I set my coffee mug down on the chestnut table.
Admiral Mercer walked to my side, setting the brass transit down on the wood with a soft, steady clink:
“Your grandfather’s line holds true, Elena,” the Admiral said softly.
Walking out through the French doors of the terrace, her steps firm, rhythmic, and supported only by a polished cedar walking cane Uncle David had carved for her, her silver hair catching the morning sun…
Came Mom.
Seventy-two years old now.
Her cheeks were full, radiant with health, her hazel eyes sparkling with that deep, untroubled laughter that had returned to our family.
Around her neck, restored to its rightful place, hung the eighteen-karat gold naval surveying medallion my father had given her, catching the golden light.
In her hands, she carried a freshly harvested bouquet of yellow hibiscus that she had picked from our front garden that morning.
Beside her trotted a young Malinois puppy, jumping up playfully to greet Barnaby, whose tail thumped against the cedar boards in rhythmic, contented adoration: thump… thump… thump.
