A Girl with Moonlight In Her Eyes

I felt a pang of regret but then... "What time's your flight?"

"Midday."

"I'll drive you to the airport," I volunteered, "so tonight needn't be goodbye. I'll pick you up at nine. Jill can take care of the shop."

Simone's smile was enchanting. "That sounds perfect."

The next day we parted at the gate leading to the security checks. "I wish our time together could have been longer," Simone told me, "I think we could become good friends." Hands on my shoulders, she leaned in to kiss me on each cheek. Stepping back a little she looked at me then leaned in again, this time to kiss me gently on the lips. There was a light pressure which I returned. Then she was gone and I had a slight sense of loss. If I'd had the choice, Simone and I would have been more than 'good friends'.

* * * * *

After a few days we started to text each other, usually at least twice a week, and slowly built up a close but distant friendship (if that doesn't sound too much a contradiction). And a couple of months later I was thrilled to get a phone call from Simone. "Hello, Eleanor. I'm coming over to England for several days. Perhaps we could meet up."

"That would be great ," I said, "Are you coming to Helmsford?"

"No, Newcombe Parva, but I believe that's not far from you."

"About twenty miles."

"Do you know any good hotels there?" Simone asked, "Otherwise it will be The Malmsey Arms again."

"Why waste good money on an hotel?" I said, "You can stay with me."

"Are you sure? My grand-mère will be with me," Simone replied, "She likes to come over about once a year to visit my grandfather's grave. That's why Newcombe Parva---he is buried in the Catholic churchyard there."

I felt a tiny pang. I had hoped to get Simone to myself but I couldn't be selfish. "That's okay, I've got two guest rooms so you'll both be welcome. I use the smaller room as an office but it's got a comfortable divan bed. You can have that and in deference to her age, your grandmother can have the larger room. It'll be more comfortable for her. I'll take a couple of days off work so I can drive you round. Let me know when you're coming and I'll meet you at the City Airport. What's your grandmother's name?"

"Polly Sinclair," Simone told me.

So bang went my chance of finding out if Simone was gay and possibly getting her into my bed. But I was getting ahead of myself. Even if she was gay, I might not be her type. Stop building castles in the air, I told myself.

* * * * *

I suppose many of us when we hear the word 'grandmother' tend to conjure images of someone visibly old with white hair and walking aids, possibly dressed in frumpy clothes and even a crocheted shawl around the shoulders. In other words, a stereotype. Load of nonsense, of course--- after all, these days there are grandmothers in their forties. So about Polly Sinclair: she was probably late sixties although she could have passed for much younger. Slim and about the same height as Simone and me, she was elegant with pixie-cut fair hair (most likely dyed but a damned good dye-job), and stylishly dressed in a soft leather jacket with form-fitting jeans and knee-length boots. Under the jacket was a linen shirt and around her neck a loosely-tied chiffon scarf. Her makeup was perfect and her hands expertly manicured. Simone introduced us.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs Sinclair," I said, taking the extended hand.

"Oh, for goodness sake girl, call me Polly," she replied, "Mrs Sinclair makes me sound old and I'm not prepared to go down that route yet."

Simone and I greeted one another with a kiss on either cheek. I remembered that light touch on the lips when we had said farewell at the airport and I could feel my pulse pounding. I think if her grandmother hadn't been there I would have chanced my arm and planted a more passionate kiss on her lips. And maybe scared her off, never to be seen again.

I had timed dinner to be ready more or less when we arrived home. I showed my guests to their rooms and then we ate, paprika chicken with vegetables followed by chocolate mousse for dessert. Simone and/or Polly had brought some superb red wine. The meal was a success, Polly even asking for seconds of the chicken. So it was only after we'd eaten and the dish-washer loaded that I led them into the sitting room. And it was here that I held my breath.

I have a number of decent modern prints on the walls, all semi-erotic portrayals of nude women. Polly looked at them but there was no reaction other than: "Some interesting artists here, Eleanor. Locals?"

"Some are, others from elsewhere."

"I like the ones signed 'Bertie'," she commented. Bertie was a fairly well-known city artist who specialised in pen-and-ink drawings of nude women.

