Barbara Bretton: Grandma and the Prince - Part 30

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I remember when the idea for Midnight Lover hit me. I was reading Nevada Magazine in the lobby of the Princeton Medical Center. My then ninety-year old grandfather had broken his hip the day before (and, trust me, that is a story in itself) and my husband and I had driven down from Long Island to see him before his surgery. Grandpa was a man of the old school. Not even a broken hip and assorted painkillers could dull his mind. We talked as we waited for him to be taken into surgery and he told me some stories I hadn’t heard before.

He was a child of the American prairie. Born in Kansas, one of four children, before the turn-of-the-last century. He remembered riding in a prairie schooner as his family made their way from one part of the state to another. Proud of his country, he was also proud of his native American heritage, of the Chippewa blood flowing through his veins and mine. One of my prized possessions is a tintype of my great-grandmother crouching down in her calico dress and staring into the camera, as if daring it to steal her soul.

That morning before surgery, his stories were endless. The cruelty of the land. The beauty of it. His father’s savagely broken heart when my great-grandmother died young. The children were scattered to surrounding farm families. The girls were no trouble to place. Grandpa’s older brother was big enough and strong enough to work the land; a farmer took him in immediately. Grandpa, however, was skinny and young. Too old to be a cute little boy yet too young to be a productive farm worker.

“I was turned out to grass,” said my grandfather that April morning, “with a note pinned to my undershirt and a coin in my pocket.” He was twelve years old and alone. He rode the rails across the country, working wherever he could to keep body and soul together. He grew up fast and tough and made his way by rail to the Grand Tetons where he worked at a logging camp until the outbreak of World War I.

I knew I was looking at a hero being born. (And didn’t my five-times-married grandpa just love that!) Just that morning I’d read a delightful article in Nevada Magazine about the old mining town of Pioche where, back in its heyday, women had swarmed its streets, marrying the hapless male citizens before they knew what hit them. In a switch on Lysistrata, the men banded together to form a secret society whose sworn duty was to steer clear of matrimony for one full year. That would teach those husband-hungry spinsters a thing or two . . . and maybe make the streets safe for decent men again!

Why not take Jesse Reardon, a hero sprung from my grandfather’s stories, and place him in Silver Spur? Why not make him the richest, toughest man in town? Why not have him embody everything Silver Spur is – or claims to be?

Why not bring Caroline Bennett, formerly of Boston, to town? Make her beautiful, bright, and while I’m at it, why not make her the only woman for miles around who isn’t interested in marriage.

I had a wonderful time writing Midnight Lover and it was a thrill to hand Grandpa his own copy when it was published. He’s gone now but his stories remain, both the ones he lived and the ones he inspired.

Thanks to the internet and the explosion of e-book readers, two of my historical romances from the late 1980s have a new lease on life. Both Fire's Lady and Midnight Lover are available at most of the ebook sites. Click MIDNIGHT LOVER and you'll be taken to Amazon where you can read a sample or buy a copy of your own. (And they're only $2.99!)

NOTE: Fire's Lady will be available in a few days. Sorry I don't have a hot link to give you right now.

He was begotten in the galley and born under a gun. Every hair was a rope yarn, every finger a fish-hook, every tooth a marline-spike, and his blood right good Stockholm tar.
--Naval Epitaph


PS: I'm Barbara Bretton and you can find me here and here. Leave a comment behind and you'll be automatically entered in a drawing. The winner will receive signed copies of CASTING SPELLS, LACED WITH MAGIC, and SPUN BY SORCERY and a little sweet surprise.

Are you on Facebook? Stop by and friend me when you have a moment.

Grandma and the Prince - Part 28

Here is the second installment of Grandpa Larry's World War I reminiscence. He called it "Under Sealed Orders" and the words that follow are all his. (Not too bad for a man with a sixth grade education!)

