Do you remember?

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My lifelong friend, Avery, lives in Malibu, an ideal vacation destination.  I have been out to visit her several times over the years.  We always have a grand time together.  In April, I flew out to LA once again, looking forward to the different excursions we had planned.  One afternoon, she took me to Point Dume, where we walked along the cliffs overlooking the sparkling Pacific Ocean.  While we were admiring the ocean panorama, we spotted a playful whale in the water below.  We watched with delight as it cavorted in the surf.  In the piece below, my character, Grace Martini and her sister, Charlotte, have a similar experience which brings some nostalgic memories to the surface.

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Grace followed her sister up the steep path.  Both sides of the track were lined with yellow coreopsis.  The rampant wildflowers danced in the ocean breeze beneath a bright blue sky.

Some lines from Grace’s favorite poem popped into her mind.

… all at once I saw a crowd, / A host, of golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the trees, /  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

William Wordsworth would certainly appreciate this view at the top of Point Dume.

Charlotte paused a few steps in front of Grace.  She shaded her eyes with one hand and gestured at the panoramic scene with the other.  “There’s Zuma Beach,” she said, taking a swig from her stainless steel water bottle.

“It looks the same.  Just as stunning as ever,” Grace observed.  She pulled her camera from the pocket of her linen capris to take a picture.  “I wish Elizabeth Ann were here.  She always loved this hike when she and Edmund were little.”

“Remember how they used to race each other up the path from the boardwalk?” Charlotte said, setting her bottle on the sand beside her.

“With Harold right behind.”  Grace smiled at the memory of her dignified husband galloping up the bluff like a kid.  Harold was spending this morning on the golf course with Charlotte’s husband, George.

Charlotte stretched her arms up in front of her.  Reaching for the sky, she pressed her palms together in a graceful mountain pose.  “This would be a perfect spot for a yoga class.”

“Why don’t you take some of your students on a field trip?” Grace joked as her sister lowered her arms and grinned.

“Maybe I will.  Let’s keep going to the overlook platform,” Charlotte said, picking up her bottle and leading the way along the edge of the cliff.

Grace snapped one more picture for her daughter and hurried to catch up with Charlotte.  When she joined her on the overlook platform, Charlotte beckoned eagerly.  “There are dolphins playing in the water.”

Scanning the deep blue expanse of ocean, Grace clapped her hands when she spotted three dolphins diving in and out of the surf a few hundred yards off shore.  One suddenly leapt into the crystal clear air,  momentarily silhouetted against the horizon before slipping neatly underwater again.  “Did you see that?”  Grace turned to Charlotte, who’s eyes were gleaming with pleasure.

“Amazing,” Charlotte murmured.

The sisters watched the frolicking dolphins for several more minutes.  They laughed and exclaimed over their antics and Grace managed to take a couple of photos.  As the dolphins moved further out to sea, she sighed.

“When the twins were about eight years old, Edmund was obsessed with dolphins and whales,” Grace reminisced.  “He convinced Elizabeth Anne that they should both become marine biologists.”

“And today, Edmund is a history professor and Elizabeth Ann is a restaurant critic,” Charlotte said.

“I know.  Apparently, childhood dreams don’t always come true.”

“I suppose not.”  Charlotte brushed her wind-blown hair back and once again led the way along the coastal hiking trail. “But I believe life usually turns out the way it is meant to.”

As they carefully descended the bluff taking the path that would bring them down to the beach, Grace decided her sister was right.  She wouldn’t trade  her own life with Harold and their two children for anything.

 

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?

So Many Books

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In May 2014, my friend, Avery, and I took a Literary Road Trip across Massachusetts.  We visited the homes of Edith Wharton, Louisa May Alcott, Emily Dickinson and Nathaniel Hawthorne.  My favorite literary home was The Mount in Lenox, where Edith Wharton lived for ten years.  Author of the well-received The Decoration of Houses (1897), she designed and decorated the house herself.  Set in the Berkshires, the estate’s grounds and gardens are just as lovely as the elegant home.  I took many photos during our pleasant afternoon, including these pictures of Edith’s library and garden. 


Clarissa stands in front of her floor to ceiling bookshelves.  Behind her, a cheerful fire crackles in the grate.  A persistent rain taps at the windows, but the softly lit room is warm and cozy.

