Rockport: a day in the sun

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One of my favorite things to do in the summer is to take the commuter rail from Boston up to Rockport on Cape Ann. I love the shops and galleries, the tiny town beach, and the quaint and historic flavor of the town. Rockport, the home of the indigenous Agawam people, was settled in the late 1600s by members of the Massachusetts Bay Colony who established a fishing village. Originally part of nearby Gloucester, Rockport became incorporated as a separate town in 1840. At that time, the town supported a thriving granite industry. Granite from Rockport was shipped all over the country. Today, Rockport is known for its scenic harbor, artist community historic Bearskin Neck and the famous, much painted and photographed red fisherman’s shack, Motif No. 1. During my annual trips to the quaint seaside town, I have taken many photos , which have inspired my newest photo essay.

Rockport: a day in the sun

Pouring the aromatic cinnamon tea from the white china pot into her matching cup, Poppy Goodwine settled back into the cushioned wicker arm chair.  She took a sip of tea and savored the warm cinnamon flavor accented with a hint of orange.  Poppy would miss breakfasting here on the wrap-around porch of the historic inn that had been her home for the past week.  She would have to ask Alice, the innkeeper, for her scone recipe and look for this blend of tea at her local gourmet shop in Vermont.

With a soft clink, she set her cup on its saucer and took a long look at the deep blue, sunlit ocean before pushing back her chair ready to carry on with her final day of vacation.

“So lovely,” she murmured to herself. 

Down on the beach, gentle waves lapped the shore.  Employees from the inn were busy setting up lounge chairs and pink umbrellas in the sand.  An elderly couple with a golden retriever on a long leash walked along the water’s edge and one brave  soul was swimming out to a raft anchored in front of the inn.

In the lobby, Poppy stopped at the front desk to drop off a stack of postcards to be mailed.

The innkeeper, a middle aged woman with long, chestnut hair twisted into a thick braid and a sprinkling of freckles on her tanned cheeks, greeted her warmly. “How was your bike ride this morning?”

“It was great, Alice,” Poppy said. “I rode out to Halibut Point.  What a pretty ride!”

“I love exploring the Babson Farm Quarry there.  Years ago, Rockport used to have a successful granite industry.  One of the first settlers was a granite cutter, you know. Did you go by the old quarry? “

“I did.  And through some leafy woods and then along the shore.  I stopped to take some pictures at the quarry,” Poppy said, pushing her round glasses up to the bridge of her nose.  “This week, I’ve been researching my family history.  As it turns out, some of my ancestors worked in the quarries.”

“Wow!  So you’re practically a local.”

“I guess I am.”  Poppy checked her watch.  “I’m off to town now  for one more afternoon of poking around the shops and galleries before heading home tomorrow morning.  I’m going to miss Rockport.”

“Well, I hope you’ll come back soon,” Alice said with a cheerful wave.

Rockport’s town center was bustling with visitors.  Poppy joined the crowds strolling along Bearskin Neck.  She popped into a small and friendly independent bookshop to pick up a couple of local history books recommended by Alice.  While there she looked at the shelves of staff picks, reading the handwritten reviews posted on index cards.  One of the booksellers had highlighted Poppy’s favorite book, Wild Designs by Katie Fforde.

As she headed back out into the sunshine and walked down the street to a popular ice cream shop she thought about Katie Fforde’s character, Althea, an aspiring garden designer and divorced mother of three who was at a crossroads in her life.  

Poppy  waited in line in the tiny shop  to order a small cup of key lime pie ice cream, which she took outside to the garden patio.  Once she was settled into one of the candy cane cafe tables scattered around the patio, Poppy decided she would pull out the tattered copy of her favorite novel from her bookshelf when she got home and read it one more time. 

As a widowed mother with a college-aged daughter who also loved planting and growing flowers, she identified with Althea. Although Poppy was happy and secure in her job running the local historical society, unlike Althea, who was made redundant at the beginning of the novel, she felt like she might be ready for a change.  A new challenge.

As she scraped the last bit of ice cream from the bottom of her paper cup, Poppy’s phone rang.  She dug it out of the bottom of her green and blue plaid backpack and checked the display.  Her sister, Violet, was calling.

“Hey Violet.  What’s up,” she said.

“Are you home?  How was Rockport?”

“Rockport is great.  I’m still here.  I love the inn where I’m staying.  A lot of famous people have stayed there.  Like Paul Newman.  Can you believe it?  Also, they have a salt water pool!” Poppy stretched her legs out and settled back in her chair.  “Right now, I’m sitting in a beautiful garden in the sun, eating some creamy and tart key lime pie ice cream.  I’m going home tomorrow.”

“Sounds delightful.” Violet always sprinkled her conversation with nostalgic words like delightful or splendid or swell. “What else have you done?”

“I’ve gone to a bunch of fabulous art galleries.  Yesterday, I spent more than an hour in a gallery of an amazing glass artist.  Mom would have loved it.  You know how she raves over the Glass Museum in Sandwich and she’s featured glass artists in her own gallery all the time.”

Violet laughed and said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself.”

“Oh, and I did a bit of family research at the library and historical society here.  I found out that some of our ancestors worked in the granite quarries here on Cape Ann.  It was really cool to visit the quarries where they worked.  This morning, I took a bike ride to the state park where one of the quarries was.  I walked around imagining what it must have been like two hundred years ago and took a lot of pictures.”

