Balancing Act (20 page)

Dory’s ears perked up. “He’s the young good-looking one from somewhere in New England, isn’t he? A bachelor and the youngest man in the Senate, right?”

“That’s the one,” Ollie said, packing up his stained wrap-around apron in a plastic bag for his wife to wash. “Three days a week, huh?”

“Yep. Why, a person could just stop by, say around one-ish and you’ll find him leaning against the trolley eating three dogs. Always has two root beers. Never touches the French fries. Says the grease gives him zits. He’s always gettin’ his picture took and he don’t want no . . . blemishes marking up that good-lookin’ face of his. You new around here?” he asked, shoving his money bag into his plastic carryall.

“Just moved in today. I live over in the town houses on Jeff Davis Parkway. My name’s Dory Faraday,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Nick Papopolous, a.k.a. Ollie,” Nick said, offering her a hand and arm as large as a railroad tie. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car. Lots of loonies around here.” To prove his point, he withdrew a heavy-looking black gun and shoved it into his belt. He didn’t bother to pull his shirt down over the weapon, preferring to let it show. “I got a permit for this,” he said, pulling the door closed behind him.

Dory watched in awe as he tossed his plastic bag full of money and his dirty apron into the back of a Mercedes 380SL. The hot dog business must be good, Dory thought as she guided the SUV out of the parking lot. Drake Collins, the newest, the youngest, the sexiest senator on Capitol Hill.
Soiree
would love him. Unattached, brilliant, going far, eye on the governor’s chair. What more could a girl want, especially an unemployed girl. Woman. Career person.
Soiree
reader.
Soiree
was aimed at the successful woman and was rated second only to
Time.
Collins was perfect for her first
Soiree
profile. She would definitely make it her business to lunch at Ollie’s Trolley every chance she got. But first things first. She had to finish the house and start school.

For some reason she felt annoyed and out of sorts when she got back to the house. The boxes of books made her frown. She had to find a place for them until she could have some shelves installed. One more day to herself before she hit the classroom. Even though she was late, she would catch up. She would have to!

Dory made up the bed, showered and washed her hair. Wrapped in a cheerful lemon-colored robe, she gazed down at the bold geometries of slate grays and umber browns on the crisp sheets and pillowcases. Griff loved this particular set of sheets, saying they made him want to do wild, impetuous things to her. She was propping the pillows up so she could read when the phone suddenly rang. It had to be Griff saying good night. She smiled as she picked up the phone. Her voice was a low, sensuous purr. “I miss you, darling,” she said, leaning back into her nest of pillows.

“You’d be in big trouble if it wasn’t me on the phone,” Griff laughed.

“Who else would be calling me after dark? I really don’t want to complain but this bed is so big and I’m not taking up much room. I wish you were here.”

“I do too, honey. But I’ve got my work carved out for me here. This was a golden opportunity that was too good to refuse. It just came at a bad time. I’m sorry. There’s eleven thoroughbred horses in the senator’s stables, and this afternoon I began inducing labor in one of his prize mares. By noon tomorrow she should drop a fine colt.”

Dory bristled. Normally, she loved to hear Griff talk about his work. She loved animals too, but this . . . this was too much. She had just propositioned him over the phone, and he was telling her about a prize mare and eleven thoroughbreds. Even as she thought it, Dory felt ashamed. Just because her needs weren’t being met was no reason to get her back up. Griff had needs too.

“Dory?” his voice questioned. “Are you there?”

“I’m here, Griff.”

“You’re not angry, are you? Tell me you understand, Dory.”

“I do, Griff. It’s just that this would have been our first night together in our own house. I thought you would carry me over the threshhold and we could have some wine. You’d light the fireplace in the bedroom and we’d make long, lazy love. But it’s all right. I understand.”

Griff’s groan was clearly audible. Dory felt smug. At least now he knew what he was missing. “We’ll do that tomorrow night and that’s a promise. Now that you’ve churned me all up, I’m going to have to take a cold shower. By the way, did Sylvia give you a hand today? She offered to help.”

