Balancing Act (11 page)

“Have you really become so jaded? What about commitment to one another? What about love?”

“What about it? Commitment, I mean. If having a commitment means suffering, I don’t need it and neither do you.” Rita felt herself come under Connie’s frank stare. “Wasn’t that essentially what you were saying before? That you expect to be hurt?”

“No . . . yes . . . Christ, I don’t know! I only know how I feel when I’m with him. How I feel when I’m in his arms.”

Connie reached over to pat Rita’s hand. “Then enjoy it, friend. Enjoy every minute of it and quit trying to play the odds. Be truthful and honest with yourself and him. Don’t pretend to be something you’re not. If you win, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve done it on the fair and square. If you lose, you’ll have nothing to regret, wondering if you should have done this or said that. Games are for children, Rita, and they play by childish rules.”

They sat for hours talking about their lives, their dreams and expectations. They discussed mutual friends, Rita’s career, their grandchildren, and Connie’s man-friend who had a lot of brains and absolutely no money. “He’s a tree surgeon.” She laughed delightedly. “And I want to tell you he’s one hell of a hunk in bed. I get orgasmic just thinking about him. He actually listens to me when I talk. He respects my opinions and he thinks I’m as poor as he is. He thinks this place is my uncle’s and the big house in Scarsdale belongs to my parents. I know my money would scare him off. He’s a fine man, Rita, and I love him. You want to hear something crazy, something really off the wall?” Rita nodded. “I’m toying with giving my ex his money back and getting myself an apartment someplace and starting all over. The kids are all in college now or married. They’re leading their own lives so I should be leading mine. I have a good job with the same advertising agency, and there’s talk of making me a partner. With a lot of hard work I can make it. Joe thinks I can, anyway. If you know anyone who needs trees cut, let me know. He’s fully insured so there’s no problem.”

Rita stared at Connie and then doubled over laughing. She laughed till the tears flowed. Connie joined in and then they were both rolling on the floor, laughing and crying hysterically.

“And those smart-ass kids of ours think we don’t know where we’re coming from,” Connie gasped, wiping at her eyes.

“Or where we’re going,” Rita said through peals of laughter. “What time is it? I should be getting back.”

“Why?”

Rita laughed again. “Beats me. It seemed like the thing to say. We’ve covered about all of it.”

“How about a hot buttered rum before you start out? You’ll freeze your tushy off if you go out there without being fortified.”

“You got it. Don’t spare the rum.”

Rita looked at her watch. Her eyes widened in shock. It was three ten. Where had the time gone? Who cared; she’d had the time of her life and didn’t regret one minute of the time she’d spent with her old friend.

It was two minutes after four on her digital watch when she drove the snowmobile into the garage. She was climbing out of the seat when the door opened. Twigg stood outlined in the doorway, Rachel beside him.

“Mom, where in the hell have you been?”

“Didn’t you get my note?”

“Of course I got your note, but you didn’t say where you were going!” Rachel said accusingly.

“You keep reminding me of my age, Rachel, and at my age I don’t think I have to check in or out with you unless you want to show me the same courtesy.”

Twigg and Rachel stood aside, but not before Rita saw the look of relief in his eyes. He cared.

“You smell like a distillery,” Rachel snapped.

“Really. I suppose hot buttered rum will do that,” Rita said by way of explanation.

“Where did you get those snowmobiles? I thought Dad took ours.”

“I bought them. They belong to me. Any other questions, Rachel?”

“I was worried about you. I didn’t even know we had snowmobiles.”

Twigg’s voice was soft, concerned, but not accusing. “Glad you got back in one piece. This child here wouldn’t let me leave till you got back. I tried to tell her you were okay, but she wasn’t buying.”

Rita’s eyes thanked him. She wondered if he had kissed Rachel. Or if Rachel had kissed him. It wasn’t important. “Thanks for staying with Rachel.”

“Any time. I’ve never been on a snowmobile. Would you mind taking me for a spin tomorrow and showing me the ropes?”

“Love to. What time?” Rita called over her shoulder as she made her way to the bathroom.

“Noonish, if that’s okay with you. I have a little research I want to do in the morning.”

“Sounds good to me,” Rita called back as she closed the bathroom door.

