by Mara Purl
When Hummers Dream
A Milford-Haven Story
By Mara Purl
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. The names of actual persons are used by permission.
Milford-Haven PUBLISHING, RECORDING & BROADCASTING HISTORY This book is based upon the original radio drama Milford-Haven ©1987 by Mara Purl, Library of Congress numbers SR188828, SR190790, SR194010; and upon the original radio drama Milford-Haven, U.S.A. ©1992 by Mara Purl, Library of Congress number SR232-483, broadcast by the British Broadcasting Company’s BBC Radio 5 Network, and which is also currently in release in audio formats as Milford-Haven, U.S.A. ©1992 by Mara Purl. Portions of this material may also appear on the Milford-Haven Web Site, www.MilfordHaven.com or on www.MaraPurl.com
© by Mara Purl. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bellekeep Books
29 Fifth Avenue, Suite 7A, New York, NY 10003 www.BellekeepBooks.com
Front Cover – Original Watercolor by Mary Helsaple ©2011 Front Cover design by Reya Patton & Kevin Meyer, Amalgamated Pixels ©2011 by Milford-Haven Enterprises, LLC. Copy Editor: Vicki Werkley. Proofreader: Lenore Hotchkiss.
Author photo: Lesley Bohm.
Published in the United States of America E-Book Creation 2011 Bellekeep Books & Midpoint Trade Books
Dear Reader —
Welcome to Milford-Haven! For your inaugural visit, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my favorite little town and to a few of its many residents—all of whom are described in the Cast of Characters for the series near the end of the book.
This short story features artist Miranda Jones, and gives you a glimpse of her new life in a small coastal town. The story stands alone as a complete tale, but also is woven into the overall tapestry of the Milford-Haven saga. Chronologically, When Hummers Dream occurs just before What the Heart Knows, book one of the Milford-Haven Novels. Indeed, to give you a seamless transition—and to let you pick up the first thread of the ongoing mystery—you’ll find the Prologue and Chapter One of the first novel are waiting for you after the short story.
In future novels, we’ll travel with Miranda to destinations that fascinate her painter’s eye and her restless heart. The first novel takes her—and you—into the nooks and crannies of her adopted hometown, revealing some of its treasures and secrets, and giving you a glimpse into its own warm heart.
This brief sojourn to California’s glorious Central Coast is a window opening outward to sheer escape, and a window opening inward to pure reflection. For you, it might be either . . . or both!
As this short e-book unfolds, follow my footsteps over the interconnected pathways of those who inhabit Milford-Haven, and come to that timeless place when even hummingbirds can dream.
Mara Purl
When Hummers Dream
Miranda Jones, grasping a mug of warm lemon-tea in one hand, with her other hand slid open the door to her deck, grinning at the complex trill of a robin.
She stepped out into the cool freshness just in time to see the first rays of sun arrow over the ridge behind her house, then race through a thick stand of pines to pierce the Pacific waves dancing in the near distance.
After sinking into a deck chair, she was about to sip her tea when something bulleted past her head. She ducked, nearly spilling her drink. She whipped her head around to discover what it was, but saw no silhouette against the pale sky. Some kind of flying critter . . . nearly penetrated my ear and flew off with a hank of my hair. Well, not really, she admitted. But what was that? Too small to be the robin, too large for a bumble bee. A hummingbird? But why? It’s not like I had anything sweet nearby . . . no nectar . . . nothing red.
Leaving the mystery unsolved, she glanced over at the hammock she’d recently added to her deck furniture. I’ve been in Milford-Haven for eight months, but I’m still figuring out what works for my new space, still getting settled. The hammock—a stretched-fabric bed fitted to a metal frame—made her smile. An indulgence . . . but, it seems perfect right there. That dark green canvas echoes the living room couch . . . blends with the pines out here. . . . I haven’t really tried it out, except just for a minute right after Kevin helped me set it up.
One of several new friends, Kevin Ransom—a tall, quiet guy she’d first met at the hardware store—was employed at a local construction company. He was known around town as someone who knew how to build, assemble, or wire just about anything. Most of all, he was kind. She’d readily accepted his offer to help her install her new hammock, as well as several other items around her new rental house.
I really should try the hammock. A breeze swept across the deck and swirled through the open neck of her fleece. It’s still chilly out. Maybe I should grab my quilt. She rose and went inside, set her now-cool mug of tea on a living room end table, and grabbed the colorful coverlet draped over the end of the sofa. Returning to the deck, she slid onto the hammock and pulled over her the favorite gift Meredith had special-ordered for her as a moving-away present.
For three-and-a-half years, she and her sister had been roommates in San Francisco: Mer, the successful financial adviser; Mandy the struggling artist. Things had started to change when her manager Zelda “discovered” her, and her paintings began to sell in some of the city’s best galleries.
Recently, Mer had delivered photos of some of Miranda’s landscape paintings to a local craftswoman who offered a unique service: she’d reproduce photographic images onto soft cotton squares, then sew them into quilts. The paintings Meredith had chosen now traced across the fabric like windows into their childhoods: the blues of beach-days; the greens of forest walks; the lavenders of north-coast sunsets. So thoughtful of Mer. I love it!
