Chapter 6
6
T he salty ocean breeze tousled Ginger’s hair as she strolled along the sun-drenched beach beside Jack, enjoying the cool morning air. “Next time, we’ll hike to the ridgetop. Life is long; stay as active as you can.”
Jack adjusted the brim of his cap. “We all try to keep up with you.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Ginger slid him a look of mild reproach. “I know you’re taking it easy on me. You must learn that productivity is about efficiency and effectiveness, not maximizing the hours you invest in a task. Life should be enjoyed as well. The Europeans know that far better than us—I learned that in Paris. Make sure to include that in the manuscript.”
“Will do,” Jack said. “That’s good advice.”
She breathed deeply, savoring the scent of freshly baked muffins drifting from the cafe. Marina and Heather were preparing for an early brunch special. Though she’d lived in this seaside village for decades, the sights and smells of the beach always lifted her spirits.
She had always loved coming home to Summer Beach.
Jack whistled to Scout, who was circling a mound of seaweed that had washed onto the shore. “Leave it, boy.”
Scout’s ears pricked up. At the sound of Jack’s voice, he circled back.
Ginger laughed as he loped toward them with his endearing awkward gait, his paws leaving a winding trail in the wet sand. “That dog is a real treasure. A true companion.”
“Leo sure loves him.” Jack flicked a stick for Scout to fetch. “My old life was nothing compared to what I have now with him and Marina. And the entire family. I appreciate you welcoming me into the fold.”
“I had faith in you, even if you were a rough diamond at the time.”
Just ahead, the mayor jogged along the hard-packed sand. “Good morning, you two,” Bennett called with a wide grin.
Ginger nodded while Jack greeted him. Her new son-in-law had made friends and settled nicely into Summer Beach. She was pleased, especially for Marina and the twins.
“Where would you like to begin today?” she asked.
“The last time we spoke, you said you wanted to share more about you and Bertrand.”
Ginger blinked against a rush of memories. She paused, carefully considering what she planned to share with Jack. How much of her story did she need to include? She gazed out to sea, considering where to start.
Surfers bobbed in the water in wetsuits, waiting for the sets of waves worth their effort. They’d probably been in the water since first light, chasing the prime morning waves. She recalled her free-spirited youth growing up here. And her return trips, each one punctuating a different chapter in her life.
Jack tried again. “You mentioned Paris. Tell me about your time there.”
“I will, but we’re not there yet.” Her memories would be lost if she didn’t share her story with him. She wanted to leave her family with the knowledge of her life. Perhaps that was a little vain, although her grandfather’s life had inspired her. Maybe her great-grandchildren would be inspired by hers.
With a fortifying breath, she began.
“While working in Los Angeles for Kurt Powell, my horizons expanded, and I longed for more adventures. Every day was a chance for reinvention, far from my parents’ watchful eyes and expectations.”
“Let’s back up,” Jack said. “When did your parents arrive here? I’m also trying to put this in the context of Summer Beach history.”
“My parents arrived in the 1920s,” she replied. “The fresh ocean breezes and pristine beach attracted them, especially after their dry, dust-laden farm in Oklahoma. They started fresh here. My father knew someone who had moved earlier and had built up a small fleet of fishing vessels. Around that time, other people from Los Angeles and San Francisco built summer cottages here. That included the Ericksons, who constructed their grand summer home, Las Brisas del Mar.”
“When did you buy the Coral Cottage?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself again.” She angled toward a flat rock on the beach overlooking the ocean. “Let’s sit there.”
They eased onto the rock, and Jack brought out his phone. “Mind if I record this?”
“It’s better that you do. I don’t want you to miss anything important.”
Jack tapped the record button on his phone. “Let’s pick up from wherever you feel comfortable.”
Ginger brought up her denim-clad legs and clasped her arms around her knees. “As you know, I worked for Kurt Powell, Bertrand’s closest friend from his university days. Oh my, what an exciting position I had. Kurt was at the technological forefront with clients such as IBM and the United States Armed Forces. The early days of computers were heady, indeed. I continued enhancing my mathematical skills and studied early computer languages—even helped develop some.”