Dory thought of Sylvia and then of Duke and the smitten looks on both their faces. “Yes, Sylvia helped,” Dory said grudgingly. Helped herself is what she did, the nasty thought concluded.

“She’s something. I think she’s one of those people you can always count on in a pinch,” Griff was saying. “Look how she hunted apartments for us.”

“Hmmmm. I suppose.” And look what the wonderful Sylvia came up with, Dory grimaced, thinking of that last especially unattractive apartment house complete with Sylvia’s own brand of grime.

“Remember now, we have a date for tomorrow night. I’ll give you a call sometime during the day if I get a chance. I love you, Dory.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to give her usual response of “I love you, darling” but she didn’t. Instead she said, “Me too.”

Dory lay for a long time staring at the ominous jacket of Dean Koontz’s latest book. Tomorrow wouldn’t be the same. Tomorrow was tomorrow and this was now. Today. The
first
night. How could tomorrow possibly be the same? She felt cheated. Angry and cheated. And she didn’t like it.

She opened the book with a dramatic flourish. And just what did one do for a horse in labor that took the entire night? Priorities. Order of preference. She came after a horse. And induced labor? The thought just struck her. If Griff had had to induce the labor, couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow? He was setting the timetable, not Mother Nature!

Her eyes snapped and chewed at the words written by Koontz, not comprehending, not caring. Angrily, Dory leapt from the bed, the new book skidding to the floor. She ripped the geometric sheets from the bed and carried them to a white wicker hamper in the dressing room. She replaced them with a frilly set of lacy ruffled sheets and pulled them up haphazardly. These sheets were designed with a single woman in mind. Extravagantly feminine, too lush, too Victorian to make a man feel comfortable.

Sitting alone on her girlish bed didn’t make her feel a hell of a lot better. Griff could have talked to her longer. He could have said more. Been more romantic. Groans didn’t count. He could have asked her how her day went, how she had made the trip down from New York. How the house was coming. He could even have asked about his SUV! For all he knew, she could have had an accident. Sylvia. Horses. He was only allowing himself a precious few minutes to talk to the woman he said he loved, and yet he talked about a horse she didn’t even know and a woman she wasn’t certain she even liked.

She wouldn’t cry. What was the point? To feel better? Would tears really make the hurt go away? Too bad she didn’t have a Band-Aid big enough to ease the pain she was feeling. Was she expecting too much? Would she be feeling the same way if they were married and this happened? Griff had priorities, but so did she, damn it. If she could put him first, why couldn’t he put her first?

What really hurt was the fact that she was disappointed in Griff. Not in the circumstances, but in Griff himself. Was it unrealistic to expect the man you love to come home on the first night and make love to you? No, and tomorrow wouldn’t be the same. How could Griff think it would be? For God’s sake, she wasn’t sitting here waiting to be seduced. Their relationship was beyond that stage.

She felt as if she had been put through a mill and had come out mangled and smashed. It was so damn easy to pick up the phone and make a call, sure in the knowledge that the other person would understand and forgive. Forgive, yes; forget, no. When you hurt you don’t forget, she told herself. And when you’re taken for granted, you don’t forget that either.

Despite her resolution not to cry, the tears trickled down her cheeks. She wanted him to
want
to come home to her. She didn’t care about priorities, she didn’t want to think about them. All she wanted was Griff here beside her. She wanted him here telling her he loved her and it was right, this move to D.C. Goddamn it, she needed reassurance. Second fiddle to a horse. Wait till Pixie heard about this one.

Sleep would never come now. She should get up and watch television till she worked off her hostility. Or better yet, have a few snorts from the bottle of brandy Pixie had given her. Now, if she could just remember where she had put it, she could get pleasantly sloshed. Snookered, maybe. On second thought, three aspirins would be better, she decided. Besides, she had promised herself to save the brandy to toast Pixie’s story.

Dory punched the pillow with a vengeance. She was angry, frustrated,
out of control.
The thought made her rigid. Eventually, she slept, her dreams panicked by a wild-eyed stallion carrying Sylvia on his back as he raced up and down Jefferson Davis Parkway. She woke exhausted.

