by Radclyffe
“Grace,” I said, still gazing into her soft blue eyes, “you gave me a miracle. I am more impressed with your body now than I ever have been. I love every inch of you. Let me take you to bed and I’ll prove it.”
Without waiting for any more response I took her by the hand and led her to our room. She smiled when she saw the bed turned down in the candlelight. “Nothing planned for tonight, huh?”
“Maybe I was hoping for a little something.”
“Come here,” she said, pulling me onto the bed with her.
I curled up beside Grace, propping myself up on an elbow and running my other hand along the curves of her body. I trailed my fingers gently down the side of her breast and across her stomach, then through the soft curls and between her thighs. I felt her relax beneath my touch. She opened up to me, and I brushed past her clit, eliciting a soft moan. Pressing my lips to hers, I stroked more firmly, establishing a rhythm in sync with the slow rocking of her hips. I took my time drawing her body closer to mine, and her breathing became erratic.
“I can’t wait much longer,” Grace said in a raspy whisper.
“Good, I want you to come for me.” Two months is a long enough wait. I pushed into her. All she could do was nod frantically before giving in. I felt her entire body shudder as she clutched my back and then went limp. I cradled her in my arms and kissed her cheek softly.
“I love you,” she murmured into my neck.
“I love you too.”
Grace placed little kisses along my jawline and down across my throat. It felt divine. She rolled me over onto my back and pushed my pants down over my hips. She leaned over me, circling each breast with her tongue while she worked her fingers steadily lower until they were between my legs. I arched up to meet her touch. It wasn’t going to take much for me. I was already so close.
I should have known what would happen next. Really, it was becoming the pattern of our lives, so it shouldn’t have been surprising, but I was still caught completely off guard when the baby monitor lit up like a traffic light as Rory’s cries came blaring through from the nursery.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” I groaned.
Grace sagged against me and we both held still as if willing the crying to cease, but it soon became apparent that Rory’s cries held a purpose.
“It’s time for her to eat,” Grace said, kissing my forehead.
“She just ate,” I whined, my nerve endings still humming from the sudden break in stimulation.
“It’s been over two hours.” Grace grabbed her robe.
“We were so close,” I whimpered.
She smiled a sympathetic smile as she headed for the door. “Just hold that thought. We are going to pick right back up where we left off as soon as I’m done.”
Somehow I doubted that. In fact, at that moment I doubted that I would ever make love to my wife again. We had tried a quickie and that didn’t work. I had tried to be romantic and the baby got in the way. Taking it slow and easy certainly wasn’t happening either. I had tried everything I could think of, but any possibility of restarting our sex life seemed to be flickering and fading like the candles that were burning out around the room. The love song CD stopped playing as if signaling an end to my final attempt for the evening, and I lay there sulking in the silence. Apparently the only remaining evidence of my efforts was the dull throbbing at my core. The frustration was almost overwhelming, so I pulled on my pants and headed toward the nursery.
When I entered Rory’s room, my eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim glow of her night-light, but when they did I saw Grace sitting in the rocking chair in the far corner of the room. She had the baby swaddled in a soft yellow blanket and cradled against her chest. She was humming softly as she rocked, and Rory was watching her peacefully through heavy-lidded eyes.
They were so beautiful together that my heart ached at the sight of them. This picture in front of me was exactly what I had dreamt about for years and imagined every time I placed my hand on Grace’s growing belly throughout her pregnancy. The love that filled the room was the reason we’d decided to have Rory in the first place. That perfect little person who stole my heart from the moment she arrived was fulfilling all of the hopes we had shared for so long. It was new, it was exciting, it was satisfying in ways I had never known it could be.
Rory was drifting off to sleep. Soon Grace would return her to her crib and come join me in our bed. Maybe we would make love, maybe we wouldn’t, but that didn’t seem nearly as important as it had a few minutes earlier. It would happen when the time was right. Standing there watching the love of my life holding the light of my life, I realized that I had been blessed with a beautiful family, and I intended to enjoy every second of the life we were building.
Parisian Fire and Ice - JLee Meyer
JLEE MEYER utilizes her background in psychology and speech pathology in her work as an international communication consultant. Spending hours in airports, planes, and hotel rooms allows her the opportunity to pursue two of her favorite passions: reading and writing lesbian fiction. JLee’s hobbies are photography, hiking, tennis, and skiing, but she hasn’t had time for them recently. Writing is her passion, and learning this new craft has been a joy. She and her partner CC live in Northern California with their two dogs.
Her novels are Forever Found, First Instinct, Rising Storm, and Hotel Liaison. The sequel to Hotel Liaison is planned for 2009. JLee also wishes to thank Joelle for her invaluable assistance with French translations and location information.
Visit JLee at www.myspace.com/jleemeyer, or at her Web site, jleemeyer.com, or email her at [email protected]. You can also find her at www.boldstrokesbooks.com.
Parisian Fire and Ice
JLee Meyer
I felt like I’d been scrubbing and mopping for hours. Each time one chore was complete, Pierre raced up to me and pointed to the next. I was sure he was trying to break me, to get me to quit. I just knew that little guy had a grudge against Americans.
