Category Archives: Families

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.”

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.”

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.

Seashells, Sunshine and Serendipity

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Having family in Maine provides me with several marvelous New England travel destinations. My parents and my sister and brother-in-law live in Brunswick and Harpswell. A trip to both of these towns, along with nearby Freeport or Portland, always promises scenic beach walks, fresh seafood enjoyed with waterfront views, and shopping at farmer’s markets or eclectic shops and galleries. Every August, Brunswick hosts an Outdoor Arts Festival. One summer as I wandered among the booths, I stopped to admire a small watercolor depicting two little girls standing side by side on a quiet beach watching the incoming tide. Although I was tempted to purchase the lovely painting, I left it behind. Later that year, my thoughtful mother surprised me on my birthday. She had bought the painting for me . This charming scene, along with photos I have taken in Maine have inspired this new photo essay.

The late night storm swept a garden of kelp and sea lettuce across the sandy shore. Hidden among the strands of seaweed is a treasure trove of shells, pebbles and sea glass. Now, the late morning sun shines down from the clear blue sky and the churning waves have calmed. Elizabeth Ann and her daughter walk along the water’s edge where the damp sand remains firm beneath their bare feet.

The little girl skips and dances like a sandpiper, swinging a yellow plastic bucket at her side. She pauses every few minutes to bend down and examine the glittering array of shells scattered across the beach. She picks up a perfectly formed scallop shell and calls back to her mother, “Look at this one, Mommy.”

“That’s a keeper, Eliza,” Elizabeth Ann says, admiring the pristine white shell. She holds up a heart-shaped piece of green sea glass. “What do you think of this?”

“Ooh, it’s so pretty.” As she places the treasures into her bucket, Eliza glances over her shoulder at the friendly sound of a dog barking.

A West Highland Terrier trots down the porch steps of one of the homes lining the beach. The dog runs toward them, followed by a girl who looks to be around 4 or 5 years old like Eliza. Her long dark hair is tied back in two braids and she holds a hand to her head to keep the floppy sun hat that matches her purple sundress from flying off in the ocean breeze.

“Where are you going, Callie?” the girl calls out. “Please come back right this instant.” Her voice has a distinctive British lilt, that makes Elizabeth Ann smile. Memories of her college semester abroad in London and her first love fill her mind, as she watches the girl bend down to hug her dog, who has obediently returned to her side.

“Good girl, Callie. You’re such a good dog.”

Eliza skips over to them. She sets down her pail and asks, “Is it okay if I pet your dog?”

“Of course. She’s quite friendly.” The girl smiles at Eliza and goes on, “My name is Maisie. That’s my dad.” She points to a man standing on the wide front porch of the white clapboard bungalow. “What’s your name?”

Crouching down beside the terrier, Eliza says, “I’m Eliza Grace, but you can call me just Eliza. My mom likes to call me Eliza Grace sometimes, so I’ll have two names like her. She’s Elizabeth Ann.”

“How funny.” Maisie grins up at Elizabeth Ann and gives her a little wave. She takes a tennis ball out of her pocket and hands it to Eliza. “Callie loves to play fetch.”

Eliza tosses the ball and the little girls giggle together when the dog chases after it. Elizabeth Ann watches them play, taking pictures with her cell phone. Through the phone’s video screen, she spots the man descending the stairs of his front porch. He jogs across the sand toward them and as he draws near she recalls a weekend trip to the beach in Devon on the south coast of England. His tall frame and loping stride seem awfully familiar.

“Maisie, it’s almost time for lunch. Come on home,” he calls out and Elizabeth Ann’s heart skips a beat. She knows that voice. She remembers the first time she heard it in that London pub when Sebastian introduced himself. From that moment, they had fallen into a whirlwind romance, but in June had gone their separate ways.

Elizabeth Ann studies him, her heart swelling with bittersweet emotion. She knows that Sebastian recently lost his wife to cancer and hopes that he and Maisie are coping well.

“In a moment, Dad,” Maisie says. “Callie and I are playing with our new friend, Eliza.”

“You’ve met a new friend then,” he says glancing from Maisie to Eliza and then finally Elizabeth Ann.

Standing beside her daughter, Elizabeth Ann slips her phone into her pocket. “Hello,” she says quietly.

Their eyes meet and his spark with surprised recognition. “Elizabeth Ann?” he says. “My God, it is you. It’s been a long time.”

Elizabeth Ann smiles up at him, hardly able to believe that he is standing right in front of her. There are a few lines on his face and his shaggy hair is now neatly cut, but his warm sherry colored eyes and engaging grin are the same.

