On one faitful morning a tourist that traveled across the many glissening seas from America had just arrived on the beautiful soil of Switzerland. He always wished to see the majestic beauty of Switzerland ever since he was a child. The gentle green slopes welcome him with their hearts as he articularly takes photos of the magnificant landscape. As he slowly adventures through many splendid houses, he catches sight of an extravagant maiden. Her hair flows with the fresh sea breezes and her dress is as bright as the dazzling sky. When the maiden started walking away, without any second thought the tourist followed the maiden for as long as it would take.

As he ran he knew that despite knowing that their are chances he may never get her hand in marriage, but he never cared because his heart knew that he must follow her. The smell that came from her ached his heart for he knew that they were destined to be together. The maiden ran on for what seemed like eternity until he saw it. The most beautiful lake he had ever seen. The lake glimmered under the suns rays through the white, silky clouds. The flowering jungles and the sun swept plains were too good to be true. The maiden slowed and sat by the lake made herself look extravegent as the suns light glimmers across her soft and silky face.

The tourist in a split second got his camera out and took the best ever photos he could possibly ever done. He immediatley ran straight for the maiden and knelt done beside she immediately turned around stared at him with a small smile that his heart warm up. He presented the photos to the maiden and just a second later a bright smile appeared on her face. The tourist slowly put his camera away and then asked the maiden ‘Will you marry me’. The maiden just stared at the the tourist it was like there was electrical connection between both of them. The next second the maiden responded, ‘Yes’. The maiden lunged into the man’s long arms. They both hugged each other in joy dancing around the lake. They shared each others stories and what their intrests were. Later, in a few weeks time, they got married and enjoyed every second they spent together.

Mike left her at the fountain. She knew they should have stayed in today; she felt it in her bones when she woke up. Yet, they were in Italy, and why waste a day on what was supposed to be the best trip of their lives? Now, her head was in her hands, her hair curling over her fingers as she heard his footsteps pounding away on the stone, mingling with the flocks of birds and the talking of locals until they vanished entirely.

She was alone in a foreign country.

She wiped her eyes and looked around, her sadness turning to fear. The fear soon turned to anger as she looked at the beautiful sky and architecture all around her. It was unfair to be left alone here, questioning things.

“Ciao, ma’am,” an elderly man said. He took a seat next to her, resting his hands on a gilded cane. “Troubles?”

She wondered if he had been watching. If he had seen them screaming, crying, almost throwing things in their anger and ignorance.

“A little,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“My name is Maurizio, and I think this city is too beautiful for you to sit alone here, not seeing it all. That man,” he made a gesture to where Mike had walked off, “will regret this one day. I don’t want you to regret it, too.”

She smiled. “Eve,” she told him, reaching to shake his hand.

“Piacere, Eve,” he nodded. “Where would you like to go first?”

Don’t I know you You seem so familiar You are a stranger Things are wonderful

Sarah stares at the man as he pulled his hand out of the pocket, revealing a small handgun.

“I’m only here for the sphere, but now you’re in the way.” He said, glaring. “Open the glass.”

Sarah hurriedly turned to the box, stumbling with her keys.

“Open it!” She felt the cold metal of the gun touch her spine. Sarah shivered, testing a key. “I- I can’t find it!”

“Where do you keep the fire extinguisher?” He asked, grabbing her shoulder and twisting her around.

“In the hallway by the Ice Age exhibit.”

“Then let’s get it.” He growled as he held her wrist, pulling her out into the hallway.

Sarah’s eyes darted around the corridor, falling on every tourist’s face. Could she get someone, anyone’s attention?

Finally, she saw a kind-looking man who stared right back at her with chocolate brown eyes.

Sarah gave him a pleading stare, knowing that if she yelled it would all be over for her. As she started to mouth ‘help’ the man holding her wrist wrapped his arm around her waist.

“Stop and act happy—I can’t go to prison again. Or else.” He smirked, patting his pocket.

“What do you want with the extinguisher?” Sarah asked heavily.

