The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) by Patricia Sands

rich but worn shades of gold, brown, green, and red, and closed her eyes. Running her fingers over the softness, she envisioned her mother sitting playing on it as a child, joyfully pointing out the colorful animals so skillfully woven into the pattern. She felt a chill at the sadness and fear that would have filled the house as the carpet was rolled up and secreted to Mrs. Sandor to escape being stolen or worse.
    What happiness and sorrow this carpet had known. Her mother’s history lived on in its threads. It would always be there to remind her of this—and to remind her that her problems were not as big as they seemed.

8
    It had already been a month since her mother’s quiet family funeral. Elisabeth’s belongings had been shared among Katherine and Andrea’s family, with the remainder going to charity. Katherine converted the small sewing room that had, in the final months, been her mother’s bedroom back into an office. Otherwise the house was left much as it had been.
    “There’s no reason to rush around making changes,” Katherine said to Andrea when she spent a day with her a few weekends later. “Besides, I like the feeling that this is how Mom and Dad wanted it. I’m not ready to let go of that.”
    Andrea nodded. Katherine went on.
    “Through my counseling I read some helpful books about the process of loss. It never really occurred to me that what I was feeling after James left was initially grief as well—not necessarily for the loss of James, but for everything else that went with our life together.”
    “Do you think that’s helping now with losing your mom?”
    “Definitely. But there’s something else that is dragging me down, and I’ve got to share it with you. It’s part of your history too—and I’ve been putting it off.”
    Katherine walked to the dining room table, where she still had a few items of her mother’s that required attention. Andrea wore a puzzled expression as she was handed the linen-wrapped binder.

    On a Saturday morning later in March, Katherine turned off the main highway just past Kitchener and Waterloo. She never tired of the familiar maze of country roads that wound through abundant farmland leading to Andrea and Terrence’s home.
    Dried brown stubble poked through spots of lingering snow and the feathery plumes on strawlike stems of last year’s pampas grass waved gently in the spring breeze. Driving slowly, she passed several Mennonites in their horse-drawn carriages. A sure sign of spring , she noted, passing many open buggies along with the enclosed models.
    Driving up the narrow laneway to the century farmhouse, Katherine spotted other signals that might not be noticed in the city. The distinctive leaves of skunk cabbage were beginning to unfurl in patches here and there. Clumps of pussy willow planted years before by Andrea and her daughter, Kate, glistened silver when caught by the sun. Snow was melting in patches throughout the forested areas, while the soil in the fields gave the appearance of being almost ready to plow. The heavy snowfalls of the winter had provided for deep watering as they melted, and the furrows of autumn beckoned to be turned as they dried in the sun.
    After a stroll through the property, Andrea and Katherine sat in the warm sun on the front-porch stairs.
    “Okay, Kat,” said Andrea, her voice full of energy and affection, “it’s time to give some serious thought to the future.”
    Rolling her eyes, Kat squinted at her cousin. “I knew this was coming sooner or later.”
    Andrea nodded. “It’s later and it’s time!”
    They sat quietly for a few seconds.
    “The last six months of your life have been . . . um . . . rather dramatic.”
    “To say the least,” Katherine replied, shaking her head.
    “You keep saying you are doing okay, but somehow I sense you aren’t. Talk to me, Kat. Tell me how you’re really feeling. Please!”
    After a lengthy hesitation, Andrea slipped her arm around her cousin’s shoulders