Simone, however, didn't seem to notice the prints. Her eyes lit on my piano. "How lovely," she said, "May I?" Sitting on the piano stool, she lifted the lid and began to softly play 'La Vie En Rose'. Simone played piano too, wow! That made her damned near perfect in my eyes.

My piano stool is a double so I eased in beside Simone and began to play descant to her melody. She turned to smile at me---our playing complemented each other perfectly. Then she gave me a mischievous grin and without warning burst into a feisty Scott Joplin number. It took me a second or two to catch up but I did then it was my turn to try to catch her out. I switched to Brubeck's 'Blue Rondo a la Turk'. We continued in this way for some time, playing musical leapfrog, until at last, laughing with delight, we stopped and wrapped our arms around each other in a hug. Suddenly I could feel my nipples stiffening and the beginning of a throbbing sensation in my pussy. Momentarily forgetting my other visitor, I was on the verge of planting a kiss on Simone's lovely mouth.

Perhaps fortunately, a laughing Polly came over, applauding us. "You two go so well together," she said, "A real partnership." At that time I thought she meant as pianists---later I was to wonder.

* * * * *

St Malachy's is a late-Victorian Catholic church near the centre of Newcombe Parva. I was surprised and impressed to see that the churchyard was well-maintained with recently mown grass and neat flower beds. So many old graveyards are left neglected to the point that nature completely takes over, turning them into unsightly wastelands with collapsed and crumbling gravestones. Polly and Simone were able to go directly to the grave, laid the small bunch of flowers I had given them, then stood silently, holding hands and heads bowed. I stood back a few yards to allow them some privacy. Polly turned and held her free hand out to me. "No need to hang back, Eleanor. Come over here with us."

I took the proffered hand and stood beside Polly to read the inscription on the simple headstone.

Professor Edmund Sinclair

1919 -- 1993

Arma Dei Quiescit

Gaudeamus Igitur

I translated the one phrase I recognised. " 'Let us therefore rejoice'." I thought I'd spoken quietly but Polly's hearing must have been sharp for she heard me. "Very good," she said, "You know much Latin, Eleanor?"

"Practically nothing," I admitted, "Only the standard phrases that have been absorbed into English. 'Gaudeamus Igitur' was easy---it was my high school's motto and you don't forget that. I recognise the word for 'God' so it must mean something about being with God."

"Close," she told me, "It's 'Resting in the Arms of God' "

"What was your husband a professor of?" I asked.

"Philosophy." She laughed. "I tried not to argue with him too seriously, he could tie me in knots with his logic and semantics." She winked. "But then, I never let him know that I thought most of his polemic was total bluff. Philosophers spend so much time in higher planes of thought that it's easy for we lesser mortals to bamboozle them."

* * * * *

It was their last evening with me before heading home the next day. Simone had gone to her room to pack. "Will you do mine too, please dear," asked Polly, "I feel a little tired after all the sight-seeing we've done today."

She didn't look all that tired to me and I was right. With Simone out of the way, she closed the sitting-room door and came to sit beside me on the sofa. She really caught me on the hop when she spoke and there was no equivocation. "You're gay, aren't you Eleanor?"

"How did you---"

"How did I know?" Polly pointed to the wall with my displayed prints. "I'd say that's pretty much of a giveaway. Don't think I know many straight women with a collection like that. Which brings me to the next thing: you're in love with Simone, aren't you?"

"I... I..."

"Don't dither, girl, it's a perfectly straightforward question. Are you in love with my granddaughter?"

"She's... she's very attractive..." I managed to stammer.

"And as well as dithering, that's evasive." Polly rolled her eyes and sighed in what I thought was feigned exasperation. "I've seen the way you look at her. If that's not the look of someone in love, it's a damned good imitation."

I nodded. "But I don't know how it would be accepted. Okay, you're right---I'm gay and I've fallen for Simone but I'm afraid of scaring her off."

Polly snorted. "For your information, she's been looking at you in exactly the same way, has been almost from the time you met us at the airport. I've felt like a spectator at a tennis match. The two of you have been sending out signals like fury and yet neither of you are picking them up."

I tried to keep a straight face but inside I was thinking: Perhaps I have a chance after all. Aloud I said: "Then you think Simone is gay?"

"I think she might be," said Polly, "She's never shown any interest in men. All I am sure of is that she seems strongly attracted to you."

