Balancing Act (10 page)

When she turned, Twigg was looking down at her, watching her through lowered lids. His mossy-green eyes answered all her unasked questions. There was no need to talk about the magic that happened between them.

Sighing, she nestled against his chest and he cradled her close to him, imparting his warmth and stroking her skin. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but he knew she was still skittish as a colt and so very, very vulnerable. There’s a place in my life for you, my love, my friend. Could you find a place for me?

 

 

Rachel arrived with the first snowfall of the year. Without Rita having to mention it or to ask, Twigg had removed all his personal belongings from her cottage: his razor, his toothbrush, items of clothing, and notebooks. With each possession he dropped into the paper sack, Rita had become more resentful of her youngest daughter’s intrusion.

Looking beautiful in her scarlet parka trimmed in white fur, Rachel was the perfect snow bunny, Rita thought, pushing away her selfish resentment.

Rachel lugged in two sets of skis and poles. “Mom, you wouldn’t believe how bad the roads are. If this keeps up through the night, we should have a good surface tomorrow. I came in the back way and they were preparing the ski lift. You have Twigg’s number, don’t you? I want to make sure he’s up for skiing.” Rita felt herself flinch but turned and made a pretense of reading the number from the small address book on her desk.

Rita went into the kitchen to make a hot toddy for Rachel. She didn’t need to hear the conversation between her daughter and her lover. Didn’t want to hear it.

“Thanks, Mummy. I’m going to drink this and hit the sack. Twigg said he was raring to go and would meet me at seven. Don’t worry about getting up to see me off. This is one date I won’t be late for.”

Rita lay in her empty bed aware of a deep loneliness. Twigg should be there with her, just within reach of her hand. She remembered how long it had taken her to become used to sleeping alone once Brett had left. At first, with Twigg, it had taken some doing to get used to sleeping with someone again. Now she was back at square one. Rolling over, she pounding the pillow. Get used to it now, she told herself. Once Christmas comes and goes, this is the way it’s going to be. Lonely.

She ached. She resented. She almost hated. Sleep was fitful and there was no sense in tossing and turning and bemoaning the loss of her lover because Rachel had arrived. Rachel was innocent, and why shouldn’t the girl expect to spend some time with her own mother? Rationalizing didn’t help. Better to get up for some hot tea and read until she felt drowsy.

Rita scanned her shelves for the new titles Ian had brought, looking for the new Patricia Matthews novel. By page two she was hoping to immerse herself in the story. She admired the author’s style and her remarkable ability to capture a character’s essence.

Rita turned the page, then realized she hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening. Rita’s mind, seething with frustration and jealousy was simply incapable of concentration. Her big plan, her wonderful surprise, was dashed. The two snowmobiles in the garage were meant to surprise Twigg. She had purchased them weeks ago with the intention of barreling up to Twigg’s cottage and inviting him for a ride. Her plan was to skim the snowy mountains for hours, letting the wind whip their cheeks and then come home for hot soup and fresh bread in front of the roaring fireplace. They would make love and lie in each other’s arms. They would talk about everything and nothing, have long, comfortable silences, and then make love again, until the fire died and they crept into bed to lie spoon fashion against one another.

Laying her book aside, Rita pulled the belt tighter about her now slim waist and walked into the cold garage. She stared down at the two shiny machines. All gassed and ready to go. The keys hung on a nail by the garage door, still shiny and unused. She hardly felt the cold as she walked over to peer down at the padded seat with its safety strap. It would have been a wonderful memory.

The snowmobiles would make a smashing present for Charles and Nancy Ames when they arrived after Thanksgiving. If anyone was going to have a wonderful memory, she was glad it was Charles.

Back in the warm living room, Rita shivered. She added another pine log to the fire and sat down on a mound of pillows. She sipped at her lukewarm tea. She couldn’t let Rachel’s visit throw her into a tizzy. She had to do something, get her act together, as her daughter put it. Wasn’t Rachel the one who always said “Go for it”? Did she really want to put up a fight for Twigg? She hated the term “fight for him.” If whatever they had between them wasn’t stable enough to withstand Rachel’s arrival, then she didn’t want any part of it.

Eventually, she dozed and woke early when Rachel tiptoed through the living room. “Sorry, Mom, I didn’t know if I should wake you or cover you with a blanket. You’re going to be stiff and sore from sleeping in that position. Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

“I haven’t been here all that long, an hour or so,” Rita lied. “Can I make you some coffee or something to eat?”

