No way was she bopping into that bunch of yokels barefoot and wet-headed. Better get back to her room, dry her hair and wait for Madame to bring the promised sandwich.
Dea’s door was ajar and she’d darn well closed it. Squaring her shoulders, Dea pushed it open wide and stepped in. “Hello!”
“Madame.” The woman was on her knees, laying a fire in the grate. As Dea watched, she arranged the last couple of logs from a stack in the hearth and struck three or four matches, dropping each one in the bed of pine cones and crumpled paper. Satisfied the fire had caught, she stood up and launched into fast French.
Dea understood about a tenth of it.
She did catch her apologies, that they were honoured to have her stop by, and her arrival had caught them by surprise. As she spoke, rain slashed against the panes. The woman looked over her shoulder at the open shutters and turned to cross the room and close them.
“No,” Dea said, “leave them open.”
That seemed to bother her, but Dea wasn’t budging. Rob had always insisted on sleeping with drapes tight shut. She’d celebrate her singleness by leaving the shutters open to the night and, OK, the torrential rain.
Accepting Dea’s wish, the woman nodded and asked if there was anything Dea required.
“A bottle of good wine.”
Having assured her she’d pick one out herself, she closed the door, shutting off the chanting. The only sounds now were the logs crackling as the fire caught and the intermittent slash of rain against the window. She was utterly alone in a foreign land and she’d left all worries and heartache an ocean away.
Minutes later, Madame reappeared with a laden tray.
For a last-minute, unexpected, scratch supper, she hadn’t done too shabbily. A small tureen held a thick meaty soup that wafted herbs and garlic as Dea lifted the lid. The promised ham came with thick slices of crusty bread, and, for good measure, Madame had added a dish of poached pears and a wedge of crumbly blue cheese. Best of all was the freshly opened bottle of wine, neatly wrapped in a linen napkin.
Dea had a crackling fire, hot soup and wine. She had no complaints, even if the chanting was getting louder. Or did she hear it more now the wind had dropped? No matter, it wasn’t an unpleasant noise, just monotonous, and they could hardly keep it up all night.
Two glasses of wine and a good supper later, Dea stretched out by the fire, wineglass in hand, and watched the flames play over the sweet-smelling logs. Were they fruit trees of some sort that they gave off such an aroma? Magical, mythical trees that scented the air and her dreams? Slowly Dea sipped on her wine and contemplated her flight.
She’d run away. Plain and simple, she’d retreated. Why not? She’d been supplanted by a younger woman with skinny hips and a flat chest. Dea glanced down at her ample breasts. OK, they weren’t up to the endowment of La Déesse outside in the parking lot, but boyish shed never be. Seemed Rob wanted young and androgynous these days. Tough shit, Rob, Dea muttered to the twisting flames. See if I care. Surprisingly, she didnt any more. Was it distance easing the rejection and the hurt? Or plain common sense coming to the fore? Common sense hadnt sent her buying the first cheap ticket to Europe. More like craziness or primal urge. Here, in the warmth of the fire, she did did feel primal. Why not? Hadnt she found her way to the abode of the Earth Goddess?
Dea watched until the fire died down. Then she pulled on flannel pyjamas, fished her book out of her bag and took herself and the rest of the wine to bed. She’d just drained the last glass when the storm strengthened with renewed force, smashing rain hard against the windows as great gusts of wind tore at the outside walls. A clap of thunder vibrated off the windows, followed fast by a flash of lightning, and the lights went out.
Great! She’d hold her breath and her wineglass and count to ten for the lights to come on again. They didn’t. Not even for fifty. There was just enough light from the fire to see and she had a flashlight. Damn, it was in the car. That wasn’t stopping her. The house had gone quiet. With no one about, she’d slip out and back without any trouble. Dea stepped into her shoes, and pulled on her raincoat over her pyjamas.
She made it almost to the bottom of the stairs when Madame stepped forward carrying a lamp. Over the woman’s shoulder, Dea saw the group still seated round the fire. So much for slipping out unobserved. Dea jabbered about looking for something, pulled open the heavy door and stepped out.
Big mistake. Water bucketed down from the sky. The path from the inn resembled a small stream and she could barely see her car. Dea splashed down the path and squelched over the gravel. As she opened the passenger door, the rain came down even heavier, beating a wild tattoo on the roof.
She shoved the flashlight in her pocket and stepped back out. The rain came horizontally now, slashing into her face, running down her neck and stinging her legs. She should have stayed dry and warm and lumped the dark. She pulled her raincoat over her head and ran. Losing a shoe, she turned back trying to find it, but gave up and raced the rest of the way, half blinded and totally drenched. A misstep on loose gravel pitched her forward. Reaching out to save herself, Dea fell slap into the granite bulk of La Déesse.
Wrong direction entirely.
Or was it?
The bulk of the Goddess protected Dea from the wind and the worst of the rain. Nice to find a woman broader and even better endowed than she was. Dea raised her hands to cup the splendid stone breasts, the weather-worn stone smooth and cool under her fingers. Another loud clap of thunder and almost simultaneous lightning had Dea pressing closer for the shelter the Goddess offered. Dea stayed, breasts flattened against the Goddess’s granite torso, unwilling to step away and face the relentless storm.
She had no idea how long she clung to the Goddess. Dea’s hands began to tingle as if drawing power from the stone – rekindling life and passion not yet dead. Dea moved her hands. Her fingers itched. Her body throbbed with the cadence of the storm. She cupped her own breasts. Her nipples were hard with cold and her flesh was soaking with desire. Desire to feel the power once again. She closed her eyes, reached out her arms and stepped into the Goddess’s embrace.
Dea’s entire body shot with sweet darts of fire, meeting the cold and damp with an inner warmth that swelled like a spring tide. A small, far part of Dea’s mind insisted she was nuts, plastering her body to a standing stone in the middle of a parking lot in rural France. That part was soon silenced by the peace and warmth that flowed though every pore and pulsed with each heartbeat.
The rain stopped. The wind calmed. Dea looked up at the weather-worn face of La Déesse Terre and smiled. In the moonlight the Goddess smiled back.
Gathering her useless raincoat around her, Dea paddled back to the inn. She was minus both shoes now but scarcely noticed. The life force of the goddess afforded more warmth than a pair of sneakers. A wild heat flowed in Dea’s veins, her hands still tingled, her nipples throbbed hard under the damp flannel, and wetness ran between her legs. She looked back at the Goddess, half expecting the stone to turn and nod encouragingly. The Goddess never moved. She couldn’t. She’d handed over her power to Dea.
The door stood half open. The inn waited. Dea slipped inside and let her clothes drip for a few seconds. A row of small lamps and night lights lit a path up the wide staircase. She’d better sneak back up to her room and take her aroused body with her.