Page 23 of Coral Memories

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 hotelroom 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.”

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