Drawing her cardigan sweater more closely around her narrow shoulders, she lets her gaze sweep across her library.  Catching a glimpse of her weary countenance reflected in the glass doors that open out onto her veranda, she sighs and combs her elegantly manicured fingers through her disheveled silver bob. After three weeks traveling around New England to promote her newest cookbook, she is back home at last.

As the library door swings open with a gentle squeak, Clarissa turns to smile at her secretary, who sets a tea tray on a low table in front of the fire.  The tantalizing scent of cinnamon drifts across the room.

“Hello, Lydia. Something smells delicious,” Clarissa says.

“Cook tried out your new recipe for cinnamon buns.” Lydia takes a seat by the fire and smooths her wool skirt over her knees.

“Cinnamon buns remind me of Christmas morning,” Clarissa remarks.

Lydia laughs, pouring two cups of tea. “The tour went well?”

“Yes, yes. The audience in Brattleboro was particularly enthusiastic.”  Clarissa joins the younger woman and accepts a cup of tea once she is settled in her favorite William Morris wingback chair. “Everyone seems to be a baker there.”

As she sips her tea and chats with Lydia, Clarissa gazes around the snug room once again. Content to be back among her books, she looks forward to spending the rainy afternoon with a good novel.

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Family Resemblances

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While visiting Montreal in August 2015, my husband and I spent a rainy afternoon in the Musée des Beaux Arts.  We enjoyed strolling through the galleries of Canadian, American and European paintings and inspecting the unique items in the decorative arts collection.  In particular, I admired several intriguing portraits including Abraham van den Tempel’s  seventeenth century painting of Odilia van Wassenaar and her dog.  

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Musée des Beaux Arts, Montreal (photo by L. Walkins 2015)

 

Annelise van Strum  hurried  along the rue Sherbrooke clutching her umbrella.  The red and yellow tulips decorating the rim of its clear plastic bubble danced in front of her eyes as she splashed through puddles on her way to the Musée des Beaux Arts.  She didn’t mind the weather.  A rainy day was ideal for exploring the museum galleries.

She was on a special quest this afternoon.  For the past few months she had been  researching their  family tree for her mother.  She had traced the family line all the way back to seventeenth century Holland.  Just that morning she had discovered that the portrait of one of her ancestors was hanging in the fine arts museum around the corner from her apartment.

Pulling her umbrella closed as she stepped into the museum lobby, Annelise handed it over to the girl behind the coat check counter.

“Passez une bonne visite,” the girl said with a smile.

“Merci.”  Annelise accepted the thick plastic disk numbered 143.

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Portrait of  Odilia van Wassenaar, Montreal Museum of Fine Arts (photo by L. Walkins 2015)

Making her way to the Hornstein Pavilion for Peace where works from the Dutch Golden Age were on display, Annelise wondered what her ancestor Odilia’s life was like.  She located the correct gallery and began perusing the portraits hung around the softly lit room.  The expressive faces painted hundred of years earlier by the Dutch masters peered out from their frames.

At last, Annelise paused and looked into the eyes of a young woman seated in a sturdy chair with a small dog on her lap.  The girl looked to be in her twenties.  Her light chestnut hair and dark eyes were of the same coloring as Annelise’s own.

The plaque beneath the painting identified it as Portrait of  Odilia van Wassenaar.  Stepping back and hugging herself, Annelise murmured, “There she is, my tenth great-grandmother.”

Annelise carefully examined the painting, searching for clues about who Odilia was exactly.  The gold trinkets adorning her ornate fur-trimmed gown and the pearls encircling her throat and wrist spoke to a wealthy upbringing. Odilia wore an intelligent, almost mischievous expression on her pale face.  The way she cradled her dog gently on her lap convinced Annelise that her ancestor must have had a kind heart.

Raising her cell phone, Annelise snapped three photos of the painting.  Odilia’s portrait reminded her of an old black and white photo of Aunt Phillipa, her mom’s older sister.  In a family album, there was a picture of Phillipa, aged 15, with their Jack Russell terrier sitting on the front stoop of their childhood home.  Phillipa and Odilia might almost be twins.

Annelise laughed softly to herself as she retrieved her umbrella and made her way home. The rain had stopped but the pavement still gleamed with puddles that reflected the clearing sky.

She felt like she had connected with a long-lost relative and couldn’t wait to show the photos to her mother.  Together, they could go online to find out more about Odilia and her family . . . their family.

