Category Archives: short stories

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.”

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.

Back Bay Bliss

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Living in Boston is a blessing.  A small, walkable city, Boston is brimming with history, art, fabulous restaurants and unique neighborhoods.  For several years, I lived in the Back Bay on Marlborough Street.  The Public Gardens, Newbury Street and the Commonwealth mall, where I snapped this winter cityscape were all steps away from my apartment.  My character, Darcy Seton, also lived in the Back Bay in my novel, Forget-me-not.

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Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, MA (photo by Linda LeVasseur Walkins)

“Slow down, guys,” Darcy said, as the determined Scottie and Cavalier King Charles Spaniel raced down the icy pavement, tugging on their leashes.

She began to skid on a patch of black ice, but mercifully, the dogs stopped to sniff around a tree trunk and Darcy regained her balance.  She drew in a steadying breath and slowly shook her head as she gazed around at the wintry cityscape.  An unexpected spring storm had coated Boston in a blanket of white.

Darcy took her cell phone from her pocket to check the time.  Ian would be back from the university soon.  She wondered how his day had gone.  His book on the Scottish clans was due out in a few weeks.  Today he was supposed to have lunch with his agent.

The dogs, Smiley and Thistle had ventured off the walkway to romp in the powdery snow, chasing each other and barking gleefully.  Darcy opened her camera app and snapped a photo.  Both dogs smiled up at her, tails wagging.

“Okay, doggies.  Let’s go.  Time to head home.” Darcy tightened her grip on the two leashes and set off toward Marlborough Street.

They turned the corner at the intersection of Commonwealth and Massachusetts Avenue.  Up ahead, Darcy spotted a familiar figure clad in a thick sheepskin jacket and boots from L.L. Bean.

“Ian!” she called and he turned around.  He stopped in front of the Marlboro Market to wait for them.

When she reached his side, Ian kissed Darcy’s cheek and then bent down to pat Thistle and Smiley in turn.  “This is an unexpected treat,” he said.  “I thought you would be holed up in the living room correcting exams.”  Darcy taught Music Theory at a nearby private school.

She shook her head and linked arms with him as he took Smiley’s leash from her. “Because of the snow day yesterday, I decided to push the test to the end of the week.”

Ian grinned.  “Lucky kids.”

“Believe me they were not disappointed,” Darcy said, as they strolled down their block.  Climbing the stairs of their brownstone, she fished in her pocket for her keys.  Once inside, she followed the dogs up the stairs to their second floor apartment, as Ian checked the mail.

In the spacious living room, Darcy shed her coat and boots.  She unlatched the leashes from Smiley and Thistle and the dogs ran to their water bowl in the kitchen.

“What shall we do tonight, Darce?” Ian asked.  He unwound a tartan wool scarf from around his neck and shrugged off his jacket.  “I was thinking we could grab a cab down to the Lenox and have a drink in the piano bar.  We could indulge in some Prosecco and listen to the music.”

“On a school night?” Darcy asked, as she wondered if it was too cold to wear her new paisley print skirt from J. Jill.

“Sure.” Ian pulled her to him and began to waltz across the parquet floor.  “We have something to celebrate.”

“Oh yeah?” Darcy laughed. “What’s that?”

“Well, exactly one year and eight months ago, we met in that tearoom in Edinburgh.”

“We’re celebrating a one year and eight month anniversary?”  She leaned her head against his shoulder as her mind filled with memories of her summer in Scotland.

“Yes, that and also . . .” Ian spun her around so she landed softly on the sage colored couch.  He grabbed his briefcase from the coffee table and pulled something from its depths. “Mark gave me a finished copy of my book at lunch today.”

“Oh Ian, hooray!”  Darcy clapped her hands and smiled at him in delight. “Congratulations.”

He sat beside her and handed her the book.  “The launch party is set for two weeks from today.”  His voice grew husky with emotion.  “I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

Darcy smoothed her hand over the shiny, smooth cover and carefully opened the book.  Ian had inscribed the title page for her.  His loving words warmed her heart.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said, at the same time that Darcy exclaimed, “I’m so proud of you.”

They leaned together, sharing a gentle kiss, as Smiley and Thistle trotted into the room and hopped up onto the couch.

Darcy shifted over to make room for the dogs.  She stretched her arm across the back of the couch and linked hands with Ian.  “We have so much to celebrate.”

 

”

 

 

 

 

Cruising Along the Seine

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For several years, I have been researching my family history.  My father is of French-Canadian descent.  Our family tree extends all the way back to sixteenth century France.  My tenth great-grandmother was born in Paris some time in the mid-1500s.  Because of my French heritage, it is always a treat to travel there.  I took these photos of the Seine in 2008 and included the setting in one of my Martini Family Chronicles.

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After a quick lunch of crêpes bought from a sidewalk stand, we stood in line waiting to board the tourist boat on the Seine.  All around us, guys and girls held hands or had their arms wrapped around each other. One couple leaned against a lamp post totally making out.  I felt like we were about to climb aboard the Love Boat. Where were Julie McCoy and Captain Stubing?

I met Maude’s eyes, wondering if she felt like a third wheel.  She shrugged and then pushed up her sleeve to consult her watch.  “Hey, guys. You know what?

I looked at her expectantly.  “What?

“I want to do some shopping before dinner.  My sister gave me some money for perfume and I wanted to find a scarf.

“We can go to Les Halles after this, can’t we?”

​“I don’t want to drag you guys around while I do my errands.”​

“We don’t mind, do we Sebastian?”  I pulled at his sleeve and he glanced up from the map in our guide book.

“If Maude wants to go shopping, she should go,” he said.  “We can meet up again later.”

The line moved forward, but Maude stepped to the side, saying, “Fab!     I’ll meet you both back at the hotel and we can have dinner. Around eight?

“Are you sure?” I asked, poking Sebastian in the ribs, hoping he would convince her to stay.

He just said, “You know our Maude.  Once she makes a decision, there’s no moving her.  She’s like a rock.”

“It’s settled then.”  Maude gave a cheery wave and took off.

Watching her disappear into the crowd, I said, “Do you think Maude minds being on her own?”

“To be honest, I think she planned to leave us some time to ourselves.”

“Really?”

“Certainly, and I’m rather grateful.” He kissed me lightly on the lips and then grinned.  “Alone at last!”

All the while, we had been inching up to the head of the line and now boarded the bâteaux-mouche.  We found seats on the starboard side.  Across the aisle, two French girls whispered and pointed at Sebastian, throwing openly admiring glances at him.  

I shifted closer to my boyfriend, so my thigh pressed against his. I swallowed as a wave of insecurity engulfed me.  Sebastian was cute and so charming. He would probably have girls throwing themselves at him the moment I stepped onto the plane for California.

As if sensing my mood, Sebastian draped his arm across my shoulders.  “Look, there’s Notre Dame” He pointed to the Ile de la Cité as the boat glided past the looming cathedral.  The gargoyles peered down at us from above.

The whispering girls turned away and I tried to relax.  A soft breeze ruffled my hair and cooled my cheeks as the boat glided smoothly downriver.  On the shore, a man in a beret played “La Vie en Rose” on his accordion. Here we were caught in a perfectly romantic Parisian moment.  I shouldn’t ruin it by worrying.

​Sebastian softly sang along to the accordion, exaggerating his French accent.  I had to laugh. He was crazy. I beamed at him and snuggled closer. Judging from the gleam in his eyes and his infatuated grin, he was crazy about me too.

Wishes and Waterlilies

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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?