* * *

Part II

We entered the harbor without our identity code flag flying and dropped anchor near the dock section of the city of Halifax. There was no more to moor ship, so it was evident that we would (inaudible) one anchor with no intention of staying in port long. No one came near us. The Union Jack was raised on the jackstaff at the bow and the ensign was rised at the stern, which is the usual procedure in port – also, the Marine guards were posted at various places on deck.

A little later, the Captain’s Gig was lowered away and the Captain, accompanied by Lieutenant Commander Stiles, the ship’s First Lieutenant, went ashore. The scuttlebutt was quiet. I guess everybody had run out of ideas. A little after dark, our big canopy-covered motor sailor was lowered away and sent ashore. That evening, after the boatswain’s mate had piped standby and pipe down hammocks, I stretched my hammock on my billet, unlashed it, and prepared it for the night. I then listened to the band play some nice music for while, then as I had no watch that night, I turned in for a good night’s sleep.

The next morning, after reveille and breakfast, we heaved in the anchor and got underway. I soon heard by the usual grapevine that four men had come aboard with the Captain in the gig and the motor sailor had brought several more men and a large amount of luggage. We heard later that after we had left port and little more than cleared the harbor and headed out in the open sea that a load of TNT had blown up in the harbor, not far from where we had been anchored. It had devastated about (inaudible) the shipping in the harbor and great damage to the city of Halifax itself. I soon found out who our guests were. The men who came on the motor sailor were aides and secretaries, and the four who came in the Captain’s gig were Colonel House, who was the advisor/confidante of President Wilson; General Bliss of the Army high command in Washington; Admiral Benson of the Navy high command; and a tall, handsome young civilian who was the Assistant Secretary of the Navy under Josephus Daniels. Fourteen years later, this young man was destined to be President of the United States. You don’t have to ask his name, do you, Barbara?

Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

We heard later that they had arrived in Halifax from the United States on a freight train in boxcars. The men were in disguise. Halifax officials were not aware of the maneuvers which were handled by our Intelligence men. We also found out that it had been learned that the German high command was starting to crack at the seams, and that these men were the mission being sent to negotiate the armistice when the time came.

The Huntington had been selected for this mission and it was a good choice. We had our job to do and that was to get these people quickly and safely to their destination which was, of course, top secret. Our ship was good for the job, well-armed, quite fast for those times, well-commanded with a well-trained experienced crew. The only things we had to look out for were the subs, of course, of which there were many – and big German battleships, but they did not come out into the open seas until the Battle of Jutland.

I had recently been promoted and was in charge of a section of the boat deck which included the base of the cage mast (inaudible) the Bridge and also #1 smoke stack. I was usually there during working hours when I was not on gun watch. I noticed that some of the mission seemed to like being around the cage mast. I happened to be talking to the Jimmy Legs in charge of the Lucky Bag and he had an idea. There were a number of folding chairs in the Lucky Bag which had probably been used at some function aboard the ship before the war and had not been taken off. Anyway, they were brought up and placed in the Bull Ring below the cage mast. The guests took advantage of them in nice weather and seemed to enjoy sitting there in the Bull Ring, talking. I came in contact quite a bit during the crossing and was able to get a number of pictures of them taken by the ship’s photographer. It seemed strange to see them there. They represented the highest power in the United States. The pictures were lost years later in Brooklyn when we were robbed. The crossing proved to be uneventful, except for two or three submarine alerts but nothing came of them.

I guess I should explain a few things. First, Jimmy Legs is the nickname of the Master at Arms. There were a number of them and they have charge of the unruly who, in such cases, can’t be handled by the petty officers of the sections. They have charge of the brig and bringing the culprit before the Captain’s mast, deck court, summary court-martial, and even general court-martial, although that is infrequent as most general courts are held on shore.