“You’re really making progress on our family history.  First in Ireland and now in Rockport.”

“Our trip to Ireland was unforgettable.”

“It certainly was,” Violet agreed.

“My favorite day was when we were in Cork and found all those church records listing Mom’s great great grandparents.”

“And then we visited the house where they worked as a maid and stable hand.  Our family history came alive that day.  What are you going to do with all this information you’re collecting?” Violet asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps you should write a book,” Violet suggested.  “We seem to have some intriguing characters in our family tree.”

“Really?  Do you think I could do that?” Poppy twirled a strand of red-gold hair around her finger as her mind began racing with ideas.

“Of course you can.  You’re a marvelous storyteller and an excellent writer.”

“Thanks, Violet.”

Poppy smiled and hugged herself after finishing the phone call.  Maybe Violet was right.  Writing her family history could be just the challenge she needed.

Family Connections Abroad

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In 1992, my cousin and I journeyed to Ireland. Our grandmother’s family came from County Cavan. Although our travel itinerary did not take us to northwest Ireland, we did visit several charming locations in the south, including Blarney. The photographs I took on the afternoon we toured Blarney Castle have inspired the story below of the Goodwine sisters and their journey to discover their family history.

Sisters, Poppy and Violet Goodwine stood, hands on hips, gazing up at the ancient, stone  edifice of Blarney Castle.  A soft summer breeze stirred the air and the sun peeked through a thin layer of clouds.  The vast  tower house gardens were in bloom filling the air with the scent of roses.

“What a glorious day,” Violet remarked, heading toward the castle entrance.  “Shall we go kiss the Blarney stone before our tour of Blarney House?”

“I’d at least like to look at it,” Poppy said.  She glanced up at the castle battlements where the stone was located and shivered.  “I think I’m eloquent enough though.”

Violet put her arm around her younger sister’s shoulder.  “No worries, Poppy.  I know heights distress you.  But you have to accompany me to take my picture.”

“Sure. Okay,” Poppy said, twirling a strand of red gold hair around her slender finger..  With one more glance at the towering fortress, Poppy pushed her round glasses to the bridge of her nose and swallowed her fear. “But after this, I want to wander through the estate gardens,” she said as she followed Violet through the castle gate.

Inside the thick stone walls of the tower house, they walked into the Great Hall and came upon a trio of young musicians, a boy and two girls who were so similar in appearance that they most certainly must be siblings.  The girls played the flute and the harp, while their brother made his bow dance over the strings of his fiddle.

Grabbing Violet’s arm,  Poppy paused to watch the musicians and listen to the lilting Irish tune they played.  The merry strains of music filled the chamber, recalling long gone days when the Lord of Muscry and his family would have entertained their guests right there in the Great Hall.  As the sisters listened to the performance, Poppy whispered, “Don’t  you think those three look like they come from the same family?  I wonder if they have ancestors connected to the castle like we do.”

That morning, the Goodwine sisters  had visited the local town hall and parish church to explore available genealogical records.  Poppy, a skilled archivist, was in her element.  Combing through the heavy old books and deciphering the spidery handwriting, she had discovered a wealth of family history about their mother’s Irish relatives.

Violet brushed her dark bangs off her forehead and gazed at the musicians, considering her sister’s questions. She replied in a low voice, “If they’re locals they might be related to the MacCarthy or Jeffreys families.  Or maybe they are descendants of a lady’s maid and a gardener who served the lofty family like us.  Whoever they are, they certainly are talented.”

The musical trio concluded their performance, and the small crowd of visitors who had gathered around to listen applauded.

“That was lovely,” said Violet, turning toward the stairs that led to the legendary Blarney Stone.  Poppy followed Violet’s determined figure step by step up to the battlements. Both women had to catch their breath when they reached the top.  

A stunning view of the estate rolled out beneath them in a tapestry of vibrant colors.  Emerald  lawns.  Cerulean sky brushed with wisps of white clouds.  Splashes of crimson, lavender, and golden yellow in the gardens.  Beyond a copse of trees, they caught a glimpse of the  pinnacles and turrets of Blarney House, the Scots Baronial mansion where the Goodwine ancestors had worked. 

Poppy drank in the view, filled with a sense of wonder.  Her third great grandmother and grandfather had been born and grown up in the village of Blarney  before leaving all that was familiar to cross the ocean and seek their fortunes in New England.

“We are so lucky to be here where Mom’s family originated, aren’t we,” she said to her sister.

“Yes, indeed,” Violet agreed.  “We certainly are.”

A Blissful Week Away

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The smallest of the Leeward Islands, Anguilla is a British Overseas Territory in the Caribbean Sea.  Home to 33 white sand beaches, this little island is an ideal spot for a relaxing, sun-filled getaway.  In 2019, as a passenger on a Star Clippers cruise, I spent a delightful afternoon with my family on the beach at Sandy Ground.  We settled into a row of beach chairs in front of the popular Elvis’ Beach Bar, ready to soak in the sun, and bury our feet in the luxurious sand while sipping festive drinks with nostalgic names like Love Me Tender or Blue Suede.   We all had a grand time.  Before we knew it, the tender (or navette) arrived to carry us back to our clipper ship anchored out in the bay.  After this small taste of island life on Anguilla, I did some reading about this lovely destination and now I’m eager to return some day to explore more of its history and culture along with one or two more beaches. In the meantime, I am sharing some photos from my day at the beach, which have inspired the photo essay below.