“It’s not that I want.” He said, grabbing the little hammer made to break the protective glass pane covering the fire extinguisher. “Now I can break the sphere out.”

He pulled Sarah back in and threw her to the corner as he struck the glass box back in the exhibit.

Sarah reached for her walkie talkie quietly and attempted to turn it on, but the static startled the man.

“Hey!” He snatched it out of her hand. He pulled the gun from his pocket. “You shouldn’t have done that!

Sarah looked at the name branded on the side of the gun: Zion Hillsburgh. Was that the last thing she saw— the name of her murderer? Her thoughts spiraled just as the sound of the big exhibit doors were pushed open. It was the man with the brown eyes, and the gun was pointed directly at his head.

🩵 Thank you so much for getting the first part to 5 likes!! It really means a lot since I’m new to this community <3 I’ll continue this regardless this time— thank you for reading and have a good day/night! (Sorry this end part is so long :P)

There it finally was - the crummy hotel overlooking Washington Square that Joan Baez sang about. I’ve been wanting to make this pilgrimage for quite some time, desperately wanting follow Bob Dylan’s footsteps any way that I could. I excitedly ran inside to the check-in counter. I gave them my name in a rush, they gave me my room key with a skeptical look, and I half-jogged up the stairs all the way to the eighth floor, smiling all the while. I jammed my room key into the door, flung it open, and threw my backpack on the bed. I ran to the window, opened it, and looked out - just like in the song. After taking in the view, I eventually sat on the bed next to my backpack and took out my phone to look for open mic poetry nearby. There had to be some. There was even more than I expected within six blocks. A few started very late and were 21+ so my nineteen-year-old self had to cross those off the list. That left one at a pizza shop right next to the hotel, one at a cafe a block away, and one at jazz bar two blocks away. I called the jazz bar and asked if they were 21+. They weren’t, but they would put crosses on my hands if I was okay with that. I figured that was a fair exchange and got dressed to walk over. My outfit included jeans with poorly handmade tears in the knees, a Nirvana T-shirt under a faux leather coat, and a cheap newsman hat with Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen pins on it. I stood in front of the mirror before leaving, making sure I looked the part. I’m here because I’m a poet. I’m a poet, dammit. I’m the next Dylan. __ _ _I walked the two blocks over feeling like I was floating. I imagined what everyone who passed me on the sidewalks must have thought. I had no doubt that they all thought I was some sort of prodigy artist. How could I not be? I thought. _Look at all the dead people before my time that I’m adorning! I obviously know what I’m talking about! _And then I opened the door to the jazz bar. I was alone. The bar was at capacity, but I was alone. I was the only white person, but that wasn’t why the feeling of great solitude grasped me - it was because every African-American was well dressed in suits or dresses, had nice hats on, drank liquor instead of beer, and exuded confidence. It was like being transported into a Fitzgerald book. The clones turned and looked at me for a brief second, and then continued their conversations. I stood frozen and ignored until a young man came out of the bathroom. He dressed similar to me, except he had long dreadlocks and traded my Nirvana shirt for a Marvin Gaye one. He approached me. “Sorry, my man.” He said with a large smile. “Can I see I.D.?” “Oh, yes.” I said and fumbled with my wallet. I eventually took out my I.D and handed it to him. He looked it over and asked me if I moved here or was just passing though. I told him passing through, and then he squinted his eyes at me. “Want a drink?” He asked. “Uh, nineteen.” I said. “Shush, man! You the Feds?” He whispered. “I got you.” He walked me to the bar and asked what I wanted. I shrugged, so he ordered two Old Fashioneds. I told him that was fitting and we cheers’d when they arrived. I took a sip and almost gagged. “So, what brings you here, young buck?” He asked. “Uh, this.” I said. “Wanted to feel inspired.” “You a poet?” He asked, and before I could nod he yelled, “Of course you are! Isn’t everybody?” I looked at him, and he continued in a hushed voice, “We are all. Everyone in this damn room is.” “Great!” I said with a crack in my voice. “That’s, uh, what I came for!” I let out a nervous chuckle and he pounced like a shark. “How many poems have you written?” “Uh, maybe like forty?” I said and gulped. “Rookie, huh. I knew it.” He took a big gulp of his cocktail. “You getting on stage, right?” I looked around and forced down my own big gulp. “Uh, no, thanks. I didn’t bring any, and uh, I don’t think it would be my right, uh… crowd?” I winced as I said the last word. He stared a hole through my eyes and got real close to my face with his own face. I swallowed hard and stared back into his eyes, hearing my mother’s voice in my head telling me how stupid I was to think I could handle a situation like this. His nose touched my nose, and then he started laughing hysterically. “I’m messin’ with you, boy!” He screamed. “Damn, Dragonfly, leave the poor kid alone!” Said one patron. “AHHH, he got him!” Said another, and soon the whole bar was laughing. “Sorry about that, man. Couldn’t help myself.” He wiped his eyes and signaled for another Old Fashioned. “My name is Dragonfly. I actually am starting off the show.” “Opening, huh? That takes balls.” I told him. “I’m young enough to take chances. I’m two years older than you, kid, and everyone in the poetry scene knows me. That’s why I open - so people can’t get all sleepy on me. If you are remotely tired and thinking of bed and see a twenty-one year old come onstage, your ass is out!” We shared a good laugh until Dragonfly abruptly grabbed what was left of his cocktail and yelled, “Be right back!” Before I could say “Okay” he was on the stage and introducing himself.