She shared a few more details, glad that Jack was recording this. Memories were popping into her head so fast she could hardly keep up with the mental editing process.
When she paused, Jack asked, “If it’s not too personal, may I ask how you and Bertrand began courting?”
Ginger touched his shoulder and laughed at his use of the old term. “Courting sounds so elegant and romantic. It’s one of those words that should come back into vogue, like pearls and martinis. In my mind, dating doesn’t have the same formality or intent about it, and certainly not as a prerequisite for a grand love affair, which is what we had.”
“Courting…pearls and martinis…what a quote,” Jack said, chuckling with her. “May I use that?”
“I hope you do.” Ginger tipped her face to the cool morning breezes, relishing her memories. “Bertrand and I were friends for two years before he invited me to an ambassador’s party in New York. That’s when our relationship shifted. Why, I remember it like it was yesterday…”
In her hotel room in New York, Ginger smoothed her hands over the soft emerald silk of her exquisite evening gown. The delicate embroidery woven with metallic thread caught the light as she moved, making the dress shimmer like a thousand jewels.
She could scarcely believe this was her reflection in the mirror. Her light auburn hair was swept up in an elegant updo, courtesy of a talented hairdresser in the hotel beauty parlor, which was so fancy it had a chandelier in the entryway.
Her boss enjoyed staying in the finest hotels, and Kurt Powell kept a busy schedule. Generally, she was on her own for dinner, which she liked to take in her room or at a cafe downstairs. She was uneasy about venturing out in the city by herself. Besides, she needed the time to continue her studies.
Not tonight, however.
Ginger turned in front of the mirror, taking in the full effect. Surprisingly, she looked like the sophisticated young woman she longed to become. She hoped Bertrand would be pleased with her transformation.
She thought of the dark skirts and pumps she usually wore to the office. She’d taken her fashion cues from other women who worked in the office, emulating the most successful senior secretaries and office manager.
Still, she couldn’t resist adding a splash of color to her outfits with scarves around her neck. She bought remnants of silk at the fabric shop near where she lived with her cousin and learned how to roll and stitch the hems as they did in Italy.
Her guilty pleasures were the fashion magazines other secretaries left in the lunchroom. With the discerning eye of a seamstress developed under her mother’s tutelage, she studied the latest styles, the drape of fabric, and pleasing silhouettes on the glossy pages.
Her style was changing, and she liked what she saw in the mirror now.
What intrigued her even more were people’s reactions to style. The more senior a secretary, the less embellished their clothing. They wore clothing her mother would call tasteful and polished.
Not that she planned to be a secretary for any longer than necessary. She was eager for a chance to use her mathematical skills.
The hotel phone rang. “Miss Sheraton? You have a guest waiting for you in the lobby.”
“I’ll be right down. Thank you.” Asking Bertrand to meet her upstairs at her room would have been inappropriate; the hotel frowned on that.
She picked up the small evening bag the saleswoman had suggested. Fortunately, the woman had organized her entire outfit, including shoes, hosiery, and special undergarments. Pausing by the mirror, she thought of her mother. Mary Lou Sheraton would have been proud of her. She could hardly wait to write to her and tell her all about this magical evening.
Stepping into the elevator, she nodded to the uniformed attendant, an older man who smiled at her appearance. “Lobby, please.”
“Looks like this is a very special evening for you,” he said, admiring her dress.
“It’s my first date,” she confided in him, hardly able to contain her excitement. She would have preferred to tell her mother, but long-distance telephone calls were expensive. Her mother would have chastised her for that, so Ginger would send her a letter with all the details about the evening instead. She enjoyed writing and bringing her travels to life for her mother.
“A special night to remember,” the man said as he selected the floor.
While the elevator slid downstairs, Ginger’s heart quickened with anticipation. This evening promised to be one beyond her dreams.
