While traveling in the U.K. several years ago, my husband and I, along with my cousin, took a lovely day trip from London to Paris.  Looking forward to exploring the French capital, we boarded an early morning Eurostar train at St. Pancras station.  As the train sped through the tunnel beneath the English Channel, we planned what we would see in the City of Lights.  Claude Monet is one of my favorite artists.  Although, I had been to Paris before, I had never seen his famous waterlily murals at the Musée de l’Orangerie.  When we disembarked at the Gare du Nord, we set off to the Jardin des Tuileries where the Impressionist art gallery is located.  Memories of standing in admiration before the enormous panels painted more than 100 years ago, inspired me to include a scene set there in this excerpt from a short story featuring my character Elizabeth Ann Martini.

Les Nymphéas at the Musée de l’Orangerie 2010 (Photos by L. Walkins)

Sebastian kept a firm grip on my hand as we strolled through the Tuileries Gardens. We followed a path past flower beds of tulips and daffodils. I paused for a moment to watch a group of children sailing wooden boats in the basin of a pond-like fountain.

​ “After the museum, what do you say to a cruise down the Seine?” Sebastian said, pulling me along. “We should totally play the part of weekend tourists.” He squeezed my hand and I gently extracted my fingers from his.

​​ “Look,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Maude, who trailed behind us. “The Eiffel Tower.” The shadowy silhouette of the iconic landmark shimmered in the distance like a dream. “I can’t believe I’m actually here in Paris.”

​​ Maude caught up. “Just wait until you see the waterlilies at the Orangerie. Les nymphéas sont très . . . magnifiques.”

​I had to suppress a grin. Her labored attempt to speak French was admirable but slightly comical. Maude herself admitted she was dreadful at foreign languages. Since my high school Spanish obviously wouldn’t be much help, we were lucky to have Sebastian along. My brilliant boyfriend was practically fluent in French, so he had done most of the talking at our hotel the night before and in the café where we had ordered coffee and the most delicious croissants for breakfast.

​”Come on,” Maude said. “No dawdling. We have a lot to accomplish this weekend. We want Elizabeth Ann to see as much of Paris as she can before she has to go back to San Diego.”

Her words hung in the air and suddenly I had a lump in my throat. In less than a week, I would be home and Sebastian would be thousands of miles away. I reached for his hand, matching my steps with his as we followed Maude’s determined figure through the garden.

​Claude Monet’s waterlily paintings spanned the walls of two galleries in the Musée de l’Orangerie. I stood in the middle of the spacious, airy room and pivoted slowly marveling as the swirls of sage, mauve and periwinkle shifted to bolder shades of navy, gold and forest green. I felt like I was inside a kaleidoscope. ​Sebastian and Maude stood on opposite sides of the gallery, each studying one of the humongous murals.

​ “Elizabeth Ann, come look at this,” Sebastian said.

​ I crossed the room to stand beside him. He draped his arm across my shoulders. Swirls of cottony white blended with luminous shades of blue to depict clouds reflected on the surface of the water.

​ “Tell me if you can spot a woman’s face in the lily pond?”

​ As I let my gaze wander over the massive canvas, a shadowy silhouette of a beautiful woman seemed to float up from the depths of the pond.” “Ooh!” I pointed at her. “Is she right there?”

​ “Exactly,” Sebastian said with a grin, pulling me closer. “Smart and observant as well as beautiful.” He leaned in and let his lips brush lightly against mine.

​ I stepped away and gave him a wistful smile. “These paintings are awesome,” I said clearing my throat. “I can’t wait to see Monet’s water gardens in person tomorrow when we go to Giverny.”

​ “Just wait until you see his house. You’ll love it. He lived there for forty-three years. He designed two additions to the original house and chose all the colors for the different rooms.” Sebastian led the way into the next gallery. Standing in front of one of the murals, he grabbed my hand and went on, “Someday, maybe I’ll build us a house just like it in the Cotswolds.”

​ Was he serious? My heart fluttered and my cheeks grew warm as he talked, describing in intricate detail a country home with a large kitchen and wild garden out back. Although he did his best to project a worldly and cosmopolitan image, Sebastian was not a city boy. He had grown up in a tiny English village not too far from Stratford-upon-Avon.

​”Maybe we could even have a conservatory. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Elizabeth Ann?”

​I stared at him and tried to imagine living anywhere but southern California. My heart warmed as I pictured us having tea in our conservatory surrounded by African violets and ferns.

Would Sebastian and I really become an old married couple settled in an English country village someday?