Snuggling under the puffy quilt, Miranda sank comfortably back against the pillows to savor the gentle movement of the hammock while her gaze traced the sunrays that bypassed her deck to shatter into diamonds on the surface of the waves.
Love catching these first moments of the day. Gives me a head start. Though her logic-mind might still be half-asleep, her artist-eyes were already at work. The colors . . . they’re never the same. This morning the clouds scudding by are lemon-custard; the sea is teal, where I can see it. And the pines seem soft, as though carved of candle wax.
But even as she tried to continue cataloguing the details that her painter’s eyes couldn’t help but notice, her lids began to close as the gentle motion of the hammock lulled her into a early-morning nap.
Miranda heard a faint hissing sound and began walking toward it. Sprinklers, she thought, I must be near a garden.
A high hedge climbed in the morning mist and parted in the middle where she moved through, her bare legs tingling from the low, gentle spray of water that misted through the plantings.
In the drenched garden, ferns arced up to her shoulders; thick ivy draped down over a high fence; raised beds dripped with bleeding hearts; and curving pathways swirled with rainbow arrays of impatiens.
I don’t see them, but I smell roses. At a far corner, she glimpsed a charming arched trellis and went toward it for a closer look. She reached out to touch the inch-thick stem of the sturdy plants twined through its lattice, but jerked back her hand when a huge thorn pierced her finger. Why would there be a thorn? Unless . . . this stem is twenty feet high and two inches thick . . . but it’s a rose bush!
A single drop of blood oozed from her fing
ertip, to fall in slow motion onto the fertile ground. As Miranda continued to watch that spot, a tiny green shoot pushed its way through the soil, climbing steadily upward till it reached her shoulder. Then a bud appeared and opened into a single red rose.
As she leaned to inhale its rich fragrance, a hummingbird raced her for the privilege, pushing his long bill deep into the heart of the flower.
Then the hummer turned to face her, winked, and zoomed past her ear.
Miranda blinked her eyes open with a start. Was someone just watching me? She glanced around her deck. No, of course not. Yet I feel a presence of some kind. Of course I know the local critters are always watching. . . .
Peeling back the quilt, she threw her legs over the side of the hammock, stood, and stretched. Wonder how long I napped? She looked toward the east, noticing the sun now rode higher above the mountains. Probably an hour, or so. Time to get moving.
She thought of her plan for the day: to paint the flora and fauna at a favorite spot, the Rosencrantz Café and Guildenstern Garden. The whimsical name—which always made her smile— hinted at the style of the place: part history, part culture, part nature. A lovely redwood-and-glass structure set atop a hill, it overlooked the ocean and was angled to take advantage of the view north toward the Santa Carlita Cove and the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse beyond.
The spacious back yard of the café offered a series of redwood decks surrounded by a garden and its adjoining nursery. The owners Robin and George—who’d used their R and G to improvise the name—were committed to featuring Central Coast varietals, and were well versed in the history and genus of each plant they carried.
The profusion of indigenous and imported species, the myriad colors and the charming architecture of the garden’s paths, fountains and seating areas not only had made the R&G a revelation to tourists who happened by, but also had created a loyal following among local residents.
For a wildlife and landscape artist like Miranda, it provided a research library and laboratory. Recently, she’d made arrangements with Lucy, the restaurant manager, to spend six hours in the garden. She’d tried for a day mid-week, but for liability reasons, Robin had suggested the Friday-through- Sunday schedule, when they had more staff, would be best. Meanwhile Miranda’d already visited several times, filling pages of her artist-journal with sketches and watercolor studies. Now I’m ready for a day of painting fully completed pieces.
She’d need her folding art-table—the one she used in place of an easel when she painted with watercolor—to hold her work level and allow her to control the movement of her liquid colors. And I’ll need a hat, brush carrier, small water bottles. . . .
Grabbing the quilt from the hammock, she went inside, draped the coverlet back over the sofa, and walked into her adjacent studio to gather the day’s materials.
A few minutes later, with her supplies packed and waiting by her front door, she ran downstairs to shower and dress.
Lucy Seecor tossed her long, black braid over one shoulder and began to count out the flatware. The bright blue napkins were already laid out, ready to wrap the silver.
“Expecting any larger groups today, Luce?”
Lucy glanced up and watched for a moment as her boss unloaded a carrier tray of glasses. “Just the Ragged Point Book Club ladies. It’s their monthly meeting.”
“Right. They’re a nice group. What time are they booked?”
“Not till one o’clock,” Lucy replied, not missing a beat in her work with the silver.
Robin shook his head. “Never can figure out how you keep the whole month’s schedule in your brain. Not that I’m complaining!”
Lucy chuckled.
“Anything else going on today?”
“Just Miranda Jones.”
“Oh! That’s today! I’d forgotten. Anything I need to
prepare?”
“Already got it handled,” Lucy said.
“Of course you do!” Robin shook his head again. “As always.