The Lucky Bag is a compartment below decks where everything lost, strayed, stolen, or misplaced finds its way and may be recovered if properly identified by its owner. When a large amount of unclaimed articles are accumulated, the Master at Arms in charge holds a sale. The articles are stamped “Lucky Bag” and sold to the highest bidder. The theory is that the funds received go to the crew’s entertainment fund, but I would not swear to that. I would like to say that a big warship of the World War I era was no luxury liner. No way. Its decks above and below were always cleared. There was no place to sit down, the folding tables and benches were placed in racks in the overhead as soon as the meal was completed and cleared up. At sea we wore life belts 24 hours a day and never broke out our hammocks. I had no bedding at any time. We slept on the deck and you can believe it was hard. Most slept on the gun deck because it was warm in the cold weather. In addition to this spartan way of life, we were allowed a half-bucket of water a day with which to wash our faces, teeth, shave, and take a sponge bath. We used the rest to scrub clothing. Anything that was left went into a community bucket for the purpose of scrubbing paint work. If we wished to sit down for any purpose, we would get our ditty box from a rack to use for a seat. This was a box about 10 inches wide and 10 inches high and maybe 14 inches long with a lock on it. We kept our personal belongs in there: tobacco, soap, shaving gear, writing paper, maybe a picture of a girl friend or family or such.

(to be continued)

* * *
He was begotten in the galley and born under a gun. Every hair was a rope yarn, every finger a fish-hook, every tooth a marline-spike, and his blood right good Stockholm tar.
--Naval Epitaph


PS: I'm Barbara Bretton and you can find me here and here. Leave a comment behind and you'll be automatically entered in a drawing. The winner will receive signed copies of CASTING SPELLS, LACED WITH MAGIC, and SPUN BY SORCERY and a little sweet surprise.

Are you on Facebook? Stop by and friend me when you have a moment.

Grandma and the Prince - Part 11

My brother Cass was a beautiful boy. We grew up together, were thick as thieves we were. Edith . . . she wasn't like us. She was raised in England. There was nothing of the child about my sister. Cass and I could run and jump. Edith was clumsy and slow.

I didn't see her from the time I was four until I was -- oh, sixteen or so. We were all strangers. Not like family at all.

Did I ever tell you about the time she walked into a tree? [wicked laughter] She was so busy looking at the sights she didn't pay attention where she was walking. [more wicked laughter]

But we were sisters and we both left the glove factory together. She found another job somewhere. I don't remember what.

So one day I was walking with Mother on the Concourse and I saw a "Saleslady Wanted" sign. Mother waited outside and I went in. Dresses. Coats. Nothing difficult. I could try, you know? And that's what the owner said. "I'll give you a try. When do you want to start?

"Whenever you want me," I said. "Tomorrow morning?"

"Ten o'clock," he said.

I was there early the next day. Mr. Wheeling's window was all full of signs for sales. "Everything must go." And there I was alone with no other saleslady in the shop! He says "I'm having a big sale. Everything's marked on the tickets. You charge whatever's on the tickets. You know American money, right? There's the dressing room. They can try it on but after they buy, there's no exchange and no returns." He reached for his coat.

"Oh no!" I said. "You're leaving?"

"I have to go to the bank downtown. I'll be back at lunchtime. Don't worry, princess. Nothing happens in the morning."

"Oh, you're not going to leave me!" I said. I was still just a kid. A teenager.

"I'll be back soon as I can. Don't worry. Just do what you can."

I started praying as soon as the door closed behind him. Please, dear God, please, don't let any customers come in! All those coats and dresses on sale and me, still a greenhorn. Around eleven one lady comes into the shop. "Oh," she says, "you've got a sale. Mind if I look around?"

And I'm thinking, "Please don't buy anything!"

But she tried on a coat – they were dear then, like now. A coat in those days cost sixty or seventy dollars. Things were very high during the war. [note: World War i] One dress was sixty dollars alone! Anyway, she tried on a coat and it looked very nice on her and I told her that. I was always honest as a saleslady. I never lied—not even in New Jersey. And, not to flatter myself, but Edith and mother and I dressed very well. My dear, it made a difference.