“Oh no,” Violet  Goodwine cried as she circled her arms in a wild attempt to keep  her balance.  Despite her  efforts, she splashed down into the crystal clear bay at Sandy Ground.  The cool water soothed her sunburned skin as she bobbed back up to the surface.  She swam a few strokes to retrieve her paddle floating on the calm water a few feet from the bamboo board she had rented from her beachside hotel.

Her paddle boarding instructor, Marco, offered encouraging words as she heaved herself back onto her board and rose slowly to a standing position. “You’re doing very well,” he said.  “Everyone falls sometimes. Are you sure this is your first time paddle boarding?”

Violet grinned at the stocky, middle-aged man clad in a perfectly dry tee shirt bearing the name and logo of her boutique hotel.  “Yes, most definitely,” she said, as she pushed her dripping hair out of her eyes. “Actually, I was rather glad to take the plunge.  The water is so refreshing.”

He laughed and glanced at his waterproof watch.  “Sadly, it’s time to head back in.  I have another lesson in a quarter of an hour.  Would you like to practice paddle boarding again tomorrow?”

”If only I could,” Violet sighed.  “This is my last day here.  I fly home tomorrow.”

As they steered their boards to shore, Violet took in the view of the crowded and colorful beach. Wooden lounge chairs adorned with blue and yellow striped cushions and shaded by matching sun umbrellas lined the shoreline. Up on the bluff the brilliant white stucco walls and red tiled roof of the hotel rose into the cloudless cerulean sky. A gentle sea breeze carried the burbling music of a steel drum band out across the water.  Violet thought she recognized the tune to one of favorite songs by Carly Simon.  Wishing she had her camera, Violet filed away this idyllic view in her memory, knowing it would warm her heart on cold winter days ahead at home in Maine.

Back in the cool comfort of her room, Violet took a quick shower and dressed in her favorite pair of lavender capris and an eyelet top. The sun would set at 6:12.  She had plans to meet her hotel neighbor, Sophia, at the Elvis Beach Bar.  The past two evenings, they had meandered over to the popular bar to take in the Caribbean sunset.  Violet couldn’t miss out on this charming island tradition on her last night.

Sophia, a widow from upstate New York, was staying two doors down the hallway.  Like Violet, she was a solo traveler.  The two women had struck up a friendship over coffee and croissants in the breakfast room.  As they chatted, they discovered that they had similar taste in music and books and that they were both enthusiastic seamstresses. Feeling grateful for this holiday friendship and hoping she and Sophia would stay in touch, Violet checked her reflection in the full-length mirror.  Her short auburn hair neatly framed her  sun-kissed face and her gold hoop earrings and locket added the finishing touch to her outfit.  Widening her large, sherry-colored eyes, Violet gave herself a satisfied nod, grabbed her purse from the overstuffed arm chair by the window and headed out the door.

The beach bar was humming when Violet arrived.  Piped in music filled the air as a calypso band set up on the small stage.  Violet wove her way through the tables to the bar and waved when she spotted Sophia, who was dressed in a vibrant orange sundress.  As she approached the bar, a server delivered a plate of jerk chicken strips and two glasses of wine.

Violet scooted herself onto the bar stool beside her friend.  “Wow,” she said, gesturing at the food. “This looks marvelous.  Thanks!”  She reached for a glass of rosé and took an appreciative sip.  “How was your day?” she asked.

”Excellent,” said Sophia.  “I went to the Ani Art Academy.  They have a fantastic exhibition of student work on display now.  What about you?”

Violet told her about her paddle boarding adventure and then changed the subject. “Do you often travel on your own?” she wondered.

“I do. Of course, I used to travel with my husband.” A momentary shadow of grief clouded her face.  With a small sigh, she went on, “When he passed away, I was a little nervous about traveling without him, but I couldn’t give it up. There is still so much of the world I want to see.”

Violet  nodded knowingly and both women took a sip of wine.  They fell into a comfortable silence and gazed out at the ocean where the glowing golden sun hovered on the horizon. 

After a moment, Sophia said, “Ever since my first solo trip to Portugal, I’ve realized how much I like vacationing by myself. It makes me feel so brave and independent.”

“Good for you,” Violet said, reaching for a chicken strip with her fork. “You know, we’ve had an increasing number of single women staying at my inn over the past few years.”

“Tell me more about the hotel where you work,” Sophia said. “How does it compare to our hotel here?”

Violet paused, considering.  “They are completely different, but each wonderful in its own way,” she explained.  “My hotel is a lovely old inn on the Maine coast. Originally, it was the home of one of the town founders.  A ship builder who lived there with his wife and their 9 children.” 

“It must be pretty big to fit such a large family.”

Violet nodded. “There are twelve rooms, each with its own character or personality, if you will, and all brimming with New England charm.  They’re named for different towns in Maine.”

“What a cool idea.  Do you have a favorite room?”

