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The first morning after the first night Grace and Frankie spent together in the beach house, after the second divorce, not the first, Grace woke in a bed that belonged to her but felt like so much more. With messy sheets, a slight hangover, and an aching between her legs reminding her of the blissful, yet blurry night before Grace sat up in bed with a sheet clinging to the lower half of her body, pooling around her hips and exposing her breasts to the early morning sunlight. The slight breeze came blowing through the open window and she felt her nipples tighten against the chill morning air. She missed the warmth from the body that had clung to hers only hours before, she turned her head to the empty space. She let her fingers graze over the silk sheets, until her hand met a dozen white roses that sat on the pillow Frankie had just occupied, strands of salt and pepper hair still clung to the fabric, clung to the thorns.
With trembling fingers, Grace picked up the note folded beside the flowers. As she opened it, she sent a quick prayer up to a god she hadn’t been on the best terms with, a prayer that she hasn’t lost her best friend and her lover all in one night, the first night, the best night. “Truth and beauty shall together thrive, —F”
A fast breath of relief stumbled out of her mouth, as her fingers traced over the messy words scribbled on the piece of thick printing paper.
The letters, in Frankie’s loopy scrawl, was imperfectly perfect. Grace had spent hours trying to decipher the younger woman’s short hand on work notes, grocery lists. But, this, this looked as magnificent as one of Frankie’s paintings. This, Frankie had put her time into. This, Frankie wanted to make sure Grace was able to read, able to feel.
Grace placed the note in her bedside drawer, she let her fingers trace over the words one more time, then she wrapped the sheet tighter around her frail body as she stood up and began her descent down stairs to find Frankie.
The next week, after a night of laughter, Ray Donavan reruns she’d seen at least three times before but Frankie couldn’t remember, and a make out session that would have made young Grace blush, she woke to daisies. “If love could save us, we’d live forever. —F”
The words hit Grace hard, reminding her that no matter how young Frankie made her feel, this was it. This was all they had. A faint smile lingered on Graces lips, for once in her long life, she was content with what she had, because with Frankie she had it all.
Some days later, in the late evening Grace wakes from a nap to the sound of the shower running. Her sleepy eyes try their hardest to focus on the alarm clock next to the bed, after closing one eye and tilting her head to the right, she’s finally able to make out 9:15PM. Longer than any nap she ever takes, but she can’t bring herself to throw the duvet off of her. When she rolls over onto her other side, the indent of Frankie’s body clings to the memory foam mattress and her body heat still lingers but in her place lay Peonies.
Grace feels tears beginning to well in her eyes even though she has yet to read the note, “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, —F”
With achy feet, Grace crosses the hardwood floor and knocks on the bathroom door, where she hears the constant pound of water hitting the tub. A pang of arousal courses through her body, jolting her core. It doesn’t matter that just three hours ago Frankie had turned her into a puddle of nothingness, doesn’t matter that Frankie pushed Grace over the edge more than once. She wanted more, she needed more. “Can I join you?” She hears herself ask, but the voice is unfamiliar to her. She sounds hoarse, her voice deep, pouring out of her lungs.
“You never have to ask, Grace,” Frankie responds poking her head out of the shower curtain, dripping about a gallon of water from her hair onto the floor. Grace smiles at her, and lets her robe float to the ground.
“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, also Frankie,” Grace whispers as she steps under the hot spray.
The next morning when Grace wakes, its still dark outside and Frankie is in her studio. Must have been struck with inspiration, she thinks. Grace can see the light glowing from her bedroom window. Frankie left the lamp on her side of the bed on, again. Grace feels her eyes roll before she’s even registered that she’s annoyed. She hears her phone chime next to her bed but her eyes are immediately drawn to a bundle of bright carnations that lie on the white pillow case, tied together with twine, accompanied by a note. She picks up the flowers with steady hands and brings it to her nose, she inhales the sweet scent.