 

 

 

 

Life is good

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When I was in my late twenties, my friends and I took a vacation to Miami, Florida.  We took a cruise to nowhere, explored the shops at the Bayside Marketplace and Coconut Grove, visited a historical home called Villa Viscaya and of course spent time on the beach. One afternoon I spotted a pink hotdog stand on the sand.  Down near the water, a man was flying a bright pink kite.  The color combination provided a tempting photo opportunity.  Later, while looking through my  vacation album, I wrote the descriptive piece below.

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Miami Beach, March 1991 (photo by L. LeVasseur)

Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Juliette watches him from the boardwalk.  His fluorescent pink kite is a solitary point of color in the overcast sky.  The kite hovers on the horizon and then plummets toward the rolling waves.  She feels her pulse quicken and her freckled face flush as the kite dives toward the blue-green surf.  But with a determined flick of his wrist he stops its abrupt descent and sends it soaring in the strengthening breeze.

She breathes out a sigh of relief and sets the picnic basket she has brought with her on one of the tables surrounding the cheerful pink hotdog stand, which has closed for the day.  Perhaps they will come back tomorrow at noon and have hot dogs and curly fries for lunch like teen-agers.  Now, they will content themselves with her home-made macaroni salad, deviled eggs and apple pie.

Pulling her denim jacket closer around her slight frame, she waves as Leo catches sight of her.  He reels in the kite, walking slowly up the beach to where she waits. He looks relaxed and comfortable in his shorts and snug windbreaker.  She notes that he must have gone to the barber and admires his closely cropped graying hair.

He greets her with a kiss and says, “Hello there.  How was your last day of school?”

She smiles a little sadly.  “It was fine.  The kids gave me farewell gifts and they all said they would miss me next year.  The teachers surprised me with a cake in the faculty room at lunch.”

“I’m glad they appreciate you,” he says, opening the picnic basket and helping her set out their supper.  “You’ve certainly devoted many years to the school.”

She nods and holds out her hand for his plate.  She puts a mound of macaroni salad on the plate and asks, “How was your first day of retirement?  What did you do all day?”

Helping himself to two deviled eggs, he says, “I had a great day.  I read the paper and worked in the garden this morning.  After lunch, I ran into town to do some errands and now I’m here enjoying a delicious supper with my beautiful wife.  Life is good.”

Juliette gives him a fond smile and as they eat, they laugh and talk, making plans for the next day and the months ahead.  They will spend time with their grandchildren.  Leo will plant more roses in the garden.  Juliette will take up quilting again.  They will travel to France and visit the village where her parents met and fell in love.

At last, they both take a final bite of the sweet and spicy apple pie.  They pack up the remains of the picnic and stroll hand-in-hand down to the water’s edge where he launches the bright pink kite once again over the ocean.

Una camera con vista

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In February, I was fortunate enough to visit my niece in Florence, Italy.  For five marvelous days, we toured churches and museums, feasted on pasta and gelato, and wandered the narrow streets photographing the sights of this charming and friendly city.  

Each morning, I began my adventures by crossing the Arno on the aptly named Ponte Vecchio, the oldest bridge in Firenze, renowned for the jewelry shops lining both sides of the street.  The center of the bridge was an ideal spot to capture the splendid views of the river.

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Ponte Vecchio, Florence Italy (photo by L. Walkins 2017)

Lucie Hartgrove turned the page of her novel and glanced up for a moment to drink in the panorama of the Arno from her hotel balcony.   The late afternoon sun cast spangles of light across the surface of the greenish-grey river and a golden glow over the buildings lining the riverbank.  A reflection of the  haphazard row of jewelry shops clinging to the side of the Ponte Vecchio undulated in the slowly moving water below.

With a sigh of contentment, she lowered her eyes to her book, delighted to be reading E.M. Forster’s A Room with a View in her own hotel room in Florence.  Lucy Honeychurch was one of her favorite literary characters.  The first time she read Forster’s novel in the eighth grade, she was amazed at how much Lucy was just like her.  They both had long dark hair and a pale complexion.  They both played the piano to forget their worries, and Lucie was certain she also would have fainted in  the piazza after witnessing the brutal stabbing of the poor Italian man.

