by Elena Graf
“Those aren’t rugs,” said Cherie. “That’s wall art.”
Brenda smiled, evidently pleased with the response. “My wife was a fiber artist. She used to exhibit at all the juried shows.”
Cherie studied each wall hanging carefully. The work was exquisite, and the color schemes, imaginative. “Beautiful,” she said. “Your wife was very talented.”
Brenda nodded sadly and gestured to an open bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Wine?”
“Yes, thank you.” Cherie sat down on the sofa while Brenda poured the wine. She noticed the pile of hardcover books on the coffee table, a biography of Ruth Ginsburg, a book of photographs of Acadia National Park, and the latest James Patterson novel.
“You like real books,” observed Cherie with pleasure.
Brenda glanced at the pile. “Yes, I do. I get most of them second hand, but I like the feel of a real book.” She handed Cherie a glass of wine and clicked her glass to Cherie’s. “Welcome to my little house in the woods.”
Cherie gazed around, taking in that the house was anything but little. From the outside, she could see that it was a full-size, center-hall colonial from an earlier era.
“It’s a lot of house for one person.”
Brenda shrugged. “I don’t mind. When I make one room messy, I move on to the next one.”
Cherie gave her a skeptical look. “I don’t believe that. This place is neat as a pin.”
“That’s because you were coming. I wanted to make a good impression.”
“How’d you find this place?” Cherie asked.
“The usual way…a real estate agent. Marcia had been following the listings on Zillow and Realtor.com for years before we moved out of Brooklyn. After living in our tiny house, she wanted a bigger place with a real yard. She liked to garden. She grew veggies too because she liked to cook.” Although Brenda looked a bit sad, she didn’t seem overly emotional talking about her wife. Sometime, when they knew each other better, Cherie would encourage more conversation about her.
Cherie sipped her wine and looked around. She could see other touches that she doubted were Brenda’s taste—fanciful lamps with bases like old fashioned ship’s lanterns. A collection of Maine-inspired carved figurines. Brenda didn’t strike her as a collector, but who knew? Liz Stolz collected minerals. There were even colorful rocks in her office.
“It’s nice and quiet out here in the woods,” said Brenda. “It’s an interesting neighborhood. Couples in their sixties, who have raised their families here but stayed on. Young couples, who see these older houses as good starter homes. And people like me, who upsize but get more house after selling expensive real estate elsewhere. A lot of retirees ‘from away’—as they say up here.”
“Most of my practice is older people,” said Cherie.
“You like being here?”
“I love it! When my father said he wanted to come home to die, I wasn’t so sure about the idea.”
“The coming to Maine or the other part?”
Cherie managed a defective smile. “Both, but especially the dying. The COPD has really slowed him down. He used to walk miles every day, now he can barely make it from his TV chair to the bathroom without huffing and puffing.”
Brenda gave her a sympathetic look. “That’s hard.”
“Yes, it is.” Cherie sighed and for the first time noticed a delicious smell. “What are you cooking for dinner?”
“That’s the rouille for the bouillabaisse. I made it from scratch. Sorry about the fishy smell.”
“Don’t apologize. I love bouillabaisse,” said Cherie. “By the way, it’s roo-ee,” she said sounding out the word, rouille.
“Your name is French,” said Brenda. “Did you take it in school? I did, but I don’t remember a word.”
“Then you’ll have to practice French with me. Sometimes I speak it with my father. Up here, the French influence was so strong, there used to be French-language public schools. My father was always better at reading and writing French than English. Sometimes, I have to translate official things like government documents for him.”
“Rouille,” Brenda tried but failed to get the accent right. “How do you say it again?”
Cherie said it for her slowly, sounding it out. Then she repeated it. Brenda looked charmed. “I like it when you speak French. It sounds like you.”
Cherie gave her a puzzled look. “Sounds like me?”
“Yes, you know. Elegant…exotic.”
“Exotic? Now, that’s something I’ve never thought about myself.”
“How can you get more exotic than a blonde who’s secretly part black? That’s not your everyday background.”
Cherie drew on her counselor training to offer a neutral response. “Does it bother you that I have black blood?”
Brenda made a face that said, are you kidding me? “Hell, no. I know a lot of people think cops are racist, but I’m not one of them.”
“I find that we’re all a little racist when we scratch the surface. The white part of me is racist about the black part sometimes, and vice versa.”
Cherie watched as Brenda tried to process that idea. When it had first occurred to Cherie, she’d had trouble with it too.
“I have to think about that,” Brenda admitted.
“Why don’t we go to the kitchen while you think about it? Those good smells are making me hungry.”
Brenda grabbed the wine bottle. Cherie followed her through the dining room, where the table had been elegantly set with china, cloth napkins and what looked like real silver. There were the requisite tall tapers in crystal candle holders in the shape of six-pointed stars.
“Your table looks beautiful,” Cherie said as they passed.
“I’m just following your instructions. Romantic dinner for two coming right up! What the doctor ordered,” Brenda said with a sly smile. “”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Technically, not, but can’t you do almost everything a doctor does?”
