Heaven Knows

At our first meeting, my girl crush and I fell hard for each other.

Seated in the bow of a power boat (hers and her husband's) sipping pink bubbles while skimming the Corrotoman River, we bonded over age (ours, the same), the quest for true love (she'd succeeded in finding hers, I was still working on it) and having sex in their spacious outdoor shower (her, not me).

The date was August 11, 2014 and our admiration for each other was immediate and mutual.

By the time I got home from that weekend, she'd emailed me gushing, "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"

Sigh. A girl lives for that kind of romance.

In my efforts to see as much of her as I could, I managed two more visits back to their river cottage before that summer ended and a fabulous friendship was born.

Over the four summers since, I've spent many a day and night back at that river cottage so that she and I could talk, laugh, walk, drink, eat, talk, boat, jet-ski and lounge on the deck. Oh, yes, and talk. Finally, last year we had an a-ha moment when we realized we could also spend time together during the other seasons.

Translation: we didn't just want to be each other's summer fling.

When I introduced her and her handsome husband to Mr. Wright, they were not only thrilled for me but eager to spend more time as a foursome. We all enjoyed our summer get-togethers so much that we planned a big river weekend together in October, only to be thwarted when some hurricane or another knocked out power at both their Richmond and river houses.

But while our couple date hadn't worked out, you can only keep a couple of girl crushes apart for so long, so when she emailed me last week suggesting a catch-up dinner/girls' night out, I couldn't say yes fast enough.

Knowing your crush's preferences is essential, so when she assigned me the task of choosing the restaurant, I took into account her dislike of parallel parking. Suggesting Hob Nob because I'm a fan of their food, and guessing that she hadn't been there, I was pleasantly surprised when she responded, "Is that where the old Hermitage Grill was?"

Yes, it is. Turns out that Lakeside is part of her youth, a fact I hadn't known.

Arriving without reservations, we were surprised to find that every table except the sole occupied one was already reserved, so we settled in at the bar for dinner. Her beer and my Anjos Vinho Verde Rose had barely been placed in front of us when a server offered to seat us at the just-vacated table.

We certainly didn't mind since now we could look at each other.

With so much to talk about - it's been two and a half months, after all - we opted for the special of crab and shrimp spring rolls, a fine choice given the crispy golden wrapper that shattered with each bite and the crab-heavy filling.

A cheeseburger, Gouda grits and a Brussels sprout/bleu cheese/pomegranate seed salad fueled us through the next few hours as we dissected millennial anxiety, shared film recommendations and talked about what our menfolk have been up to.

Her man is as much a word nerd as I am - I know he's fond of lumbago, swale and gadabout, a term he's used to describe me once or twice - so I laughed hearing how he has "Dead Guy" listed as one of his phone contacts. Naturally, I also got the backstory on how he got to be "Dead Guy" in the first place, because there's always a good story with him.

He's also full of surprises, having recently suggested they go sailing...so she could see their new sailboat.

Seems he'd decided to sell the sailboat I'd been on with them for so many splendid adventures and upgrade to a new one. Like a proud parent, she pulled out her phone and showed me gorgeous photos of it, pointing out its handsome woodwork, sleek galley and sleeping quarters and new toilet (more important than you might think when pink bubbles are involved).

But she made sure that I knew that the main appeal for us girls is the flat bow, which she assured me would be easier for the two of us to maintain our balance on when we're sitting there chatting as the boat cuts through the water. Depending on the wind and the angle of the boat, we've had to do some serious bracing to stay upright while lounging under the mast.

When I reminded her that we could also not drink while we're up there, she gave me that look that made me crush on her from the beginning. "No, we can't!" she said emphatically.

They'd tried taking the boat out this past Sunday when temperatures had been forecast to warm up into the '60s, but between the cold river and warm air, it was so foggy they gave up. But the fog had other compensations, it seems. "Driving over the bridge, the clouds were so thick you couldn't see the river or the sky or anything except what was right in front of you," she told me dreamily. "It felt like being in heaven!"

Is it any wonder I love this woman?

Eventually we looked up to realize that every table and bar stool was now occupied, a fact neither of us had noticed happening. It didn't affect us, though, so we went on to share a slice of mint chocolate chip cake, its pale green buttercream frosting as sweet and rich as accidentally finding your girl crush at a crab feast.

But we're not idiots, so we also cooked up a plan for another couple date weekend to make up for being robbed of our October plans. It doesn't hurt that our mates have a bit of a man crush on each other, too.

Heaven is a weekend I get to spend with Mr. Wright, my favorite word nerd and my girl crush. But don't give me credit, I'm just doing as I was told.

Which is why, gadabout that I am, every time I can visit, I do.

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.

War and Work

Productive, yes; social enough, not even close.

My brain woke me up at 5:15 so that I could have an hour-long conversation in my head with myself about something that's apparently been bothering me. Let's hope we worked that out so it doesn't happen again.

When I finally awoke, it was to a message from my favorite ex-cop inviting me to the river for crabs and a lesson on the sail-yak ("I'm pretty sure I could teach you in 30 minutes or less!") but, alas, my inbox also informed me I had all kinds of obligations rearing their heads, so I reluctantly declined.

My walk to the river brought me up Cherry Street, a route I hadn't walked before. A shame since it yielded a charming house hidden behind an overgrown archway with a fat cat sunning on the brick walkway, a profusely flowering rose garden oddly placed between the sidewalk and street and a gaggle of teen-aged girls who were lost and needed my guidance to Mama Zu.

Coming back through Monroe Park, my eye was caught by an installation, "Eyes Wide Open Virginia" coordinated by Quakers Richmond Friends Meeting.

Consisting of pairs of army boots, each labeled with the name and Virginia birthplace of a fallen soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq (some with small flags, pictures or flowers) and regular shoes representing slain civilians (the children's shoes a heartbreaking reminder of the cost of war), it was a moving tribute to victims of this endless-seeming war effort.

After lunch, an interview in Church Hill had me talking with two writers about the solitary life of a writer and how frequently this profession is made up of introverts, although clearly I am the exception to that rule. By the time I finish a solitary day, I want nothing so much as company, be it familiar or strangers.

Despite sunshine and 77 degrees outside, my afternoon was spent indoors gathering words from my head and shaping them into a coherent form on the monitor screen. I am a woman who understands a deadline.

Instead of my usual dinner plans, I turned the tables and played server for a dinner board meeting, trying to parlay the unobtrusive service skills that have been used on me so often on unsuspecting diners. No one seemed to recognize me for the inexperienced fake I was. But I consider myself a success because the one thing I know for certain is that they never lacked for water or wine .

Nor did I, afterwards enjoying a glass of Ixsir Altitudes Rose (from Lebanon, no less), with a lovely mess of mesclun under crabcakes, payback perhaps for the crabs I didn't get to crack at the river today. Not to mention that my sail-yaking skills are still non-existent.

Not long before my meal, a history nerd friend had told me about a real-time tour (5:45 a.m. Monday morning!) he'd taken at Fort Harrison, regaling me with details of what he'd learned as the group retraced the route of the Union soldiers who took the fort, beginning before daylight.

Intriguing as it sounded to this extroverted history geek, I know myself well enough to know that's one tour I'd never have agreed to attend.

My subconscious may be able to get me up at that ungodly hour, but that's about the only thing that could.