T
he draperies were hung and pinned by noon; the new chair for Griff’s den was delivered. Both Lily and Sylvia called to invite her to lunch. She begged off, saying she had to do some grocery shopping and pick up a map so she could find her way to Georgetown University the next day. “I want to make Griff’s favorite dinner, so I don’t have all that much time,” she told Sylvia.

“Are you going to freeze it?” Sylvia asked indifferently.

“No, why?”

“I just spoke to John and he said they wouldn’t be home till late this evening. We were invited out for drinks and dinner, and now I either have to go alone or cancel. I don’t suppose you’d like to go with me, would you? Griff suggested I ask you.”

Out of control, out of control,
her mind screamed as Sylvia rattled on about how she had told Griff Dory wasn’t ready yet for the social scene and to give her time.

Dory floundered. “Well then, I’ll just have a snack and get my things ready for tomorrow. First day of school. Thanks for calling, Sylvia. I appreciate the invitation, but some other time.” She broke the connection, not waiting for Sylvia’s reply.

Lily’s phone call was an invitation also. She wanted Dory to come over and watch her make quince jelly, Rick’s favorite. “I thought we could have tea and I’d make some fresh crumpets or scones. Little Ricky is so good in the afternoon, he just plays in his crib. We could have a nice long talk and really get to know one another.”

Dory rattled off a list of real and imaginary things she had to do. When she hung up the phone she felt as though she had done ten laps in a whirlpool. Upstream!

She was on her way out the door when the phone rang a third time. Dory debated for four rings before she picked up the receiver. Her voice was controlled. It was Griff, a cheerful Griff, asking how she was and what she was doing.

“Not much. I was just going to the supermarket, if I can find it, that is. I understand you won’t be home for dinner.”

“I hope you don’t mind. I should be home around nine thirty or so. Just fix me a sandwich. Remember now, we have a date.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Dory said lightly. Damn, why did his voice sound so preoccupied? He was saying words but his mind was somewhere else. She could tell. “What kind of sandwich would you like?”

“What? Oh, anything. Pastrami and corned beef on rye would be good. Don’t overdo, darling. Save some of your energy for this evening. I have to run now—the others are waiting for me. Love you.”

Dory replaced the phone and stared at it for a long, mesmerizing minute. Day two and already there was trouble in paradise. No one had said it would be easy. Adjustments all the way. With her doing the adjusting. Lizzie had tried to warn her. Katy had been right on target when she said, “A woman gives ninety percent to every relationship. The man gives five percent and the dog the other five.” Dory wondered what happed to the last five percent if one didn’t have a dog.

All the way to the supermarket she told herself she was just feeling sorry for herself because she was alone with nothing to do. Nothing mental, that is. Physical work always frustrated her. She wasn’t using her mind.

Tonight when she saw Griff things would be different. If they weren’t different, this arrangement wasn’t going to work. She would give fifty percent, maybe sixty percent, but that was her bottom line. She was getting off the track here. It was time to restructure her thinking before something serious happened. So what if Griff had to work late and be away? It was his job and she had said she understood.

She was being selfish. Selfish and childish. It had been a long time since she had answered to anyone, if there ever had been a time. The only person she had to please or defend was herself. Now she was thrust into a new ball game where there was a second player and she was going to have to adjust and realize she couldn’t have everything her own way. No snapping of the fingers and getting whatever she wanted. And what did she want? To be happy with Griff. To be with Griff. To share Griff’s life. That was what she wanted. So what if she didn’t like some of the adjustments? She could live with that. She could adjust. In her own way.

Dory felt better immediately. She would surprise Griff and make a late dinner. Something that could hold and not be ruined if he was late. She would put the little rosewood table that had been her grandmother’s in front of the living room fireplace. The new place mats and napkins, of course, and she would wear her cashmere lounging robe and dab the new, exotic perfume she hadn’t used yet behind each ear and into the deep V of her breasts. She would seduce him first with her dinner and then with her body. She giggled to herself as she walked up and down the aisles of the supermarket, tossing in items helter-skelter. She bought all the ingredients for a succulent lamb stew and the makings for bread. Now, all she had to do was go home and get out her cookbook. If all else failed, she could always call the obliging Lily.