The whole place gave Dragonfly a great ovation upon him just saying his name. I didn’t think too much of it, as they were probably just expected to be ultra-supportive towards each other, especially at a volunteer open mic. He started on his first poem with no paper to read from. It was almost like a rap. It was extremely political for a man of such a young age. It was like listening to Tupac in a cappella. He changed flows, acted out his content, screamed, whispered. The pain of his words hit my skin like lightning bolts. He did four poems, all several minutes long, all acted out, and all memorized. I was in so much awe that I didn’t touch my cocktail during his reading. He got a standing ovation when he finished, took it in for only ten seconds, then ran back over to where I was.
“What did you think?” He asked, smiling as big as he was when he first greeted me.
“I think you burned about twelve-hundred calories in ten minutes.” I said. He laughed heartily. “It was absolutely breathtaking.” I continued. “I have never heard anything like that.”
“It’s all in the history books, my brother.” He said.
“No, no, not the context. The style, the flow, it was hip hop. Where were your poems? How did you memorize all of that?”
“HAAAAAAA” He let out while almost falling off his barstool. “You’ve never heard of Spoken Word?” He asked with his head tilted like a dog.
“Uh, not if that’s what you just did.”
“Not just me. All of them.” He pointed out to every patron in the bar. A new face came on the stage. “Watch.” Said Dragonfly, and we did.

We stayed for four hours watching every single Spoken Word poet. We drank a new cocktail for each reading. He broke down each poet’s background and accomplishments. We wrote together in-between readers, him trying to write tradional poetry, and me trying spitball Spoken Word. During this time I vowed three things: to never touch another Old Fashioned, to leave Spoken Word to the ones who can do it, and to always keep in touch with Dragonfly. He vowed two-out-of-the-three.
When all the poets were done we walked out into the street. We exchanged numbers and email and went our separate ways. I woke up just in time for checkout the next morning. I groggily got myself together and made the drive home, all the while thinking of all the poems I would send to Dragonfly to impress him. I was excited to see an email from him and friend requests on my social media by the time I got home. He said he was mailing out a homemade chapbook of his poems for me and two days later it came in the mail. It was nicely made. Full color, twenty pages, but obviously hand-stapled. I read it in an hour, feasting green on every page, every line. I ran to my computer to send him an instant message, but his social media accounts were all de-activated. I tried emailed him my feelings of inspiration and envy, but he came back that the email could not be found. Out of desperation, I tried calling him, and got the disconnected tone. 