But he paid in cash, and I had no work permit and little money left from my meager savings. I’d spent it all in my dash for freedom and didn’t want the U.S. embassy to know my exact whereabouts. I never complained.
I’d been working there for six weeks and my speed was improving, as was the variety of jobs Pierre seemed to trust me with. I was now doing a lot of food preparation for the chef, Ormond, Pierre’s lover. Ormond was as big and friendly as Pierre was skinny and reserved. It was like a Newfoundland and whippet had found each other. My French was terrible at best, but I was learning because Ormond was a patient teacher.
I’d found a room that didn’t cost much in the home of an older woman who was widowed. Since I had no life other than my job, it was perfect. When I had a day off I helped the widow around her house and tended the small garden. I ate whatever wasn’t sold out that day at the restaurant, and there was always a baguette and café au lait in the morning. If there was extra, I took it to Anette, my landlady.
All in all, it was better than I could have hoped. Paris in 1988 was proving to be not so impossible after all. That day I was waiting tables, well, kind of. The regular waiter was on holiday and Pierre had been covering for him. It was midafternoon and few were in the bistro, and those usually just wanted a coffee and perhaps a pastry. He must have figured even I could handle that much.
“Help those customers, I must speak to Ormond.” Pierre disappeared into the tiny kitchen before I could look up from folding napkins for the evening rush.
Glancing over to an inside table, I was struck by a woman seated against the wall, speaking very animatedly to some fellow. Her hair was long and dark brown, framing a perfectly heart-shaped face and large, fiery brown eyes that matched her lively gestures. I couldn’t stop staring.
I must have bored a hole in the woman’s concentration because she suddenly looked across the room right at me. Since I didn’t seem capable of looking away, I watched in fascination as she threw down her napkin and marched in my di
rection, that fire I’d seen earlier laser-focused on me. Realizing I was the intended target, I stood and was surprised at how small she was. Small in size, not in stature. She was pointing and gesturing in a way that I knew wasn’t good. “Que êtes-vous? Pourquoi m’espionnez-vous? Je vais appeler la police!”
The only word that I got loud and clear was “police.” The cops? Jesus!
“I’m sorry, m’amselle, I didn’t mean to stare. You are…très belle. That’s all.”
The woman stopped, gave me a quizzical look, perhaps eventually even a ghost of a smile. Then she snapped, “Comment vous appelez-vous?”
“Uh, Jen.” I didn’t want her to know my last name, I just wanted her to sit down and forget about me.
“Jen? Jen? C’est un nom, ça?” Then she huffed and turned on her heel to go back to her tablemate and resume their intense conversation. I didn’t think she thought very much of my answer.
As I sighed in relief, behind me a deep baritone mused, “What a woman.”
Ormond was smiling, his gaze still on the mysterious customer. I asked, “Do you know her?”
“Oui. Her name is Marina Kouros. She is a Greek journalist who works for Reuters. But she is getting more notice from the television people, because of her beauty and her stories. Have you not seen her before?”
“No. I would remember.” I didn’t watch television because I didn’t understand most of it. I knew I would never forget that face and those eyes. Never. Marina. What a beautiful name.
“Why was she angry with me?”
“She accused you of spying on her. She has evidently had others try to steal her exclusive stories. I think, when she heard your, um, accent, she knew she was safe.”
I could hear amusement in Ormond’s voice. My French was really that bad.
There was an upside to my fractured accent and lack of understanding, though, because Marina Kouros started frequenting the café and insisting that I wait on her each time she came in. I was grateful for any reason at all, because the possibility that she might appear added excitement and anticipation to my otherwise fairly mundane day.
When she did appear, I was happy for the whole day and never minded any of the endless tasks Pierre gave me to do. When she didn’t put in an appearance, which was most days, I felt a little let down, saddened somehow. It was odd. More than that, it was silly. I didn’t even know the woman.
Yet, because of her, I began to study, no, learn French. I read my pocket dictionary like it was a Bible and pestered Ormond and Anette and Pierre to translate and help me with my pronunciation. It was still pretty bad, but my comprehension got better every day. I scoured television news programs for a glimpse of her. I had my landlady search for her articles in the newspaper and then I read them with the dictionary beside me, an arduous process.
Marina, as I now thought of her, liked her café au lait with not so much milk, extra espresso, not too hot. No matter what I was doing when Marina walked in, I dropped it to make sure she had her preferred table, the one in the back corner of the restaurant.
I found myself trying to keep that table available, just in case—piling unfolded napkins on it, a few menus, even whatever cookbook I was studying. All of these instantly disappeared as soon as I caught sight of the lovely journalist. I steadfastly refused to consider why I might be doing those things.
Pierre shot suspicious looks at me occasionally but never scolded me in front of Marina. I wasn’t sure how that miracle had happened, but decided it was because it couldn’t hurt business to have someone with a bit of fame frequent the restaurant.
Marina was coming in more often, too. She acted as though she didn’t notice every special consideration, and only occasionally graced me with a smile meant just for me. I thought I was imagining that part. Still, I clung to that smile at night and in my lonely moments, so far from anything familiar to me.