“Yes, but I’m not a doctor. When I got the idea to switch professions, it was too late to go to medical school.”
“Too bad. You would have made a good doctor.”
This was a sore subject for Cherie. “Let’s talk about something else, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay,” said Brenda, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. “Have a seat while I finish dinner.” She took a platter of cut-up fish and lobster from the refrigerator and a bowl of clams and mussels. She turned on the oven to preheat.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Cherie, watching Brenda toss the salad. She was pleased to see how competent Brenda looked in the kitchen. Then she wondered why she would have thought otherwise. Stereotypes again. They always seemed to pop up.
“I have everything under control at the moment,” said Brenda. She gave Cherie a sheepish look. “Would it spoil the romance if I asked you to light the candles?”
Cherie smiled warmly. “No, of course not.”
Brenda handed her a box of stick matches. “Thank you.”
Cherie returned to find Brenda adding a bowlful of diced potatoes to the stock pot. She slid the bread into the oven.
“Just a few minutes now,” Brenda assured her. “I can give you some cheese and crackers if you’re really fainting with hunger.”
“Do I look like I’m fainting?” Cherie grinned.
“No, you don’t look like the fainting type.”
“I’m not. In my profession, fainting is not a good thing.”
“I bet not,” said Brenda, adding the fish to the pot.
Cherie leaned on her hand. “I like watching you in the kitchen. It’s nice to have someone cook for me. Usually, I’m the one doing the cooking.”
“Well,” said Brenda with a definitive nod. “We’ll just have to change
that, won’t we?”
“If you say so.” Cherie smiled. Brenda was saying all the right things. Cherie admired Brenda’s strong profile as she stood working at the stove. She allowed her eyes to travel down Brenda’s body, pausing at her breasts. In the knit top that clung slightly, they looked abundantly round and soft. Cherie felt a definite response below. It had been such a long time since she’d been with a woman. What she missed most of all was feeling the softness of a woman’s body. Sometimes, she thought she missed that more than sex.
“I really hope this is good,” said Brenda, interrupting Cherie’s thoughts. “I’ve only made it once before.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious,” said Cherie with a reassuring smile. For a long moment, they were silent, holding one another’s gaze. The oven timer pinged and brought them back to reality.
“Time for the shellfish and lobster to go in,” Brenda explained.
The timer pinged again. Brenda ladled out the bouillabaisse. Cherie brought the bowls to the table while Brenda cut the bread. Finally, they sat with steaming bowls of fish stew before them.
“Bon appétit,” said Brenda.
“Merci,” replied Cherie. “Your accent is improving already.”
“Hah, anyone who’s watched Julia Child can say that right.”
Cherie tasted the bouillabaisse and found it incredibly delicious. She was a little embarrassed when she took a piece of bread and crumbs fell on the brilliantly polished dining table. She tried to collect the crumbs into her cupped hand.
Brenda said, “Forget that. Food is meant to be enjoyed. We can clean up later.”
“You notice everything, don’t you?”
“Cops are trained to notice every detail.”
“So are medical personnel.”
“Something we have in common,” observed Brenda, dipping a piece of bread into her stew.
“Oh, I think we probably have a lot more in common.”
Brenda looked thoughtful as she chewed the bread. Finally, she swallowed and said. “It wouldn’t seem like it on the surface, but I think we do.”
After they finished eating, Brenda tried to shoo her out of the kitchen, but Cherie insisted on helping her clean up. She held the door open while Brenda carried the pot of stew out to the screen porch to cool.
“It’s cold enough for that to stay out there overnight,” she said, locking the door. “Would you like to sit in the living room and listen to music? I found this jazz station I thought you might like.”
“Sure,” Cherie agreed. When Brenda offered her hand, she took it.
They sat side by side on the sofa, listening to the music, not talking for a few minutes. Then Brenda said, “Do you mind if I sit closer?”
Cherie smiled in her direction. “I’d like that.” Brenda slid closer until their thighs were touching. “Can I put my arm around you?”
Cherie nodded. Tentatively, Brenda put her arm around Cherie’s shoulders.
“It feels really good to sit with you like this,” Brenda said.
Cherie gently stroked Brenda’s thigh to indicate her agreement.
“Do you think we can be friends?” asked Brenda hopefully.
“Yes, I think so,” said Cherie leaning against her. Her cheek found Brenda’s breast. Yes, it was as deliciously soft as she had imagined. Cherie could smell Brenda’s cologne rising from her warm body.
“It’s so nice just relaxing with someone, listening to music,” Brenda murmured.
Cherie sighed and snuggled against Brenda’s breast and put her hand on her waist. She could feel the instant response in return and a little puppy moan of appreciation. Her hand on Brenda’s waist told her she could stand to lose a few pounds, but the softness felt so good to her touch.
“I want to kiss you,” said Brenda.
Cherie sat up. She searched the blue eyes that now looked so anxious, then she closed her own, hoping to make her permission obvious. After a long moment, she felt soft lips on hers. The pressure was so gentle, like the brush of a butterfly wing. She opened her eyes.