Grace unfolds the paper and traces her eyes over Frankie’s loopy scrawl: “Every time I wake, you’re lying in some magnificent position. And every time I take a picture, filled with an overwhelming desire to never forget how much I love the way you dream. —F”
Grace gasps as she realizes she is the reason Frankie was torn from her slumber, the reason for her being in her studio, she is Frankie’s inspiration, her muse. Grace didn’t deserve this, this life, with this woman, with these flowers, and these notes, in this house. No, she decided as a single tear slipped down her cheek, she deserved much less. Her phone chimes again, she picks it up. A series of texts from Frankie await her, she reads them one by one.
I love u
I hope ur sleeping well
U look like an angel
I kno cuz I took a picture, that I’m now painting
When u wake up come join me, I miss u
Grace sets her phone down and pulls the covers off her body. The hard wood is cold against her feet as she makes her way out of her room, down the stairs, through the house, but she couldn’t find her slippers. Fuck the slippers, she thinks as she latches the sliding door behind her.
A particularly sticky morning in July, Grace wakes to open windows, sea breeze and naked skin covered in a crisp, white sheet. Hints of the night before still bombard the room when she looks around: Frankie’s yam lube sitting on her night stand, clothes discarded on the floor, the taste of Frankie lingering on her tongue. The sudden dart of arousal between her thighs serve the sole purpose of reminding her she’s still alive. Still the most alive she’s ever been.
The flowers awaiting her this morning: Gerbera Daisies. The note: “The most beautiful canvas I’ll ever paint, is the one between your thighs with my tongue as my paint brush, —F”
The pang of arousal landed again, between her thighs, stronger this time. A moan fell from Graces plump lips as her hand traveled to her already naked thigh, quickly. She dropped the note back on Frankie’s side of the bed and threw the sheet on the floor to join the discarded clothes from the night before. The warm ocean breeze hit her skin while her fingers landed where she needed them most. Grace closed her eyes as she called downstairs for her lover to join her.
Grace looks forward to the flowers, no two ever the same. The notes, she looks forward to reading things Frankie feels are too vulnerable to speak out loud. She looks forward to the days when she wakes with Frankie still asleep next to her, when Frankie is lightly snoring and being the little spoon. Grace enjoys the feel of her leg wedged between Frankies, her naked core radiating heat onto Graces thigh. She loves the feel of Frankie’s breathing. Frankie’s hair tickling her face. Even the days she wakes with neither flowers, or a note, nor Frankie, she looks forward to that, too. Those far and few between times when she wakes to nothing, are special. Those times, she takes out the box from her bedside table and reads the notes, not that she needs to, she has them all stored in her brain, she traces her fingers over the scrawl.
About a month later, a Tuesday no different from the next, Grace jolts awake from a nap to the smell of home, the smell of her childhood. Wild poppies. Mixed with her adulthood. Salt water, ocean breeze, expensive linens, weed, yam lube, and the faintest hints of her favorite vodka. She had really cut back these days, she no longer had reasons to forget, reasons to make things blurry. Frankie did that for Grace, in new ways. Ways she didn’t know she needed. Ways that made her realize she didn’t need to always be drunk. She just needed to feel, and holy fuck, did Frankie make her feel. Grace pulls the sheet tighter around her as her lips curl into a smile. Her back is to Frankie, but she can feel her, can feel Frankie’s bare skin against hers, feels the heat between them. She’s about to turn over when something catches her eye. On her nightstand sits a vase of wild poppies and a note propped up beside it. This note is unlike the rest, this one is folded. She picks it up, feels its weight in her hand.
Frankie’s arm snakes around Graces waist, the extra contact making her shiver and press further into the woman behind her. She unfolds the note as Frankie’s hand traces small light circles from where her hand rested on Graces waist down to her core. Grace’s plump lower lip sinks between her teeth as she suppresses a moan. Her shaky fingers unfold the paper she’s been holding.
Frankie is moving now, distracting Grace from the words on the paper. Frankie’s hand remains in the same place, between her legs. She watches Frankie hover above her before throwing the sheet to the ground, exposing them both. Frankie settles between Graces thighs, looks up at her.
Grace breaks her eye contact only to read the note. As her eyes rake over the one, short sentence, Frankie’s mouth connects to her core, drawing a low moan out of her. When Grace comes, the words from the note flash in her mind:
“I’ll find us bliss, I’m convinced it’s over the edge. —F”