Anyway she woman gives me the money. They didn't have fancy machines back then, just a simple cash register. You put the money in the file and you made change. I wrote out he bill.. My first sale of my life! I was so proud! She said, "You're new here, aren't you?" And I laughed. She didn't know how new I was!

From then on that first day I had one customer after another and Mr. Wheeling didn't show up until 4 or 5 in the afternoon. I forgot all about him! I didn't even have lunch, I was so busy. I had so many customer and, thank God, no trouble with American money.

And here he came in and the stack of money is getting higher and higher! He didn't expect it. "Well, Elsie," he said. "how did things go today?"

"Oh, " I said so casually, "I had some sales."

"You did?" he asked. "Really?" He thought I was making a joke so he nearly fell on the floor when I showed him the receipts. "You did all of that alone?"

"Yes," I said.

"And where's the money?"

I showed him two boxes full that I'd pushed under the counter. He nearly fell off his feet! He couldn't believe it. "Well, I'll be damned!" he said. "On your first day."

He gave me my first raise then and there.

From then on I had steady raises and a commission. I didn't want to work nights and I told him. He liked me so much that he said, "Would you work one night a week?" So I said yes, until nine o'clock.

I stayed with him for three years until he went out of business.

Oh, dearie, I was quite the saleswoman! My mother was that way too. Mother could sell you the paint off the walls. My father and Cass had it as well but not Edith. Poor thing. Edith just wasn't like the rest of us. . .

# # #

Which probably explains why Dede eloped with a handsome Irish cop from Detroit and left them all behind.

At least until tragedy struck.

PS: I'm Barbara Bretton and you can find me here and here. Laced With Magic is on the stands now. It was recently named one one of Booklist's Top Ten Romances of 2009. I hope you'll look for it.

Grandma and the Prince - Part 6 - Barbara Bretton

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

For all that Grandma El retained her love of England until the day she died, she never felt the need to go home again. When she left England for the United States during World War I, she didn’t look back. Through the years El talked endlessly about the importance of family and how it was she who kept us all together but, when push came to shove, she’d found it easy to leave her English relatives behind.

It wasn’t that easy for her sister Edith. Dede (her family nickname) was the child who had been bartered to childless relatives in return for passage to New Zealand for her parents and siblings. She was the one who’d been left behind in England while El and Cass ran free in Auckland. England was her home and always would be.

In 1963 Dede retired from her job at the Hotel Taft and moved to a three room apartment on Layton Street in Elmhurst, five short blocks from where we lived. My mom was elated. She’d adored Dede from their first meeting and the thought of having her living nearby put a permanent smile on my mother’s face. Dede was an odd combination of reserve and warmth, of wicked humor and cool sophistication. She and my mom went to the movies together every week. Risque foreign films with subtitles and content objectionable to the Diocese of Brooklyn that they laughed about afterward over coffee and pie at Dede's apartment.

My Aunt Mona, El’s daughter, adored Dede too. She took her shopping after work, out to dinner, vied with my mother for Dede’s attentions and love. Grandma was still living in New Jersey at that time, which was a good thing for all concerned. The major battles between the sisters were still a few years in the future.

R to L: my aunt Mona, my mother, Aunt Dede

Taken at my wedding 9/8/68

Dede was the one who stayed in contact with our relatives in Liverpool so when she decided to return to England for a visit, nobody was very surprised. “Come with me, El,” she said to her sister. “Let’s go home together.” But my grandmother wouldn’t consider it. “What do I want with England?” she said to Dede. “You can go alone.” And Dede did. She went to Rome and Venice and Naples. She went to Zurich and Brussels. She went to Paris. She went to London where she met a man who would become very important to her. And then she went home to Liverpool. To Sea View where she’d spent her childhood.

To the same dog she’d played with as a girl? Wait a second!

The well-groomed collie was sprawled on the lawn when her cab pulled up the long curving drive. What a well-behaved dog, Dede thought. He didn’t even glance her way when she called to him. “That looks just like Teddy,” my aunt said to the cousins who greeted her. “That is Teddy,” they said. “He died the year after you left for America. Grandmamma had him stuffed.”

