Milk In The Time Of War

Excerpt:

France, October, 1943

There is nothing quite like the sound of the wind walking through the rooms of a drafty old country house. The floors creak, the walls shake and the windows protest the rattle.  It was all very comforting at night. Winter was fast approaching and Ivy and I would soon be even more isolated from the rest of the world so far out in the French countryside.  The war had reduced our world to this old house and our little garden, which would soon be covered in snow.

Still, the kitchen was warm, thanks to the large fireplace and the stove. The room was fragrant with the smells of the hearty stew which was almost ready. I stirred the big pot one last time and closed my eyes as the steam rose to warm my cheeks.

“How much longer?” Ivy asked from the big couch.

I turned to her and smiled. “Patience my dear.”

“Our child has taken everything out of me and I need to be fed,” she replied.

I watched as she pulled her big fat nipple out of the baby’s mouth. My pussy twitched for her. I willed my body to be patient; soon, it would be my turn. Ivy got up and took our precious little Amelia into our bedroom.

I turned back to the pot. I liked how she referred to Amelia as ours. I supposed the little one was since Ivy’s husband had never returned from the war. John was supposed to have returned over a year ago for the birth of his child but he never did. We never talked about what we feared most. As Ivy’s best friend, I’d moved in to help her. There was no reason for both of us to be alone in big old houses. My husband was long gone too from a car accident.

As the months grew colder, we’d reduced our living space to the kitchen, bath, one bedroom, and the large pantry off of the kitchen. I’d pickled, bottled, and preserved our food as electricity was unreliable even on a good day. We were all set as best we could be with an ongoing war.

“Stop brooding and feed us,” Ivy ordered.

I hadn’t heard her come back into the room. I extinguished the flame under the pot and dished up two bowls of steaming stew. I added a hunk of bread to each and then made my way to the couch. Ivy sat down and took a bowl from me.

“Thank you, darling.” She dug into the soup and then moaned. “My god, this is so good!”

I smiled proudly and then lifted the heavy blankets and sat next to her. We sat at opposite ends of the couch, eating and talking. We were cocooned in our own world, and sometimes, it was hard to remember that most of Europe was embroiled in war and that our lives would never be the same again.

After she’d scraped her bowl clean, I reached for it and placed it with mine on the floor.

“I’m too lazy to move.”

Ivy sighed. “That was so good Grace. I’m as contented as a well-fed cat.” She patted her stomach. She was still a little pudgy from Amelia but I thought it made her even sexier. Ivy and I had been friends ever since I’d moved from New York to France ten years earlier. I’d bought an old country house with an inheritance from my grandparents and had turned it into a quaint bed and breakfast for Americans wanting an escape from their lives. I’d had two great years with David and then he was gone. Rather than lose my mind, I’d cooked and entertained and occasionally went to bed with my guests. It had been a good life, and then the war had come. The guests and parties were gone now, I’d moved in with Ivy because we felt safer together and she needed help with the baby. All those years we were just friends. But war and loneliness had created very strong feelings for both of us.