“Hmm . . .” Violet tapped a manicured finger against the base of her wine glass.  “Good question.  I think I’d have to say that our Brunswick Suite is the best.  It’s certainly popular with our guests. The stone fireplace and built-in book shelves make it snug and cozy,” said Violet.  

“It sounds perfect. I spent a lot of time on the Maine coast during college. I went to Colby, but it’s been years since I’ve been back,” Sophia said, checking her watch. “6:10. Almost sunset time,” she added.

Both women turned in their seats to look at the colorful western sky now streaked with violet and deep pink. The sun floated on the edge of the ocean for a dramatic moment and then disappeared.

Thinking about watching the sun set behind a grove of pine trees from the inn’s sunroom back in Maine, Violet was overtaken by a wave of homesickness. She signed, and said, “I’ve had a marvelous time this week, but I’m actually looking forward to getting back home,” she said.

“It has been a lovely week,” Sophia agreed. “I’m glad we met.” She gave Violet a hopeful smile.  “Perhaps this summer I’ll venture up to New England and book the Brunswick Suite at your inn.”

“That would be grand!” Violet’s mind was already filled with plans for the anticipated visit. “You’re welcome anytime.”

No Place Like Home

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This month, I enjoyed a three-day solo retreat to my hometown, Madison, CT. I stayed in a lovely, historic inn across the street from the library and half a block from my favorite bookstore. What an ideal location! During my stay, I had a grand time shopping, going to the cinema, visiting the library, walking on the beach and reminiscing with a lifelong friend while dining on excellent Asian cuisine. Of course, I took a lot of pictures. The selection of photos in the slideshow below have inspired my newest photo essay.

Happy Reading!

When she was a little girl, Kathryn Moore always looked forward to the family road trip to Connecticut. Instead of sending her to camp, Kat’s parents would take her to visit her grandmother in New England every summer. The drive from Delaware took hours, but Kat didn’t mind. She would stretch out in the backseat and read or play the license plate game with her father, while her mother drove their roomy station wagon. They would always stop for lunch at a clam shack on the northern tip of the Jersey shore and then walk on the beach before piling back into the car.

Upon reaching their destination, Kat’s grandmother would be waiting on the wide, shady porch of her nineteenth century house, a welcoming smile lighting up her elegant face. She lived in one of the historic homes across from the town green within walking distance of the cinema, the public library and the local bookstore. Kat would jump out of the car and run up the porch steps ready, for five weeks of fun in her Gram’s shoreline town. Mom and Dad would stay for a few days and then head back to Delaware, always returning at the end of the visit to pick her up.

Now, twenty years later, Kat lived in the top floor of the house across from the green. The old house had been turned into two condominiums, and she was lucky enough to purchase one of them when she landed a teaching job at the town’s elementary school. Her downstairs neighbor, a jolly woman named Flora, who was about ten years older than Kat, worked at the library down the street. They quickly became great friends.

On the Saturday after Labor Day, Kat, dressed in khaki capris and a pink polo shirt, relaxed barefooted in a cushioned wicker rocker on the wraparound porch with Flora, who sat cross legged on a matching couch. Panda, Flora’s tuxedo cat, perched on the wide porch railing purring in the afternoon sunshine. Two neighborhood children clattered by on their bicycles, and across the street the postman made his way along the block delivering mail.

As the two friends sipped chilled glasses of rosé and snacked on cheese and crackers, they talked about Kat’s first week of school in her new kindergarten classroom.

“I have just fifteen kids in my class, seven boys and eight girls. Believe it or not, they are all so sweet and well behaved,” Kat said. She laughed, crossing her fingers and added, “So far.”

Flora smiled and reached for a wheat cracker and slice of Brie. “Fifteen sounds like the perfect class size,” she said.

“By the way, they loved the story hour books you suggested, especially If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

“Happy to help,” Flora said, raising her cracker in a toast. “I’m glad the children are so delightful. What about your fellow teachers? Are you settling in with the faculty?”

“I think so. I’m having a bit of trouble remembering everyone’s name. The other kindergarten teacher, Ms. Hope, is great though. She wants to collaborate with me on projects our kids can do together, which is fantastic. I think she’ll be a good friend.” Kat set her wine glass down on the wicker table and clasped her hands under her chin. “And I really like the principal. She’s totally supportive.”

Flora nodded and flipped her long auburn braid over her shoulder. “Very good. Having a supportive boss is important. Our library director is wonderful. We’re both blessed to have jobs we like.”

“My Gram always said that enjoying your profession was the most important thing. I think she was right.”

“Do you think your grandmother’s spirit guided you back here?” Flora asked, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Here you are in her hometown, living in her house and starting a new career that seems perfect for you. It must be fate.”

“Could be,” Kat said thoughtfully. She leaned back and let her gaze wander, taking in the cozy porch and friendly neighborhood. “I have so many happy memories of my summers with my grandmother. I feel like I’ve come home.”

Traveler v. Tourist

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When I go on vacation to a new destination, I like to think of myself as a traveler, rather than a tourist. Although I do enjoy sighteeing, I also love exploring the culture and daily life of the people who live in the country I am visiting. Shortly after my now husband and I decided to get married, we took an “engagementmoon” to St. Lucia to celebrate. We stayed at a wonderful all-inclusive resort and had a marvelous, relaxing time. However, I do wish we had ventured outside of the resort a bit more. The locals who worked at the resort were so warm and friendly, I would have appreciated learning more about their culture and island life. In the photo essay inspired by these vacation pictures, my character, Violet Goodwine, discovers the unique qualities of life on St. Lucia at Hotel Chocolat, and the Gros Islet Street Party.