I am descended from a long line of animal lovers but obviously some of them loved animals a tad too much. Poor Teddy had spent the last forty-five years as a lawn ornament, brought inside only when it rained. “We just couldn’t part with him,” they said. “We comb his hair ever day.”

That was one of the nicer family stories Dede told us. The other ones? Well, let's just say I'm not proud of the genetic mix bubbling through my veins. My great great grandfather was master of all he surveyed. When Dede moved back to Sea View, he was still the patriarchal figure whose moods set the tone for life inside the great house. The Edwardian Era flourished in London, but the Victorian Era, in all of its repressed and urgent sexuality, still reigned in my family’s home. My great great grandfather knew he existed above the law within the walls of his house. Children lived in the shadows, in a netherworld of adult expectations and their own fragile dreams.

They knew what they were doing, my family, when they asked for Dede rather than El. Dede was tall and awkward, a quiet girl who grew into an introspective woman. She lived an interior life. Not so my Grandma El. El would not have gone quietly to her new home. Society’s conventions were enough to still Dede’s protests. Society would have had to work much harder on El. I like to believe society would have lost the battle.

No one spoke up against my great great grandfather. His daughter Claire retreated into her own private world. She crept through the house on silent feet, seeing everything, revealing nothing at all. Dede would awaken with a start in the middle of the night to find Claire standing over her, gazing down at her with vacant eyes. No motherly touch from Claire, no words of comfort from anyone at all.

(Would it surprise you to learn that Dede grew up to be a reserved, self-contained, independent woman who turned into the quintessential geisha each and every time she fell in love?)

My great great grandfather’s reach extended beyond Sea View. Your daughter for my patronage, he’d said to the dairy farmer. The dairy farmer thought it sounded like a fine deal and the two men struck a bargain. The girl, a scared little chit in a faded cotton dress that had obviously known its share of owners, was delivered that night to Sea View. Dede watched from her window on the second floor as the child walked around back to the servants' entrance. Briefly she considered tapping on the window, to let the girl know there was someone who understood what she was feeling, but Dede knew an action like that would bring the wrath of God down on her own head and so she kept silent.

I learned from Dede that my great great grandfather died in bed one night with a young girl spread-eagled and crying beneath him. There was a sense of acceptance about Dede as she told this story that puzzled me, but that was only because I was too young to really understand what she wasn’t saying. I was a happy, spoiled American child of the 1950s. Stories about rich relatives and spooky mansions and Jane Eyre-ish little girls passed around like baseball cards were the stuff of the books I devoured on a daily basis. The fact that this was real, that it had happened to my Aunt Dede, took years to sink in.

A hint of things to come: Dede runs off to Detroit with a handsome cop. My grandmother ends up destitute with two kids under the age of five. (Although I didn't find out about that until I was fifty years old!)

As with most things in my life, it is only through writing about them that I've come to understand my family's history.

Okay, maybe "understand" isn't the right word. Let's just say I'm starting to make a little sense out of it.

Thanks to all of you who have read and enjoyed the story so far. I appreciate your comments more than I can say. This month three commenters chosen at random will receive signed copies of CASTING SPELLS and JUST DESSERTS as a small token of gratitude.

PS: I'm Barbara Bretton and you can find me here and here and here. My next book, LACED WITH MAGIC, will be released in August 2009.

Grandma and the Prince - Part 5 (Barbara Bretton)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4


Do you remember those old B-movie westerns? They were TV staples when I was a kid. The good guys wore white hats; the bad guys wore black. You cheered the heroes and hissed at the villains and you never for a second questioned who was right and who was wrong. You just knew.

Too bad life isn't like that. One of the things I've discovered as I dig back into my Grandma El's life is that there are shades of grey everywhere I look and nobody left to help shine some light in the dark corners.