The elevator doors opened to the ornate gilded lobby, where fashionable people chatted among fine upholstered furnishings. In one corner, a pianist played classical music.
Nearby, the man responsible for her fairytale transformation awaited her. Bertrand Delavie, looking devastatingly handsome in a bespoke tuxedo, approached her and took her hand. His silver-gray eyes sparkled with surprise, admiration...and something else.
Unmistakable affection.
“You’re utterly breathtaking,” he murmured with a whisper of a kiss to her outstretched hand. “I will be the envy of every man this evening.”
Her cheeks warmed at his words. Deflecting his comments, she said, “Your saleswoman has a magic wand. I don’t know how to thank you for this indulgence.”
Bertrand continued holding her hand. “It’s my unparalleled pleasure.”
Feeling the heat of his skin on hers, she tried to draw a breath but felt a constriction in her chest. Their usual friendly banter over coffee was already going differently this evening.
This was a date with a capital D. He’d been quite clear about that.
But why was her heart racing and her breathing so shallow? This sudden change in her physiology made little sense to her.
Pressing a hand to her collarbone, she said, “Everything feels different about tonight.” She weighed the variables that had changed to ascertain which one was having this impact on her. “Is it what we’re wearing?”
A smile played on Bertrand’s lips. “It might be. We’re looking our best this evening.”
Nodding, she replied, “I wouldn’t think clothes would make such a difference, but they seem to.”
“The right clothes inspire confidence. You’re more stunning than you realize.”
The heartbeat in his hand intensified, although it wasn’t in the least unpleasant. “Then what is it? Why the sudden shift between us?”
Bertrand ran a hand over his face in a not-so-subtle attempt to hide his humor, although Ginger failed to see what he found funny. “It’s not what is on the outside but the inside. In our hearts, dear Ginger. I believe we are fonder of each other than you realized.”
“Thank you for that insight,” Ginger replied, appreciating the sense in that. “You might be right.”
“Then, let our evening begin.” He presented his arm, and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow as she’d seen women do in the movies. He guided her to a chauffeured car that awaited them and, with a gesture to the driver, insisted on helping her inside.
Flushed with pleasure, Ginger beamed at him.
On the drive to the French ambassador’s Connecticut home, their conversation relaxed into a more familiar rhythm, yet she still detected something akin to an energetic attraction between them.
When they arrived, Bertrand took Ginger’s hand again. Together, they ascended the steps to a grand estate and crossed the threshold into a world of grandeur.
The soaring ceilings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and impeccably dressed attendees immediately transported Ginger’s imagination to the lavish party scenes described in The Great Gatsby , the book she’d recently devoured. However, with her sensibilities, she was confident the ending to her evening would be quite different.
She clung tighter to Bertrand’s arm, taking in the splendor surrounding them. With Bertrand by her side, she felt at ease. Servers with trays of champagne and interesting bite-sized portions of food circulated among the guests, and he took a pair of glasses for them.
“You may sip this,” he whispered. “But it might make you a little light-headed. You don’t have to finish it.”
She sipped through the bubbles, delighted at the fizzy nature of the golden champagne. She could imagine her mother’s reaction to this. “Thank you for the warning.”
As they wove through the crowd, he introduced her as his date, alternating seamlessly between English and French, rendering even the simplest of greetings eloquent.
“How did you learn French?” Ginger asked, intrigued. She hadn’t known he spoke the language.
“Originally from my grandparents. I also studied languages in school.”
“Do you know others?”
“A smattering of a variety,” he replied modestly. Turning slightly, he acknowledged a man nearby. “Now, I would like to introduce you to our hosts.”
The ambassador beamed at Bertrand. “My dear friend. It’s wonderful to see you.” His eyes twinkled as he turned to Ginger. “And who is this enchanting young lady?”
“Ambassador DuBois, may I present Miss Ginger Sheraton.” Bertrand placed a hand on the small of her back. “Ginger, this is Ambassador DuBois and his wife, Marie.”