Ever since then, Lucie had longed to visit Florence.  Finally, on her first college spring break, she was actually here, and she had a fantastic view.  That morning, she had visited the Basilica di Santa Croce. Eager to retrace Lucy’s steps, she admired the frescoes painted hundreds of years ago by Giotto and examined the tombstones paving the floor of the nave.  After lunch at a tiny, fragrant pizza shop, she returned to her hotel to read for an hour.

As she reached the end of the chapter in which Miss Honeychurch and her party of friends return from their pastoral drive into the Tuscan hills, Lucie closed the book and stood to peer over the railing of her balcony.  She watched a group of tourists who had stopped to take pictures.  Most of them held their cell phones out in front of them, trying to capture themselves in a selfie with the Ponte Vecchio.  Did they even appreciate the history and beauty of the scene?

Lucie picked up her book and went back inside.  She put on her walking shoes, grabbed her camera and her room key.  She was going to set off on her own journey into the hills overlooking Florence.  She wanted to hike up to San Miniato al Monte in time for the sunset.  High above the city, the views would be spectacular.

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View from San Miniato al Monte, Florence, Italy (photo by L. Walkins 2017)

 

 

 

 

Quintessential Sketches

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Paris is known for its atmospheric sidewalk cafés.  Locals and tourists lounge at the small tables, sample delicious French fare and watch the world pass by.  In 2008, my husband and I stayed in a wonderful hotel near the Place des Vosges.  This lively square, formerly called Place Royale and one of the oldest in the city, is home to art galleries, shops and restaurants, as well as the Maison de Victor Hugo museum.  While we were strolling through the park on a sunny afternoon, I snapped this picture of a busy café.

Place des Vosges 2008 (photo by L. Walkins)

From her strategic spot in the northeast corner of the Place des Vosges, Camille has a fine view of the outdoor café.  Through the arch of the stone arcade, she glimpses a trio of round tables, two of them empty and the third occupied by a pair of chic girls.  Camille admires their floral sundresses and the silk scarves wrapped insouciantly around their necks.

One of the girls  waves her slim hands about and leans forward, her heart-shaped, freckled face luminous with delight.  Listening with a smile on her face, the other girl tucks her bobbed auburn hair behind her ears, and bursts into peals of laughter. Camille wonders if they are sisters or simply best friends.

Opening the sketch book on her lap, Camille takes a Faber pencil from the small backpack on the bench beside her.  She pauses to think about what Claude, her art instructor said this morning in class.  He wants her to sketch a quintessential scene that captures the Parisian spirit.  What could be more Parisian than a sunny afternoon relaxing at a sidewalk café?

A waiter materializes to lay plates of neatly folded crêpes before the girls.  Camille studies his classic profile and slightly shaggy dark hair.  He wears black and white just as she imagines a proper Parisian waiter would.  Setting pencil to paper, Camille begins to sketch.  With fluid, easy strokes she captures the flirtatious glances of the girls and the faint dimple in the waiter’s clean-shaven cheek.   She frames her models with the outline of the arcade and adds some details.  At last, she looks up and then back down at her drawing.  With a satisfied nod, she carefully closes her sketch book.

Leaning back against the weathered wooden slats of the park bench Camille glances around her.  A black and a grey poodle chase each other around a graceful fountain.  One of the little dogs leaps up and trots along the rim of the basin as sparkling drops of water rain down.  The poodle stops to shake its damp curly coat and tumbles into the pool with a surprised yelp.   Camille laughs and wonders if she should submit a sketch of the poodles to her instructor instead.

A cellist sits on a stool beneath the shade of the chestnut trees.  As if providing a soundtrack for the cavorting poodles, he plays “Carnival of the Animals.”  Humming along to the music as the dog scrambles out of the fountain, Camille files away the ironic moment.  She will tell her sister, who loves Saint Saens, all about it later tonight when she calls home.

Across the park, the dormer windows of Victor Hugo’s brick home gleam beneath the bright blue sky.  Camille imagines the author emerging through the front door of No. 6 to clear his head with a brisk walk around the park after an intense session with Fantine and the unfortunate poor of nineteenth century Paris.  Perhaps he would be in search of a sustaining meal.

Camille turns her attention once again to the café.  The girls sit back in their chairs sipping wine.  The waiter takes an order from an elderly couple, who hold hands across the table.  Camille stands and walks briskly toward the restaurant.  Enjoying a  sustaining meal herself will be the ideal way to cap off her quintessential afternoon.

