Page 43 of Coral Memories

Jack sensed a certain reticence now. His journalistic instincts were on high alert, and he suspected she was holding something back.

“Your life will read more like a novel than a biography,” he said, trying to loosen her thoughts. “The people you’ve known, the circles you’ve moved in. It’s extraordinary.”

“A novel, indeed.” She smiled at the idea. “You flatter me, Jack. But a life well lived should be a page-turner, don’t you think?”

“I’ll do my best.”

While he waited for her to continue, he glanced at Scout, still lounging contentedly beside the table. The dog’s ears perked before he relaxed again.

Jack tapped record on his phone. “During that time, you and Bertrand met some of the most influential people of the 20th century. Care to drop a few names?”

Ginger’s eyes gleamed at his question. “In Washington, D.C., we met with several presidents. In France, Bertrand knew President de Gaulle. And later, we met Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher at numerous events on both sides of the Atlantic—she was quite accomplished.”

She continued, recalling encounters and friendships forged with other heads of state, politicians, and celebrities. “Everyone adored Bertrand and gravitated toward him. He was a natural leader and communicator.”

“I would say the same about you.” Jack considered how he might weave these vignettes into a narrative as he listened. Ginger’s life was a tapestry of personal triumphs against world-changing events.

How could he capture the essence of this remarkable woman without losing the intimacy of her journey or the gravity of her professional accomplishments?

Jack tapped his pen thoughtfully against his notepad. “In your work, you’ve mentioned developing a deeper motivation. Can you tell me more about that?”

Ginger’s eyes looked distant, as if she were gazing into the past. “My work was often critical to world affairs—at home and abroad. What mattered to me was making a difference in a rapidly changing world. The Cold War was at its height, and I felt a strong responsibility. Not just to my country, but to the shared future we were all trying to shape.”

Jack leaned forward, intrigued. “So it wasn’t only about the intellectual challenge?”

“That was certainly part of it,” Ginger replied. “But there was an urgency, a sense that what we were doing could tip the scales of history. Every pattern uncovered and every code we broke fed into the larger picture of diplomatic relations. We were on the front lines of a silent war fought with information. Correspondence sometimes revealed other serious issues.”

She expanded on that, mentioning a high-profile trial for espionage. Jack was surprised; he hadn’t known of her involvement behind the scenes.

“And how did Bertrand factor into all this?” Jack asked, scribbling notes even while the digital time on the recorder flashed.

Ginger’s face softened. “Bertrand was my anchor through the storm. Our townhouse in Washington became a hub of activity—cocktail parties for visitors, diplomatic soirees, meetings disguised as dinner parties.”

“Sounds like something out of a spy novel.”

“Art has imitated life since Plato’s time,” Ginger said. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Sometimes, it’s the other way around, for better or worse.”

Jack noticed a touch of regret in her voice and made a note. “It sounds like an intense time.”

“It was,” Ginger agreed. “But it was also exhilarating. We were part of something bigger than ourselves. And yet...”

“And yet?” Jack asked, prompting her.

Ginger turned back with a guarded expression. “Life has a way of dishing up the unexpected.” She glanced at her watch. “That’s a story for another time.”

Jack nodded, recognizing the subtle shift in Ginger’s demeanor. He knew better than to push too hard. Instead, he jotted down a few more notes, weighing options for structuring this complex narrative.

Ginger reached across the table, patting his hand affectionately. “Thank you for listening. I trust you to tell this story.”

They sat in companionable silence, sipping the last of their tea. Jack was determined to do justice to Ginger’s life story. Still, between her recollections and his research, he had a nagging feeling that the two might not mesh.

It wasn’t what she said, but what she held back. Somewhere was the truth, and he would find it. After all, that’s what he did.

14

After finishing her presentation on basic computer skills for the senior center in Summer Beach, Ginger closed her laptop computer and set it aside on the red Formica kitchen table where she’d worked for years, watching soup simmering on the stove or bread baking in the oven.

She had taught classes at the senior center for a long time, and now many attendees were younger than she was. But then, they hadn’t had her experience.

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