Lucky, in love — Chapter One
Victoria Monroe
Chapter One—Lucky
“That’s a lot of lemons!”
The smile on my face comes without force in response to the store clerk’s comment as I shift several sacks of lemons from the cart. I nod in agreement before opening my calendar to review my agenda for the rest of the day. I’m pleased to note that my schedule is open until a two o’clock appointment for a final walkthrough for tomorrow’s event.
“Are you making lemonade? You’ll need a lot of sugar.”
The question draws my attention to the middle-aged woman in front of me, who wears her years more than I wear mine. I quickly notice the items on the belt: sugary cereals, bags of frozen processed foods that make for a quick dinner, juice boxes, and a small mountain of fresh fruits, greens, and vegetables. When my eyes meet hers, she’s peering at my lemons over a recent tabloid she’s reading while her groceries are scanned and bagged.
“No, I’m not making lemonade. I’m making centerpieces,” I correct her in a friendly tone.
The woman seems satisfied with my brief response and raises the tabloid back to her face, leaving the cover in plain view… SEXY MODEL TURNED ACTOR—STORMS PAPARAZZI OVER QUESTIONS ABOUT STEAMY SEX TAPE. She lays the open magazine down while she sorts through her wallet congested with receipts and coupons. Despite my diligence to keep from looking at tabloids, this one presents itself directly in my sights, and I find myself powerless to stop from looking down at the pages before me. There’s an image of a handsome man and stunning raven-haired young woman walking into some Hollywood elitist’s hangout. There’s another picture of the handsome man posing in tuxedo pants with his perfectly tanned, rippled abdominals on full display—his dark-blond hair looks as if fingers have tousled it with urgency. On the opposite page is a large image of a man and woman in a sensual and rather compromising situation. The image is vague due to its poor quality, but it seems obvious the man in every picture is the same.
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” The magazine falls closed and once again, my attention is brought to the woman before me. This time, I notice the thick insert of pictures in her wallet as she squeezes it to snap the closure.
“A husband and four kids can’t keep me from fantasizing about him. Those green eyes of his make me melt, and that body—I couldn’t be so lucky.”
“I could be.” The words are out before I realize I say them.
“Way to think positive.” The woman laughs as she pushes her cart away. “Hopefully, you’ll be lucky,” she calls over her shoulder as her body simmers with laughter.
“I always feel bad for people exploited in those magazines.” I turn my attention back to the clerk, who pours out her heart about celebrity gossip. The elderly woman’s face is mapped by everywhere she’s been in life and everything she’s gone through. Her sincerity touches me. “No matter what they do, it’s everyone’s business, and it’s not right. I don’t know if any famous person can outsmart the paparazzi and their yellow journalism.” I follow the prompts on the credit processing device, completing my transaction as she voices her frustrations over the gossip in the rag mags. “Unfortunately, it’s a price they all seem to pay for the life of fame.” I collect my receipt and hang my reusable shopping bags from my left arm. I offer her a weak smile before she moves on to the next person in line.
Shaking off the encounter, and the recollection of the pictures in the tabloid, I navigate the parking lot with agility and quickly merge onto the highway. Speed does wonders for rattled nerves. In my business, poise and efficiency are all that’s needed. There’s no room for distraction and chaos. The drive toward the south end of the island is picturesque. It’s lush with foliage, quiet and serene. The breeze blows through tall pines, seagrass, and rustles through leaves. It’s hard to believe that anyone could have a care in the world here. The historic private property is a sanctuary of peaceful comfort in a world that seems to be on fast forward. The long, winding drive is shaded by sweet birch trees and flowering dogwoods. The fragrance inundates the senses and is the first impression of everything this magical property has to offer the patrons, who return time after time to find the solace they seek.
*****
James, the door man currently on duty, smiles brightly as I approach the entrance to the Grand House with my shopping bags.
“Good morning, Miss MacIntyre, you look lovely today.”
“Good morning, James! Thank you and how are you today?”
“I couldn’t be better, it’s absolutely beautiful today.”
“That it is,” I agree with a smile and continue into the lobby.