“And this is your daughter?” he goes on, turning to Eliza. “Pleased to meet you,” he says with a formal bow.

The little girls giggle and Maisie says, “Dad, you’re being silly.” She waves an arm toward the gently rolling waves. “Can we go for a paddle?”

Sebastian glances at Elizabeth Ann. She nods and he says, “No going above your knees.”

The girls wander hand in hand to dip their toes in the water, Callie following at their heels.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Sebastian quips, quoting Casablanca.

Elizabeth Ann draws in a deep breath of salty air and grins at Eliza and Maisie’s shrieks of delight as they run and skip in the shallow water. She laughs and says, “I think so too.”

Sea Turtles and Sunsets

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My intrepid niece, who is an archivist for the National Park system, recently finished up a year-long assignment at Haleakalā National Park. To my great delight, I was able to visit her in Hawaii before she moved on to her next adventure. Originally, I planned to go to Maui, where she lived, but due to the wild fires, we decided to meet on the Garden Island, Kaua’i instead. We coordinated our travel plans to arrive at Lihue Airport at the same time. In fact, her plane landed immediately after mine. After a joyous reunion in the terminal, we rented a car and drove to the condo we had reserved in Koloa. All week, we had a grand time exploring the island. Every evening we would end our day by strolling from our condo to Poʻipū Beach to watch the glorious sunset. My memories of our week on Kaua’i have inspired the photo essay below.

“This is amazing,” Elizabeth Ann sighed.

Grace smiled at her daughter and agreed, “Indeed it is.”

They were standing knee-deep in the Pacific Ocean at Poʻipū Beach. The clear, warm water lapped gently against Grace’s shins. A soft breeze ruffled the edges of her new sarong cover up. On their afternoon shopping excursion in Old Koloa town, both Grace and Elizabeth Ann had gone a little wild in a fun and colorful store called Aloha from Koloa.

When they finally managed to tear themselves away from the racks of beachwear and souvenir displays, they stepped out of the shop into the bright sunshine, each with an overflowing shopping bag dangling from her wrist. Along with the floral sarong, Grace had bought a wide-brimmed straw hat, a pair of sandals and a set of hand-woven place mats.

Hands on hips, both women turned toward the horizon where the sun floated above the ocean on a bed of golden clouds. Everyone at the beach, both in the water and on the shore, had paused to face west and take in the sunset.

“It’s time,” Grace said, glancing at the waterproof watch on her slim wrist. “7:52.”

Slowly, the sun slipped through the clouds illuminating the sky in shades of lilac, tangerine and coral, before sinking silently into the sea.

“Look at all the people who are here.” Elizabeth Ann gestured back toward the lines of spectators standing on the sand and up on the bluff. “Is it always like this?”

“It’s a nightly event,” Grace explained. “Every evening, the sun sets one minute later than the day before. We’ll all be here tomorrow at 7:53.”

“Can’t wait,” Elizabeth Ann said. She bent forward to dip her hands in the ocean water and then ran her dripping fingers through her thick, dark hair, smoothing it back away from her face. “The girls would love this beach,” she said. “Angela would spend all day snorkeling and Victoria would have a blast on her boogie board.”

Grace’s sighed happily at the thought of her granddaughters. “You’re right about that. They must get their love of the water from their father. Both you and Edmund would have spent your entire summer down at Mission Beach if we had let you.”

“I loved that beach! Remember the summer Edmund and I took surfing lessons? He was a pro right from the start, naturally. I, on the other hand . . .” Elizabeth Ann let her voice trail off and then, with a bright smile, she went on, “But my favorite beach memories are from when we took that road trip up to Malibu. Remember? We had that little cottage right on the water and we could see dolphins from our front porch.”

“That was one of our best family vacations. Everything went like clockwork,” Grace said. ”I remember picnic suppers at Point Dume and our week-long miniature golf tournament. As I recall, you were the mini golf champion.” She smiled fondly at Elizabeth Ann.

“That was such a long time ago,” Elizabeth Ann remarked.

“And yet, it seems like just yesterday,” Grace said. “Spending time with Angela and Victoria always brings back so many memories of when you and Edmund were small. I hope Edmund and Joy will be able to bring them out here for Christmas. It would be so marvelous to have all of us together for the holidays.”

“Well, I’ll definitely be here. Gerald, my editor, wants me to write a series of articles about Hawaiian restaurants for my column. I’ll start doing some research on Kauai.”

“I’m glad.” Grace reached out to squeeze her daughter’s hand and then looking again at her watch, she said, “Shall we head back?”