“I already plugged the pot in. I have to meet Twigg in fifteen minutes. How do you like this new ski suit? I just had it made. I wanted to impress the great Tahoe skier. I designed the material myself. What do you think?”

Rita eyed the sky-blue pattern and nodded. “It’s beautiful,” she said honestly.

Rachel gulped at the scalding coffee. She handed it to her mother. “You’ll see me when you see me. Have a nice day, Mom.” She was gone.

Rita sighed and headed for the bathroom. She was about to step into the shower when she heard squeals and laughter outside. She parted the curtains in the bathroom and looked out. Twigg was pummeling Rachel with snowballs, to her daughter’s delight. Rachel ducked and grabbed Twigg below the knees. Both bundled figures toppled into the snow. Laughing and shouting, they got up and trudged toward the ski lift.

The driving, needle sharp spray did nothing for Rita’s mood nor did the brisk toweling. The scented bath powder annoyed her as did the fragrant lotion she applied to her entire body. She dressed and made herself a huge breakfast, which she threw away. She was settling down with the Patricia Matthews book when the phone pealed to life.

“Rita? This is Connie Baker. My kids told me they thought they saw you in town the other day. If you aren’t doing anything, why don’t you come over for lunch and we can spend some time together. I can have Dick pick you up in the Land Rover. What do you say?”

“I’d love to come over. Don’t bother sending Dick. I can use the snowmobile. I can leave now if it isn’t too early.”

“Are you kidding. Yours is the first human voice I’ve heard except for these kids since I got here. If you have any good books, I’d appreciate a few.”

Should she leave a note or not? She sat down at the computer and typed out a brief note:

 

 

She signed the brief note and propped it up on the kitchen table between the salt and pepper shakers.

She liked Connie Baker with her down-home approach to life. She was a spunky farm girl from Iowa who, according to her, married a city slicker with more money than brains. She hadn’t seen Connie since the divorce, so there would be a lot of catching up to do. A lot of telling on Rita’s part. Maybe it was time for her to talk, to confide in someone, and who better than Connie?

Rita felt twelve years old as she skimmed over the hills and fields that led to the Baker property. She brought the whizzing snowmobile to a smooth stop in back of the sprawling ranch-style house and beeped the horn that sounded like a frog. She had forgotten how much fun it was to ride on a snowmobile. She wondered what Brett was going to do with the machine he took from the garage when he moved out the contents. Maybe add a sidecar for Melissa so they could ride down Fifth Avenue on a snowy Sunday morning. She giggled at the thought and then laughed out loud.

There were kisses, hugs, fond looks, and tight grips on each other’s shoulders as the two women stared at one another.

“Should we lie to each other now or later how neither of us has changed and we didn’t get older, just better?” Connie grinned.

“Why don’t we pass on that part and get down to serious talking.” Rita laughed. “Tell me, what are you doing with yourself?”

“You know that big ox I married, the one who had more money than brains? He decided life was passing him by and he wanted to taste some of that young stuff out there. We divorced last year, and I’m happy to say that I took everything. Now, I understand his ladylove has taken a job in a drugstore to help pay the rent.” Connie laughed, but it was a brittle sound and totally without mirth. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Rita, I’m doing the best I can to be as happy as I can. Ask the kids!”

Why should I ask anyone? Rita wondered why Connie thought she wouldn’t be believed.

“Hell, being forty-six going on forty-seven is like being born again. Second time around, that kind of thing. Enough of me, tell me about yourself.”

Rita sat down with a cup of coffee, propped her stockinged feet on a maple table, and proceeded to fill in her friend on her life during the past year. “I don’t know how to handle it, Connie. Rachel is my daughter. How do I deal with that?”

“Just like she was any other woman. She’s no kid, Rita. She knows exactly what she’s doing. So, you’re really caught up in this fella, are you? Tell me what this Twigg Peterson is like.”

“He’s terrific. Warm, sensitive, loving . . . all the good things I like in a man.” Connie heard her friend’s voice become soft and shy. Like a young girl’s, she thought. “You would like him, Connie. Everyone seems to like Twigg,” she said proudly. “I watch him with his friends, my friends. They respond to his sincerity and his concern. He treats people with respect. In some of those unconcerned and impersonal New York restaurants, I’ve seen waiters respond to his smile and courtesy. No small feat, I can tell you. There’s genuine caring between his friends and himself. I saw this one night when he had the Donaldsons stay overnight at his cottage. He has a knack for making everyone feel special. . . .” Rita broke off in midsentence, running her fingers through her shining chestnut hair. “I’m running on like a schoolgirl.”

