A Lily of the Valley Ending

The standards have changed at the little yellow river cottage I so enjoy.

How else to explain a call from the man of the cottage asking if we could delay our arrival until after 1:00? Mind you, the missus - aka my girl crush - had already said to arrive mid to late morning, preferably with a Hanover tomato in hand. Now he was saying they needed more time?

More time to what? They've both told me repeatedly that I'm not a guest, I'm family. When my visits are in the same month, I ask that they don't even change the sheets on the screened porch bed between visits. The guest cottage requires no upkeep for me beyond opening the windows and making sure there's toilet paper.

Turns out the uptick in housekeeping standards had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the man who was driving the car toward the cottage. For him, they were putting in extra effort on chores. I know because after handing over the Hanover tomatoes, I asked if they'd have warned me off if it had been just me.

Nope.

And while I could be insulted, I prefer to think that it's just an affirmation that I'm like the mint planted in the toilet in the yard: no more than another cottage fixture.

As always, they were the host and hostess with the mostess, taking us for a leisurely power boat ride on the eastern and western branches of the river for the shank of the afternoon.

We admired older river houses built with windows for ventialtion, checked out new construction (including a house on stilts seemingly built right at the water's edge - WTF?) and scratched our heads over waterfront houses without porches facing the view. We spotted an old boathouse out in a cove, the pier behind it long gone and the boathouse now sitting at a precarious 45 degree angle as if it were returning to the water incrementally.

Atop channel markers and buoys, we saw empty nest after empty nest where just last month young ospreys had been learning to fly under the parents' tutelage. They'd since left home and the captain was already missing their distinctive sounds in the neighborhood.

The helmsman turned the conversation to how thug-like ospreys were and yet how noble eagles were, casting them as members of opposing gangs. From there, it was a short leap for the two fans of show tunes to begin snapping their fingers a la the Sharks and the Jets.

We got back just in time to change clothes before the dinner party guests began arriving.

There was the judge and his wife, whom I'd met over dinner last spring. There was the couple next door who'd been invited by text while we were out tooling around on the boat (ah, technology). Then during dinner on the deck, when they saw their other neighbor busy doing yard work (and without his family), they called to him and he joined the party.

After dinner and the judge's wife's Atlantic Beach pie - notably with a Saltine crust - we watched the moon rise over the Corrotoman River, debating whether or not it was full (turns out it wasn't) as it cast a long, shimmering reflection across the barely rippling water. The captain had his fingers crossed that a breeze would pick up overnight.

I've had many a wonderful night sleeping on that screened porch, but I can't recall one with such magnificent moonlight bathing the turquoise floor and the single antique bed.

Sunday dawned just as blue sky-beautiful but definitely hotter. After checking the readout for the weather station atop his boathouse, the captain decided that although it was rather still on this part of the river, it looked to be breezier toward the bay. As always, when he inquired who wanted to go sailing, I was the first to raise my hand.

Then it happened again. My girl crush tells me that they're going to go ahead to the marina and tidy up the boat and we should follow along in 15 minutes. I looked at her like she'd grown another head. Since when don't I go along with you to the boat? Since never.

Wait, was this about cleaning up the sailboat before you-know-who saw it for the first time? Well...

Holy cow, they were doing it again. Just to be sure, I inquired if I'd be going with them if I had come alone. Sheepish looks all around.

Insisting that he could handle meeting the boat no matter how she looked, I said we were coming with them. Riding to the marina is when the boating party gets started, what with anticipation of the adventure, joking around and miscellaneous information shared along the way. With a lawman in charge, there's no booze, but there is a whole lot of smart-assed repartee.

It wasn't our best sailing day in terms of wind, although the new helmsman did manage to heel over a few times and give the girl crush and I - lounging on the bow of the boat in our legless seats - some cheap thrills.

Or, as she likes to put it in her raunchiest voice, "Yea, baby!"

Coming up under the Whitestone bridge near the bay, we admired how the new coating of sky blue paint really does melt the bridge right into the sky when you're moving under it. Which, considering the never-ending construction, is a far better place to admire it than on top with the hot asphalt and Port-a-Potties.

It was a slow but steady trip back with only a little of the time under sail power, with the captain pulling the technology card to snap a photo of his crew to document the momentous occasion. Fortunately, he was not around for the pre-journey home, but oh-so important, final outdoor shower of the weekend. Because what happens in the finest shower on the river, stays in the shower.

Yea, baby.

This Woman is His Destiny

It's not all boat rides and deck sitting, you know.