I return the smiles and greetings of the staff as I make my way to check progress on the veranda. Over the past two weeks, massive pots containing full-grown lemon trees have been transported from the climate-controlled greenhouses where they’re stored during the harsh Northeastern winters. Now they’re placed in their summertime locations on the vast veranda of the Grand House, along its exterior corridors, and scattered throughout the garden oasis. The groundskeepers have been occupied for days, repairing the lawn from the equipment used to move the trees. Now, there isn’t any indication the lawn was ever disturbed. It appears perfectly groomed and meticulously maintained. “I. AM. SPEECHLESS.” I call out for all to hear. Hollers and claps from event staff are my response.
“Get crackin’ on centerpieces, boss lady!” The sassy comment comes from Nora. She’s overseeing this event, and several others, as well as taking on a larger role in managing this summer. It will satisfy her requirement for a hospitality internship as part of her bachelor’s degree program—which she’ll earn in three years instead of four. I’m so proud of her.
“I’m going—don’t call or write—I’ll be busy.”
Once inside the floral room, I place the bags on the high table and shake out my arm from the weight of them. I feel my body immediately unwind and relax. My floral room is an escape of sorts. I’m an artist at heart. I love to paint, sketch, draw. I read books, listen to music. I love to create. So, having a room dedicated to making arrangements and painting isn’t a bad deal. I have the not-so-guilty pleasure of doing everything I love—in exactly the place I love most in this world. The floral room is also, in my opinion, the room with the most spectacular view from anywhere on the property. Originally, there was a single window in this room, but that was changed to glass French doors which overlook the property in the direction of the Farmhouse and the cottage beyond.
The two-hundred-year-old farmhouse is the original residence of the Howland family. As generations changed, the family built a hotel building and got into the hospitality business. They called it the Grand House—we still do. Later generations lost interest in the property. They stopped all farming, gardening, and lodging. The property was deserted for many years, and the buildings quickly fell into disrepair. Those are my early memories of the Island of Ocean Creek. I would come here, despite the warnings not to trespass on the private property. What do they care, I thought. Don’t trespass, but they had no care for this treasure they possessed that was deteriorating before my eyes. I used to dream about seeing this place thrive—seeing the buildings restored and bustling with activity. Seeing the gardens painted with a rainbow of stunning plants and trees that could only make someone think of Eden. But outside my window, there’s a stretch of ground that remains unaltered. To the dismay of the groundskeepers, except for a small path clearing, I request for this section of land to remain untouched. It stretches from the floral room doors, behind the private residences, to the shore. They keep it camouflaged from the cultivated lawns and gardens with black spruce, red oaks, sweet birch, tulip trees, dogwoods, gardens… but it’s there—for me. The cottage is my primary residence, and the path is the same one I made trespassing here all those years ago. The years the property spent abandoned—neglected and overgrown—are a distant memory to many, and hard to fathom when surrounded by its current splendor. I remember them… I remember them as vividly as if they haven’t been gone a single day, even though they’ve been gone for fifteen years. Even then, there was a beauty about this place. A beauty that could only exist then, in those moments, at that point in time. A beauty that even the exquisite restoration can’t duplicate or replace. That’s why I keep this space untouched. This place means so much to me, more than anyone knows.
I open my music streaming app on my iPad and anchor it onto the docking station. Music flows, and I get to work making arrangements. My mind clears of everything except the artistry of my creations. Large glass cylinders filled with cut lemons, whole lemons, clear water beads and soft white submersible LED lights. Tall grass emerges from the artfully illuminated vessels. Variegated vinca vines drape over the sides in a romantic way. Fragrant blooms of honeysuckle and white lilacs drench the air with perfume. There’s nothing quite as powerful to retrieve memories as something that has touched the senses. This smell alone reminds me of days from long ago, but when a song from the late nineties drifts from my speaker… “I look at you, looking at me. Now I know why they say the best things are free,” I’m reminded of being twenty-one and carefree. I recall listening to this song one summer night, and I remember who I was with. Instantly, flashes of headlines and grainy pictures come to mind. I take a deep breath, willing myself to purge thoughts about him—the same way I’ve done time and again for twenty-one years.
