“How about crepes in an hour or so, Chouchou? I have some ratatouille we could eat with them.”

“Bonne idée.”

Kat settled in the window seat in the salon—her favorite reading spot—while Philippe sat down at his computer. Not long afterward he left the room, carrying his phone.

Kat promised herself not to say another word about the note until he was ready to talk. Not to Philippe, anyway. Molly was another story, and she was going to Skype her tomorrow.

Three hours later, they were both tidying the kitchen before bed.

Philippe gathered her into his arms and kissed her lightly before brushing his cheek on her hair. “Here I go, apologizing again,” he said. “I’m sorry for everything that happened today. I can’t say it enough. I was shocked by that note and didn’t handle the situation well, and the unbelievable problem on the road—what can I say? The worst part is that I put you at such danger.”

Kat was about to speak when her eyes welled with tears. A lump in her throat stopped the words. Philippe pulled his head back. He could see she was on the verge of crying. Kat looked away.

“
Non,
Minou,
non
,”
he murmured. “Go ahead, cry. You have every right to.”

Kat found her voice by looking down. “Our conversation this morning took me back to a very bad place in my marriage, and that’s bothering me more than anything.” She sniffed, unable to hold back her tears or disguise the sadness in her voice.

Philippe wiped away the tears and lifted her chin. “I want to wake up beside you every morning for the rest of my life,” he said. “Always remember that. This problem will go away.”

She wanted to believe him. “Entrevaux this afternoon was so special. Let’s just think about that and forget the rest for now. I mean it. I’m so glad you took me there.”

In the bedroom, he turned back the covers and held out his hand.

Kat closed her eyes, savoring his scent as they folded into each other.

They made love slowly and sweetly before drifting off to sleep.

4

Nothing terribly out of the ordinary had occurred in the two days since the frightening episode on the way to Entrevaux. The only thing different Kat was aware of was that Philippe was spending much more time privately on the phone.

Both days she had arrived at the market to discover Gilles taking care of business and Philippe in the storage unit on his cell. His not serving his customers personally indicated to her the gravity of the matter, but she was sticking to her vow and was being tight lipped. She had to trust what he had promised her. She could see that he was doing his best to keep their lives together calm and happy. Whatever he was doing to take care of the problem, he was doing away from home. She could only hope it was working.

That summer, Kat had become accustomed to eating outdoors on warm summer evenings, and now the addition of heaters on terraces still made it possible. The socializing was as important as the dining. The sense of community that she felt in this ancient town grew as waiters and other locals greeted her, not just at meals but also during the day, after just over a week.

The few times they had eaten dinner at home, both of them prepped and laughed as they enjoyed the intimacy of it all. One evening the ingredients were left on the counter as their appetite for desire caused a delay in the dinner hour.

Philippe was a master of the grill. The day’s catch was his favorite
plat du jour
. No matter where they dined, he’d teach Kat about various aspects of French culture, such as the philosophy of
terroir
.

“It’s a term most often used regarding our wines,” he said as they sipped a crisp white from Cassis, “but really it encompasses everything about our obsession with food. It is simply a history or tradition, a combination of local factors, like soil, climate, and altitude, that makes what we eat and drink unique.”

“Like these amazing wines from Cassis?”

“D’accord
.
”
Philippe raised his glass in a salute. “It’s something about a product that enhances community, cooking, and taste.
C’est tout.
Like the chickens from Bourg-en-Bresse or butter from Normandy, melons from Cavaillon.”

“Or all of those delicious cheeses you’ve introduced me to that are made from the milk of a cow that is only fed certain grasses and herbs by nubile young maidens singing soft lullabies at dusk,” she teased.

“You get the picture,” he laughed.