Okay, then, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
As Robin left to resume his culinary duties, Lucy paused for
a moment, looking out the huge picture window at the spectacular ocean view, so adored by the restaurant patrons.
Miranda Jones . . . so dedicated to her art. Hope I can grab a moment to see how she does it. Always wanted to paint. Never had the time. Well, maybe one day. . . .
Miranda rolled her vintage Mustang to a stop in the graveled parking lot of the R&G Café & Garden. R&G . . . that’s what the regulars call it. Looks like I’m getting here early enough . . . no other cars parked yet.
She grabbed her watercolor bag and folded table, then entered via the nursery—walking through display aisles of potted plants and small, burbling fountains—until she emerged at the entrance to the garden itself.
Out in the open again, she glanced up at the sky to check the light. Slight haze . . . nice. It’ll act like a giant diffuser. She looked around at the redwood tables, raised flower beds, winding pathways, and lamp posts with hanging baskets, as she considered the best location for her day’s work.
As her gaze rotated across the open space, she paused, captured by an unexpected perfection. Across the garden, a glass wall acted as a windbreak for guests who chose to eat outside. The uprights supporting the glass perfectly framed a view of the ocean. Well . . . there it is . . . a ready-made painting if I ever saw one.
She moved forward, watching closely as the visual frame adjusted, then she backed up again, choosing the ideal position. Grinning at the serendipity of the find, she placed her bag on the ground and set up her worktable. Before I set up my supplies, I should look for Lucy.
Miranda went the rest of the way across the garden and opened one of the double glass doors that led inside. On the ground level, a long, polished bar ran along a mirrored wall and small round tables spread across the floor—all deserted till evening. She took the stairs up to the restaurant, pausing as she reached the top to gaze out at the view, even more stunning from this higher level.
“Hi, Miranda.” The restaurant manager Lucy approached with a smile, hand outstretched. “Welcome! We’ve been expecting you.”
“Good to see you again, Lucy. I’m really looking forward to this. Can I show you where I was thinking of setting up?”
“Sure.” Lucy led the way downstairs and onto the terraced exterior, glimpsing Miranda’s table and bag. “Oh, that should be fine.”
“I won’t be in the way of any of your customers?”
“No. Actually, I think they’ll be intrigued.” Lucy chuckled. “Who knows, you might become a new tourist attraction!”
“Oh, I hope not!” Miranda tried to hid a grimace. “I’ll do my best to be inconspicuous.”
“Uh . . . would you mind if. . . .” “What?” Miranda encouraged. “Well, I’d love to watch you paint. I mean, I doubt I’ll have
much time, but if I can sneak away . . . would it bother you?” “No! Not at all.” “Really? Oh, that’s great! So, can I bring you anything? A
glass of raspberry iced tea?” Miranda couldn’t help but smile at the childlike exuberance,
then said, “I’ll save that special treat to have with lunch. Well, I think I’ll get started before your customers start to arrive.”
“Enjoy!” Lucy tossed her long braid over her shoulder, and returned to her duties inside.
Miranda reached down to open her bag. As she pulled out her portable watercolor palette with its small individual pans, her mind automatically cataloged how she’d mix the gradations of color from the few primary shades she kept in her travel kit. She’d squeeze color from the tubes—warm colors on the right, cool on the left.
A loud buzzing whizzed by her ear and she glanced up in time to see a hummingbird speed across the garden at eye level. So it probably was a hummer that buzzed me this morning! Perfect. He’ll be part of my painting today. That’s a rufous . . . jewel-bright and aggressive.
Of the 356 species of hummingbird she’d
read about and watched on film in recent years, she knew the rufous migration patterns meant this was their time of year to be on California’s Central Coast. In October, the tiny birds winged all the way back to Mexico for the winter.
The iridescence of the species posed a special challenge to making the jewel-tone feathers look realistic, but she knew how to handle it. She always packed her Daniel Smith Luminescent, a special additive that could be mixed into any color, making it appear pearlescent.
Okay, now water and brushes. She rummaged in her bag, pulling out her favorite small water bottle that, when squeezed, pushed out a supply of clean water into a small well on its top. She brought out her selection of brushes: three round—sizes two, four and six—and two flat—sizes two and four.
Next she reviewed the media she’d brought. First were her trusty three-by-five and five-by-seven watercolor blocks— heavy pads of paper from which sheets could later be removed individually. Second were a few differently sized Ampersand Claybords-for-watermedia—masonite wood panels with their special water-and-paper layers added to one side, ideal for creating small, collectible pieces. I think I’ll start with the smallest Claybords, experiment a bit and get the colors right. These’d have to sealed, later, with clear acrylic spray so the images wouldn’t wash off. That reminded her she’d need her tiny spray water bottle to keep the paint liquid in case it started to dry too fast.
With her portable studio ready, Miranda pulled two more things from her bag—a wide-brimmed folding straw hat, which she popped right onto her head; and one of her three-by-three Claybords. Now she stood quietly, inhaled, then bent her knees and began shifting her weight in a Tai Chi brush-knee movement. After a few rotations, she picked up her palette, her number two flat brush, and began to paint.