Make a Wish

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When my niece spent a semester studying in Rome, of course I had to visit her.  We had a marvelous time.  On our first day, we hit many of the popular tourist sights, beginning with the Pantheon, where we marveled at the ingenuity of ancient architects.  A few blocks away is the magnificent Trevi Fountain (pictured below), where visitors flock to throw a coin over their shoulder into the crystalline waters flowing from the imposing marble sculpture portraying Triton and Oceanus. Someday, I hope to return to Rome to make a wish at the Trevi Fountain. 

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Fontana di Trevi, Roma (photo by L. Walkins 2014)

Elinor can hear the rush of moving water even before she enters the Piazza di Trevi.  Hurrying along the narrow sidewalk, she dodges swinging briefcases and over-size pocketbooks carried by Roman commuters.  At last, she breaks free from the crowd and stands still at the edge of the historic square.  Before her, the splendid fountain glows in the morning sunshine, the magnificent marble figures glowing, the pool of water dappled with spangles of light.

Hands on her hips, she scans  the square and spots a slim figure, wearing a swirling floral dress.  The girl perches on the low fountain wall and dips her hand into the water.  She leans too far and nearly tumbles into the pool.

“Maggie?” Elinor calls, shaking her head and walking briskly to join her younger sister. They haven’t seen each other since Maggie departed for her year abroad in September.

“Elinor!  I can’t believe you’re here,” Maggie shrieks as she leaps up and wraps her in an enthusiastic hug.  “Thank you so much for coming to visit me.”

As her sister begins to pull away, Elinor holds the embrace for just a second more, and then steps back to peer into Maggie’s bright blue eyes.  “You look happy.  Rome must agree with you.”

“It does.  School is fabulous.  My apartment is fabulous. My friends are fabulous. Everything is fabulous.”  Maggie links arms with Elinor.  “Are you ready for some sightseeing?  What should we do first?  Climb the Spanish Steps?  Or, I know, let’s go to the Pantheon.  It’s right down the road.”

“Wait, wait.  Slow down a minute.”  Elinor fishes in the pocket of her Shaker-stitch sweater.  “First, let’s make a wish.”

She hands Maggie a round gold and silver Euro, keeping one for herself.  Together, they toss them over their shoulders.  The coins land one after another with a satisfying splash.

“Do you think our wishes will come true?” Maggie wonders.

“Of course they will,” Elinor assures her as the coins drift lazily to the bottom of the fountain.

 

 

 

 

 

A Bit of Highland Romance

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In 2010, my cousin and I went on a scenic day trip around the West Highlands in Scotland.  One of our tour stops was Loch Katrine in the Trossachs, the setting of  Sir Walter Scott’s narrative poem “The Lady of the Lake.” We spent a lovely hour strolling by the lakeside and taking photos before heading off to Stirling Castle.

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Loch Katrine, Scotland (photo by L. Walkins 2010)

The brisk Highland wind swooped across the sparkling surface of Loch Katrine.  Elizabeth Ann brushed her dark hair from her eyes and settled her heather-colored wool cape more snugly around her shoulders as they waited to board the brightly painted tour boat.

“Chilly?” Sebastian asked, pulling her to his side. His thick fisherman’s sweater radiated warmth like it had just come out of the dryer.  Elizabeth Ann glanced up at him and then at the door of the tea room at the foot of the dock, hoping they would end their day with a snack and something hot to drink.

Maude and Duncan stood behind them in line, holding hands.  Maude pointed to a sign in front of the tea room.  “Hey, look.  We can hire bikes.”

“I haven’t ridden a bicycle since boarding school,” Sebastian said, chuckling.

“What do you think, Duncan?  Do you fancy going for a ride?” Maude asked.  “You don’t mind, Elizabeth Ann?”  She looked imploringly at her friend.  “We’ll meet you two back in the tea room, okay?”

“What about the boat tour? Elizabeth Ann asked.

“Right.  What about the boat?” Duncan echoed.

“They can tell us what we missed,” Maude said and tugged on Duncan’s arm.  “I really want to stretch my legs, darling, and get a bit of exercise,” she added, pulling him out of line  and then raising her eyebrows at Sebastian.

Elizabeth Ann watched their friends go and said, “What was that all about?”