On Friday morning, Violet Goodwine, strolled by the lagoon shaped pool on her way to the main lobby of the resort. A group of hotel guests stood in the low end following the instructions of the water aerobics teacher. About half of the lounge chairs circling the pool were already occupied. It was another sunny day in St. Lucia.

Violet had spent the first couple of days of her vacation relaxing by the pool, drinking colorful cocktails and walking on the beach. The resort was a beautiful, luxurious retreat, but after two days, Violet was ready to venture out and explore more of the island.

Strolling into the lobby, she pulled a stack of postcards from her hand-woven straw bag. She gave the postcards to the concierge, and asked him about day trips around the island. While they were talking, someone tapped Violet on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a vaguely familiar woman said in an Australian accent. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re looking for an excursion today, isn’t that right?”

“Right,” said Violet, smiling uncertainly at the petite, auburn haired woman who was dressed in cargo shorts, a bright blue polo shirt and sneakers.

The woman returned her smile and said warmly, “I’m Kaleigh. This is my third trip to St. Lucia. I love this island. It’s known as island of iguanas, you know.”

Violet laughed, thinking of the iguana she had spotted down by the tiki bar. “I’m Violet, she said holding out her hand for Kaleigh to shake. “I’ve seen you around the resort. You’re a solo traveler like me, aren’t you?”

“You’re right about that. Don’t you just love traveling on your own?” Kaleigh asked with a twinkle in her green eyes. “I certainly do, but sometimes it’s nice when you find someone to join in on your adventures. Do you like chocolate? I’m heading out to tour a cacao farm now. Care to come along?”

“The Hotel Chocolat? I’ve read about that place.” Violet was intrigued.

Kaleigh nodded and gestured to the door. “Come on, I have a taxi waiting. Let’s go sample a bit of St. Lucia life.”

Violet glanced over her shoulder at the concierge, who was now chatting with one of the desk clerks. Swept up in Kaleigh’s infectious enthusiasm, she said, “Why not? Let’s go”

The new friends took a taxi through the capital city of Castries and down the coast to the 140-acre estate. Along the way, their jovial driver pointed out the sights and told them a little bit about the Carib culture and history.

At Hotel Chocolat, they joined a small group of other visitors to tour the farm, learning all about their sustainable practices of growing cacao beans and making chocolate. The grounds were lush and green and the chocolate samples were rich and creamy. Violet and Kaleigh were excited to end the tour by making their own chocolate bar and then sitting down for an authentic St. Lucian lunch.

Sitting by the window with a view of the rain forest, they each ordered cacao beer-battered fish and chips. While they ate fresh and crispy fish, they chatted easily, talking about their chocolate experience and sharing travel stories.

“That was such a great tour,” Kaleigh said. “Who knew that chocolate grows on trees? And I loved making my own chocolate bar! I can’t wait to try it.”

“Me too.” Violet laughed. She took a couple of bites of fish and then said, “This place reminds me of a tour I took in Costa Rica to a rain forest ranch, where they were just starting out their cacao business. Thank you so much for inviting me along today. I feel like I’ve gotten a glimpse of the real St. Lucia.”

Kaleigh took a sip of wine. “No worries. I’m glad you came with me.” She wiped her mouth with her cloth napkin and went on, “If you want to see the real St. Lucia, we should go to the Gros Islet street party this evening. I went to it last year and it was awesome. They block off the streets on Friday nights in a fishing village not too far from our resort, and there’s food and drinks and music. What do you think?”

“That sounds terrific,” Violet said. “Tomorrow, there’s a cricket tournament at the national stadium. Would you want to check that out? Cricket is really popular here, apparently, and I’ve never seen a cricket game. It might be fun.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kayleigh said. She raised her glass in a toast and the two travlers clinked glasses, looking forward to experiencing true island life.

Excerpt from True Love

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More than 30 years ago, my youngest sister moved west and settled in Fraser, Colorado. I have been out to visit her several times since she relocated. On each trip, I have appreciated the stunning scenery and the friendly atmosphere in her small town. We have enjoyed a variety of interesting activities and attractions, including white water rafting on Clear Creek, exploring Rocky Mountain National Park and checking out the historic Stanley Hotel in Estes Park. Of course, I have taken many, many photos to preserve the memories we have made. The pictures in this slide show, inspired me to set one of my Martini Chronicles short stories in the mountains of Colorado. Here is an excerpt from that story. Happy Reading!

Gentle sunshine filtered through the fluttering linen drapes.  I lay on my side in the large brass bed, watching the early morning shadows dance across the floor.  Outside, the birds were starting to sing.  I listened, trying to pick out any familiar calls.    I smiled at the cheery twitter of a goldfinch, recalling an afternoon bird-watching with my father when he had shown me the pretty yellow bird for the first time.

With a glance at the clock on the bedside table, I decided it was time to start my day. I climbed out of bed, stuck my feet into my slippers and put on the hotel bathrobe draped across the end of the bed.  I crossed the hardwood floor and stepped out onto the balcony of my second floor room. 

