and something spicy. I got out of the car quickly before I gave in to the urge to fall into his arms and sob.
I could see the steeple of the church and I wound my way through the narrow streets toward it. The locals eyed me suspiciously. I was on a mission, so I didn't take time to make nice with them. It was easy to find the church. Finding my mother's grave was more difficult. The church was built in the middle of the town. There were no fields or trees or lilac bushes around it. I looked at my map. There was a castle above the village with a windmill nearby. Perhaps her family found a place for her there. Then again, maybe they buried her on their own land. I would be trespassing if I tried to go there, and, besides, I didn't know where that was anyway. I had a moment of panic.
About that time I saw an elderly lady coming out of the church. I stopped her and asked if she knew anyone from the Villeneuve family who might be able to help me find my mother's grave. She looked up into my eyes and it was all I could do not to collapse in hysterical tears. She looked at me with my mother's eyes. Then she said softly in my mother's voice, "You are Marianne. I am your aunt Marcelline I always knew someday you would come."
She took me by the arm and we walked through the village. The locals seemed to know who I was now simply by virtue of her response to me. Instead of suspicious glances, I was greeted with smiles and cheery 'bon jours.' Aunt Marcelline was an old lady, with a dowager's hump, but she was strong and in great shape. She walked at a brisk pace, and told me the story of my family while we walked. You've heard most of that already. She took me to the edge of the village and beyond, stopping in front of an ancient stone house with a dairy next door. A few cows stood in a paddock beyond. It was an almost idyllic looking place, if you didn't look too close. Up close the grinding poverty was obvious.
Aunt Marcelline took me around the house, but she didn't invite me inside. We made our way through the yard which was filled with herbs and flowers. Beyond that she led me into the paddock which was a small square of green surrounded by the white rocky terrain that lead up to the Vaucluse plateau. She stopped and pointed to the highest corner of the paddock where there was a small stone bench and a large beautiful lilac bush. She put her claw-like hand on my arm and whispered, "That was your mother's favorite place to sit when she was a child. We put buried her there when she came back to us."
She turned back to the house. I made my way across the paddock, stepping around cow pies and weeds. I sat down on the bench and looked at the incredible view, which was already familiar because my mother had described it to me so many times when I was a child. It was exactly as she had described it. While it was certainly beautiful and peaceful, it was also remote, and very, very poor. For the first time, I had a flash of understanding as to why Maman had to leave her home, despite her love for the place, and why she never went back despite missing it so terribly every day of her life.
My mother loved excitement and fun. She liked to eat and drink. She loved men. As much as she loved her home, and missed it every day when she was far away, she could never have lived out her life there. It was a good place to be buried, however, and I was glad I had sent her home to be buried in the spot she loved so much.
In a little while, I composed myself and went back to Aunt Marcelline's house. She had brought out some wine and cheese and bread into the courtyard. Several cousins and other shirt-tail relations had stopped by as well. I couldn't help but be amused to think that this impromptu gathering of family with food was exactly the way Southerners greet long-lost relatives. My mother always told me that, despite its parochial ways, she thought she was more at home in the South than she would have been anyplace else in America. It occurred to me that day she might have been right.
We had lunch and talked about our families. I showed them pictures of you and of my mother when she lived in Charleston. They showed me some photos of Maman before she left her home. They also showed me photos of her parents and a bunch of other relatives. Way too soon for me, it was obvious they had to go back to work. It was up to me to break up the party, so I did. With hugs and tears and some cheese to go, I made my way back to the village.
When I walked into the caf? it was about 2:45. Luke was having coffee with the owner. He waved me to the table. The owner asked me if I wanted coffee or wine, and he kissed my hand. Luke grinned and said, "I think he's your cousin."
I smiled back at him and whispered, "I think they all are."