Marie greeted her warmly in lightly accented English. “What a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sheraton. We’re delighted you could join us this evening.”
They chatted, and then the two men began to speak about world affairs. While Marie excused herself to welcome other guests, Ginger followed the conversation with keen interest. Far from feeling left out, she was thrilled to be in the company of such intelligent men. How refreshing it was, and how different from the small beach town where she’d grown up.
Shortly, they moved into another resplendent room. A multi-course meal followed, and Ginger analyzed every dish. Conversations were grounded in importance—far from the frivolous talk of the secretarial staff. She delighted in the exchange of thoughtful opinions and the desire for real solutions to improve world situations. They spoke of using new technologies and industrial innovation to address topics as diverse as space travel, democracy, and hunger.
This was the world she was meant for. She could feel it.
More than that, she knew she could contribute to it.
After dinner, couples took to the dance floor, swaying to a small orchestra. Bertrand leaned in. “Are you enjoying yourself, ma chérie ?” he asked, lightly caressing her knuckles with his thumb.
“It’s magical,” she replied. All evening, his merest glance or touch sent shivers through her. At first, the physiological response surprised her, but as the hours passed, she became more accustomed to it. “The finery and food are astounding, but it’s the conversation and ideas I find most stimulating.”
“You’re a rare one, Ginger.” A slow smile curved Bertrand’s lips as he leaned his head toward hers.
“We’re all unique.”
“Indeed we are, but you stand far above the rest. Would you care to dance?”
She must have looked doubtful because he whispered, “Simply follow my lead. A waltz is a box step. Listen to the music and move with me.” His eyes twinkling, he stood and offered his hand.
Her long skirt swirled around her calves as she moved with the swelling music, his arms embracing her at a respectable distance. She fell into step with him, recalling the simple four-step movement from a school dance she’d once attended. Not that she’d danced then; she’d towered over the other boys, and none dared ask her to dance. Still, she’d watched and memorized the steps. Those young couples were far from adept, paling compared to those who glided with ease around her now.
Four simple steps—easy math. Insofar as music was based on math, so were the dances accompanying it. She relaxed into the rhythm.
Bertrand kept eye contact, seemingly amused at something that escaped her. Yet, an inexplicable warmth filled her chest. As much as she enjoyed their previous casual conversations, tonight was an altogether different experience.
In his arms, her feelings for him grew. She had come to know this man over countless coffees, and she felt safe in his arms.
At once, she knew. This is where she was meant to be. They danced until, finally, he whispered, “We should go. One shouldn’t be among the last to leave a party. I like to leave people wishing I’d stayed a little longer.”
“Of course.” Recalling the films she had seen, an impulse struck her, one she couldn’t deny. “I’d like to have some fresh air before we leave. Do you mind?”
A smile touched his lips. “As you like.” He led her through an open door to a terrace where they were alone.
His arms around her felt so natural, and she longed for more. “Would you like to kiss me now?”
Bertrand’s eyes crinkled with a broader smile. “With delight.”
The touch of lips on hers was sweeter than any dessert she’d ever had, and she felt her body’s thrilling response. They kissed again—a little longer and even sweeter.
Finally, he pulled back, peppering kisses on her shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for you to know what you wanted. I hope tonight has changed your mind—even a little.”
Ginger considered that, weighing messages zinging between her brain and her heart, which were surprisingly in alignment. “It has. I would like to spend more time with you now.”
Tightening his embrace, he said, “You’ve always struck me as a woman who knows what she wants. You’re direct, intelligent, and more beautiful than you realize. You’re a unique, stunning young woman.”
His eyes shimmering, he drew a breath. “I must leave for my assignment in Paris soon. Would you accompany me as my wife? I can promise you the most delicious life imaginable. And plenty of opportunities to continue your studies.”
This was the most marvelous idea she’d ever heard. She caressed Bertrand’s smooth face and kissed him again. “Let’s have a grand adventure together.”