Rachel’s voice carried clearly and distinctly. “Hey, what about me?” she wanted to know.

“No sidecars. Guess you’ll have to ski. Rita doesn’t ski,” Twigg said casually.

The silence was thunderous with the closing of the door. Rita switched the bathroom fan on and stripped down. The hot, steamy shower left her squeaky clean. She felt satisfied, even smug. She had really carried it off!

A
state of undeclared cold war existed in the Bellamy cottage over the next few days. Rachel was in turns sullen and then ecstatic when Twigg spent time with her. Her eyes would fall sharply on her mother when she went out with Twigg to the ski slopes or the resort lodge for a few drinks and dancing. There was a gleam of triumph in Rachel’s eyes when Twigg would ask Rita to come with them and she would automatically refuse. “Isn’t he polite?” Rachel said on more than one occasion, and Twigg’s eyes would fall on Rita with dark questions in their depths.

At these times of Rachel’s brutal tactlessness, Twigg would watch Rita’s face pale and see a shard of pain pierce her eyes. He would feel the impulse to take her in his arms, to kiss away the hurt. He could easily find excuses not to spend time alone with Rachel, but was that really Rita’s answer? He didn’t believe it was. Rita had to learn to trust him and to believe in herself as an attractive, desirable woman. If she saw younger women as her competition, she must learn to deal with it even if one of those young women was her daughter. To ignore Rachel or to pretend to dislike or be bored by her would be a lie and unfair. He could only hope that the next time he invited Rita to join them she would accept his invitation.

Rita’s pain was sharp and acute and there was nothing to do for it. She took to insulating herself by cooking and cleaning and going to town with the laundry. Rachel knows, Rita guessed intuitively. She knows I’ve been sleeping with Twigg and she knows I care for him. And yet, it doesn’t deter her from flirting with him, almost seducing him right under my nose. Don’t do this to me, Rachel, she thought. Don’t force me to a choice, because right now, I don’t think I like you very much. Your “go for it” attitude should not include “going” for Twigg. Especially if you suspect he’s become my lover and is very special to me.

The fault was not Twigg’s. Rachel usually got what she went after. The captaincy of the cheerleaders, the big man on campus, the right job, the right friends. Once Rachel set her sights, there was no stopping her. How could Twigg be blamed? Rachel was young, vital, and exciting. And so very, very determined.

On Thanksgiving Day Rita was peeling carrots for dinner by the kitchen sink when she lifted her head and looked out the window. At the end of the property was a small gully. When the children were little they used to ride their sleds down the hill and then squeal with delight when they toppled into the gully. Rachel, cherry-red parka brilliant against the snow, was sledding down the hill, knowing full well she would topple over. Twigg was still on top of the hill, head thrown back, laughing.

As predicted, Rachel toppled, Twigg fast behind her. It was inevitable that he would lift her to her feet and that his lips would find hers. Or was it Rachel who leaned into Twigg’s embrace? She stared a moment longer, her eyes misted, and she quickly moved away from the window. She didn’t see Twigg push Rachel away, nor did she see him lift his eyes in the direction of the kitchen window. She wasn’t sure what she felt, was uncertain as to what she should do. When in doubt, do nothing, she told herself. That’s nothing, as in zero. Zilch.

“Why did you do that?” Twigg asked Rachel, anger ripping his voice.

“Do what?” Rachel feigned innocence.

“You know. Why did you kiss me like that? I like to decide who and when I’m going to kiss someone.”

“For God’s sake. You almost sound like my mother,” Rachel pouted.

“Your mother happens to be a wonderful woman and a beautiful person and I value her friendship. In short, Rachel, I happen to like your mother, a lot more than I like you!”

Rachel was shocked; no one had ever said they preferred someone else to her. Much less her own mother! Not even her father, who adored his youngest daughter. “Have you been sleeping with my mother?” Rachel demanded. “You have, haven’t you! I thought so! It’s written all over her. Dear old Mummy. I can’t believe it! God, you aren’t much older than I am. What would you want with her?”

Twigg seized Rachel’s arm, shaking her furiously, his face set and murderous. “Don’t you talk about her that way. Why don’t you open your eyes and see her for the lovely woman she is rather than just seeing her as your mother? She’s been a friend to you, Rachel, and you’ve betrayed her, and I hope to God she never knows. What your mother and I mean to one another is no concern of yours. Is that clear?”

