Page 1 of Coral Memories

PROLOGUE

Ginger opened the old photo album on the coffee table. Embossed with worn gold lettering, the cover read,Our Memories.

Settling against the brocade settee in her airy bedroom overlooking the ocean, she swept back the sleeve of the silk caftan she’d had made in Paris. Like her, it was considered vintage, though the fabric with its violet hues was still as lustrous as the day she’d discovered it. She aimed for her mind to remain just as vibrant, even as her limbs showed signs of age.

Signs of a life well lived, in her opinion.

Her husband’s words sprang to mind.As long as we’re living, we should live well.

To which she’d added—and find happiness wherever we are.

She still missed Bertrand, yet his presence remained evident in their private quarters. He had taught her how to live well, regardless of a person’s station in life.The right partner, good friends, a sense of style, and doing what you love.

She drew a deep breath at the memory. To this day, she kept bottles of his favorite colognes on her dresser. He wore Spanish lavender in the morning and a smoky, spiced sandalwoodparfumin the evening. The scent on a linen handkerchief he might offer her if needed was lodged in her olfactory cortex.

She smiled at the memory of his sweet gestures. No one could ever replace him. While she’d loved her grand, life-long romance, she was satisfied with her life now.

His last words—passionate yet tinged with humor—floated to her as if through the ether.Never say never, darling.

“You rascal,” she replied, pursing her lips with a smile. As long as she was still in a relationship with the love of her life, how could she?

Ginger touched the curled edge of a sepia-toned photograph of her parents and siblings. They were frolicking on a beach not far from that which stretched beyond her cottage window. A frothy high tide crashed along the shoreline, conjuring a vivid image of that distant day at the beach.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and her eldest granddaughter joined her. “What did you want to show me?”

Ginger gestured to the photographs. “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen these.”

Marina looked at her with a hint of curiosity in her eyes. She peered at the images. “That’s a wonderful photo. Do you remember that day?”

“As if it were yesterday, darling.” Surely Marina didn’t think she was waning just yet. Ginger lifted an eyebrow in mild reproach, yet her granddaughter’s gaze held such keen interest she realized that was only Marina’s way of asking for the story behind the photograph.

Perhaps it was time her granddaughters learned about her past. They needed to know why she’d told the stories she had—before her history was lost forever.

Anything could happen at any time.

Like that day Bertrand had left their suite at the Ritz for an afternoon swim before dressing for dinner.

Ginger blinked back the memory.There were so many things I wish I’d asked him.

Marina shifted the heavy photo album toward her lap, sharing its weight. “I recognize your parents. Who are the others in that photo?”

“My brother Jesse and our friends.” Ginger named everyone and added a little backstory on each of them.

Yet, she hardly knew where to begin in telling her own story. Over the years, she had woven many tales for her granddaughters. While she grieved the tragedy of her only child, Sandi, and her husband, Dennis, she also bore the responsibility of their three daughters left behind.Without Bertrand, she’d had no choice but to carry on.

Life had a way of laughing at the plans one made.

Afterward, she guided and protected the girls with every sliver of determination and creativity she could muster. Her girls had grown into lovely, accomplished women with their own families. She was proud of every Delavie descendant.

Ginger had been the matriarch of her family for decades, having outlived her two older brothers by many years. One was lost in a distant war, another from an ailment that could have been treated today. Someday, one of her granddaughters—all young women now—would inherit her title of matriarch. That would be Marina if the natural order of life prevailed.

Not that it did, she knew, coughing and surreptitiously touching the polished coffee table for luck.

Marina looked concerned. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, dear.”

The nagging thought arose again.My granddaughters should know their family history.

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