Philippe brought me a glass of wine and Luke a Perrier. We chatted for a little while. Philippe was Aunt Marcelline's oldest son. I had told the family about my life, but I had not mentioned Luke. I was concerned that, if they learned I had arrived with Luke Payne, they might think I was lying or hiding something. Philippe laughed and tossed his cigarette in the gutter. "Cherie, there are probably few regular residents of this village who have ever heard of M. Payne. Most of them think everyone in America is rich, so it does not matter that you work in a bistro and he is a movie star. Compared with most of them, you are both rich."
I leaned forward and said, "What about you? What do you think?"
He shrugged in the manner only a true Frenchman could accomplish and said, "Me? Most of my clients, at least in the winter, are rich people from all over Europe and America. I see their clothes and their jewelry. I hear their talk. I have to stock expensive wine and liquor that only they can afford. But I live here, so I live the way everyone else lives."
I smiled at him and winked, "You're my mother's nephew. I'm betting that you have quite a nice nest egg squirreled away. You may even have a home somewhere on the Cote d'Azur or someplace. When your mother passes, you will leave this place. I hope you will be as happy as my mother was."
He cocked his head. "Was she happy? Your mother?"
"Yes, she was. She missed France. She missed her family. She missed the beauty of Provence with every breath. But, she enjoyed life. She was the queen of the kitchen in the Olympia Restaurant. She was probably the only French chef in the world who could make killer cheese grits and fried chicken livers that even the colored ladies who were her sous chefs couldn't match. She wasn't rich, but she had a lot of friends. She had a lot of fun."
"She never married again after your father died?"
I paused for a long time, considering how to answer diplomatically but truthfully. I opted for the plain truth. "No. She never married again. I don't mean to be disrespectful to her memory, and I love her no less for acknowledging the truth of this. She got what she wanted out of her marriage to my father. She got to America and she got a child. I doubt seriously she expected Papa would die so soon or that Maw Maw would die and leave her house to me. That was pretty much all she ever wanted out of life. After that, Maman worked hard in the restaurant, but she also had a lot of fun."
"She had many girl friends."
"No. She hand many boy friends. My mother loved men. And men loved my mother."
Philippe nodded, "From what I have heard, that was the problem."
"I figured as much."
I glanced at my watch and at Luke, who was lounging in his chair looking totally relaxed and almost half asleep. I could tell somehow that he was listening to the conversation intently. I glanced at him and raised my eyebrows. He smiled.
We stood up almost simultaneously and shook Philippe's hand. I gave him my address and asked him to keep in touch. I wrote down his address and promised to do the same. Luke gave him the picnic lunch Marie-Claire had packed for us instructing him to make a party in the Villeneuve family. Philippe tried to decline, but Luke insisted. He winked and said that if he and I brought the picnic back uneaten, we would have to face a very angry French cook, and neither of us was courageous enough for that. Philippe accepted the gift as a favor to us.
As we drove through the village on our way back to Gorges, every person we passed waved at us as though we belonged there, because in a way, we did. Or, at least I did.
We did not talk very much for a while. Luke was a good driver but the road was very
narrow and steep. Luke was concentrating on his driving, and I did not want to disturb him. After a while he said, "I had never been to St. Saturnin-les-Apts. It's a beautiful place. Do you want to talk about your day?"
I said, "First of all, I want to thank you for bringing me on this outing. I will never forget the kindness."
He shrugged like a Frenchman.
"It was a much better experience than I expected. For one thing, it never occurred to me that I would meet anyone in my family. What are the chances of running into my aunt?"
Luke made a face, "In a town with only a handful of permanent residents virtually all of whom are your relatives, I'd say the chances were very, very good."
"Well, when you put it that way, I guess so. I just never realized it was such a small town. It never occurred to me Maman would have so much family still there."
"The way I heard it, I think she was about the only one in her generation who left. The biggest concern among the locals is that most of the kids are leaving now. Provence is becoming very popular with foreign tourists. If it's lucky, St. Saturnin-les-Apts may become a sort of artist's haven. The old residents will leave and/or die off, as is happening in most of the rest of the small towns and villages all over France, and the US for that