Dory watched in awe as the totals came to life on the cash register. How could she have spent one hundred sixteen dollars on four bags of groceries? Cooking certainly was expensive. She whipped out her Gucci wallet from her Gucci handbag and paid the bill. She felt momentarily deflated. She could have bought a silk blouse at Bloomingdale’s for one hundred sixteen dollars. She would talk to Griff about groceries when she got a chance. They would have to arrive at some manner of sharing the bills.

On the drive back to the house she let her mind race up and down an invisible column of figures. Drapes, the chair for Griff, the new sheets and towels she had bought at Saks before coming down here, the odds and ends from Macy’s Cellar, the deposits for the utilities, the cost of tuition and registration, not to mention the books she would have to buy, and now this one hundred sixteen dollars. The invisible sum stunned her. A quarter of a new fall wardrobe; a down payment on a mink coat; twenty-eight pairs of shoes. This new life wasn’t a mistake, was it? This was unusual for her, this vacillation. What was wrong with her? No one forced her to come here; it was her own decision. That was it, the word “decision.” Was it the wrong one? She couldn’t think about all that now. Now she had to think about cooking dinner: lamb stew with homemade bread. Peach pie for dessert. Coffee and then a drink in front of the fireplace. The congressional aide had left plenty of logs for her use. It was going to be perfect, and then tomorrow, bright and early, she would start her studies at Georgetown. Pursuing her studies had to take top priority. God, how she was beginning to hate that word. Nothing and no one was going to rain on
her
parade.

By five thirty the lamb stew was simmering, the peach pie was baking, and Dory was patting two loaves of bread into baking pans. She was smeared from head to toe with flour. This cooking was a bit much, in her opinion. She didn’t see how women did it every day, three times a day.

While the dishes and pots and pans soaked she would change her clothes and put on her lounging robe. The worst part of the work was over now. She looked in dismay at her smudged and wrinkled shirt and flour-smeared jeans. Even her tattered sneakers from college wore a light dusting of flour. Her hair was tied back with a piece of string, and she looked a mess.

Novice that she was in the kitchen, Dory checked everything and set all the timers twice before she felt safe enough to fill the tub for a long, leisurely bath. Lord, she was tired. She should sleep like a log tonight. For more reasons than one, she smiled to herself as she made her way upstairs. She was halfway up when she heard a key in the lock. Wide-eyed, unable to move, she stood frozen on the steps and waited to see who it was that dared invade her new home.

“Griff!” It couldn’t be Griff. It was Griff. He couldn’t see her looking like this. But he was seeing her like this—and what was that strange look in his eye? Disbelief. By God, it was disbelief.

“Dory?” It was a question and a statement all in one.

Wild thoughts careered around in Dory’s head. “Hi, darling. I was just going up to take a bath. Now that you’re here, why don’t you join me in a nice hot shower?”

“What I need is a drink, not a shower. Something smells good.”

“Lamb stew, peach pie and homemade bread. I think it’s the bread that smells so good.”

“I bet you even churned the butter,” Griff said lazily as he smiled at Dory’s flour-smudged face.

“That’s next week, “ she grinned, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “I didn’t expect you till later.” She realized suddenly how stiff the words had sounded. Almost like an accusation. Was she always going to hear about Griff’s schedule and plans first from Sylvia or Lily? Was it only an afterthought on Griff’s part to call her and tell her himself? “I’m such a mess,” Dory blurted, hoping the edge had left her voice. “Oh, Griff, I wanted everything to be so special for your first night at home. You’ve caught me at my worst.”

“I thought we were having baloney sandwiches,” he grinned, gathering her into his arms. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed the recrimination in her tone.

“You said pastrami and corned beef. I thought this would be better.” Dory snuggled closer into his embrace. “If you’re going to work all kinds of crazy hours, you need good, substantial food. Also, you better enjoy it now because when I start school you
will
be eating baloney sandwiches. Kiss me like you haven’t seen me for ten days.”