According to the story my Grandma El told me, her father was a ladies man. "A divil of a man," she called him and I'm not sure whether or not it was a compliment. She claimed her mother gave as good as she got and for my great-grandmother Nell's sake, I hope she did.

Sometime around 1904 when my grandmother was 4 years old, her father Charley did something so dastardly, so unforgivable, that he had to take his family and leave England for New Zealand. (Let's face it: you couldn't get much farther away from home, could you?) Although he had been born into money, he'd apparently squandered his share and couldn't afford passage for his wife and three kids so he turned to the family at Sea View for help.

I've warned you that the Dimlers weren't exactly the Waltons, right? Well, great-grandpa Charley "sold" his eldest child, Edith, to relatives at Sea View for enough money to get him to New Zealand and set himself up with his own butcher shop.

I know. It boggles the mind. Poor Dede was only seven years old at the time, a tall gangly introspective blond in a family of short and boisterous redheads. Can you imagine how she felt when her parents and siblings sailed away? (Actually I know how she felt and will tell you next month.)

I've often wondered why my great-grandfather chose New Zealand. Out of all the places in the world, why such a far away (and beautiful) country? And why didn't I ever ask my grandmother that question?

They settled down in Auckland, in a small house on Ponsonby Road that my grandmother loved.
The photos are front and back of a "real photo" postcard my Charley sent to Dede from New Zealand. Unfortunately Grandma El glued the postcard into an album so much of the message on the back was lost.

The postcards lead me to believe that Dede had been left in her grandfather's care, something that makes my blood run cold. Her life must have been something out of a Gothic novel. Not so Grandma El's life. She loved every second of their ten years in New Zealand. Decades later, she glowed when she talked about the beauty and freedom of the place. (She claimed her best friends were neighboring Maori kids but I'm not sure that wasn't wishful thinking on her part.)

In 1914 Charley ran out of money and into trouble again and packed up the family for the return trip to England.

He didn't stay long. In 1916 the entire family, Dede included, was on its way to America.

Here are Grandma El's words, transcribed from a tape I made of her during the summer of 1976: "We came back to England when I was 14. They were broke and in disgrace. We stayed at Sea View for two years. Oh, Barbara, the things people thought! The Germans were the enemy and someone said my grandfather was signalling them with secret messages and people threw rocks at us and set fire to the house. We were hated by the town. You don't know what it was like . . . the bombs . . . the fires . . . the zeppelins overhead . . . terrible . . . terrible. Then he decided we were going to America. It was 1916. The War was still on but he had to go. We made the trip on an American ship. We stopped in the middle of the Atlantic with our engines off on account of the submarines everywhere. I remember that only the American flags on the ship saved us.

"I remember it was hot, so hot, when we reached New York. We didn't waste any time getting jobs. The second day our parents said, 'Find work," and we didn't know anything. I was brought up rich. I couldn't do anything. So I found a job as a nursemaid for a rich Jewish family on Central Park West. I took care of their little girl and the mother used to say to her, 'Now you should learn to speak like Elsie -- cahn't, tomahto' and I would feel so good to be appreciated.

"We used to go--I can see it now--to the swanky shops like B. Altman on Fifth Avenue. She had a chauffeur and a limousine and I would sit in the rear and I can still see him placing the fur robes over the madam and the girl. But not me. It wasn't done. I told them that I'd had servants too but who knows if they believed me. I was just a green kid.

"One day I left them. I don't know why. I just left. I didn't know any better. [silence] You don't know what it was like to come here . . . everything so big . . . so much . . . all the food and stores and people. I loved it from the first."

And then the unthinkable happened: Charley died of a heart attack at 47 years of age.

May 2, 1922
(from)
AVOCA
22 Ashfield Rd
Aigburt (?)
Liverpool

Mrs. Dimler, our united and heartfelt sympathy go out to all of you in your dreadfully sudden Bereavement. It was a bombshell to me and tears trickled down my face whilst reading the sad news to the rest of the family at the Breakfast table.