“I’m ready.” Elizabeth Ann turned and began to wade to shore. After just a few steps, she stopped. “Look at that, Mom,” she exclaimed clutching Grace’s forearm with one hand and pointing at a shadowy creature swimming just beneath the surface of the water. “Is that a sea turtle?”

Grace nodded and explained, “The sea turtles often come up on this beach to rest. See, it’s crawling out of the water now.”

Mother and daughter waited and watched as the turtle settled comfortably into the sand a few feet from the water’s edge. Then Grace led Elizabeth Ann back onto the beach away from where the turtle had landed.

“We mustn’t disturb the turtle. This is his natural habitat after all and we’re merely his guests.”

“You are so lucky to live in such an amazing and beautiful place, Mom,” said Elizabeth Ann.

“Speaking of beautiful,” Grace replied, “tomorrow, we’ll go to the north side of the island and I’ll take you to the most stunning beach in all the Hawaiian islands at Hanalei Bay.”

Grace and Elizabeth Ann strolled arm in arm at a leisurely pace back home. As they approached the driveway leading into the condo complex, Elizabeth Ann said, “Believe it our not, I am glad you ended up moving here.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe it?”

“Because I was such a brat when you told me you wanted to move. Remember how freaked out I was? But, I have to admit, you were right. I can’t wait for the whole family to be here at Christmas.”

Grace nodded as they climbed the steps onto her front stoop. She fished in her bag for her house key and softly began to hum “Mele Kalikimaka” under her breath.

She pushed open the door and said, “I’m looking forward to making new holiday memories here in Hawaii with all of you.”

Remembering Rome

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In 2014, my niece studied abroad in Rome. Of course, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to plan a visit while she was there. During my February break, I boarded a plane with my husband, excited to see my niece and explore a new destination. A few of my most treasured memories of that trip include saying a prayer in the Pantheon, spending a delightful afternoon at the zoo (Bioparco di Roma) and whizzing through the city streets on a double-decker tour bus. In the photo essay below, my character, Maisie, looks back on her own memories of Rome.

Nearly thirty years ago, Maisie Brennan fell in love. During her junior year at Connecticut College, she had opted to study abroad in Rome. Within a week of her arrival, Maisie was in love with the Eternal City. The ancient monuments existing within the hustle and bustle of the modern metropolis captured her imagination. In particular, the Pantheon. The first time she stood beneath the dome in the 2000 year old basilica and gazed up at the bright autumn sky through its miraculous oculus, Maisie knew she somehow belonged there.

Now, at age 49, Maisie is finishing her breakfast in the kitchen of her tiny one-bedroom bungalow in Massachusetts. She had woken up thinking about Rome. In her dreams, she had been back in the Pantheon and it was snowing. A gentle cascade of snow flakes drifted through the oculus like a glittering, frozen veil as Maisie walked slowly across the rotunda. Catching sight of her high school Latin teacher, she hurried over to the tomb of Raphael where a small choir was singing “Ave Maria.”

When she opened her eyes, Maisie was humming the final bars of the iconic hymn. Pondering the meaning of her odd dream, Maisie climbed out of bed and went down to the kitchen. While her tea steeped and she waited for her two slices of rye to pop out of the toaster, she had retrieved her college photo album from the bottom shelf of the floor to ceiling book case in her living room.

On the pine farmhouse table in front of her sits an unopened copy of The Cape Cod Chronicle and the battered photo album. Between taking sips of Earl Grey and bites of buttery toast, she turns the pages of the album. Every snapshot prompts a nostalgic memory. The colosseum at night. Playful lemurs at the zoo. The magnificent tapestries in the Vatican Museum. Michelangelo’s Pieta. A picture of a bright red tour bus makes her stop and smile. She hums softly as she thinks back to the day she had taken that picture.

On the first Saturday of the semester, Maisie had decided to explore her new city, tourist style. First thing in the morning, she and her roommate bought tickets for one of the open air, double decker buses that rolled through the city streets informing visitors about the grand and glorious history of Rome. Eagerly the girls climbed aboard at the train station in the Piazza de Cinquecento and headed for the top deck. Plugging in the headphones provided by the driver, Maisie settled back to enjoy the ride.

Along the route, they rode by the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Vatican, the Spanish Steps and the Villa Borghese Gardens. Between the prerecorded commentary about each sight, passengers listened to classical music recordings. As the bus rumbled away from the PIazza Venezia toward the Vatican the thundering chords of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” made Maisie’s heart speed up. She laughed out loud, appreciating the moment as she rode through the streets of Rome with the wind in her hair and the thrilling music spurring them on.