“Very clear,” Rachel hissed, the fury of rejection beating wild within her. Was it true what he said? That her mother was lovely and wonderful? How could it be? Rita was already in her forties! She was old!
She was her mother!

“Why can’t you see her for the person she is, Rachel? Oh, I know you think you’re a grown woman, but you are also a selfish child. Perhaps you are woman enough to give of yourself to someone you love deeply. But all of us remain children, selfish children, where our parents are concerned, making demands for complete love and total attention, forgetting that our parents are people first and parents second. Think about it, Rachel.”

Rachel was humiliated. She didn’t need this man to tell her how to feel about her parents, much less how to feel about her own mother! “Very well, O lord and master, I will think about it!” she snapped, bowing from the waist in mock respect. “But before I do, tell me. Has my mother been properly grateful for the attentions of a young stud like you?”

At the rage suffusing his face, Rachel stepped backward. She hung her head in shame for her coarse remark. She liked Twigg and she loved her mother. It was only that she had never been rejected this way before, especially not in favor of her mother. Mothers were supposed to be self-sacrificing and interested only in their children’s happiness. They weren’t supposed to reach out and take that happiness for themselves.

“What you need, Rachel,” Twigg was saying, looming over her, “is a good swift kick in the ass. A pity someone hasn’t done it before now.”

“C’mon,” Rachel cajoled, “we were having such fun. Why spoil it? So okay, I’m sorry I got you in a clinch. I’ll even tell old Mummy it was me who trapped you. She saw us, you know. She was standing by the kitchen sink. Probably spying.”

“She wasn’t spying. Rita would never lower herself. That’s something you would do, isn’t it, Rachel?” His tone revealed his total disgust.

“If it was important to me, yes, I would!”

“What about trust and faith?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. The man hasn’t been born a woman can trust and believe. Look what my father did to her. Even my own father! And you call me a child, Twigg Peterson. You have some growing up to do yourself.”

Twigg clenched his fists. He wanted to push her down into the snow and rub her face in it till she screamed for mercy. “If men are like that, Rachel, it’s because of women like you. One more thing, if you so much as say one word about this incident to Rita, I swear you’ll have to deal with me. Make certain you understand; Rachel. I mean it. I won’t have Rita hurt.”

Rachel stared into his challenging green eyes. What she saw frightened her. “Okay, staunch defender of middle-aged women. Now that you’ve spoiled the day, I think I’ll go back to the house and read a book. A good book! None of that unrealistic crap my mother writes.”

“Why are your mother’s books so unrealistic, Rachel? Because she writes about relationships? Real people and their emotions and their love? Yes, I can see where that would seem unreal to you.”

Twigg flopped down onto the Magic Flyer and wrapped his arms around his snow-covered knees. He stared at the kitchen window for a long time, willing Rita to materialize. He felt there was a large hole in his stomach that was gradually sucking up his chest. Whatever he felt for Rita Bellamy was stronger than any emotion he had ever felt for another woman. She was warmth. She was comfort. She was intelligent and loving; she was Rita Bellamy. His love. A part of himself that could not be denied. They had searched for, found, and touched each other. Was that love? He grinned. Yes, he was in love, did love. This special, fragile woman whom he yearned to protect and yet realized he admired. He wanted her to fulfill herself as a woman, as a person. He wanted her to remain in charge of her own life; he only wanted to share it with her. There was no way around it. He wanted to love her.

It was a small word, according to Rita. It didn’t take much space on a page, yet it was awesome. It was a word capable of changing two lives, shaping the destiny of both.

Twigg dusted off his pants and then picked up the sled. He tramped up the hill toward the Bellamy cottage. He wasn’t sorry for the way he had spoken to Rachel. It was time someone set her straight. He leaned the sled against the side of the garage. He opened the kitchen door and shouted. “I’ll see you later, Rita.”

“Okay,” she called back from somewhere deep in the cottage. A sigh of relief escaped him. She sounded fine. Trust and faith. She trusted him, believed in him regardless of what she had seen through the window. That was what it was all about.

