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Fleur De Lies(4)

By:Maddy Hunter


            Sure, if she were an avocado.

            “Well, I won’t be under water,” boasted Grace, clacking the soles of her shoes together to rid them of sand. “I’ll be doing my award-winning dog paddle to that ramp over there. I told you people it was time we learned to swim, but nooo. Swimming was too boring for you.”

            Alice frowned. “I thought we said it was too wet.”

            “Low-impact breakdancing had a much better time slot,” defended Lucille.

            “And we got to wear them slinky spandex unitards.” Nana gave her eyebrows a little waggle.

            “And we couldn’t complain about the reduced rates we got when our instructor made a group appointment for us at the chiropractor’s,” conceded Margi.

            “Okay, people, listen up.” I waved my arm above my head to indicate a time-out. “No one’s going to get buried under twenty feet of water.”

            “Nineteen point four feet to be exact,” amended Tilly. She held up her iPhone and shrugged. “I just Googled it.”

            “None of you are going to be buried by a sudden flood tide,” I reiterated. “It’s going to take hours for the water that’s down there”—I threw my hand in the direction of the Channel—“to work its way up here.” I nodded toward the seawall.

            “Six hours and thirteen minutes,” said Tilly, eyes glued to her iPhone.

            “Over six hours!” I repeated. “So you need to lighten up. You’re on one of the most historic beaches in the world. Do a little beachcombing. Take a few pictures. You’re safe.”

            “How do you know?” argued Bernice. “Are you the resident expert on Normandy tides?”

            “No, but I’m the resident expert on schedules, and according to ours, we have to be back on the bus in a little over an hour, so we’ll be gone before the tide becomes an issue.”

            Panic swept over them like a flash fire.

            “Why didn’t you tell us that earlier?” chided Dick Stolee as he wrapped his hand around his wife’s arm. “C’mon, Grace, put your shoes back on. We’ve gotta get back to the bus. We’re late.”

            Feet shuffled. Arms flapped. Sand flew.

            “You are not late!” I pleaded as they stampeded back toward the stairs. “You have a whole hour. The bus will not leave without you!”

            “We can make it on time if we don’t lallygag,” Dick Teig exhorted the troops.

            “How far away is the bus parked?” Lucille gasped out from the back of the pack.

            Nana charged up the stairs in her size 5 sneakers, muscling out Bernice and Dick Teig to arrive at the top first.

            Wow! That low-impact breakdancing class of hers had really improved her range of motion and stamina.

            “Hold it, everyone!” Margi paused against the handrail halfway up the stairs. “I wanna get a picture of the high water mark.” She took aim at the beach with her iPhone. “Did we ever find it?”

            When they were all safely off the stairs, I called out one last essential nugget. “If you need to use the comfort station, the entrance is on the outside of the museum.” I gestured to the building beyond the carousel that called itself the Musée du Debarquement. “And don’t be surprised if you have to cough up some money to use the facilities. I warned you about this before we left home, so have some coins ready.”

            “Shysters,” groused Bernice. “I’m not paying to use their dang potty.”