Closing the album and finishing her tea, Maisie wonders where her spirit of adventure has gone. Every time she watches Rick Steves or Samantha Brown on PBS, she dreams of jetting off to Europe, the Far East or the Caribbean. In reality, she hasn’t used her passport in years. Maisie props her chin in her hands and sighs. At least she hasn’t let it expire.

For too long, she has made seemingly valid excuses for putting off travel. Mortgage payments. Too busy at work. Family obligations. Well, not anymore, Maisie tells herself. Her dream about the Pantheon is a sign, she decides. The gods are telling her to venture forth. Her fiftieth birthday is coming up. She will splurge and book a tour of Italy. It is time to make new memories.

A Moment in Time

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Visiting historic homes is one of my favorite pastimes, when I travel, or when I’m in the mood for a quick day trip from home. Newport, Rhode Island, where wealthy families once built elaborate “summer cottages” during the Gilded Age is a marvelous place to step into the past.

Last summer, a like-minded friend and I took a road trip to Newport. We toured two of the famous mansions, the Breakers and the Elms. One of the rooms I always find fascinating is the kitchen. I enjoy looking at the old-fashioned appliances and equipment used to whip up delicious meals and confections. On our summer visit, we were able to take part in the Servant’s Life tour at the Elms, after traipsing through the ornate rooms upstairs. These photographs have inspired the story below. Happy reading!

Shifting from foot to foot as she stood behind her broad, wooden baker’s bench, Poppy delicately placed a ring of fondant forget-me-nots on the top of the three-tier cake.

Already, the day felt endless. She had risen before sunrise to put the finishing touches on the wedding cake and to get the three additional desserts Mrs. Crocker insisted on adding to the menu into the oven. Time was short. At noon, the daughter of the house was to be wed.

“Ooh! That looks too lovely to eat,” a flutey voice called out from the doorway. “Hello, Poppy!”

The chef looked up and smiled warmly at the bride-to-be. She was dressed in a camel hair wrap coat with a wide fur collar and sturdy walking boots. “Good morning, Miss Rose. My goodness, you’re up early. Are you going out?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the girl explained. “I was on my way to walk on the beach, but the scent of your baking led me on this detour. What smells so heavenly?”

“Ooh, the tartes tatins!” Poppy exclaimed whirling around to don oven mitts and swiftly pull the French apple tarts from the oven. She let out a sigh of relief as she placed three trays of golden brown pastries on her bench to cool.

Rose drew closer to breathe in the apple-cinnamon aroma, letting her coat slip from her shoulders. She lifted a floury sheet of paper from the table top. It was a hand-written recipe for madeleine cakes.

“That’s the last item on the menu I have to prepare,” Poppy explained, hurrying around to pick up Rose’s coat and drape it over the back of a black bentwood rocker by the stove. “They’re your grandmother’s favorite.”

Rose nodded and smiled in thanks and observed, “Yes, Granny has always been obsessed with Marcel Proust and his madeleines. The summer I turned ten she insisted on reading the first volume of A La Recherche du Temps Perdu to me.”

She handed the recipe to Poppy and went on, “Mrs. Crocker would make a batch of these cakes every morning. This is her recipe, isn’t it? One morning, she showed me how they were made and even let me help her with the baking.” A wistful smile lit up Rose’s face. “Those madeleines tasted extra nice at tea time. Granny even commented on how good they were.”

“What a lovely memory,” Poppy said, gathering the ingredients to mix the batter for the tea cakes. “Mr. Proust would surely approve.”

“Have you read A La Recherche?” Rose asked with an admiring glance.

“Only in English,” said Poppy, “but the translation is quite good, I think.”

Rose reached for her coat, saying, “Well, I suppose I should let you get on . . .”

At the same time, Poppy said, “Would you like to help . . .”

They each stopped mid-sentence and shared a laugh.

“I don’t mean to presume,” Poppy said hurriedly. “It’s just that I think baking can be a calming pastime and I wondered if it might settle any wedding jitters.”

Rose tilted her head, considering this idea. “I do feel a bit jittery. I suppose that’s why I couldn’t sleep.”

Poppy clasped her hands in front of her, waiting.

With a decisive nod, Rose rolled up her sleeves. “I would love to help. Why shouldn’t I?”

As they got to work, Rose and Poppy continued to chat, casting aside the rules and strictures imposed by society and savoring the warmth and companionship of the moment — a moment they would each look back upon with fond nostalgia.