Sebastian shrugged, put one hand in his jacket pocket and the other on the small of her back to guide her onto the boat.

Once they were settled on a wide wooden bench on the starboard side of the cruiser, Sebastian said, “The name of this vessel is Lady of the Lake.  Did you know that Sir Walter Scott wrote that poem after he and his family were on holiday right here at Loch Katrine?”

“The Lady of the Lake?” Elizabeth Ann asked absently, focusing on the view of Ben A’an as the boat glided smoothly down the lake.  She raised her camera and snapped a picture of the rugged stone peak.

“It’s one of his most romantic poems,” Sebastian explained.  “He was inspired by this gorgeous setting.”  The boat floated past a tiny densely wooded island. “There’s Ellen’s Isle,” he pointed out.  “Named for Scott’s heroine, Ellen Douglas.”

Elizabeth Ann took a quick picture and then rose to her feet.  Sebastian caught her by the hand. “Wait,” he said.

“I just want to get a few more pictures,” Elizabeth Ann said, squeezing his hand.

“The photos can wait,” he said standing beside her.  “Please sit for a moment.”

“But . . .”

“Please?” He met her gaze, an expression in his eyes she had never seen before.

With a bemused smile, she sat and put her camera on the bench beside her.  She widened her eyes as Sebastian fumbled in his jacket pocket and then dropped down on one knee.  Elizabeth Ann pressed trembling fingers against her mouth as he cleared his throat.

“Ellen Douglas and her suitor, Malcolm Graeme, found true love on the shores of this loch.  I can think of nowhere more romantic to ask you this very important question.”  Sebastian held out a small velvet box.  Nestled inside was a glittering princess-cut diamond ring.

“Oh, Sebastian,” Elizabeth Ann whispered.

“Will you be my wife, Elizabeth Ann Martini?”

She nodded silently, tears filling her eyes, and Sebastian slid the ring onto her finger.

“Brilliant!” He leapt up and pulled her into a massive hug.

They shared a kiss and then he began to laugh.  On the shore, two bicyclists waved enthusiastically.  Elizabeth Ann held up her left hand.  “We’re getting married,” she happily called out to Maude and Duncan.

A short time later, the Lady of the Lake returned to the pier.  Elizabeth Ann and Sebastian were the first to disembark.  Hand-in-hand, they hurried toward the tea room to bask in the congratulations from their friends and the restoring warmth of a good cup of tea.

Capturing a Moment

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My favorite beach is located on Bermuda’s South Shore.  Lounge chairs shaded by jaunty pink-striped umbrellas line the soft coral sand and graceful longtails fly back and forth from the cliffs that cup the serene bay.  High above the beach perches one of Bermuda’s most popular resorts, The Reefs.  

I have been a guest at The Reefs several times.  On one of my trips, I took this snapshot of the beach and later composed a photo essay inspired by my memories of Bermuda.

reefsbeach

Beach at The Reefs (photo by L. Walkins, 2007)

The ocean glitters with sun pennies and the water slowly changes shades from indigo to turquoise until it becomes white foam at the shore.  The  Bermuda longtails float on the breeze in a graceful ballet, filling the early morning air with their distinctive whistling call.

Click. Standing in the powder soft sand, Miranda presses the shutter button on her digital camera.  Quickly, she checks the display screen and smiles at the image of the quiet beach scene.  Lowering the camera to her side, she gazes for a long moment at the water and listens to the rush of the waves.  A pair of the black and white tropic birds swoop across the horizon before returning to their nests in the cliffs that hug the tiny bay.

Finally, Miranda turns and pads slowly across the beach to the stairs leading to the hotel.  As she heads for the restaurant terrace  where Ted waits for her, she thinks about some of the other beautiful scenes captured on her memory card.  The views from the top of Gibbs Hill Lighthouse.  The stained glass windows in the cathedral in Hamilton.  The sunset shots taken from their hotel balcony.  And her favorite photo of the dolphins playing in their pool at the Shipyard.

Miranda reaches the terrace and spots Ted, who is examining a menu at one of the umbrellaed tables.  A steaming cup of coffee sits at his elbow.  Raising her camera, she studies him through the viewfinder.  He glances up and she snaps his portrait just as he lifts his hand to wave.  The sun glints against the wide gold wedding band he wears.  She smooths her thumb against the unaccustomed ring adorning her own left hand and hurries to join her husband.