Trying to protect me.Īn ironic smile tugs at my mouth. Not deep-I don’t know that there could ever be one that is deep or uncrossable between us, and if there ever were, the pain of that separation would kill me. After all, during our trip to San Francisco a few months ago, there’d been a chasm between Damien and me. An easy day, and I feel like it’s my due. I exhale slowly, intentionally enjoying the moment. My view.Īnd Damien, I think with a delicious frisson of delight. And second, that I am more blessed than I ever expected to be, and I’m grateful every day for the life I now have, so different from the horror that was my life back in Texas.
First, that no painting or photograph could ever truly capture the majesty of this view. I’m no stranger to fine art-how can I be, married to a man like Damien Stark, who appreciates the arts and has the money to buy what he loves? And as I look out on this incredible vista, two thoughts are clear in my mind. I press my fingers to the earpiece, settling it more firmly in place as I wait, then once again grip the railing in front of me as I look out to the sea and breathe in the beauty that stretches to the horizon and beyond.Īt just past ten, the sky has already lost the orange and purple hues that defined the morning, and it spreads out like a cerulean blanket over a dancing sea that sparkles in the brilliant light of the climbing sun. I stand on the wooden patio of my beachfront bungalow, the lively notes of Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turca filling my head, the quick tempo of the hold music at odds with the relative calm of the Pacific spread out before me.
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