Chapter One—Lucky
“That’s a lot of lemons!”
The smile on my face comes without force in response to the store clerk’s comment as I shift several sacks of lemons from the cart. I nod in agreement before opening my calendar to review my agenda for the rest of the day. I’m pleased to note that my schedule is open until a two o’clock appointment for a final walkthrough for tomorrow’s event.
“Are you making lemonade? You’ll need a lot of sugar.”
The question draws my attention to the middle-aged woman in front of me, who wears her years more than I wear mine. I quickly notice the items on the belt: sugary cereals, bags of frozen processed foods that make for a quick dinner, juice boxes, and a small mountain of fresh fruits, greens, and vegetables. When my eyes meet hers, she’s peering at my lemons over a recent tabloid she’s reading while her groceries are scanned and bagged.
“No, I’m not making lemonade. I’m making centerpieces,” I correct her in a friendly tone.
The woman seems satisfied with my brief response and raises the tabloid back to her face, leaving the cover in plain view… SEXY MODEL TURNED ACTOR—STORMS PAPARAZZI OVER QUESTIONS ABOUT STEAMY SEX TAPE. She lays the open magazine down while she sorts through her wallet congested with receipts and coupons. Despite my diligence to keep from looking at tabloids, this one presents itself directly in my sights, and I find myself powerless to stop from looking down at the pages before me. There’s an image of a handsome man and stunning raven-haired young woman walking into some Hollywood elitist’s hangout. There’s another picture of the handsome man posing in tuxedo pants with his perfectly tanned, rippled abdominals on full display—his dark-blond hair looks as if fingers have tousled it with urgency. On the opposite page is a large image of a man and woman in a sensual and rather compromising situation. The image is vague due to its poor quality, but it seems obvious the man in every picture is the same.
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” The magazine falls closed and once again, my attention is brought to the woman before me. This time, I notice the thick insert of pictures in her wallet as she squeezes it to snap the closure.
“A husband and four kids can’t keep me from fantasizing about him. Those green eyes of his make me melt, and that body—I couldn’t be so lucky.”
“I could be.” The words are out before I realize I say them.
“Way to think positive.” The woman laughs as she pushes her cart away. “Hopefully, you’ll be lucky,” she calls over her shoulder as her body simmers with laughter.
“I always feel bad for people exploited in those magazines.” I turn my attention back to the clerk, who pours out her heart about celebrity gossip. The elderly woman’s face is mapped by everywhere she’s been in life and everything she’s gone through. Her sincerity touches me. “No matter what they do, it’s everyone’s business, and it’s not right. I don’t know if any famous person can outsmart the paparazzi and their yellow journalism.” I follow the prompts on the credit processing device, completing my transaction as she voices her frustrations over the gossip in the rag mags. “Unfortunately, it’s a price they all seem to pay for the life of fame.” I collect my receipt and hang my reusable shopping bags from my left arm. I offer her a weak smile before she moves on to the next person in line.
Shaking off the encounter, and the recollection of the pictures in the tabloid, I navigate the parking lot with agility and quickly merge onto the highway. Speed does wonders for rattled nerves. In my business, poise and efficiency are all that’s needed. There’s no room for distraction and chaos. The drive toward the south end of the island is picturesque. It’s lush with foliage, quiet and serene. The breeze blows through tall pines, seagrass, and rustles through leaves. It’s hard to believe that anyone could have a care in the world here. The historic private property is a sanctuary of peaceful comfort in a world that seems to be on fast forward. The long, winding drive is shaded by sweet birch trees and flowering dogwoods. The fragrance inundates the senses and is the first impression of everything this magical property has to offer the patrons, who return time after time to find the solace they seek.
*****
James, the door man currently on duty, smiles brightly as I approach the entrance to the Grand House with my shopping bags.
“Good morning, Miss MacIntyre, you look lovely today.”
“Good morning, James! Thank you and how are you today?”
“I couldn’t be better, it’s absolutely beautiful today.”
“That it is,” I agree with a smile and continue into the lobby.
