Promises to Keep (17 page)

Once she was back outside, Katherine looked down the sloping garden, past the remnants of a vineyard, a few rows of olive trees, and a large patch of dried brown sunflower stalks. The end of the property was heavily wooded, with no apparent view to the sea. Looking across to Philippe’s property, she could just make out the chimney and the ridge of part of the roof. She wondered if Simone ever ventured down to the sea at the bottom of her property—to the cove. It was unlikely. It wouldn’t be possible for her now. The terrain was too rough and the slope to the sea probably too steep.

The donkey trotted over when called and nuzzled her arm, too polite to simply grab the carrots. “Ah,
burrito
, I know what you want,” she said as she scratched between his ears. He snuffled with contentment and happily ate her gift.

With her back to Simone, Katherine put her hand on the leather ID case. She wrestled with her thoughts for a moment and made her decision. It was always better to be honest and up front.

“He is as happy to see you, as am I,
chérie
,” Simone said from the doorstep, as Katherine came back into the house. “He was bobbing his head at you. That’s his happy move.”

“Then this will be my happy move back,” Katherine replied, turning back and bobbing her head to the donkey. As she looked at the ground for a moment, she was stunned to see a small pile of dark unfiltered cigarette butts neatly gathered by a rock at the side of the path.

Simone motioned her into the large salon. There were several large wicker baskets on the floor that had not been there on earlier visits. Kat took the ID from her pocket and showed it to Simone.

“This was lying at the edge of your driveway.”

Simone’s jaw twitched slightly, but her demeanor remained relaxed.

Simone took the leather case without looking at it, then sat down and patted the cushion beside her. “Sit down with me,
chérie
. We had a commotion last night in the woods near the sea. The police came to my house, and two very fine officers spent the evening here, even after I went to bed. They were such gentlemen, and very handsome, I might add.”

“What was going on?” Kat asked.

Simone gave her a straightforward look. “Do you know, I did not ask. They were not forthcoming, but they assured me they were here to make certain I was safe. Really, that’s all I cared about. I do not have time to worry about other matters. As long as they are being taken care of by other people, that’s all that’s important to me. Perhaps I will hear about it on the news. Perhaps not.”

“Obviously someone dropped this. Shall I make some calls and arrange to return it?” Kat reached out to take the ID back.

Responding just a touch too quickly, Kat thought, Simone assured her she would make the call, and she held on to the leather case. There was a surprisingly emphatic tone to her voice that indicated the matter was not open to discussion.

For a moment Kat considered that perhaps Simone was the police’s secret helper. Then she decided she was letting her imagination run wild. How could Simone be involved when she could barely walk? Inspecteur Thibideau had told Kat not to discuss anything with anyone. If the police were taking steps to ensure Simone was not affected by what they were doing, so much the better. Kat had no doubt it was all connected.

Her gaze wandered the room. A large hearth with a massive log mantle made a dramatic statement against the white walls and white painted stone of the fireplace. As in the studio, all the furniture was painted or upholstered in white. The only colorful things in the room were the bright throw cushions and the rugs scattered on the terra-cotta tiles.

“What a spectacular mantle.” Kat got up to take a closer look.

“
Oui! C’est un beau manteau de cheminée.
It was carved from an old cherry tree on the property that used to have the most spectacular blossoms. We used to lie down on blankets beneath it and pretend the world was a beautiful place.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, as though she had been transported back there by her memory. Then Simone blinked and returned to the present. “Look carefully, you can see initials carved into it.”

Katherine found two sets, “S.G. + G.D.” and “J-L.G. + O.R.,” and rubbed her fingers over the second.

“That is Jean-Luc and Olivier,” Simone said. “The first summer they met, we came here for August, as Parisians do.”

Kat moved her hand to the first set, but Simone said not a word about it.

“
Bon!
This is where we—I mean you—can set up the
crèche
, if you still would like to do so. I will be able to see everything, but I can’t reach up to place all the
santons
.”

“I am happy to do this for you, Simone, and I can’t wait to see your collection.”

As Kat unpacked the wicker baskets—which were full of Christmas decorations—and unwrapped the clay
santons
, Simone told her stories, as if her memories were also being unwrapped.

She had been raised on a dairy farm in Normandy, near Bayeux, she said, where hard work was just part of normal life. Her family produced milk, cheese, and butter that was sold at their local cooperative.

“We were known for the rich flavor of our butter. Papa said it was because Maman had a magic touch with the churn and recited poetry as she worked. Maman said it was because the cows were so content eating the sweet grasses and herbs in our meadows while Papa sang to them. They would tease and argue about this all the time. In those days, people took great pride in what they produced and helped each other as a matter of course.”

“How delightful,” Katherine murmured, picturing it all.

“We were happy,
chérie
. That is my strongest memory: we were happy.”

Simone was the youngest, with three older brothers. When the German occupation began, their life changed dramatically and her father’s health began to decline.

“You cannot imagine how our world was destroyed. The German soldiers made us give them most of our products for nothing. My brothers would hide a separate stash that we shared with neighbors as best we could. It was not long before food was scarce and my brothers, in desperation, secretly slaughtered a cow in the middle of the night. This was discovered, and the Germans took my oldest brother away because he insisted he had done it all on his own. I will never forget the look in his eyes as he stared at us to be quiet. We never saw him again.”

Katherine had to remind herself to continue unwrapping
santons
and put them on the mantle.

