July 4, 1926
Santa Cruz, California
Claire sat on her balcony at the La Bahia hotel, looking out over the ocean. She was delighted that Veronique had brought her to the seashore for a treat; the lovely Spanish Revival hotel on Beach Street gave an uninterrupted view of the sand and the Pacific Ocean. The boardwalk and the bath house were just down the street; perhaps, later, she would join her daughter to watch the fireworks and maybe eat an ice cream.
For now, though, she opened the journal on the table in front of her.
“Odd,” she thought. “Most of my journal nowadays consists of letters to Erik.”
Today would be no different.
~~
Dear Erik:
Today, I am at the sea. Veronique has gone out walking with some friends and I am here in the hotel. I cannot help thinking of you as I watch the water; I will never forget our brief honeymoon at Montreuil-sur-Mer. Likewise, the lake under the Opera Garnier, and the ferry crossing at Calais when we went to live in London.
I drove an automobile to get here; no one seems to keep horses anymore. I miss them desperately, but I cannot ride anymore. So, instead I drive my shiny yellow Packard touring car. My first automobile was a Stanley Steamer; the young man next door taught me how to drive it in 1909.
The horses are another memory of you … the first night I saw you. I had never felt myself in danger on horseback until that night … the night a stranger in evening dress and a mask saved me from a panicked animal that might have killed me. So tall, resolute … mysterious, even handsome. How could I have known how much I would come to love you?
Can you believe it, my love? I am sixty-eight years old now. Were you still alive, you would be seventy-five. I never thought of being an old, white-haired woman … and yet, here I am.
You would be so proud of our Veronique. Twenty years ago there was an earthquake where we live (in San Francisco – yes, I live even further from home now), and she was a great help, not just to me but to people from all over the city. She has your musical talent; you should hear the beautiful tones she coaxes from your old Chanot violin. Just as you wished, I gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday.
My journals nowadays are filled with the ramblings of a woman who knows her life is waning. I write to you often – just as you used to leave notes for me, now that I think of it. It’s as though I think you will see my words.
Most often, though, I look back in fondness at our all too brief time together. I can look up from this page and see the sun glinting on the water; I cannot help wishing that you were here with me.
In my mind’s eye, we are both young again. We are walking together on the sand … maybe here, maybe Cannes. Yes, someplace warm (the water of the Pacific Ocean is so cold). You have your trousers rolled up and I have kilted my skirt and petticoats up. The warm sand and water touch our bare feet and we are holding hands as we walk along. Your face is bare to the sun … always the undamaged side facing me, because you remained vain until the day you died.
You bend to kiss me, your lips warm and soft.
If I were asleep and dreaming, this is when I would wake alone.
I miss you, Erik.
In the pages of my journal, summers never end for us.
~~
Claire closed the book. Veronique would be back soon, and an ice cream would be lovely.