The morning air was crisp and clear.  In the distance, snow-capped mountains  stood shoulder to shoulder spanning the horizon. The morning sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawn.

“Good morning, hon.”

At the sound of my mother’s gentle voice, I turned from the stunning view.  She sat in a wicker chair on the adjacent balcony.  Her honey blonde hair was pulled back into a long braid, and she wore yoga pants, a Colorado sweatshirt and sneakers.  A carafe and two mugs stood on the table at her side.  She lifted the carafe and poured a fragrant cup of coffee.

“Morning, Mom,” I said, breathing in the tantalizing scent of hazelnut.  I pulled the matching chair on my balcony close to the railing, settled into its overstuffed cushions and then accepted the warm mug she handed over to me.  “Have you been out walking already?”

She nodded, pouring herself a cup and setting down the carafe.  “I took a stroll through the gardens.  They have the most beautiful columbines, and I saw two hummingbirds.”

“I’ll have to take my camera there later.  I can probably get some pretty photos.”  I   took a sip from my mug, savoring the nutty sweetness.  “Mmm.  This coffee is great.”

Mom stretched out her legs,  crossing them at the ankle and sighed.  “It looks like it will be a splendid day for the wedding.  Edmund and Joy are lucky.” 

Below, a man in a cowboy hat led a pair of chestnut horses from the paddock to a large meadow.  “I can’t believe I’m going to my brother’s wedding today,” I said.

“It seems like just yesterday you two were just going to your first school dance,” Mom agreed. “Eighth grade, wasn’t it?” Her expression softened.  “The sun shone just like this on the day your father and I got married.”

Trying to imagine myself in my twin brother’s place, I could envision every detail of my wedding day except the most important one.  After spending countless high school afternoons cutting out photos from the stacks of glossy bridal magazines my best friend, Nancy,  loved to collect, I knew I would be married in an off-the-shoulder ivory gown and carry a bouquet of roses and peonies. My veil would be fingertip length and edged with lace.  Of course, the wedding would take place at our parish church, St. Monica’s. The only missing detail was the identity of my groom. 

I sighed and took a sip of coffee.

“Your wedding day will come, Elizabeth Ann,” my mother said, giving me a perceptive look. She could always read my thoughts and feelings.

With a grateful smile, I replied, “When it does, I hope it’s just as beautiful as today will be.”

Amelia and Jane

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Amelia Reed, 10 years old, could not believe she was in Bath, England.  Her favorite author, Jane Austen, once lived here.  Jane must have walked through the Abbey Churchyard passing by the very spot where Amelia now stood beside her aunt, Joy.  All around them, people strolled across the square.  A couple of dogs chased each other in circles barking happily. A cello player performed in front of a bakery, filling the square with music.

Thanks to her fourth grade teacher, Ms. Crocker, Amelia had discovered Jane Austen that spring.  On the bookshelves in her classroom, Ms. Crocker had a set of Great Illustrated Classics, including Pride and Prejudice, Jane’s most famous novel, which Amelia borrowed for their drop everything and read periods.  As she read about Elizabeth and the other Bennett sisters, she quickly decided that Jane would be her new favorite author, edging aside L.M. Montgomery,

Amelia brushed her blonde bangs out of her face as she and Joy peered up at the entrance to the abbey, shading their eyes from the summer sun.  Amelia carefully counted the stone angels climbing the ladders on either side of the grand doorway.  Twelve.  She wondered what Jane would have thought of those angels.

“I’m so glad, Mom and I came to visit you in London,” Amelia said, slipping her hand into her aunt’s. “And thank you so much for taking me here where Jane Austen lived.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m happy you’re here.  It’s too bad your mom had to go to her conference this morning.  I think she would love Bath.” Joy took Amelia’s other hand and spun her around.  Joy’s silver bangle bracelets tinkled merrily on her wrist and the skirt of Amelia’s lavender sundress swirled around her knees.

“Guess where we’re going next?” Joy asked and went on before Amelia could answer, “The Jane Austen Centre.  It’s a whole museum about Jane and it has an elegant tea room at the top.”

“Are we going to have tea?” Amelia gave a little skip.

Joy nodded, skipping alongside her niece, her thong sandals slapping cheerfully against her heels.

“And scones?”

“Of course.  Let’s go.”

An hour later, Amelia and Joy sat at a table by the sunlit window in the Regency Tea Room.  Amelia had a cup of peppermint tea and Joy had a citrus tea called Empress of Peking.  They shared a three-tiered plate of sandwiches and scones.

Amelia sliced her scone in half and slathered it with raspberry jam followed by clotted cream.  “This museum is excellent,” she said before taking a bite of her scone.  

“What did you like the best?”

Amelia finished her scone and licked jam and cream from her fingers.  “Dressing up in the Regency clothes and writing with the quill pen.  It was much easier than I thought it would be!”

“I liked learning all about Jane’s life,” Joy said.

Amelia nodded in agreement.  “Me too.  That picture of Jane that her sister drew is awesome.”

Joy laughed and gestured toward their empty plates.  “I’d love to end our tea with a sweet treat, but I’m pretty full.  I’ll bet you are too, right?”

