A voice in the present released me from a stunning Paris memory.
"Daddy!" Miranda called, her finger pointing.
She keenly stated, "I see a whale!"
I followed her aim out to sea.
"A small sailing boat," I blandly stated.
A pinpoint in the distance, billowing a dark sail. Her arm dropped limply in quiet disappointment.
I patted her shoulder, "Keep looking," I encouraged.
Miranda jumped on the spot, trying to look further into the distance.
I braced my shoulders, glad the boat wasn't a sabot!
I moved closer to Rhea and my girls, scanning out to sea. Phoebe pleaded to sit on my shoulders to help her spot a whale. I lifted her, and she clapped happily before resting her hands on my head.
In the absence of whales, we played 'I Spy.'
Phoebe started the game as the youngest.
"I spy with my little eye," she started.
She took plenty of time thinking before saying, "D."
Miranda responded fast, "Dad."
Alina and Alicja shouted, "Dolphins."
Phoebe spied them on my shoulders. We enjoyed watching the dolphins frolic in the water. Later, we played 'I Spy' when they disappeared under the waves. We enjoyed family fun before the short return drive to Eden.
In Eden, Rhea went into a store for some snacks. The girls and I waited on a public seat nearby. A tall busker with a weather-beaten face thrummed his worn maple guitar farther along the street. His smooth country and blues tune wafted in our direction.
My girls played the hand game—apple on a stick, self-absorbed in their clapping routines. I paid attention to the busker's guitar on an otherwise near-empty sidewalk. His slender strumming fingers supported his easy-listening voice.
I recalled how Josh teased buskers.
Then, my mind drifted to Jenny and a busker.
Memory wafted to a bustling weekend market splashed with colour. Fresh green and yellow vegetables piled high. The scents of handmade candles, lavender and cherry, would have halted Coral had she been there.
Jenny and I passed craft stalls offering shade beneath their striped canvas awnings. A vivid tie-dying and batik range of clothing recalled good times in Malaysia. I remember trying to sidestep a busker to find the second-hand bookstalls.
Jenny tapped my arm and asked me to slow down and appreciate a mature dude playing the violin. I picture his curly brown hair versus the straightness of his bow and thin hips, which maybe I initially thought effeminate.
In front of him, his open case contained a generous mix of notes and coins. A pile of cassettes for sale lay spread beside his case. I listened to the busker as Jenny explained the cadence of the piece. Her fingers tapped on her thigh to the rhythm of his composition. Her other hand rested inside mine.
Jenny nurtured my appreciation of his skill. Her amber orbs gave me a short series of glances. My eyes melted into hers. She stopped tapping her thigh and pointed to my right leg and her left. Our feet tapped together. Her head rested on my shoulder as the buskers beat found a steady pace.
She clicked her fingers as a growing audience clapped in time. I leaned on her shoulder. Jenny knelt as the busker completed his current set, leaving my head lolling. I watched Jenny place money in the open violin case for his current playing and to buy his tape.
After wandering the market to find the bookstalls, where nothing captured our fancy, we played the cassette in her car on our journey home.
My attention returned to my young girls outside the store in Eden, their clapping game completed. They were bored yet well-mannered, waiting for their mum, seated, swinging their legs in sync.
I dug into my jeans pockets and pulled out loose change.
"Hands out," I instructed.
Four little hands outstretched to meet my open palm full of coins. I slipped the girls a smattering of coins one by one. Miranda bounced hers confidently on her palm. The twins hooted as they swapped their piles, and Phoebe clutched her silver tight in nervous excitement.
"Go along the street and drop them in the man's hat," I urged.
A band of girls lined the sidewalk in a rainbow of summer dresses. Giggling, they raced and dropped the money in his hat. The busker tipped his guitar in appreciation. My girls skipped, arms joined, back towards me.
As I watched my girls, I thought of Jenny.
It had been a while.
I contemplated Jenny coursed her own life, long separate from mine.
Still, like a guilty boy looking at porn, I felt I shouldn't think about Jenny.
Yet my conscience framed it as acceptable because I considered Jenny distinct from myself for the first time since our pairing.
I remembered a sharing moment, easy to recall. We propped against pillows in my bed while I shared a photo album of my family and friends.
I showed her pictures of James, my brother, and me in school uniforms and Mary, my sister, and me on a family beach holiday when I was six. She saw my parents' wedding photo. A rare studio hand-coloured photograph from a black and white age.
Next, I shared a picture of my dad dressed in his uniform during World War Two. Finally, she skimmed a class photo, grade four, where I pointed out my friends. Beside me, in the back row, Josh. Coral nested central in the front row.
I liked the relaxed way Jenny let me share my past. Then, she shared how her parents had taken her to Europe as a kid, revealing her lack of appreciation for the trip.
As a young child, she stated, 'blah to culture.'
Her face pinched in regret.
She added, "I wish I had been more grateful."
Then she recounted camping trips and filling a tent with her two elder sisters. She spoke fast, excited to remember these happy times.
With Rhea still in the store buying treats, I began considering options to keep the girls occupied. Luckily, their mum emerged, her arms overloaded. Four helpers clutched bags of crisps and nibbles as they boisterously returned to our MPV.
Phoebe dropped the crisps in a spirited clamber into the car, and the twins accidentally burst the packet under their scampering feet, its contents crushed.
"Whoops," calmed Rhea as she secured Phoebe's seatbelt, patting her to stop any tears.
The twins covered their mouths and clicked their belts with their free hands.
Rhea reassured them, "Lucky, I brought plenty."
She rustled a bag of chocolates, and everyone grinned.
"Let's find a beach," I offered in support.
Behind me, a chorus of "Yah!"
Miranda and I scooped the mess and dropped it in a bin before heading off.
I selected a beach near Eden with endless sand for our girls to play in. On the beach, Rhea and the kids set about building sandcastles. Miranda gave me the 'daddy job' (her words) to gather seashells to decorate their castles.
Rhea gave me a small green plastic bucket, and off I scouted. I focused on collecting unbroken gems, sifting scattered piles of bleached, chipped and holey ones. I gathered fluted scalloped shells — fanning tan, grey and tongue pink. Petite spiral shells, naturally decorated with Italian buttercream tints. And open clams with black, violet and purplish hues.
As I wandered back to the girls and their sandcastles, the bucket full, my memory coasted to the beach, where I floundered, attempting to attract Jenny.
Unfortunately, it was the same beach where Brittany didn't let Josh flounder in late November '74.