I return the smiles and greetings of the staff as I make my way to check progress on the veranda. Over the past two weeks, massive pots containing full-grown lemon trees have been transported from the climate-controlled greenhouses where they’re stored during the harsh Northeastern winters. Now they’re placed in their summertime locations on the vast veranda of the Grand House, along its exterior corridors, and scattered throughout the garden oasis. The groundskeepers have been occupied for days, repairing the lawn from the equipment used to move the trees. Now, there isn’t any indication the lawn was ever disturbed. It appears perfectly groomed and meticulously maintained. “I. AM. SPEECHLESS.” I call out for all to hear. Hollers and claps from event staff are my response.
“Get crackin’ on centerpieces, boss lady!” The sassy comment comes from Nora. She’s overseeing this event, and several others, as well as taking on a larger role in managing this summer. It will satisfy her requirement for a hospitality internship as part of her bachelor’s degree program—which she’ll earn in three years instead of four. I’m so proud of her.
“I’m going—don’t call or write—I’ll be busy.”
Once inside the floral room, I place the bags on the high table and shake out my arm from the weight of them. I feel my body immediately unwind and relax. My floral room is an escape of sorts. I’m an artist at heart. I love to paint, sketch, draw. I read books, listen to music. I love to create. So, having a room dedicated to making arrangements and painting isn’t a bad deal. I have the not-so-guilty pleasure of doing everything I love—in exactly the place I love most in this world. The floral room is also, in my opinion, the room with the most spectacular view from anywhere on the property. Originally, there was a single window in this room, but that was changed to glass French doors which overlook the property in the direction of the Farmhouse and the cottage beyond.
The two-hundred-year-old farmhouse is the original residence of the Howland family. As generations changed, the family built a hotel building and got into the hospitality business. They called it the Grand House—we still do. Later generations lost interest in the property. They stopped all farming, gardening, and lodging. The property was deserted for many years, and the buildings quickly fell into disrepair. Those are my early memories of the Island of Ocean Creek. I would come here, despite the warnings not to trespass on the private property. What do they care, I thought. Don’t trespass, but they had no care for this treasure they possessed that was deteriorating before my eyes. I used to dream about seeing this place thrive—seeing the buildings restored and bustling with activity. Seeing the gardens painted with a rainbow of stunning plants and trees that could only make someone think of Eden. But outside my window, there’s a stretch of ground that remains unaltered. To the dismay of the groundskeepers, except for a small path clearing, I request for this section of land to remain untouched. It stretches from the floral room doors, behind the private residences, to the shore. They keep it camouflaged from the cultivated lawns and gardens with black spruce, red oaks, sweet birch, tulip trees, dogwoods, gardens… but it’s there—for me. The cottage is my primary residence, and the path is the same one I made trespassing here all those years ago. The years the property spent abandoned—neglected and overgrown—are a distant memory to many, and hard to fathom when surrounded by its current splendor. I remember them… I remember them as vividly as if they haven’t been gone a single day, even though they’ve been gone for fifteen years. Even then, there was a beauty about this place. A beauty that could only exist then, in those moments, at that point in time. A beauty that even the exquisite restoration can’t duplicate or replace. That’s why I keep this space untouched. This place means so much to me, more than anyone knows.
I open my music streaming app on my iPad and anchor it onto the docking station. Music flows, and I get to work making arrangements. My mind clears of everything except the artistry of my creations. Large glass cylinders filled with cut lemons, whole lemons, clear water beads and soft white submersible LED lights. Tall grass emerges from the artfully illuminated vessels. Variegated vinca vines drape over the sides in a romantic way. Fragrant blooms of honeysuckle and white lilacs drench the air with perfume. There’s nothing quite as powerful to retrieve memories as something that has touched the senses. This smell alone reminds me of days from long ago, but when a song from the late nineties drifts from my speaker… “I look at you, looking at me. Now I know why they say the best things are free,” I’m reminded of being twenty-one and carefree. I recall listening to this song one summer night, and I remember who I was with. Instantly, flashes of headlines and grainy pictures come to mind. I take a deep breath, willing myself to purge thoughts about him—the same way I’ve done time and again for twenty-one years.
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