EXCERPTS FROM THIS PRECIOUS LOVE FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT
PROLOGUE: NOVEMBER 8, 2001
The ringing phone broke into the serenity of Jeanne’s seaside home.
Jeanne sat in the sun-drenched living room of her tiny condo with Avonelle, her writing teacher. They drank wine, ate cheese and fruit and talked about writing and what it meant to them—about their lives and their dreams. The ocean lay before them singing its eternal song—sparkling with sunlight. They sat together in paradise, these two talented aging friends who always reached for more—going ever deeper within to put on paper the thoughts of their hearts.
Peace pervaded Jeanne’s tiny apartment, which was the fulfillment of a dream she’d held for so long. For years she’d wanted a home on the beach. The day she’d first stepped into this condo, all she’d seen was the unlimited expanse of blue ocean and the shore where the waves broke in froths like whipped cream. It filled the windows and was reflected on the wall that was all mirrors. She stood spellbound and the music of the surf filled her heart. Now this dream was hers—just steps
from the sand. Today she sat there with the ocean filling her eyes and her ears as her soul sang with joy while she shared the scene with her friend.
Shall I answer the phone or continue our conversation and let my machine take the call? Jeanne asked herself. It’s already intruded, she concluded.
"Excuse me, Avonelle. I’ll take a message and be right back." Jeanne rose and walked to the phone.
On such small quirks of fate and decisions made lightly do our futures rest.
"May I speak to Mrs. Buckingham?" A man’s deep rich voice greeted her.
"This is she."
"Jeanne," . . . there was a pause.
Jeanne searched her mind for that barely remembered voice that had spoken her name just that way. A voice that sent her heart racing. The pause lengthened as she waited wondering . . .
"Do you remember Ken Hounshell?"
Trembling with wonder at hearing his voice—her Ken’s voice, Jeanne’s mind flew back across the years, back almost half a century to a day before she’d seen the ocean—let alone dreamed of living here. Back to the day she’d come to Yellowstone, back to the day she’d first heard that voice, back to the day when . . . .
THE BEGINNING: LOVE COMES
YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK SUMMER OF 1952
into two hearts.
Love buries itself there
it is everlasting.
on silent wings
melding two hearts into one.
shot through with your light
Love comes to stay
is a glory.