Fleur De Lies(112)
“I’m not standing in front of Dick Teig,” growled Helen. “We’re not speaking.”
“Fine,” said Jackie. “Stand someplace else.”
“I don’t want to stand by him either,” said Grace. “The cheapskate.”
“I’ll stand in front of him,” Alice volunteered.
“Good luck with that,” crowed Bernice. “The only thing that can fit between Dick Teig’s stomach and the rail is fresh air.”
“Does anyone know the weight limit of this bridge?” asked Tilly.
Eyes drifted to the planks beneath their feet before darting to the water beneath the bridge.
“Would you just shoot the dang picture before this thing collapses?” Lucille yelled at Jackie.
“Before you do anything, can I squeeze past you?” Without waiting for a response, I stepped onto the little green bridge, sucked in my breath, and angled past them sideways.
“What was that?” asked Dick Stolee, craning his neck in every direction, his eyes shifting nervously. “It sounded like wood cracking.”
“It was,” said George.
They flew off the bridge in two seconds flat, everyone except George, who remained at the rail all by himself. “My leg,” he said sheepishly. “I can’t tell if it’s expanding or contracting.”
I sprinted down the walkway, past the famous lily pond with its cache of lily pads glutting the surface, and its pink and white water lilies blooming as sublimely as they had a hundred years ago. Flat-bottomed rowboats hugged the shore on either side of the pond, chained to trees that hovered over them like doting parents. Color dappled the banks in wild disarray—pale pink, deep rose, lavender, dusky pink, bright magenta, soft coral—like house paints that had spilled and been left to dry. I snapped a quick picture of the pond and Japanese bridge, then navigated through another underpass that led me back to the original flower garden.
Margi and Osmond had disappeared, but in their place were hordes of camera-toting tourists who were jamming the pathways like swarms of worker bees. Good Lord. How was I supposed to find Rob in this crowd?
I wormed my way around clusters of people posing for group photos, danced around people loitering in the middle of the path, and ducked beneath people’s cameras as they took aim at the climbing roses, scarlet poppies, and towering hollyhocks. Plump pink rose blossoms twined around great iron archways that curved above the main path. Wildflowers dusted the air with wisps of color. Ornamental trees flaunted their slender trunks and miniature leaves. I tried to find an isolated spot for a Kodak moment, but tourists and their photographic equipment were everywhere, their heads invading my shot, their arms obstructing my vision, their iPads blocking my entire view.
It used to be that when people snapped pictures, they’d look into the viewfinder of a camera, frame their photo, and press the shutter. The iPad has advanced technology so much that people no longer have to place a camera anywhere near their face. Instead, they can happily hold a device the size of a mattress over their heads and shoot whatever’s in front of them. Of course, no one else can see over, around, or through them to shoot their own pictures, but hey, not having to look through that viewfinder anymore is real progress.
“Can you believe this crowd?” asked Cal Jolly as he came up behind me. “I’ve given up trying to take pictures. Rob said the gift shop sells great postcards, so I’m doing that instead. I’m through trying to outmaneuver the iPad people. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve won the war.”
“How long ago did you see Rob?”
“About ten minutes. He was headed for the house.” Cal glanced toward the far end of the garden—at a two-story house that was as long as a boutique hotel. It was a charming froth of pale pink stucco, with dozens of green shutters and a blanket of vines and roses scaling the exterior wall. For forty-three years, it had been inhabited by Claude Monet. “They’ve done some work on the interior that he hasn’t seen yet, so he wanted to have a look.”