 

 

While the turkey basted itself, Rita curled herself into the deep love seat by the fire and started to read. She was surprised, after an hour or so, that she was really comprehending what she was reading. She wasn’t engulfed in the scene she had witnessed.

Rachel walked into the room carrying two cups of coffee. “When are we eating? I’m starved!” she complained.

“Then eat something. We’re not going to eat till around seven. That’s the time I told Twigg to come over.”

“Why did you invite him anyway?” Rachel snapped.

“I invited him because I wanted to invite him. The two of us certainly cannot eat a thirteen-pound turkey. Thanksgiving is for sharing or have you forgotten?”

“It depends on what you’re sharing.” Rachel snapped.

“Is that supposed to mean something in particular?” Rita asked evenly.

“It means whatever you want it to mean,” Rachel almost snarled.

Rita felt the most uncontrollable urge to slap her daughter and send her to her room. “Rachel, don’t talk in riddles. If you have something to say, I suggest you say it and get it over with,” Rita said levelly, her gaze keen and direct.

Rachel dropped her eyes. “For two cents, I’d leave and go back to the city, but the road to the highway is closed.”

Rita made a mental note to call Connie and ask her to have her son plow her out to the main road. Nothing must keep her from Charles’s game the next day.

“Why don’t you take a nap till dinner is ready. I’ll call you so you can mash the turnips.”

“Call me after they’re mashed. Let your friend Twigg do it, after all he’s freeloading, isn’t he?”

“No, he isn’t freeloading. I invited him. However, if you want to get into technicalities, I don’t recall inviting you. You called and announced that you were coming. Either keep a civil tongue in your mouth or don’t speak. I mean it, Rachel. I’ve had enough of your sly innuendos. If you want to say something, now is the time to say it. If not, stay off my space.”

Rachel stared at her mother, stunned at her words. She turned and fled as though a dog was snapping at her heels.

Exhausted, Rita fell back onto the couch. Damn, she hated confrontations. Especially with Rachel.

Twigg arrived early, eager to help with the last-minute preparations for dinner. He worked beside her in the small kitchen, sipping his wine and making small talk. Lord, how she enjoyed being with this man. She glanced up, seeing the window through which she had seen Rachel and Twigg kissing. It was dark now, mirroring Twigg and herself working happily side by side. Strange how the same window could look out to a hurt and look inward to a pleasure. Twigg followed Rita’s gaze, meeting hers in the dark glass. As if knowing what she was thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips against her hair. “They look happy, don’t they, that couple in the window. How lucky we are to be inside looking out.”

She leaned back against him, feeling his warmth and recognizing the sweet, fruity aroma of the wine on his breath. Is that what we are, she asked herself, a couple? Is that how he thinks of himself and me? She looked again, seeing them reflected there. He was tall, leaning over her, holding her. She fit into the circle of his arms so naturally, so willingly.

“It’s Thanksgiving, love,” he murmured against the side of her neck, “and we have many blessings to be grateful for.” His embrace held her fast and his lips found hers.

Yes, she thought, sighing, leaning against him, catching sight of the window again, there are many blessings, and the most precious one is you.

Dinner was delicious and enjoyable. Rita and Twigg talked animatedly, their eyes meeting and lingering. Rachel picked at her food, her mind otherwise occupied. From time to time Rita looked at her daughter and forced her into polite conversation.

Whatever had happened between Twigg and Rachel out there in the backyard, Twigg seemed to have handled it. Rachel was subdued and thoughtful but not hostile. At least not hostile or angry toward Twigg, Rita thought disdainfully. I’m another matter entirely. Somehow, I’ve disappointed her and I’m not certain how. She wondered, not for the first time, does Rachel guess that Twigg and I are lovers? Is that the source of the disappointment? That my morals are somehow lacking, unworthy of a mother? How easily these young people decide what’s right for them and at the same time deplore and condemn the same values in their parents. It doesn’t matter. Not really. Rachel, being Rachel, will soon come to terms with it. While the girl has never displayed prolonged loyalty or interest in any one person or thing, she also doesn’t harbor ill feelings and anger. Whatever, it’s Rachel’s problem and she’ll have to deal with it.

The conversation drifted around to the football game the following afternoon. “Why don’t you go with Mother?” Rachel asked Twigg snidely. “I’m certain she’d love taking you with her and introducing you to all the family.”