The stirring love story of an older man and a younger woman whose desire is to do the right thing and love each other. This story will make you connect with each character. Lucy will make you laugh, Rosemary will make you cry and the nemesis who is filled with hatred will make you feel pain and disbelief.
Rosemary Beach is a unique story of a wealthy older man and a hard working "ordinary" woman who fall so deeply in love that the pureness is a different form of love. You will laugh with the beloved housekeeper, Lucy. You will cry with Rosemary. God's presence is so evident that you recognize the subtle signs and are grateful for his love. Truly a story for all with great places that if you haven't experienced them, you will now!
I never thought that they were my real family. I was sure that Jackie Gleason was my father and Helen my mother. Although we were considered "blue collar", Helen and Roy, my actual father with no musical talent, were honorable and proud. They both worked right until the end of their lives. Neither complained in all of my years with them; my dad always said, "You make the best of what the good Lord gives you." That is what I have always tried to do as well.
Later, I decided that George Gershwin was my dad. I considered myself an accomplished ballerina and was certain that I was from artistic stock. My actual father Roy, was a lineman for the local telephone company. Mom worked in a hoisery mill. Yet, each of them had exquisite taste. Roy was dark skinned with the greenest eyes imaginable. He had a problem with drinking and the ladies. Mom was simply beautiful. Since she was tall, thin and striking; she demanded attention in any crowd. Clothes adorned her and she knew how to accentuate her figure. She dressed my brother and me in the same stylish manner. It was easy at that timie to charge in the local stores and she always had a hefty balance. My brother, Don and I, lived on the edge of town but our friends were those of doctors and attorneys. Why they wanted to play at our house, I never understood. Their homes were elegant with every convenience. We barely got by but we would all hang out at my house. I guess, looking back, it was because both of my parents worked so no one was there to give orders.
It never dawned on me that we were poor until one Christmas when I was around 9 years old. Out of the blue, a car pulled in front of our house. Certainly the intentions of this small group were kind. They would have never considered that the hurt resulting from their quest for compassion would remain with me for life. Don and I looked at each other as they removed several beautifully wrapped presents.
"Do you think that they are at the wrong house? Maybe those are for us?" I asked this with fear and hope. I feared that the present weren't for us but I hoped that no one would see them delivered. Mother seemed as surprised as we when she invited them inside. Suddenly, I felt small and unimportant as these strangers looked uncomfortably around our house which looked small and worthless. They didn't stay very long and refused any refreshments. I was sure that they were afraid that they may be contaminated with our germs. As they were leaving, one of the ladies patted my head sympathetically and cooed, "Merry Christmas, Dear."
After they left, Mother disappeared. My brother and I went outside. "Do you think that we are poor?" I asked my older brother even though I was much smarter than he. He was a great brother and put up with a lot of grief from me.
"I never thought so unti now." He said this with great sadness.
"Anyway, I always liked OUR Christmases." I said this getting my fire back. My brother and I had a system; I gave him a bottle of bubbles and a box of chocolate covered cherries. He gave me the same. It was perfect because we both loved the two items so we always received what we wanted.
I left him so that I could swing on my swing as high as possible. That was where I made important decisions and consoled myself. At dinner that evening, Mom served our Spanish rice and pinto beans which we had at least twice a week. She sheepishly said, "Now, don't start thinking that we are poor. Those Church people meant well. They probably heard that your Dad and I are separated and didn't know how well I am able to take care of us all. We will be back on our feet in no time." That struck me as strange since the house that we now rented was much nicer than the house that we shared with "Dear Dad." I don't mean to sound bitter because I am not. Instead, I am so grateful to my Mom and her sister, Mae.