Every couple of years I attempt to search for him. I search on social media, on Goodreads, and in obituaries. He hasn’t made it on any of those. It seems he only made it on my shelf. And now, this piece. 
And for that, I am sorry.

Jeremy hated tourists.

Their flowered button-down shirts and bold personalities, their strange accents. Everything about them felt so wrong and intruding.

He hated coming across them in his home.

They always walked slow down the sidewalk, taking pictures of things so ridiculous he wanted to laugh. Jeremy caught one photographing the old-run down coffee shop that doesn’t use milk when they make hot chocolate! Whenever Jeremy needed a laugh he would just think of their tripod and red shirt, but then his mind always has to trail off into how disgusting tourists really were. They block exits and walk the wrong way down the path. They were like obstacles he had to pass on his day to work. Sometimes… well, sometimes he just wanted to slap them with his briefcase and run off to work. At least he wouldn’t be late.

Jeremy sighed and looked at his watch, why, oh why did the tourists have to form a line when they walked down the sidewalk? He couldn’t even squeeze by if he tried, their arms all looped together and bright, happy smiles on his faces that seemed to taunt him. He scowled, imagining the group laughing and saying, ‘look! We cut this man off so he’s late to work,’ in jolly tones that made a low sound form in the back of his throat.

Jeremy tilted his head towards the sky, trying to keep his composure as they stopped to peer into the window of an old carpenter shop. He pushed between them, almost feeling satisfactory when they gave him stern looks. How how dare he intruppted their fun dilly dally in the street time! Some people had places to be.

Jeremy pushed through the streets, imagining the look of suprise on his bosses face when he showed up early to work for once. Maybe he would be allowed to go home early have a warm meal in the daylight and—

“Woah!” Jeremy took a startled breath as his briefcase bumped into the wall. Before he knew it, the leather slammed into the concrete and cracked open. It spouted out papers as if he were getting letters to Hogwarts.

Jeremy jumped, trying to collect all the papers before anyone stepped on them. Any sort of footprint on those pristine papers could ruin his career.

“Sorry, sir!” A man said in an accent that almost sounded familiar. Jeremy turned his way, ready to curse the man out on the street before something in his brain clicked.

“Are you from Houston?” Jeremy asked before he could stop himself. He regretted the words before he received an answer and shook his head, leaning down to snatch the papers.

“Well yes I am.” The man said brightly as he leaned down to help Jeremy. What a tourist this was, not skadaddling away whenever they cause any sort of trouble.

“These look important, wouldn’t want them to get messed up, would we?” The man asked, trying his best to flatten the wrinkles in the page.

Jeremy couldn’t help but laugh at the accent sprouting from the man next to him. One so familiar. One that reminded him of home in the country surrounded by aunts and uncles, large fields and cows.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jeremy said, surprising himself. He was never known to be the nicest person, he was what some would call a workaholic. All joy drained out of him and only a serious manner left.

“Are you from Houston too?” The man asked.

“I have family there.” Jeremy admitted, sealing the briefcase shut and standing up again.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Both of the men shook hands and gave each other friendly smiles.

“It’s nice to hear a sound from home.” Jeremy said, suddenly trapped in a daydream full of potluck and horses. He snapped himself out quickly and pushed against the crowd. “I wish I could stay longer, but I have work to get to.”

“Right, of course. I would say ‘see you around’ but I have a flight in what,” he checked his watch, “an hour.”

“Well, then, safe travels.” Jeremy offered with a grin.

“Safe travels!”