Wiping her mouth with her cloth napkin, Amelia nodded again and gave a contented sigh.

“What do you think about this idea?  We can pop into that Cornish Bakery we saw near the church and get a treat to eat on the train back to London.  They had some pretty yummy looking things in the window.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“I have an even greater one,” Joy said with a grin, her hazel eyes twinkling.  “I think we should come back here next weekend and bring your Mom with us.”

“Okay,” Ameila agreed.  “Mom likes Jane Austen almost as much as I do, you know.”

Island Time

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Bermuda is one of my go-to vacation spots. The first time I visited was on a family trip in 1990. I honeymooned in Bermuda in 2002. Most recently, my husband and I flew to Bermuda for a long weekend in March of this year. We had a lovely, relaxing and Bermudaful vacation. On this trip, we stayed at the Fourways Inn, famous for its elegant retaurant. We spent a morning at the Bermuda Aquarium and Zoo, one of our favorite attractions in Flatts Village. We dined at various restaurants around the islands, enjoying the best meal of the trip at Coconuts at The Reefs. What made the strongest impression on us was the friendly and welcoming atmosphere in Bermuda. We felt like we were coming home.

Island Time

Gracie Goodwin took a sip of cold, crisp rosé as she drank in the ocean view. From the flower-bedecked balcony of her vacation rental, she overlooked the turquoise harbor.  Sailboats and a local ferry skimmed across the water under a cloudless sky while the rooftops and church towers of Hamilton floated on the horizon.

She and Ted had taken that ferry this morning and then walked up the hill along Queen Street to catch one of the big pink buses to Flatts Village where they spent a few delightful hours at the Bermuda Aquarium and Zoo.

Given her chosen occupation as an ornithologist, zoos, nature reserves and national parks were always at the top of Gracie’s vacation itinerary.  Listening to a nearby pair of yellow kiskadees call back and forth to each other, she picked up her phone and scrolled through the photos she took at the zoo.  Her shots of the flamingos and peacocks were fun, but a picture of a pair of Bermuda longtails swooping over the ocean in a graceful aerial ballet was the best.

“Here we go, Gracie.”

She  glanced up at the sound of Ted’s voice.  Smiling at him as he stepped through the French doors out onto the balcony, she reached for the  tray of crackers, cheese, grapes and salami he balanced in one hand.

Ted took the seat across from her and poured himself a glass of wine. He  piled a slice of cheddar atop a stone wheat cracker.  “What’s happening out here?”

“I was just looking at my pictures from this morning.  Aren’t these longtails gorgeous?  I love how they stand out against the deep blue sky.” She handed him  her phone. “Did you know that they only come to shore for nesting season? And they mate for life.”

“Nice.”  Ted scrolled through the pictures on the phone and gave it back to her with a laugh.  “I like this one of us in the Madagascar Exhibit best.”

In the photo, Gracie and Ted stood grinning goofily beside a trio of ring tail lemurs. Her round, owlish glasses glinted in the sunshine while her auburn curls blew around her face. Ted looked cool in his cargo shorts, bright orange polo and Raybans.

“Those lemurs were a riot lounging around in the sun like beach bums,” said Ted.  “They’re such awesome animals.”

Gracie stretched out her legs and lifted her face to the late afternoon sun.  “Today has been a truly splendid day.”

“I’m glad we decided to stay in tonight.  Finding that grocery store was a definite  stroke of luck.” 

On their way back from their busy morning at the zoo and then a filling lunch on the terrace of the Swizzle Inn, they decided to pop into a shop across from the bus station to pick up some evening provisions.  Together, they meandered up and down the aisles pushing a rattling cart in front of them as they searched for the makings of a typical Bermuda supper.

“This is the life,” Ted said with a contented sigh. “What can be better than French rosé, cheddar and brie and this amazing view?”

“The Bermuda fish chowder we’ll have in a bit, more wine and this view?” Gracie teased and held up her glass to clink his.  “The woman at the store assured me that the chowder is from an authentic local recipe.”

Gracie thoughtfully ate a few grapes and went on, “She was such a nice person.  So warm and genuinely friendly.  Everyone here seems to be that way.”

”And all the locals seem to know each other.  Did you hear those two gentlemen on the bus talking about their grandsons’ cricket match?  I was sorry when they got off at their stop.  I wanted to hear who ended up winning the game.”

”Imagine if this were our house.  How heavenly would it be to eat supper out on our balcony every night and fall asleep listening to the ocean? Living here would be a Bermudaful dream come true.”

“Maybe someday it will come true,” said Ted.  “You never know what the future might bring.” He grinned and held out his hand to her. “In the meantime, let’s go in and heat up that chowder.”

Boston: an enchanting travel destination

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Boston is known as a city where every corner tells a story. It is steeped in history, culture, academia, sportsmanship, good food and stunning architecture. Throughout the decades as a Boston resident, I have collected an abundance of memories, happy stories written in the squares, avenues, parks, museums, libraries, ballparks and restaurants of the city. I feel blessed to make my home in such an enchanting travel destination. The photo essay inspired by pictures I have taken in Boston, tells the story of a bride who is quickly falling under the spell of Massachusetts’ capital.