“I don’t want to push,” Brenda explained.
“You’re fine.” Cherie put her hands on Brenda cheeks to draw her face closer. She pressed her lips to hers and opened her mouth to invite her in. She felt the tension and hesitation through her fingertips, but then a warm tongue came into her mouth, gently finding its way around. Cherie felt the arousal below begin to purr like a large, friendly cat. Brenda’s kisses became more assertive. Then she relaxed and let Cherie take the lead. Cherie liked the taste of Brenda’s mouth. Sweet, despite the wine, and the tasty meal. She loved exploring its warmth.
They stopped there and parted to evaluate.
“More?” asked Brenda in a whisper.
Cherie shook her head. “Not right now. Just hold me while we listen to music.”
Brenda looked anxious. Cherie grazed her fingertips down Brenda’s cheek. “I like the way you kiss. Don’t worry.”
Brenda smiled broadly and put her arm around Cherie.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy reread the bishop’s email twice. She’d listened in on the monthly clergy meeting earlier in the week. The email confirmed the recommendations they’d discussed. Celebrants should wash their hands thoroughly with soap and water before celebrating the Eucharist. Lucy always did that anyway, but Liz had made a point of showing her how surgeons scrubbed. She’d given Lucy a box of fine-bristled surgical brushes. Lucy kept one in the lavatory off the robing room.
“Fingernails are especially important,” said Liz, inspecting Lucy’s. “You keep yours short. That’s good.”
Doesn’t every woman who loves women? Lucy had wondered at the time. Then she thought of the lesbian porn videos she occasionally watched with Erika. Mostly they giggled through them, although a few had been inspirational. The actresses with long French nails always made Lucy shudder. How painful that must be.
Lucy shook off the thought of porn by focusing on the other points in the bishop’s email. It recommended alcohol-based hand sanitizer for anyone distributing communion. Lucy would discuss this at the vestry meeting. She’d make sure the warden bought small bottles of sanitizer that could be left in strategic places.
She carefully read the next part of the message. Obviously, drinking from the common communion cup was a sure way to spread disease. Instead, communicants should be encouraged to bow to the consecrated wine to acknowledge the Divine presence. The bishop reminded them that in Episcopal theology communion is complete when received in either of the elements.
The email went on to make recommendations about offering the sign of peace. Kissing and hugging made no sense during flu season, and she often mentioned that, but now even a handshake would be discouraged.
Lucy sighed. She was glad that her bishop was ahead of the curve on addressing these issues, but she was sad to see the parts of the Eucharist lopped off in this way. She knew that her associate rector, Tom Simmons, would be on the mailing list for this message, but she forwarded the email to him, just in case.
She had a few minutes before her counseling session, so she reluctantly dug into the text of her Sunday sermon. Lenten sermons could be so dreary. She always tried to find a cheerful note or some humor to brighten them. She was in the middle of figuring out how to shorten a bad joke about giving up swearing for Lent when there was a knock at her door.
“Mother Lucy, Cherie Bois is here for you.”
Cherie came in. She was smartly dressed today in a wool pants suit. Lucy wondered if the outfit was for a special occasion.
“Nice suit,” said Lucy.
“I had to give a talk at the senior center about special measures if the virus comes to Hobbs.”
Lucy opened her arms for a hug, but Cherie kept her distance and shook her head. “That’s part of it. No more hugging.”
Lucy sighed. “I
just read that in the bishop’s memo to active clergy. The kiss of peace should be a nod or a wave. Maybe bumping elbows will be allowed.” Lucy grinned at her own humor, but Cherie didn’t break a smile.
“Maybe, but I probably wouldn’t get close enough even for that.”
Chastened, Lucy nodded and pointed to one of the visitors’ chairs. Cherie sat down. As usual, Lucy allowed her client a moment to settle down and get her bearings before opening the session.
“So how have things been since the last time we met?”
“Pretty well. I told you that Dr. Stolz took me to the shooting range.”
“Yes, and that seemed to help with your fear of guns.”
“We went again the other day. The more I shoot, the more confident I feel and the less frightened. I don’t think I’ll ever want to own a gun, but I understand them better.”
“Good. Good,” said Lucy, mentally patting herself for the good idea. “And so, is it easier to be around Brenda?”
Cherie gave her a shy smile. “We had another date.”
“Really? And how did that go?”
“Nice. In fact, very nice.”
Lucy nodded to encourage her to say more.
“I think this friendship may have some potential.”
“Just friends?”
“Maybe more. We’ll see.”
Lucy waited with that patient, open look that seemed to compel clients to reveal more. “That’s a good start,” she said in an encouraging tone.
“It is. But I have some things to figure out first. I don’t have lots of experience with women. I had one female partner. We broke up when I moved from Shreveport to Houston to do my PA program.” Cherie let out a big sigh. “I was ready for it to end. It wasn’t a forever thing, if you know what I mean.”
Lucy nodded.