Katherine got the picture every day at the market once she understood the importance of
terroir
. The average shopper’s knowledge of local foods was comprehensive, and decisions about what to buy were often based upon origins.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me,” she told Philippe as they sat down to lunch one day. “I thought I was a pretty good cook, but I rarely paid much attention to where the food I bought came from. With a fussy husband who only wanted basic meat-and-potato meals, I had no reason to be adventurous about what I ate. Olives, for example, those black ones and red and brown—”

“This can’t be true,” he said, looking startled as he set a small bowl on the table. “You’ve never eaten any other olive than a little green one?”

She shook her head. “Don’t ask me why, but whenever they were offered, I simply passed them by.”

“But you served them at your
buffet dinatoire
in Sainte-Mathilde,
non
?”

Katherine smiled as she recalled that little cocktail party she hosted her last night in the farmhouse outside Sainte-Mathilde, on her first exchange. She had invited Joy and her family and Philippe and a few others who had been so kind and welcoming to her for those two weeks.

Now her face reddened with embarrassment. She paused before admitting, “When Joy first took me to the market, she was so enthusiastic about the choice of olives and the tapenade that I put some in my basket but never ate them. I didn’t want to admit my ignorance about them. To be honest, I didn’t know what tapenade was, apart from the fact it was made with olives.”

“Ahhh, but you haven’t tasted olives like the ones we have here,” he said with a teasing smile as he popped one in his mouth. “Straight from the tree is definitely not recommended, but once olives are cured and seasoned, they are precious bursts of flavor. Try this one.”

One proved not to be enough, and in a matter of days Kat found she had a new addiction. She had begun to work her way through the many choices at the market. Like so many other foods in France, the simple, artistic ways olives were displayed invited her to try them.

Philippe’s friend, Émile, was a popular olive vendor at the market. He arranged glistening mounds of black, green, red, and brown olives—some herby, some spicy, others fruity—in large, colorful ceramic bowls. Long-handled olive-wood scoops rested on top, creating a visual Kat had photographed many times. The tastes were equally inviting. His varieties of tapenade were legendary, and he closely guarded their recipes.

“
Goutez!
Trust me and taste,” Émile would cajole his customers. It was a rare person who bought without trying first, and he was a master at coaxing customers to his counter.

Philippe would bring home just the right cheese to go with the type of olives Kat had bought. She was hooked on these small fruits that were such a staple here. After sampling them all, she especially loved tapenade, and in particular the traditional Provençal combination of finely crushed black olives, capers, anchovies, garlic, and olive oil with a touch of lemon and thyme, spread on a fresh baguette.

Philippe and Kat would talk for hours together. For Kat, it was a refreshing change from the long periods of silence she had endured during her marriage.

There were times Kat found it hard not to dwell on what might be behind the mysterious note and the frightening chase on the way to Entrevaux. She even tried to convince herself the chase might have been the result of mistaken identity. Maybe Philippe was paranoid because of the note and had overreacted—big-time. To distract herself from these thoughts, she would get her camera and turn her mind to observing people and places in and around Antibes.

The more accustomed she became to her surroundings, the more her eyes were drawn to the little details: the texture and color of the ancient cobblestones; the grain of a wooden door; an intricate metal keyhole; the angles of loose shutters; the variety of shades of terra-cotta in the clay roof tiles; the peeling paint and the marks of centuries of wear. She found beauty and artistry in the little things all around her.

Now autumn had settled in, the lower angle of the light and the withered vegetation offering her new perspectives, and she returned to her favorite places to photograph the transformations.

One evening, while they were both working at their computers, Kat remarked, “I still cannot get over how much I use my camera almost every day now. It’s become part of my life here. It’s because I have much more time for it now, but it’s also because my eye is drawn to everything around me here. Even the fruits and vegetables look more appealing.”

Philippe drew his chair next to hers. “You know, you’ve only shown me a few shots here and there. It’s time I had a complete retrospective.”

Kat pulled up the file in which she kept what she considered her best work from her growing collection, and the slideshow was on.

Philippe watched it intently and with growing enthusiasm.

“You must take these to André at his gallery and let him see your work,” he said. “I’m serious.”

Kat thanked him, but she thought his opinion was sweetly biased.

“I’m just a picture taker,” she said.