The next morning, I go to the orchard with my easel and a canvas to capture the early light and the dew on the leaves of the apple trees. I set up the easel midway between two rows and concentrate on getting the perspective just right, as the trees appear to merge in the distance. It is delicate, tedious work, but the charcoal pencil I sketch with comes alive in my fingers, eagerly welcoming the challenge. In my mind’s eye, I see myself in solitude on the bluff looking out at the headlands of the rugged California coastline merging into the mist.

“That is a very brilliant thing you have done to capture the complexity of the apple orchard fading into the distance,” the voice over my shoulder says around mid-day.

When I look up, I see Lamar scrutinizing my morning’s work. “The flowers are so delicate,” I tell him, “So hard to get right. Tomorrow my challenge will be to reproduce in oil what I’ve sketched.” I pause then ask, “How has your morning been, mon cher?” I wait for his reaction.

“Well enough, I suppose. I’ve read my mail and a couple of newspapers that came with it. What do you say we drive into the village for lunch? I’m ready.”

“Can you wait just a few more minutes?”

“Ah, but Emma, I am hungry now.”