The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Read Free

But she wasn’t.
    Just minutes ago I loved James and now . . . I want to kill him . . . how does this happen . . . ?
    Staggering into the kitchen, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone and dialed James as she stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom. She had no idea what she would say, but she needed to say something.
    No answer.
    She felt mortally wounded. And very, very drunk. Passing out would be her salvation tonight.

    The alarm clock broke through her fog: 5:30 a.m. For a moment her only awareness was of a terrible hangover.
    Reaching over to the emptiness next to her, she remembered. James has left me .
    Sobbing filled the room and grew into piercing wails. She clutched her pillow and, shoulders heaving, buried her face into the soft down. Dampness spread around her head.
    Hurt mingled with sorrow, then anger. At times a sense of panic intruded as she pounded the bed with her fist.
    She cried for her broken life, her broken dreams, and her broken heart. She cried until she ran out of tears and lay empty, it seemed, of everything.
    Painful as it was to lift her head, she reached for the phone and hit the speed dial to her office. Knowing it was too early for anyone to answer, she left voicemail. “Sorry, I’ve got a terrible case of stomach flu and won’t be in today. Probably not tomorrow either, the way I feel right now. I’ll let you know.”
    She already knew she would take these two days off before the week end. Her hangover was just the beginning of her agony.
    Turning over, she fell back to sleep until the phone woke her at noon. As fragile as she felt, she saw her mother’s name on call display and knew she had to answer. Her mom was eighty-five, with a heart condition, and Katherine was always a little nervous when the phone rang.
    “Katica, edesem , I just called your office. When did you get sick? Was it something you ate last night at the Old Mill?”
    Knowing she could not begin to address the truth, Katherine gave a convincing performance as she described a flu bug. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Anyu. I’m sure I’ll be feeling better. Are you okay?”
    “ Igen , I’m fine, but I’m worried about you.”
    “Don’t worry. You know how these things are. A day in bed will fix it.”
    “Well, James will take care of you when he comes home.”
    It was such a stabbing pain, Katherine could barely hold the telephone.
    “Bye.”
    Turning the ringer off as she hung up, Katherine lay still while the room spun around her.
    “Oh no, not the whirlies . . .” she groaned. Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to throw up.
    “I am breathing in. I am breathing out,” she whispered until she felt herself get a grip. This simply does not compute. My entire life has been predictable. This cannot be happening.
    Her parents had placed great importance on a simple, predictable life as they rebuilt theirs in Toronto as Hungarian immigrants in 1949. Katerina Elisabeth Varga was born in Toronto on the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1955, Remembrance Day in Canada. They had always reminded her of this special coincidence. This day symbolized peace, and she had brought peace into their lives.
    She had grown into a quiet and somewhat serious adult although under the surface there was a distinct sense of humor and avid curiosity about life. She had boundless energy, much of which she put into her love of cycling beginning with her bright-red Radio Flyer scooter at age four. With James, the cycling evolved into a passion and consumed most of their recreational time.
    What the hell happened?
    Lying in the softly luxurious bed, which she always hated to leave, she felt no pleasure today. Her head hurt. Everything hurt.
    Gingerly sliding her legs over the side of the bed, she sat with her head in her hands, hoping the nausea would pass. After a few long minutes she went across the hall to her desk. For a moment she contemplated phoning James again but just as quickly decided against it.