The midday sun beat down on the bustling port of Santorini, casting long shadows from the whitewashed buildings that clung precariously to the volcanic cliffs. The air, thick with the scent of brine and sun-baked earth, carried the cries of gulls and the chatter of tourists disembarking from the ferry. Among them was Amelia, a woman who carried herself with the sleek sophistication of city life, her tailored linen dress and designer sunglasses a stark contrast to the carefree attire of the holidaymakers. But beneath her polished exterior, Amelia felt a growing sense of unease, a restlessness that had driven her to seek refuge on this sun-drenched island. Escape. That was what she craved. Escape from the glass and steel cage of her corporate law firm, where she spent her days navigating the labyrinthine world of mergers and acquisitions, her sharp mind a weapon in the ruthless world of corporate takeovers. The victories felt hollow, the accolades meaningless. Each morning, the thought of facing another day of cutthroat negotiations and endless paperwork filled her with a sense of dread. Escape from her sterile, modern apartment, a testament to her success that echoed with emptiness. Its sleek lines and minimalist décor, once a source of pride, now felt cold and impersonal. The silence that greeted her each night was deafening, a constant reminder of her isolation. Escape from the predictable rhythm of her life, where every day bled into the next, marked only by deadlines and client meetings. Her calendar, meticulously organized, was a testament to her tightly controlled existence. Dinner parties with colleagues, gallery openings, charity events – they all blurred into a monotonous cycle of obligation and pretense. Santorini, with its promise of azure skies, volcanic beaches, and ancient history, seemed like the perfect antidote. A place where she could shed her corporate armor, where the relentless demands of her life would fade into the background, replaced by the soothing rhythm of the waves and the warmth of the sun. Yet, as she stepped off the ferry, a wave of disorientation washed over her. The chaotic energy of the port, the unfamiliar language, the sheer unfamiliarity of it all threatened to overwhelm her. She felt a pang of longing for the familiar comforts of her life, the predictable routine, the sense of control she wielded with such precision. She nearly collided with a man balancing a precarious tower of fishing nets, their rough hemp a stark contrast to the smooth leather of her handbag. "Oh, excuse me!" she gasped, her hand instinctively reaching out to steady him. His arm, beneath her touch, was firm and warm, tanned from the sun and sea. "No worries," he chuckled, a flash of white teeth against his olive skin. "You must be new to the island." His English, though accented, flowed with a lyrical cadence that captivated her. It hinted at a life lived in tune with the rhythms of nature, a world away from the sterile boardrooms she inhabited. "I am," Amelia confessed, tucking a windblown strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious of her city-pale skin and manicured nails. "Amelia." "Nikos," he replied, his eyes, the color of the Aegean Sea at dawn, twinkling with amusement. "Welcome to paradise." Paradise. The word echoed in Amelia's mind as she watched Nikos disappear into the maze of cobblestone streets. Was it possible that this island, with its stark beauty and laid-back charm, could offer the escape she so desperately sought? Over the next few days, Amelia ventured out, determined to embrace the island life. She explored the famed caldera, its sheer cliffs dropping dramatically into the sapphire blue water. She wandered through the whitewashed villages of Oia and Imerovigli, their narrow streets lined with bougainvillea-draped houses and charming shops selling local crafts. She visited the archaeological site of Akrotiri, marveling at the well-preserved ruins of a Minoan city buried by a volcanic eruption centuries ago. She even tried her hand at some of the tourist activities, taking a donkey ride up the winding path from the old port to Fira, the island's capital, and joining a boat tour to the volcanic island of Nea Kameni, where she braved the sulfurous fumes to climb to the crater's edge. Yet, a sense of detachment lingered, a feeling that she was merely a spectator, observing a life she couldn't fully grasp. The other tourists, with their cameras and guidebooks, seemed content to skim the surface, to collect souvenirs and snapshots without truly experiencing the essence of the island. Amelia longed for something more, a deeper connection to this place and its people. One afternoon, while wandering through the bustling market in Fira, she stumbled upon a small taverna tucked away in a quiet alley. The air was thick with the aroma of grilled seafood and oregano, and the sound of laughter and conversation spilled out onto the street. Drawn by the warmth and conviviality, Amelia stepped inside. The taverna was a world away from the trendy cafes and upscale restaurants she frequented in the city. Simple wooden tables and chairs filled the small space, their surfaces