May God be with you in this your hour of trial.

Margaret is away at Chester - and we wrote her the sad tidings. She replied immediately - sending her love and sympathy.

Now as regards Charley's affairs under his late mother's will -- you may rest assured that your interested will be carefully guarded by the Enors. It is a pity Charley did not make a will - especially as he wrote me regarding in his very last letter. You may have possibly read my reply to it - stating that the balance eventually due to him after meeting his legal liabilities is somewhere around about 150 pounds - perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less.

I presume Charley was still a British subject at the time of his death - if so this money will be disbursed according to British law. If on the other hand he was a naturalized American (and I never heard anything) then I must have documentary evidence of this fact and a letter from a New York Notary Public direct - stating American law on this point. You quite understand, don't you, that if Charley was not an American then all this red tape business and expense will be unnecessary. So please write me by return so we may put things in order. Also please thank Cassy for his very feeling letter.

With kind regards to all of you we remain yours in sympathy,
The Ludeck Family

----
To be continued.

PS: I'm Barbara Bretton and you can find me here and here and here. My next book, LACED WITH MAGIC, will be released in August. I hope you'll watch for it.

Grandma and the Prince: A Thanksgiving Story

It was the night before Thanksgiving 1996 and I couldn't find my turkey platter. Talk about a disaster in the making. I had looked in all the places where it should have been and now was reduced to looking in places where it couldn't possibly be. Lingerie drawers. Linen closet. Under the bed. I'm telling you that platter had vanished without a trace.

I was on my hands and knees pulling out old boxes of greeting cards and tchotchkes from the guest room closet when I stumbled on what would turn out to be The Big Family Secret.

Talk about an OMG moment! I think I lost consciousness there for a second. I mean, how would you feel if you happened upon cheesecake photos of your grandmother!? Was I hallucinating? Had I tapped into the hard apple cider one time too many? This was our seventh Thanksgiving without Grandma El with us. Had she suddenly decided the time was right to play a paranormal prank?

(Trust me, it would have been right up her alley. Think Marie Barone with an English accent and you're getting close.)

When I could breathe again without giggling like a six year old who'd caught her parents doing it, I stole another peek. Yep, that was my Grandma El. Look at her reclining languidly against a rock. And wait a second! There she is--back arched, arms wrapped around her knees--posed seductively at the water’s edge. Oh and how about Grandma rising up from the ocean with her arms outstretched like that old painting called September Morn.

It was more than I could take. I didn't need this peek into Grandma's sex life. I pushed the images of my Halifax-born, Oxford-educated Grandpa Bert kneeling in the sand with a Brownie Box camera, crying "Work it, baby, work it!" to his twenty-five years younger wife. Nope. I didn't need that image at all.

I was about to shove these faded photos back into the box and out of my sight when I saw it and I swear to you the earth shifted beneath my feet. It was a photo of my grandmother, clearly taken the same day as the others, in the arms of a man named Prince Mohindin. No, I take that back. Prince Mohindin was in her arms. Enveloped by her. Practically devoured.

Let me put it bluntly: Grandma was all over the guy like a cheap suit and the look she was giving the camera could burn the lens.

What in the name of family history was going on here? Grandma and an exotic prince? Had I stepped onto the pages of my very own Harlequin Presents? (And who said my grandmother got to be the heroine anyway? I wanted that job!) And the date on the backs of those photos was 1930 which meant she was six years into her marriage at the time.

Now Grandma El was a born storyteller who had kept me breathless all through my childhood with tales of growing up in both England and New Zealand in the early 20th century but she never once mentioned dating royalty. Especially not while she was married!

"I've lived a woman's life," she had told me on more than one occasion. "I've experienced everything a woman can experience." I used to laugh and roll my eyes at the statement but maybe she hadn't been exaggerating after all.

(to be continued)

PS: I'm Barbara Bretton, author of CASTING SPELLS and JUST DESSERTS among others, and you can find me on-line here and here and here.