Margot O’Reilly woke up in the elegant bridal suite at the Copley Plaza Hotel. Soft sunlight peeking through the partially opened curtains lit up the quiet room. She sat up and stretched, taking in the plush armchairs by the window, the gleaming mahogany bureaus, and the marble fireplace. Smiling to herself, she snuggled back underneath the luxurious bed coverings as happy memories drifted through her mind. Last night, she and Oliver were married at the Boston Public Library. Their friends and family all raved about the unique venue.

Last spring during her school vacation, when Margot and Oliver flew to Boston from Philadelphia to visit his family in West Roxbury and share the news of their engagement, they had spent an afternoon wandering around the Back Bay. At the library, she picked up a pamphlet advertising wedding options. As she read through the glossy booklet, she knew immediately that she had found the perfect place to get married. To her delight, last evening had been flawless. The ceremony and cocktails in the Courtyard were followed by dinner in Bates Hall Reading Room and dancing in the Abbey Room.

“Good morning, Mrs. O’Reilly,” Oliver said. Wrapped in one of the hotel’s waffle robes, he stepped out of the steamy bathroom and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. His hair was damp and he smelled of lemony soap and minty toothpaste. He had gotten up early to use the hotel’s gym.

Margot grinned at the sound of her new name. She had thought about hyphenating their last names, but Beauvilliers-O’Reilly had too many syllables. She wondered how long it would take her students to get used to her married name.

“Good morning, my darling husband,” she replied. She kissed him and went on, “If you could order us some breakfast, I’ll jump in the shower. We have a busy day ahead of us. Art in the morning and the Red Sox this afternoon.”

Oliver laughed. “The MFA and Fenway, two Boston icons.”

Margot climbed out of bed and walked over to the window. She opened the curtains revealing their view of the library and Copley Square. “It looks like a beautiful day. Perhaps we can fit in a walk through the Public Gardens and the Common.”

Oliver nodded and reached for the phone to call room service. “Margot,” he called after her as she disappeared into the bathroom. “It’s going to be a great day. I’m glad we decided to honeymoon in Boston.”

Margot poked her head through the doorway. “Me too. I love this city almost as much as I love you.”

A Day to Remember

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Of all of the wonderful travel destinations in Canada, Quebec City is my favorite. The centuries old, historic city is replete with European charm. On a recent visit there with my sister, we toured the city on foot and by bus. We stayed in a comfortable, ideally located hotel in Old Québec. We had plenty of opportunities to admire the art and architecture, indulge in some delicious meals, and take a lot of photos. The pictures from our weekend adventure reflect the setting of my most recent short story. Please enjoy reading an excerpt of that story below.

I’ve always loved his grey-green eyes.  The minute our gazes met across the kitchen in Québec City, I was hooked. I met Lukas on my second day of vacation at a baking class led by one of the city’s well-known pastry chefs. Our instructor, a petite, middle-aged woman with a long, blonde braid divided our group of eight into pairs and Lukas was my assigned partner.


Lukas and I  worked well together, chatting companionably.  I found out that he was an only child who grew up in Bath, England and a chef, who was on the verge of opening his own restaurant. I described my job as a food critic for a local newspaper and told him about my family.

Our time in the kitchen flew by. Before we knew it, we were showing off a tray  of rather impressive maple macarons to the class.   As we were cleaning up our station, Lukas invited me to lunch.  From then on, we were pretty much inseparable for the rest of the week.

We explored the Basse-Ville neighborhood, walked along the walls enclosing the city and got our fill of history and québécois culture at the Musée de la Civilisation and the Musée National des Beaux Arts. On our last day together, we ate breakfast at my hotel and then walked off the scrambled eggs, fruit and almond croissants on the Plains of Abraham.

Closing my eyes, I relived that wonderful day.  The weather had been perfect.  Blue skies and plenty of warm sunshine.   Bypassing the military museum at the entrance to the park, we made our way to the wide path overlooking the St. Lawrence River.

The park was busy that day, filled with joggers, dog walkers and picnickers. We strolled by the Joan of Arc garden, with its monument to the saint and one of the stone Martello towers, built to fortify the city. In front of the tower, a group of men dressed in eighteenth century military costumes, entertained a crowd of onlookers with stories of life in the army barracks centuries ago.  

When we reached the riverside walking trail, we paused to take in the view. We looked down at the roofs of the lower town and the glittering, watery expanse of the St. Lawrence. The silhouette of the famous Chateau Frontenac, Québec’s iconic landmark, shimmered on the horizon.

Shading my eyes from the sun to watch a tour boat churn by on the river, I said, “My brother and his wife were here last summer for the music festival. Edmund’s wife, Joy, is a singer. She has a life goal to attend at least one music festival a year. She said the Québec City Summer Festival was one of the best.”

”Apparently, concerts and festivals are a regular occurrence here on the Plains,” Lukas said.

“The Québec Winter Carnival in February is also supposed to be pretty awesome.  I’ve heard the ice sculptures alone make it worth braving the cold.”

Lukas linked his arm with mine, as we continued walking. ”We should come back in February,” he said.  “Do a bit of cross country skiing and brave the cold at the carnival.  Afterwards, we can cuddle up in front of the fire with a cup of tea or even better, a glass of mulled wine.”

”That might be fun,” I said. My heart filled with hope as his grey-green gaze met mine and we shared a smile.