"And you disapprove?"

Polly shook her head in denial. "Far from it. I'd be a hypocrite if I did disapprove. I've got a cousin, Tony, a few years older than I am, and he's gay. We were, are, very close so I was the only one he confided in---he knew he could rely on my discretion and support. Of course, things were different back then. It wasn't quite so bad for lesbians because there was no law against female homosexuality, although society could still be pretty snotty towards them. But male gays had to be very careful---they could get up to two years in prison if caught in the act. The legislation legalising male homosexuality didn't come in until the late Sixties. Poor Tony had to wait until he was about forty before he could openly get together with William, his partner. Even then it could still be unpleasant with a lot of homophobia around. The law may have changed but people hadn't, not then. Some still haven't changed.

"So I'll support you if and when necessary. But make up your mind fast, Eleanor, I'd hate to see you lose each other when it looks to me as if you're meant to be together." Polly patted my hand. "I've said all I wanted to. It may be a little late this visit but next time don't let her get away."

* * * * *

But it didn't come to a next time, not here anyway...

1999 -- St Grace-des-Rochers, France: Simone

I fell in love with the village of St Grace-des-Rochers the moment I saw it. We drove through narrow, cobbled streets lined with ancient-looking buildings of varying styles and passed a village square or market place where an old-fashioned water pump stood by a stone horse trough with carved ornamentations. There was a small auberge and several elderly men were sitting outside at round tables, enjoying the sunshine and a glass of wine. Two seemed to be arguing over a game of cards but there didn't appear to be any rancour as both were grinning. A little further on a number of old women were seated outside a café sipping on a morning coffee. I saw a patisserie as we passed and a number of other shops including a butcher's and a fruit and vegetable merchant's. No sign of anything like a supermarket to spoil the village ambience. And the place was colourful, practically every house and shop boasting an abundance of hanging baskets with glorious displays of flowers. A few passers-by waved to Simone and she returned their greetings.

On our way out of the village Simone pointed out a small church, squarely-built of heavy grey stone. "Early Norman," she said, "I'll take you in one morning---there are some very interesting frescoes, probably fourteenth century." The last of the village was behind us and the way was no longer cobbled but a paved road that gradually narrowed, seeming to lead nowhere. She added: "Not much further now." Within minutes we turned onto a hard, dusty track and were pulling up outside the Degas family gite, an attractive building of local stone with a slate roof.

* * * * *

Our friendship and affection had grown stronger with frequent texts and long phone calls at least once a week.

Simone had called me a few days earlier. "I've got a week's spring vacance due," she told me, "Would you be able to join me here in France? My family owns a gite on the coast, overlooking the Atlantic, and we could go there. You know the word gite?"

"Something like a small cabin used for a holiday home, isn't it?"

"That's right," she said, "Ours is just outside a village called St Grace-des-Rochers which is only a few kilometres from Brest."

"I'll be there," I promised, "even if I have to swim across the Channel." When we finished the call, I immediately phoned Jill. "Guess who's in charge for a week," I told her.

The Channel swim wasn't necessary. I caught a flight from the City Airport and Simone picked me up at Orly. "Here we go," she said, "Just you and me and our holiday retreat."

* * * * *

The gite was cheerful and welcoming inside. It was open plan comprising a large sitting room at the front, furnished with a sofa and matching armchairs, and a kitchen-diner behind. A huge fireplace dominated with an abundance of logs piled in an alcove and a number of oil lamps were scattered around the room. "We have our own electricity supply," Simone explained, pointing to a lamp, "but sometimes winter storms can knock the generator out." There were two bedrooms and a bathroom on a low-ceilinged upper floor. I felt a pang of disappointment when Simone put my bags into the guest room but tried not to show anything. Despite what Polly Sinclair had told me, I did wonder if I'd been presuming too much.

Following a light lunch, Simone took me down a rough, rock-strewn path which led from the gite to cliffs some three or four hundred yards away where there was a wonderful view out over the sea. "It looks inviting," I said.

"You wouldn't say that if you saw it in a storm," Simone told me, "I've heard the Atlantic is perhaps the wildest ocean."