I had made the choice to run, but that didn’t mean I didn’t miss parts of my former life. In particular, I missed my niece, Constantina, eight years old when I left. Whenever we were together she was my shadow. We were the only two in the family with blue eyes, the same color. And she was going to be even taller than me. I had strawberry-blond hair but hers was a deep auburn color, with curls. I missed that kid.
There was one child, Manon, whose mother brought her by fairly often after picking her up from school. She reminded me of Constantina, about the same age. Without speaking a lot, we had developed a friendship of sorts. She and her mother would sit at an outside table. I would wait on them and make a very big deal out of writing down the child’s order. We did much nodding and laughing and she was delighted to correct my accent.
I caught Marina watching our interaction one time, just before she entered the café. Once seated she asked, “You are good with the little girl. Do you have children?” Her English was pretty good, too. She must have seen caution in my expression, because she waited patiently for the answer and I suspected patience wasn’t her long suit.
“My niece. She’s about the same age. I miss her.” I hadn’t meant to say the last part, but I caught myself before revealing anything else. That was the last thing I needed. There was something about Marina that made me want to tell her everything. I now understood why she was such a good reporter.
I thought Manon and in particular Marina were probably my distraction from the ache of missing home, and that’s where I forced my thoughts to end. To me, there was no going back, so I studied French, worked, and dreamt of Marina Kouros.
My French quickly improved, and that meant I could be more help in the restaurant. I watched the news and found programs where Marina was featured. I was even reading the whole newspaper, slowly but without constant reference to my dictionary. Of course, I never let on to Marina about my progress for fear she would stop coming to the bistro.
On a few occasions I thought she was studying me. I would be helping another customer and glance in her direction and our eyes would meet. She would usually look away, but occasionally her gaze would linger. Once, her tablemate had to say something to get her attention. Those were moments that were burned into my memory to savor. My rational mind was sure she found me strange. My irrational self thought quite the opposite.
One day she came in with a tall, attractive woman who was obviously enamored with her. She answered Marina’s interview questions with flirtatious remarks full of double entendres, from what I could tell. It irritated the hell out of me, and before I realized what I was doing, I slammed her pastry and coffee down, not caring if it spilled on her couture suit.
The woman jumped to her feet, yelped, “Merde!” as she swiped at her skirt with her napkin, and said a few more unkind things before marching off to the restroom. I felt my cheeks burn and my thoughts were so chaotic they became no more than white noise. I refused to meet Marina’s eyes and miserably wiped up the few drops I had spilled on the table. I thought I imagined her hand gently squeeze my own to get my attention.
She smiled sweetly at me and murmured, “You worry too much.” I was so overcome by her touch my knees almost gave out. The return of her tablemate was the only thing that allowed me to break the connection. I barely made it back to my station.
Pierre sidled up to me and hissed in my ear, “That woman is a government official! She’s very important and you must treat her well. Besides, Mademoiselle Kouros is not interested in her—if you would open your eyes and see.”
He gave me a meaningful eyebrow raise and slid his gaze to the table. When I turned I caught a look from Marina that instantly made the feeling of her touch return. At that point I was pretty sure I was losing my mind.
Pierre was still beside me and wouldn’t let up. “Can you not see? She likes you. I know it!” Chortling to himself, he bustled back to the kitchen, probably to share his observations with Ormond.
I could only stare, knowing my eyes revealed everything because I’d always been told they did. Ohgodohgodohgod! She knows how I feel, she knows! My misery deepened a
s I tried not to twist the bar towel to reveal my trembling hands. Marina now knew what I had steadily denied to myself. I cared about her. I really cared.
Forcing my feet to move, I practically fled into the kitchen and begged Pierre to finish waiting on her table. Pierre exchanged glances with Ormond and hurried to the dining area while Ormond held my hand and made me sit on a nearby stool.
“Ormond, I made a fool of myself. Marina knows how I feel about her…I saw it in her eyes. I’m so dumb.” My French had gone to hell, and my English wasn’t much better.
Ormond patted my shoulder sympathetically. “Not to worry, my friend. Pierre insists she likes you, too. He is a very good observer.”
“Pities me, you mean. Ormond, I’m a dishwasher in a restaurant, how could she possibly feel anything for me?”
“That isn’t true, my friend. You are a responsible, kind, hard-working woman who is learning a new craft. I think you would make an excellent chef one day. Very attractive, too, in my opinion. A little tall, perhaps… I’m sure she sees what a good person you are as well.”
I scrubbed my tears away with my sleeve, not wanting to look any more the idiot than I already felt I was.
“I can’t go out there until she’s gone. Please.”
“Not to worry, Pierre will take care of the table. You take a break. We have a delivery for the freezer coming. Will you check it and put things away?”
Two hours later I was setting up the main dining area for dinner when I heard sirens and people yelling outside. The restaurant’s close to the Sorbonne, so with students demonstrating about this and that, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. I wandered outside to check it out as a welcome distraction from my morose thoughts and heavy heart.
Suddenly people were scattering and running in all directions and police whistles were getting closer. I saw Marina racing down the street, looking furtively around. She spied me and zipped into the empty bistro.