IT was one of those mornings when one felt that life could not be sweeter.

The
terrace, smothered in scarlet oleander and plumbago, drowsed dreamily in the
warm golden sun above green lawns shaded by heavy branches of deep pink
and cream bougainvillaea. In the Indian laurel,, the birds were bursting forth in
vociferous chirping and everywhere was the quietness of sweet sounds.
The house, set on a hill, commanded panoramic views over banana groves
meandering out to the blue sea beyond. This morning, the white-capped peaks
of Tenerife were clearly visible across the miles of sparkling water.
The beauty of it all caught at Joanna's throat as, clad in blue
denim shorts and a sleeveless top, she walked on to the terrace
on long golden legs to shake back a silky curtain of brown hair
and lift her face to the sun. The casual, graceful gesture gave
the falling line of her profle a swift, vivid loveliness.