I look forward to being invited down to my friends' yellow and blue river cottage and yes, I probably am the first one to raise my hand when the captain of the boat asks who wants to go for a boat ride. I can't wait to use the outdoor shower while I'm there and it's my considered opinion that the screened-in porch on their guest cottage is a practically perfect place to sleep, even in a thunderstorm.

But honestly, the most appealing reason to spend the Sunday and Monday just past (or any days) at their cottage is to watch the relationship of two people who are crazy in love. Two people who had a relationship, broke up (a period they refer to as the "Terrible Awful") and got back together five years ago for an even better Version 2.0.

I tell you, it's positively inspiring.

Every time he goes to open a big beer, he always asks of her, "You want half?" Because he leaves for work before she gets up, he makes her breakfast and leaves it for her. He's especially quick with a compliment, whether about how she's dressed, the meal she's prepared or a body part.

No lie, he goes around telling people, "Yea, I'm married to that!" in a voice bursting with pride.

Besides my Dad, I've never seen a man so forthcoming about how he adores his woman. The best part is, she confided while we were stretched out on lounge chairs on the deck that he's every bit as attentive and sweet when no one else is around but them.

She never takes advantage of her role as the adored. Planning, she always considers his preferences first. Accepting his kind gestures, she always thanks him, often complimenting his behavior to others. She flirts shamelessly with him and he eats it up...still.

So when I spend a couple of days with them like I just did, I get a first hand, up close and personal look at how a happy couple not only enjoys a good relationship, but works at it. Little gestures, sweet words, random kissing.

Their interactions remind me that successful relationships are only as satisfying as what both people put into them. With them, it's like watching silly love songs play out against their spacious deck and the sparkling blue waters of the Carotoman River.

He: What are you doing?
She: Taking barbecue out of the friggin' freezer.
He: Shut up and dance with me.

Is it any wonder they were bound to get together? Yea, I'm envious of that.

I Like How the Day Sounds

These are days you'll remember
Never before and never since, I promise,
will the whole world be warm as this...

Tuesday morning I awoke to the kind of e-mail that makes you smile at a screen.

"Any chance you could come visit tomorrow (Wed)? We can hang out...spend the night? I know it's late notice. Think about it! You don't need to bring anything but a toothbrush!"

This from the woman I'd just met Sunday night at a crab feast at her colorful and stylish cottage on the northern neck.

You can probably guess how fast I accepted an invitation to the river for a couple of days.

I don't want to say I was excited about the trip, but I woke up at 6:15, laid there for an hour and finally realized I was too keyed up to go back to sleep and got up.

This from the person whose earliest waking time is usually 9ish and, more likely, 10ish.

Knowing how beautifully appointed her house is, I shouldn't have been the least bit surprised at the picture perfect day she'd ordered up: sunny, low humidity and the bluest of skies.

Arriving mid-morning after only a slight detour (of course I got lost for a short bit), we immediately took up residence on the deck overlooking the dock and river.

Stretched out under an enormous umbrella only slightly bluer than the sky, on lounge chairs only slightly less blue than the sky, we proceeded to talk as only two women born a year apart and with equivalent amounts of life experience can.

Since we'd been strangers just three days before, we covered every base from our old-fashioned childhoods (can you say crinolines?) through high school (pants, at long last!) and into adulthood with all the unexpected twists and turns of adulthood.

Memories tumbled out of both of us. A lot of Venus and Mars stuff. About the balance of power in a relationship.

It was a blast to discover how much we had in common and not just a disdain for sleepwear although goodness knows I appreciate a kindred soul.

We broke camp long enough to devour BLT salads she whipped up and brought to the deck before resuming our lounging to learn more about each other.

Okay, so maybe I had a little bit of a girl crush.

Mid-afternoon she asked what I wanted to do and graciously indulged my quest to ride the Ottoman ferry, something I'd been unable to do Sunday because the ferry doesn't run then.

Much to our surprise, it wasn't running yesterday either because the tide was so high, but at least I can say I tried. Again.

Someday my ferry will come.

Back at the cottage, we took a walk down Cow Shed lane where she showed me the old shed that used to house a thriving riverfront business .

Fifty cents bought you admission tot he nearby pool and $1 got you a night in one of the log cabins I could just see through the pine trees.

Best of all were the stories about the old shed back when it was a dance hall with bar stools made of saddles and weekly dances.

After too much fighting between male customers over girls, the Shed instituted a rule that men were only admitted if they had a date.

Because we know how men settle down when they're under the influence of a woman.

But since the dance hall days were long over, we were happy to accept her husband's invitation when he called as we were sipping limeades, asking to take us out to dinner.