“And you almost look like one,” Connie said, eyeing her friend’s slimmer waistline and pink, glowing skin. “God, if this guy of yours could bottle that magical rejuvenation he’s given you, he’d be a millionaire.”

“God, Connie, is that all you think about? Money?”

“It keeps a girl warm at night. Sure, what’s wrong with thinking about money?” She said it lazily, offhandedly, but she watched Rita closely. If for one moment this Peterson man was thinking he had found himself a meal ticket, Connie personally would go down to the lake and kill him. When all was said and done, when all the looks were gone, what else was there besides a woman’s children and financial security. She would never say this aloud to Rita. Being too much of a romantic, Rita never considered the practical side of life. How else had Brett managed to walk away with so much? Deciding she should steer the conversation along other lines, Connie asked, “Are you thinking of marriage?”

“It’s never come up. . . .”

“I didn’t ask if this Peterson proposed to you. I didn’t even ask if it was something the two of you talked about. I asked if you were thinking about it.”

“No . . . that is . . . I just don’t know. I only know I don’t want to be hurt again.”

“Do you expect to be hurt?”

Rita looked at her friend, a claw of anger nicking at the back of her brain. “What kind of question is that?” she demanded.

“Hey, don’t go getting your back up. I merely asked if you
expected
to be hurt.”

Rita jumped to her feet, pulling her sweater down over her hips. It was a habit acquired from the time when the bulge around the middle needed hiding. “Dammit, Connie! I’m hurting right now!”

“How does this Peterson guy feel about you?” Connie pressed, disregarding Rita’s obvious pain. If it was going to be painful, better it be here and now when there was someone to comfort her. Connie was too familiar with lonely, empty bedrooms where there was no one to hear the tears or hold back the loneliness.

Rita pulled a cigarette from Connie’s pack and lit it, her hands shaking perceptibly. “I don’t know how he feels,” she said abruptly, exhaling. “No, that’s not true. I
think
he loves me. He acts as though he loves me. Sometimes, when he makes love to me, he calls me his love. But what the hell does that mean, anyway? Men say all kinds of things when they’re making love.”

“I see. And, of course, you know this from your wide and varied experience, right?”

“Oh, shut up, Connie. No, don’t shut up. I need you to help me.” It was a cry, a plea, a dependency on an old friendship.

“Do you love him, Rita?”

“Yes, dammit. As much as I’ll allow myself.” It was the first time the question had been put to her and her own answer stunned her.

“But?” Connie asked quietly.

“But. Yes, there’s always a but, isn’t there? It’s the age difference. I saw Twigg and Rachel having a snowball fight this morning. They both looked so young, so carefree. So young. My God, Connie, he’s only a few years older than Camilla!”

“By my calculations, he’s nearly ten years older than Camilla. Quit being a martyr to your age, Rita. It snatches the hope away from the rest of us who’ve had their fortieth birthdays. And why do you consider the ten years between Twigg and Camilla so negligible and yet the ten years between Twigg and yourself seem so monumental? What’s so earth shattering about a little difference in age?” Connie demanded.

Rita plopped down again on the sofa beside her friend. “Okay, you’ve got something to say. Say it.”

“Look at Brett with his twenty-two-year-old wife and look at my ex with his younger-than-springtime girl. In a way, I do admire them. They went for it, as the saying goes. They didn’t let me or you or their kids stand in their way. My ex is living on the poverty level with his drugstore queen, but they’re happy, damn them. They’re happy. Jake came over to see the kids one day, and he confessed that his lover has made him feel like a man, that she didn’t care if he was rich or poor. That as long as they would be together they could live anywhere. And he bought it. This is coming from a guy who slept on silk sheets and drove a 450SL Mercedes, who didn’t bat an eye at spending a fortune for a vacation. It was hard at first, but I discovered I can live without him and with his money and enjoy it. I wouldn’t take him back for anything in the world. I like myself now, who I’ve become. There’s a whole world out there, Rita, a world we never knew about. I can see a difference in you too. You look like you’re a person instead of someone’s mother or someone’s wife. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking marriage or motherhood. I think marriage should be like a driver’s license, renewable every few years, before it gets to the point we were at a couple of years ago.”