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Authors: Thomas Tessier
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beach towel, they set off. When they had walked a little more than a hundred yards, Neil stopped for a moment and glanced back. Now he could see the side of the house where his room was, though he wasn't sure exactly which window was his. So they had to be on the same ridge where he had seen the three men early that morning.
"Is something wrong?" Marisa asked.
"No, not at all. I just realized that the way we're going is in the view I have from the window in my room."
"Yes."
"I woke up early this morning. Just for a moment."
"You did?"
"I heard voices out here and I saw some men on this path."
"I should have warned you," Marisa said. "Those people make noise day and night. The old ones stay up late, drinking. Then the younger ones get up early to go about their work. They have no consideration. I'm very sorry, I hope they didn't disturb you."
"No, I fell right back to sleep."
"I'm glad."
"I thought I heard a gunshot."
"Yes, they hunt early in the morning," Marisa explained. "Sometimes they bring back a deer, or ducks and geese from the lake. They need the food. It's such a shame, you know."
"What is?"
"The land looks so beautiful-and it truly is. But it is so difficult to live on, almost impossible. All of the work that has to be done, it never ends, and it never seems like enough."
They walked for nearly an hour. It was easy going, as the path never rose or descended too sharply. They stopped a few times to enjoy the views and to kiss. Marisa told him how she and her brother had explored all of the countryside for miles around as children, and she got Neil to tell her a little bit about the book he was working on. It was another Italian chronicle from Stendhal, he admitted. Marisa thought that was wonderful, but Neil knew the critics would probably tear into him for repeating himself. Oh well. For one thing, he didn't have a better idea.
The sun was almost directly overhead when Marisa led him off the faint path and through a brief stretch of high brush and small trees. A few minutes later they came out into a mossy clearing at the base of a rocky wall, an area not much larger than a good-sized living room. A clump of spindly birch trees provided some shade. A narrow stream of water flowed down the rocks and disappeared into the thick brush at the perimeter.
"We're here," Marisa announced. She spread the beach towel on the grass beneath the birches.
"Perfect," Neil said. He set the picnic basket down and went to the stream. He had worked up a light sweat, so he splashed his face with water. It was very cold and it felt great. A perfect place for a picnic.
Marisa was kneeling on the towel, sitting back on her heels. She had already removed her canvas shoes and tossed them onto the grass. She was wearing a peasant-style blouse and a loose skirt that came to mid-calf, but which was now bunched up just over her knees. Neil sat beside her, resting his back against the trunk of one of the birches.
"There's a bottle of wine in the basket," she said. "Some fresh bread, mortadella and cheese."
"Mmm."
She leaned forward on her hands, and she was like a big beautiful cat pressing against him. Still on her hands and knees, she positioned herself over his lap, and smiled up at him.
"Or would you like to play with me first?"
"Mmmm ..."
Neil reached under, slipping his hand inside her blouse, caressing her breasts, teasing her nipples. His other hand moved beneath her skirt and up the back of her thigh-the sudden thrill of finding that she had no panties on, that her flesh was so hot and moist already. His finger moved into her easily and stroked and rubbed her. Marisa's eyes were closed, her mouth open, and she sighed and groaned with something more than pleasure, some longing and need so great that it seemed almost heartbreaking to Neil. Then she whipped her head back, hair flying, and her mouth tightened, her
beach towel, they set off. When they had walked a little more than a hundred yards, Neil stopped for a moment and glanced back. Now he could see the side of the house where his room was, though he wasn't sure exactly which window was his. So they had to be on the same ridge where he had seen the three men early that morning.
"Is something wrong?" Marisa asked.
"No, not at all. I just realized that the way we're going is in the view I have from the window in my room."
"Yes."
"I woke up early this morning. Just for a moment."
"You did?"
"I heard voices out here and I saw some men on this path."
"I should have warned you," Marisa said. "Those people make noise day and night. The old ones stay up late, drinking. Then the younger ones get up early to go about their work. They have no consideration. I'm very sorry, I hope they didn't disturb you."
"No, I fell right back to sleep."
"I'm glad."
"I thought I heard a gunshot."
"Yes, they hunt early in the morning," Marisa explained. "Sometimes they bring back a deer, or ducks and geese from the lake. They need the food. It's such a shame, you know."
"What is?"
"The land looks so beautiful-and it truly is. But it is so difficult to live on, almost impossible. All of the work that has to be done, it never ends, and it never seems like enough."
They walked for nearly an hour. It was easy going, as the path never rose or descended too sharply. They stopped a few times to enjoy the views and to kiss. Marisa told him how she and her brother had explored all of the countryside for miles around as children, and she got Neil to tell her a little bit about the book he was working on. It was another Italian chronicle from Stendhal, he admitted. Marisa thought that was wonderful, but Neil knew the critics would probably tear into him for repeating himself. Oh well. For one thing, he didn't have a better idea.
The sun was almost directly overhead when Marisa led him off the faint path and through a brief stretch of high brush and small trees. A few minutes later they came out into a mossy clearing at the base of a rocky wall, an area not much larger than a good-sized living room. A clump of spindly birch trees provided some shade. A narrow stream of water flowed down the rocks and disappeared into the thick brush at the perimeter.
"We're here," Marisa announced. She spread the beach towel on the grass beneath the birches.
"Perfect," Neil said. He set the picnic basket down and went to the stream. He had worked up a light sweat, so he splashed his face with water. It was very cold and it felt great. A perfect place for a picnic.
Marisa was kneeling on the towel, sitting back on her heels. She had already removed her canvas shoes and tossed them onto the grass. She was wearing a peasant-style blouse and a loose skirt that came to mid-calf, but which was now bunched up just over her knees. Neil sat beside her, resting his back against the trunk of one of the birches.
"There's a bottle of wine in the basket," she said. "Some fresh bread, mortadella and cheese."
"Mmm."
She leaned forward on her hands, and she was like a big beautiful cat pressing against him. Still on her hands and knees, she positioned herself over his lap, and smiled up at him.
"Or would you like to play with me first?"
"Mmmm ..."
Neil reached under, slipping his hand inside her blouse, caressing her breasts, teasing her nipples. His other hand moved beneath her skirt and up the back of her thigh-the sudden thrill of finding that she had no panties on, that her flesh was so hot and moist already. His finger moved into her easily and stroked and rubbed her. Marisa's eyes were closed, her mouth open, and she sighed and groaned with something more than pleasure, some longing and need so great that it seemed almost heartbreaking to Neil. Then she whipped her head back, hair flying, and her mouth tightened, her
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