“I am certain my father had his first heart attack the night they took Marcel away. He was never the same and grew very weak.”

Simone described how she and her brothers tried to keep the farm running as well as possible.

“There was never enough food and fuel, and we were often cold and hungry. The Germans forbade us to go anywhere unless we had a special pass, so it became difficult to share anything with neighbors or help each other in any way. We stopped going to school, but our mother made certain we read every book in the house and even over again before we had to burn them to keep warm. She would read to my father for hours to distract him from his misery and despair. It’s the only way to escape the brutality for at least a few moments, she would tell us.”

She paused and looked at the scene Katherine was creating on the mantle. “
Merci, chérie.
You are making this old lady very happy and unlocking doors I have kept closed for a long time.”

Pointing, she said, “The
santon
of the woman churning butter, that is one my father gave my mother before I was born. The farmer with the cow at his side is one my mother gave him at the same time. The woman sitting in the chair reading is the first one I gave my mother when we put up the
crèche
again, in Paris, many years after the war.”

She went on to point out others that represented her brothers and other meaningful people or circumstances. Her vivid descriptions of village life made the farming community in Normandy come alive in Kat’s imagination.

“Simone, you paint images with your words just as you do on your canvases,” she said. “You need to record your story so it doesn’t get lost. I could help you.”

“Ah,
oui
. You are right. Let’s do it together in the new year.”

Katherine made a mental note not to forget her promise.

Simone was suddenly wide eyed. “But I invited you for lunch and we have eaten nothing,” she said.

Kat smiled. “Listening has been so much better than eating.”

With the help of her cane, Simone stood up. “Come to the kitchen, where I have everything ready. It’s a simple meal. We can finish the
crèche
later or another time if you have to go.”

Simone asked her to put a covered pottery dish in the preheated oven for fifteen minutes. The dish was still warm from whatever preparation occurred earlier.

A simple salad of greens was sitting in a bowl on the table, and Simone tossed it with her homemade vinaigrette.

Katherine was surprised to see an obviously fresh baguette on an olive-wood cutting board.

Noticing the look, Simone explained. “I don’t eat bread as often as I used to, but when I do, Nathalie at Le Palais du Pain in the market has one of the young men deliver it on his bike. Her grandmother was a good friend of mine. She taught Nathalie all of her baking secrets.”

Soon the timer rang on the stove. Kat pulled the dish out and took off the cover to reveal
escargots
inside large mushroom caps surrounded by a white wine sauce and covered with cheese. She could smell garlic and tarragon in the sauce.

They sat down to eat, and Katherine savored every morsel.

“It’s an old favorite recipe,” Simone said. “I’m sure Philippe has brought the same snails from Gaston at the market. They are from Normandy—the best. Jean-Luc called them the Kobe beef of snails. And the mushrooms are local.”

“And delicious,” Kat said.

They chatted over their food and wine, finishing the meal with a
tarte au citron meringuée
that Simone had made that morning. “I still like to cook and bake, and it’s a pleasure to have someone to share it with.”

“Simone, I don’t mean to be nosy, but how do you manage on your own? You seem to have everything you need.”

“My roots here are long and deep here,
chérie
, and now it is the children and grandchildren of my old friends and shopkeepers who help out. Thank goodness Antibes is still a town of small businesses that have stayed in families for generations. It’s something that is disappearing quickly in France.
Quel dommage.
What a pity.

“Monsieur Rousseau delivers from the market on Fridays. I e-mail him my list. My needs are few. His wife, Madame Rousseau—I have never used their first names, just like in the old days—she comes with him and stays for two hours to clean. He comes by to pick her up after his deliveries. They are kind and thoughtful and do not pry. I like that.”

“So you have a computer. That’s very good.”

“Yes, Jean-Luc had one of the first and was adamant that I learn how to use one. I understood quite easily, as my job involved electronics. Oh, I didn’t get that far in my story, did I?
Eh bien
, for another day!”

Katherine was shocked when she checked her watch and saw it was already almost 4:00 p.m.

“
Désolée!
I have kept you from your afternoon rest. The hours just flew by. Shall I finish with the
santons
?”

“
Non, non, chérie.
Away you go. You have made a wonderful display as it is.”

“Would you like me to come back tomorrow and finish?”

“Only if you wish.”

Kat had said not a word about what had happened to her the previous night. However, she had the sense that Simone already knew all about it. There was just something in the look she gave Katherine when she gave her the leather ID case. Perhaps it would all come out in time.

That evening Kat made another batch of shortbread cookies and attempted to keep a few to give away.

“
Mon Dieu
, these are sinful,” Philippe said. “You could set up shop selling these.”

Kat popped another in her mouth. “They are addictive, but I want to save some to take to Simone. I’m going to go back tomorrow to finish putting up her
santons
. She seemed so delighted to see them.”

“
Tu es gentille
, Minou
.
You are being so kind to this woman.”

“I like her a lot. She’s so thoughtful and interesting and alive. I know from the childhood stories she told me that she is ninety-one! Imagine! Still living on her own, and painting and cooking. I love it!”

“I can’t stop thinking about her telling you the police were at her house yesterday. I agree with you, though, they were probably just warning her that they would be keeping an eye on the cove. I’d give anything to know what they are really doing.”

“I don’t want to know. I just want it to be over.”

“Has she told you yet how she knows me?”