In 1992, my husband and I returned to Bermuda, where we'd honeymooned four years before. Each morning, I headed for a small stable where, because I had 15 years as a horse owner, the manager let me ride on my own.
Two American boys arrived every morning for lessons, escorted by their grandfather, a 60-ish gentleman who spoke slowly and politely. We chatted amiably about everyday things. He was from Texas, he said, and his name was Ross.
Early one evening, Frank and I sipped rum swizzles at the quiet patio bar of the Hamilton Princess, in the Read more