A Matter of Trust: A Carlsbad Village Lesbian Romance

Thinking of Chloë now, as she undressed before getting in the shower, Morgan started undressing that much faster. She really wanted to get over to Chloë’s place. Last night, they hadn’t seen each other and now Morgan was surprised at how much she missed her. This past week had been a gloriously eye-opening and incredibly sexually fulfilling series of days and Morgan supposed that by now she could safely say that she loved having sex with a woman. Whether it was all women or just Chloë, she still didn’t know and, quite frankly, wasn’t all that interested in finding out. She wasn’t about to start a 30-day trial of lesbian sex with multiple partners. The only lesbian she was interested in was Chloë and that young woman’s almost supernatural ability to make Morgan climax so hard her eyes watered.

Of course, she had said nothing of this to her parents last night. She wasn’t ready for that step yet.

How would they react, she wondered? What would they think? Considering it now, Morgan paused in her undressing. She wanted to believe that her parents would not mind if she announced that she had found a Ms. Right instead of a Mr. Right. But how well does one really know their parents? Sure, they had managed to raise her and her siblings to be accepting of all people, regardless of differences in race, creed or sexual orientation. And as far as she knew, Morgan had never actually heard either of her parents make disparaging remarks against gay or queer individuals. But as an educator, as someone who often interacted closely with parents and their children, Morgan had learned that many people espouse to be fine with certain beliefs or lifestyles—until those beliefs or lifestyles enter their own homes and families.

And how would her sister, Jane, or her brother, Seth, react?

Morgan shook her head to shake away this avenue of musing. It was a rabbit hole and not worth losing precious time over. She’d cross the bridge of telling her family when—and if—the time ever came. Right now, she wanted to shower, put on the new lingerie she had just bought and get over to Chloë’s.

***

Chloë had texted her to say that she was leaving the side gate open so that Morgan could just drive into the backyard to reach the tiny house. Morgan felt odd doing so, as if she was being incredibly rude, driving past the large main house without stopping to greet the owners, Chloë’s parents. She really did feel compelled to stop her car, go to their front door and announce herself. But what would she say? Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Marchand. Just wanted to stop and say hi and that I’ll be in the back shtupping your daughter.

“Probably not a good idea,” Morgan muttered aloud, imagining that scenario.

As during her first time on this property, the night she went with Chloë to get the tattoo, Morgan marveled at the size of the Marchands backyard, it was enormous. So big that Morgan felt that the yard could be shared by three other houses. Her own backyard was tiny in comparison. In fact, it wouldn’t even fill the space between the Marchands main house and Chloë’s tiny house.

Parking next to Chloë’s Jetta, she got out of the car, wondering if Chloë’s parents were peeking through the blinds of their house, watching to see who was coming to spend the night with their daughter. But she took a deep breath, resolved to put all thoughts of Chloë’s parents out of her mind. After all, now that she was here, her body was already reacting, an anticipatory electricity making the hairs on her arms stand up. Even her nipples, now inside her brand-new blue babydoll bra that was under her dress, hardened. This was no time to be thinking of Chloë’s parents.

But then…

As soon as she rang the tiny house’s doorbell, she heard a man’s voice call out, “I’ll get it, honey.”

Oh shit!

The door opened and an incredibly tall man who Morgan recognized as Chloë’s father filled the doorframe. She remembered him clearly, not only because of his height, but because he was one of the few fathers who had actually showed up for parent-teacher conferences. For some reas

on, usually it was only the mothers who attended those things but Chloë always had both her parents with her.

“Hello,” Mr. Marchand greeted with a warm smile. He gestured for Morgan to come inside, forcing her to overcome her silly desire to flee back to her car and make a Fast and the Furious-style getaway.

“I’m Emile,” he said, holding out his fist for Morgan to bump.

“Morgan Banks.” She did the fist-bump, the Covid era’s answer for the handshake, and then noticed Chloë flitting down the steps from the loft. Chloë was wearing shorts and Morgan’s eyes automatically fixated on her lovely alabaster legs as they carried her down to the first floor. Then Morgan suddenly remembered that she was in the presence of Chloë’s father and thus probably shouldn’t be ogling his daughter so blatantly.

“Hey!” Chloë said, bounding over to Morgan. Before Morgan could stop her, Chloë had her arms wrapped around her waist and was giving her a quick peck hello right in front of her father!

“What’s wrong?” Chloë asked, a puzzled look on her face.

“Nothing!” Morgan said with what she hoped was a convincing smile.

Chloë shrugged and turned, keeping one of her arms around Morgan’s waist.

“Dad came over to install a garbage disposal, didn’t you, Dad?”

Emile nodded. Only then did Morgan notice that he had a wrench in one hand.

“Yeah,” Emile began with a sigh, “but I can’t seem to get the damn thing to work.” He looked at Morgan. “You don’t know anything about garbage disposals, do you?”

“Afraid not,” she said. “Only that they used to scare me to death when I was a small kid.”

“Aww, that’s so cute!” Chloë said, squeezing Morgan tighter and kissing her shoulder. Right. In. Front. Of. Her. Dad. “Well, don’t worry, I won’t let my mean garbage disposal get you.”

Morgan laughed nervously, wishing the floor would swallow her up.

Emile looked toward the kitchen.

“I wonder if that outlet under the sink really has power going to it. I’ll have to check that next.”