worn smooth by years of use. The walls were adorned with faded photographs of fishermen and their families, and a string of garlic bulbs hung from the rafters. There, amidst the boisterous crowd, she spotted Nikos, his face lit by a smile as he chatted with a group of weathered fishermen. He saw her, his smile widening, and beckoned her over. "Amelia! Welcome back to paradise. I see you've found our little haven." He introduced her to his friends, their faces etched with the hardships and joys of a life lived at the mercy of the sea. Yiannis, the eldest, with his calloused hands and twinkling eyes, was a master storyteller, regaling them with tales of legendary catches and narrow escapes. Kostas, younger and more boisterous, teased Nikos mercilessly about a recent fishing expedition gone awry. And then there was Maria, Yiannis's wife, her weathered face framed by a colorful headscarf, who bustled about the taverna, ensuring everyone had a full glass and a plate piled high with her delicious home cooking. They spoke of the sea with reverence, of the constellations that guided their night fishing, of the subtle shifts in the wind that whispered secrets only they could decipher. Amelia listened, captivated by their stories, feeling a connection to something ancient and profound. This was the authentic Santorini she had been searching for, a world untouched by the gloss of tourism, where life was lived in harmony with the rhythms of nature. As the evening progressed, fueled by laughter, local wine, and the camaraderie of the fishermen, Amelia felt a sense of belonging she hadn't experienced in years. Nikos, with his easy charm and genuine warmth, seemed to effortlessly bridge the gap between her world and his. He translated her questions, explained the local customs, and drew her into the circle of warmth and acceptance. He offered to show her the island's hidden gems, the places tourists rarely ventured. "Tomorrow," he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "I'll take you to a beach you won't find in any guidebook." The next morning, Amelia found herself aboard Nikos's small fishing boat, the "Agios Nikolaos," named after the patron saint of sailors. The early morning air was crisp and clean, the sea a mirror-like calm reflecting the rising sun. As they left the harbor behind, the island's dramatic cliffs receded into the distance, revealing a hidden cove nestled between towering rock formations. The beach was deserted, a crescent of black sand lapped by crystal-clear water. Wildflowers bloomed in vibrant hues amongst the rocks, and the air was filled with the sound of cicadas and the cries of seabirds. Amelia felt a sense of wonder, as if she had stumbled upon a secret paradise. They spent the day swimming in the turquoise waters, exploring the rocky coastline, and sharing stories under the shade of a tamarisk tree. Nikos spoke of his childhood on the island, his early fascination with the sea, and the traditions passed down through generations of fishermen. Amelia, in turn, shared glimpses of her city life, her demanding job, and the growing sense of emptiness that had led her to Santorini. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the beach, they built a small fire, grilling the fish Nikos had caught earlier that day. The flames crackled and danced, casting a warm glow on their faces as they ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. Later, as they lay on the sand, gazing up at the star-studded sky, Amelia felt a sense of peace she had never known. The city, with its relentless demands and artificial lights, seemed a million miles away. Here, in this secluded paradise, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the warmth of Nikos's presence, she felt truly alive. Over the next few days, their bond deepened. They explored hidden caves, their laughter echoing off the weathered cliffs. They shared meals of freshly caught fish, grilled over an open fire on the beach, the flavors infused with the smoke and the tang of the sea. They watched the sunset paint the sky in a symphony of fiery hues, the silence between them as comfortable as the worn, wooden fishing boat Nikos used to navigate the turquoise waters. One evening, under a canopy of stars that seemed close enough to touch, their friendship shifted, ignited by an unspoken spark. As they shared a bottle of local wine, its sweetness mirroring the burgeoning emotions between them, their conversation lulled, replaced by a charged silence. Nikos reached across, his calloused fingers, roughened by years of hauling nets and mending ropes, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. "Amelia," he murmured, his voice husky with a desire that echoed the crashing waves against the shore. "You are so different from anyone I've ever known." "And you," she whispered back, her heart pounding like the wings of a trapped bird, "are everything I never knew I was looking for." Their kiss was as inevitable as the tide, a meeting of two worlds, a clash of salty air and city perfume that somehow blended into a perfect harmony. In that moment, their differences melted away, leaving only the raw, undeniable pull of desire.

