Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 9: Salut d'Amour

May 17, 1939

     Thursday came excitingly and the empty estate, in all its vastness, had left him happy for the first time in months. The bright, warm amber light of the candles gave the dining room this sort of renewed life and erased all the dreariness that had ridden it prior to the rendezvous. On the table, two plates were set along with glasses and wine bottles— the lunch was on the stove, ready to be eaten. He worried though, he had never done something like this before, and as the time grew closer he began to think he did everything wrong. The rain rampaged outside and he became anxious, sure that it was all gone. It couldn't be— he thought. It had to be now. The chance could slip away and cause an excruciating wait that could only foster even more crazed impulses. But, as the sound of the drops tapped on the windows, the sullenness caved in and nearly sank his high spirits.

     But, he jerked out of his seat at the knock on the door and, like a little boy, he sprinted to the front in a spur of excitement. She was there when he opened it, closing up her umbrella, and wearing a long grey trench coat that contrasted gently with the black heels on her feet, muddied from the rain. Her silk stockings were a sheer black this time.

     "I was going to wait out the rain but I didn't want to keep you waiting." She explained as he helped her strip off the coat. Underneath, she wore a rich blood-red dress that adorned a square neckline, lined with trimmings of white lace. The sleeves were slightly puffed up and the waistband was fitted high and tucked into the bust fabric into neat creases. Her skirt clung to her thighs and flared steeply at the knee and was speckled with tiny, black dots.

     "Did you make this?"

     She hummed and twirled the skirt— proudly seeing over the wonderful way it fluttered with the movement. "It's my latest project."

     "It's lovely."

     His arms circled around her black-banded waist and one hand gently tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. Under the light, her eyes had a tiny kaleidoscope of sparkling highlights that made her gaze so adoring, so loving, that it had rendered him speechless for a moment, before bringing his face to hers, easing into the warmth of her rose-tinted lips. One of her hands cupped his face immediately and the other steadied onto his shoulder. As their lips met more desperately, the pace quickening, he pushed her onto the wall and felt her body press against his, becoming even closer when she pulled him to her, her arms tightened around his neck. His blood rushed and gave into her, surrendering what little reluctance he had left. Seconds later, their kisses slowed— they came together more sensually as he felt her hot breath on his lips and she teased him, leaning in and stopping before they touched, leaving seconds of heat and unfulfilled craving before kissing him back. Synced together perfectly, their lips moved succinctly, with a subdued kind of passion, and then parting as she leaned her head on the wall, raised-up, and let out a laugh.

     "I should've confessed sooner if I knew this is how I'd be greeted all the time." She joked and he grazed her cheek, his warm gaze studying her face, relishing in their opportune distance. The way he looked at her— it was so clear on what level he cherished her.

     "Sorry. I forgot to say good afternoon."

     Her smile widened, the corners of her lips pointing up.

     "Good afternoon, Monsieur. What do you have planned today?"

     They pushed themselves from the wall and he took her hand, leading her to the kitchen. "I tried making lunch. How does roasted chicken sound?"

     "It smells wonderful." She mused and skipped ahead to the stove, eyeing the lunch curiously.

     "Where did you learn to cook?"