chagrined.
She packed several wines and cheeses (carefully chosen by Philippe) and set off, using the GPS to point the way through Antibes to Route E80.
She cranked up the volume for an album of her favorite songs by French jazz singer Zaz and sang along, filling the car with happy energy. One of the things she loved about driving alone was being able to sing at the top of her lungs.
The song felt like her anthem now—love, joy, good spirits. That was the happiness she had in her life now, or so she thought. She wished she knew what was going on with Philippe and why he would say that she might not want to stay. Those were the words she wanted to forget.
The first rays of sunset were brushing the high, jagged peaks ahead with pink after she left the E80 for the road up to Entrevaux. She felt carefree as she left traffic and the road carried her up into the wild, remote hills. Hairpin curves demanded her focus.
But despite her efforts not to dwell on the previous trip up this road, her thoughts kept flickering back to them. First to Philippe’s discovery of the note on the car and then to what now seemed like a bad dream: the terrifying moments in the car.
“A frickin’ car chase? And no cops involved after?” had been Molly’s incredulous reaction when they Skyped the day after the trip to Entrevaux. Kat had shared every detail, and they had tried to come up with some logical explanation, to no avail. Molly agreed with Kat that she should be patient and wait for Philippe’s explanation.
“As long as you’re safe, girlfriend.” Kat had assured Molly that she was. She didn’t mention his saying she might not want to stay with him. She couldn’t say that out loud. Not even to Molly.
Blowing out a long sigh now, Kat brought her attention once again to the sharp turns on the road and felt a shiver run up her spine as she drove through the railroad crossing.
Soon the road straightened and she was in the deep valley overlooked by the fort at Entrevaux.
She left the car at the parking lot at the train station and walked up the hill to the gatehouse. Unable to resist, she set down the cooler and the overnight bag she was carrying to take a few photos in the dying light.
Once across the bridge, she felt the same thrill walking under the ancient portcullis as before. She walked up to the first square, certain she would find the green door to Véronique’s house without a problem.
Minutes later, back in the main square, she made a phone call. “I’m going in circles. Au secours! Help!”
Véronique directed her to wait on the bench by the fountain and, within no time, tapped her on the shoulder.
“I was that close?”
“You and everyone else the first time they come back.”
They dropped Katherine’s bag at the house and decided to go for a walk through the town in the dying light. Along the way, Véronique charmed and fascinated her with stories of some of the families who had lived there for generations.
They ate dinner at the cozy bistro she and Philippe had noted on their visit. The wine flowed freely, and when the owner brought a tray loaded with piquant cheeses to the table, Véronique invited him and his wife, friends of hers, to join them. Since they were the only customers, another bottle of wine appeared.
“ Un cadeau —a gift,” the proprietor said with a smile.
The conversation rolled on, drifting between French and English and shifting seamlessly from one topic to another.
Katherine asked about their life in Entrevaux. She was reminded once more how much this country’s history was engrained in the lives of its citizens, with so many families keeping roots in an area for hundreds of years.
As the two women strolled back to the house, their conversation turned to art and to what inspired them most for their own work. Once they were seated at the kitchen table over a nightcap of cognac, Véronique started to talk intimately about how growing old made her feel and how, as her sex life
She packed several wines and cheeses (carefully chosen by Philippe) and set off, using the GPS to point the way through Antibes to Route E80.
She cranked up the volume for an album of her favorite songs by French jazz singer Zaz and sang along, filling the car with happy energy. One of the things she loved about driving alone was being able to sing at the top of her lungs.
The song felt like her anthem now—love, joy, good spirits. That was the happiness she had in her life now, or so she thought. She wished she knew what was going on with Philippe and why he would say that she might not want to stay. Those were the words she wanted to forget.
The first rays of sunset were brushing the high, jagged peaks ahead with pink after she left the E80 for the road up to Entrevaux. She felt carefree as she left traffic and the road carried her up into the wild, remote hills. Hairpin curves demanded her focus.
But despite her efforts not to dwell on the previous trip up this road, her thoughts kept flickering back to them. First to Philippe’s discovery of the note on the car and then to what now seemed like a bad dream: the terrifying moments in the car.
“A frickin’ car chase? And no cops involved after?” had been Molly’s incredulous reaction when they Skyped the day after the trip to Entrevaux. Kat had shared every detail, and they had tried to come up with some logical explanation, to no avail. Molly agreed with Kat that she should be patient and wait for Philippe’s explanation.
“As long as you’re safe, girlfriend.” Kat had assured Molly that she was. She didn’t mention his saying she might not want to stay with him. She couldn’t say that out loud. Not even to Molly.
Blowing out a long sigh now, Kat brought her attention once again to the sharp turns on the road and felt a shiver run up her spine as she drove through the railroad crossing.
Soon the road straightened and she was in the deep valley overlooked by the fort at Entrevaux.
She left the car at the parking lot at the train station and walked up the hill to the gatehouse. Unable to resist, she set down the cooler and the overnight bag she was carrying to take a few photos in the dying light.
Once across the bridge, she felt the same thrill walking under the ancient portcullis as before. She walked up to the first square, certain she would find the green door to Véronique’s house without a problem.
Minutes later, back in the main square, she made a phone call. “I’m going in circles. Au secours! Help!”
Véronique directed her to wait on the bench by the fountain and, within no time, tapped her on the shoulder.
“I was that close?”
“You and everyone else the first time they come back.”
They dropped Katherine’s bag at the house and decided to go for a walk through the town in the dying light. Along the way, Véronique charmed and fascinated her with stories of some of the families who had lived there for generations.
They ate dinner at the cozy bistro she and Philippe had noted on their visit. The wine flowed freely, and when the owner brought a tray loaded with piquant cheeses to the table, Véronique invited him and his wife, friends of hers, to join them. Since they were the only customers, another bottle of wine appeared.
“ Un cadeau —a gift,” the proprietor said with a smile.
The conversation rolled on, drifting between French and English and shifting seamlessly from one topic to another.
Katherine asked about their life in Entrevaux. She was reminded once more how much this country’s history was engrained in the lives of its citizens, with so many families keeping roots in an area for hundreds of years.
As the two women strolled back to the house, their conversation turned to art and to what inspired them most for their own work. Once they were seated at the kitchen table over a nightcap of cognac, Véronique started to talk intimately about how growing old made her feel and how, as her sex life
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