“On second thought,” Griff told her, rubbing his mustache on the tip of her nose, making her wrinkle it against the tickling, “maybe a nice warm shower would be a good idea.” He picked her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs. “This is in lieu of carrying you over the threshhold last night.”

Contented, Dory cuddled in his arms, already anticipating the warm sting of the shower spray and Griff’s warmer hands on her body.

 

 

Wrapped in her cozy, lemon-yellow terry robe, Dory sipped her wine while she watched Griff wolf down his dinner. His appetite would have to serve her as proof of his approval, for the words were not forthcoming. Even little promptings like, “I hope the stew is seasoned to your taste,” and “don’t you think the bread is a bit overdone?” only brought incoherent grunts that neither agreed nor disagreed.

This certainly wasn’t the romantic evening Dory had envisioned. Their gymnastic lovemaking in the shower was rushed and somehow unsatisfying. The wine and candlelight, which should have been conducive to quiet conversation and romance, served instead as background for the TV news program Griff wanted to watch. Dory glanced longingly at the stereo and the carefully chosen stack of mood-music records she had planned to play.

Competing with the television for Griff’s attention, Dory tried conversation. “You never told me what kept you at the senator’s farm,” she said softly, compelling him with her green eyes to turn his attention away from the television. The plight of welfare mothers did not seem to fit in with the sumptuous meal she had prepared.

“Hmmm? Oh, well, our little colt was extremely shy about making his debut into this world. I think I told you the mare should have delivered before noon today. She didn’t make her presentation until almost three in the afternoon. Then we had to fight the traffic back into the city. Fine little colt. The senator raises quarter horses, as well as thoroughbreds, and he has lots of friends with the same interests. His recommendations should be a boon to the clinic.”

“How did your clinic get involved, Griff? Wasn’t the senator happy with the veterinarians he’d been using?”

“Actually, it was Sylvia and some of her connections that pulled it through for us. I don’t have to tell you, honey, breaking into any business in the D.C. area can be tough. There’s so much competition. We have Sylvia to be grateful to for this little venture. Fortunately, everything worked out well for the mare and her foal. John and I were quite concerned that inducing labor at the wrong stage of pregnancy could invite a breech birth. Tough on the mother and the baby.”

An unreasoning chord of jealousy struck Dory. Griff was so damn grateful to Sylvia. She was almost tempted to shatter his regard for the woman by revealing what she suspected between Sylvia and Duke. What’s happening to me? Dory thought, aghast. I’ve never been greedy for petty gossip! I never make judgments and betray other people, especially with the intention of destroying their reputations. Dory was terribly disappointed in herself and was only glad she’d stopped herself in time to keep her suspicions to herself.

“Did Rick join you and John out at the farm?” Her inquiry was made in a shaking voice. Dory was having doubts about herself and her motives. The whole center of her values seemed to have suddenly shifted. Why? Before she could answer herself, Griff was speaking.

“No, Rick didn’t come out to the farm. You see the way he is with little Rick and Lily. John and I thought it would be an unnecessary imposition on their family.”

“Lily is certainly wrapped up in her ‘two men’ as she calls Rick and the baby. Do you think it’s good? I mean, certainly a woman should have something else in her life besides mothering and blueberry muffins.”

Griff dug heartily into another slice of bread, lathering it thickly with butter. He seemed distracted both by the bread and the news commentary, and he didn’t answer Dory’s question until he’d taken another sip of wine. “I’m not so sure, Dory. Lily is of that special breed who seems most a woman when she’s making a home for her man. Rick certainly adores her, as you can tell.”

“I’m not asking what’s good for Rick, darling. I’m asking what’s good for Lily.”

Griff smiled, his eyes lighting, a silly smile spreading beneath his sexy mustache. “I
am
talking about what’s good for Lily. That girl positively blooms. And didn’t I already tell you how John and I relieved Rick of responsibility out at the farm so he could be home with Lily and the baby? If that’s not good for Lily, I don’t know what is.”