I took my seat on that airliner jet A friendly lady who I still hadn’t met Looked my way as a smile lit her_ face_ __ I smiled back with friendly grace

We were now inflight A new friend insight Conversations of many My new friend named Penny

As we went on our way Still so much to say We made plans to meet On the towns famous street

That meeting took place Now a familiar face We ventured the street Stopped for a tasty treat

My new friend named Penny Rhymes with my name, Jenny Had such fun today Good friends we will stay

Old books and fresh lemon oil, Newport Public Library smelt exactly as it should. Inhaling deep, Susan was suddenly a little girl in Philadelphia remembering reading science books every spare moment. Libraries were cathedrals to the younger Susan. Today, she wasn’t looking for sanctuary of a too bright girl, Susan was looking for answers.

She was looking for photos of Benjamin Burton, her dear late friend’s husband. She wasn’t sure what she would find if anything. Her investigation into Benjamin’s death was going nowhere.

Murder or suicide, Black Newport was split down the middle. Many were reluctant to really open up to an outsider. The Burton daughters were beloved and no one wanted to think two of their own could be a part of something so heinous. Susan learned that local art photographer Sarah Eddy was chronicling the colored residents of Newport. Maybe photos of the Burton family will spark my brain, Susan thought.

Along the damask wallpaper of the Wharton Reading Room, the photos awaited. In shades of silver, a series of portraits looked back at Susan. The doctor learned in with her monocle lost in the faces. Photography was a once in a lifetime opportunity for many poor families. Pride and wonderment smiled out from each frame.

“Outrageous,” a loud whisper sounded behind her. “Who let the likes of her in here?”

Ignoring the clearly ignorant patron, Susan continued down the row of images. Blacks and White folks mingled in public spaces here unlike many places in the North. But there were always exceptions. There they were, Benjamin and Marie holding hands seated, Emily with her arms around her big sister Marie. Susan could see the love even in their stiff formal poses.

“Margaret, fetch the librarian I will not stand here while this negress pollutes this library!”

There was a rustling of crinoline and a clicking of heeled shoes. With a backhanded wave, Susan shushed the loud woman. Benjamin and Marie were besotted with one another even after so many years of martimony. She wondered if there was quite enough love left over for the girls. Or if Emmie and Maria only had one another.

“What are you going to do about this disagreeable creature, Miss?”

Shaken from her thoughts, Susan turned towards the disturbance. Pointing an accusing finger, there was a sour-faced elderly White woman and by her side a younger White lady with spectacles and book in her hand.

“I’d tell this disagreeable creature to get out immediately, marm. Get out!” The librarian said in an Islander accent that could shatter diamonds.

“Well I never.”

“With a puss like that it’s a wonder your own mother loves you. Begone. Begging your pardon, Dr. McKinney, I’m Maeve Galvin and I’m investigating Benjamin Burton’s murder. I think you could help me.”

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but do you know where the train station is?” The girl looked up from her book, peering over the pages to look at the young man. “The Google Maps said it is right here but…” The girl chuckled. “I really hate to say this but the train station is underground.” The guys face turned bright red and he looked away embarrassed. “I also really hate to tell you this but the train left an hour ago. And since our town is so small, we only have one train and it goes to surrounding towns. It won’t be back for a couple of hours.” The guy muttered something under his breath. “Well I’m sorry to waste your time. I actually started reading that book on the plane ride over. It’s pretty good.” The girl looked at the book I her hand, Stealing Crowns, and to the empty seat at her umbrella covered table outside the cafe. “I assume your traveling then. I suppose since the train will be a while, you could come sit here with me. We can talk about the book and get a bite to eat. I just ordered a coffee and this place has the best European desserts.” The boy checked his watch, knowing he had already missed his scheduled plans. “Ya, ok. Thank you.” She smiled, blue eyes glittering in the sun. She had a good feeling about this moment.