It was going on for eleven that night, when I was just thinking about going to bed, that Simone stood up from the comfortabIe sofa where we had been lazing and held out a hand. "Come, there's something rather beautiful I'd like you to see." Puzzled, I took her hand and followed her outside. Still holding my hand, she led me down to the cliffs where we had been that afternoon.

"Look!"

There was a full moon, large and gleaming in the clear night sky, and a silver-white glowing band stretched across the calm sea from the horizon to the foot of the cliffs. Simone turned to me and took both my hands in hers. I could see the bright moonlight reflected in her eyes. "I hope I'm not going to spoil things, Eleanor, but there is something I must say and I can't hold it in any more. Je t'aime. I love you, Eleanor. I have done for a long time now."

I squeezed her hands and then pulled her in close. "Thank God for that." I wanted to cry with joy at Simone's words. "Je t'aime aussi. I love you too, Simone. And probably for just as long. The only thing is, why the hell did we wait for all this time?"

Our lips met with a terrible longing as we kissed and kissed until breathless. "I don't think we'll need the guest room after all," whispered Simone.

* * * * *

Hand-in-hand, we ran up that rocky path so fast it's a wonder that neither of us stumbled and broke a leg. Perhaps the full moon was a goddess, smiling with delight on two new lovers and giving us her protection. A whimsical thought, maybe, but my heart was so full now that a little whimsy seemed appropriate.

Dashing into the gite, we began almost immediately to get each other's clothing off, so eagerly that it's a wonder we didn't tear the garments to shreds. Simone's breasts were a little larger than mine, not by much but enough to notice, and her nipples---small and light brown---were set in large, darker brown, areolas. There also seemed to be some kind of tattoo on her torso. I slid my panties down and Simone started to laugh, pointing to my little triangle of pubic hair. My puzzlement must have shown for she slipped off her own panties and gestured to her pubes where there was an identical tiny triangle, the sole difference between hers and mine being our hair colour. "Voila!" she cried, "Proof that we're soul-mates!"

I joined in with her laughter and then I looked more closely at her tattoo. Seemingly elaborate, it started beneath her right armpit, moved under and between her boobs and up into her left armpit. It seemed to comprise thin, gnarled branches with an abundance of pale pink and white flowers. I recognised the flowers. "They're cherry blossoms," I said, "and the tattoo's style looks Japanese."

Simone took me in her arms and kissed the tip of my nose. "It is Japanese. I've got an uncle with business interests in Japan. He took me there several years ago for a holiday and when I saw this design in a tattoo parlour I couldn't resist it. The tattoo artist had lived in America so spoke good English. She told me that in Japan, the cherry blossom is a symbol of hope, beauty and new life."

"Then it's perfect for us," I said, "Ever since I met you I hoped we could be together and now there's beauty in a new life for us."

We tumbled onto the comfortable sofa kissing and caressing and murmuring small words of love. I turned Simone onto her back and lay between her opened legs, pressing our pussies together and dry-humping her (although 'dry' wasn't really the right term because we were both leaking furiously). My thighs were quite wet and sticky from our combined juices and I writhed in closer so that our bodies from the neck and shoulders down felt as if they were one. We kissed incessantly, our lips and tongues licking and nibbling in all around our mouths and ears and necks.

"Shall we go to bed, Eleanor?" Simone whispered. I agreed and we scampered up the staircase, Simone leading the way. She had a lovely, shapely backside and I couldn't resist giving it a couple of gentle slaps. I also put my hand between her legs to feel the wetness of her pussy as we ascended. Simone reached the top and turned to snatch my hand, almost dragging me into the bedroom.

Still kissing and gently biting, she led me to the large bed and sat me on the edge. Kneeling before me, she eased my legs apart before doing the same to my labia. "Oh, quel beau clitoris!" she cried. Well, that needed no translation. "Your whole pussy is so lovely, Eleanor." Simone began to lick me, finding places with her tongue that I didn't even know I had and I think I was wetter than I had ever been before. Her fingers were inside me and my whole pussy was making slurping sounds. I could feel my body tightening up as a prelude to the orgasm I knew was on its way and my arms and legs were quivering with anticipation. When I did come, it was as if my whole body had been set aflame and exploded. Simone got onto the bed beside me and held me close, mouthing little words of love, as I slowly came down.