And since girls gotta shower before being taken out, that meant I got a chance to take advantage of the roomiest, most attractive outdoor shower I've ever seen.

With the blue sky overhead providing accent color to the yellow and white shower room (stall is too small a word for this place), I took my time like I never do showering inside.

If you ask me, the world would be a happier place if more people showered outside.

Clean and dressed, we took glasses of Picpoul de Pinet to the deck to await the arrival of her husband, our collective date.

The drive to Reedville resulted in my first real look at the quaint town I had been in once, but only to catch a boat. This time, we took a slow drive to admire the Victorian and older elaborate houses that lined the main drag.

At the Crazy Crab, we got waterfront seats on the deck with a view of huge fishing boat masts and boats bobbing gently nearby.

The nearest boat was named "Love's Last Episode," a fitting title, we decided, for true love.

It was our server's first night and she barely looked old enough to bring us wine and Arrogant Bastards, but she did so she must have been older than we could tell.

She did a fine job of bringing us all kinds of fresh seafood: mussels, steamed shrimp, crab cake on fried green tomatoes, hush puppies and slaw.

Midway through the meal, another young girl approached us, asking if we wanted popcorn.

Not sure why we were being given  snack food mid-meal, we happily accepted nonetheless and a basket of popcorn soon showed up.

With a sweeping view of Cockrell's Creek and the orange setting sun, we took advantage of having male company to talk about relationships, both beginnings, endings and restarts.

My friends dated for years before breaking up, then spent a few years dating others before reuniting.

They now refer to the period apart as "the terrible awful," a phrase I find very romantic coming from them both.

Somehow the subject of music led to his penchant for a satellite radio Italian contemporary music station, music he finds sexy but not distracting.

"When Italian contemporary comes on, I know what's next," my friend said, making me laugh out loud.

Dessert was creme brulee and chocolate pots de creme under a dusky sky, pushing us solidly into stuffed territory. We left full and happy after such a pleasant and talkative evening.

I'd been given a choice of three beds to spend the night in and chose the one on the guesthouse porch, a twin bed under a ceiling fan and inches away from one of the three screened walls.

With the breeze whispering through the trees just outside, I fell asleep on the porch bed and slept like a rock until a cardinal alighted on the nearby picket fence this morning and began singing me awake.

After breakfast we took a walk down Queenstown Road to find the commemorative stones where local lore claimed that John Rolfe had first set foot.

No trespassing signs stopped us not long before the river, so we had to imagine it after all.

Today's plan was to take a ride in the boat and it turned out to be a glorious day for it because the river was almost smooth as glass under a cloudless sky.

We started out and toward Irvington and in no time, spotted dolphins nearby. Within seconds, one grazed the boat next to where I sat.

Jumping up to see them better, we powered down the boat and began, well, stalking them, allowing them to lead us, follow us or just frolic for our delight.

My friends said they'd never seen dolphins out there on all their boat rides, so I felt privileged to have been along when it happened.

After a while, it seemed as if the dolphins were playing with us, staying underwater for a bit and then popping up incredibly nearby, dipping far under the boat and coming up on the other side, entertaining us constantly.

Scads of pictures were taken as they rose out of the water in unison, so close we could hear the sound of them breathing as they broke water, impossible when you watch them from the beach at the ocean.

We followed, snapping pictures all the way to and under the White Stone bridge, where the bridge above created a silver and blue metallic reflection on the barely rippling surface of the river.

We passed a midnight blue sailboat looking quite patriotic with white sails trimmed in red.

They pointed out Merroir and the red-roofed Tides Inn with yachts docked in front of it. You could almost smell the money from where we were.

But natural beauty aside, the dolphins were our main focus and honestly, the delight we took in their antics was no less after an hour and a half than when they first began.

It had been so unexpected. They were so close. It was such a random thing. We were so lucky.

Eventually we returned to the dock for lunch and one last adventure: my first ride on a jet ski.

Taking the rear-facing position behind them, we sprinted around the river, even making a loop around the Ottoman Ferry in progress from shore to shore.

I'll ride you yet, Ottoman, she vowed shaking her fist at the quaint little boat making its way along at a snail's pace.

Back at the cottage, sadly it was time for me to pack and leave.

You lose track of time at this magic little place, not just because there aren't clocks to remind you of it, but because the days last so nicely with nothing more to do than relax and enjoy whatever is happening (or not happening).

If I were the type to conserve words (as if), I could have done a post that said, "Went to river. Got to know fabulously interesting and beautiful woman and the adoring love of her life. Dinner out. Boat ride."

But where's the fun in that?

...These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face
And when you do, you'll know how it was meant to be