Balancing Act (21 page)

Dory returned his smile somewhat sheepishly. She didn’t want to spoil this night with a contest of opinions, but she couldn’t help thinking that Rick and Lily had already had so much time together. They were already a family. But last night had been Dory’s first night in her new home, and that didn’t seem to cut any ice with either John or Griff. What was it about Lily that made the partners want to protect her and make her happy? Was it simply that she was the typical “little woman”? What was it about herself that seemed to make it unnecessary for Griff to take special consideration of her, that left him guiltless about spending what should have been a special night for them by nursing a pregnant horse? Did she give the appearance of being totally self-sufficient and understanding about career and responsibility coming first? Dory stood abruptly and began clearing the table. She didn’t like herself very much this evening and she wasn’t quite certain what to do about it. Why should Sylvia be praised for being cosmopolitan and social climbing and Lily be idolized for being the perfect wife and mother? What about her, Dory? And when, if ever, was Griff going to comment on her efforts to make a home for them?

The dishes clattered into the sink. Taking a deep breath, Dory tried to rationalize. She was an intelligent woman, but right now she needed some focus to her life that was separate from her activities of setting up a home. Focus. That was what she was used to. Focus on her job, on the people she worked with, on Griff. She simply had to get these things back into perspective. Tomorrow, she promised herself. School, new people, new things to learn and study. Tomorrow, it would be all right.

G
riff left for the clinic early in the morning, kissing Dory good-bye as she put their coffee cups into the dishwasher. “Here’s for luck your first day of school. Nervous?”

“You bet. It’s been some while since I’ve sat in a classroom, don’t forget. But I think there’s still some life in the old gray matter,” she laughed, tapping her head.

Dory was nervous, more than she cared to admit. After Griff left the house she found herself compulsively straightening cushions and smoothing the bed and giving another swipe of the dishcloth to an already clean white Formica counter. She walked through the house, trying to see the results of her efforts through objective eyes. The soft gray carpeting in the living room picked up the gentle pinks and buffered whites in the Italian marble fireplace. Most of the furnishings from her apartment in New York were already in place; only a few decorator items and knickknacks were still left to be unpacked. The chrome and glass étagère and end tables from Griff’s loft added a striking note of contrast against her more formal traditional pieces of white velvet and damask. She could run into town today and see if she could pick up some toss pillows, a few in the same shade as the carpeting and others in that deep plum color she liked so well, Perhaps she could order several huge stack cushions in plum velvet to serve as extra seating. Her collection of crystal paperweights would look terrific on the glass table banked against the sofa.

Dory shook her head. What was she doing standing here decorating the living room when she should be upstairs this minute getting dressed?

Up the carpeted stairs and down the short hallway, Dory entered the bedroom, which, along with its accompanying dressing room and bath, comprised the entire second floor of the town house. There was still much work to be done here. New drapes to be hung, deciding on the accent colors, finding a love seat and easy chair to place before the fireplace. She must see about finding a wax or a finishing compound to bring out the best in the ornately designed andirons. Set with white fieldstone, the fireplace was built into a stuccoed wall and centered on the far side of the room. A really striking tapestry or rug would be just the thing to hang over the hearth.

Dory’s eye caught the movement of the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. If she didn’t hurry, she would be late for school. The city map she had bought made finding the university easy, but she still didn’t know about parking or even how to find the buildings where her classes were to be held.

Rifling through her drawers to find underwear and stockings, Dory chewed her bottom lip with worry. She had had every intention of driving out to Georgetown yesterday to get the lay of the land, but somehow she hadn’t done it. Why had she allowed herself to become distracted by household chores and preparing that extravagant dinner? Griff had told her he would be more than satisfied with sandwiches. She could have put her time to better use.

Rushing for the bathroom and turning on the shower, Dory berated herself for not making her priorities stand. She never should have let herself be sidetracked. She detested being late, and even judged others by how promptly they kept appointments. Stepping under the steaming spray, she pushed back the thought that perhaps her dallying around the house with her various chores might be an indication that she was not as eager to go back to school as she had thought.

Midway through the first day of school Dory had what Griff later described as an anxiety attack. It hit her when she was walking from one building to the next shortly after the lunch hour. She felt weak and her head reeled. The first thought that ricocheted through her brain was that she was pregnant. Then she realized how ridiculous the thought was and felt worse. She sat down on a bench until the dizziness passed, her heart fluttering wildly. By the time she teetered to her class she had herself diagnosed and was making out a will in her mind. She was to be cremated and . . . God, what would they do with her ashes? Her parents might want them or Aunt Pixie might find some use for them. Griff wanting her ashes never occurred to her. If she was going to die, why was she sitting here in this damn dumb, stupid class trying to convince herself and the instructor that she did indeed want to get her doctorate? As the courtroom voice of the professor droned on, Dory let her mind wander. Some inner sense told her that there was nothing wrong with her, physically. It was nerves, it was all too much, too quick, too fast. She hadn’t adjusted yet. Time. She needed time.

Time was measured by clocks and calendars, things she had worked with for years. She had always watched the clock, ticked off the days on the calendar, made a schedule and stuck to it. Now, she felt adrift.

When the class was over Dory hadn’t the faintest idea of what had been said or who sat next to her. The instructor was almost out the door before she got up from her seat. Thank God, she had taped the class. She switched the button on the small Sony recorder and slipped it into her bag. She felt rotten. Not physically rotten. Just rotten. She glanced at her watch and wondered what Katy and the others were doing. If she really wanted to know, she could call up and find out. She didn’t really want to know, she told herself as she walked down the hall looking for a student lounge. A cup of coffee would help. Maybe some crackers or something to settle her churning stomach. She was behaving worse than a child on the first day of school.

Dory suffered through a two-hour lecture on Chaucer’s boyhood, watching the minute hand on her watch. The instructor walked up and down in front of the class, tapping a pencil against his fat, pink palm. It might have helped her concentration if he was handsome with good teeth. It was no fun to look at a middle-aged, balding man with baggy trousers. There was even a shine to his pants. For shame on his wife, Dory thought. His white shirt was polyester, and gray with repeated washings. Ring around the collar, no doubt. Lily would know how to make the shirt clean again. Little Ricky’s bibs were so blindingly white they hurt the eyes. She wondered what Lily was doing. Where was Sylvia? She wished she was with Griff.

Her palms were starting to sweat again. By forcing herself to stare at the instructor’s shirtfront she was able to control the attack of dizziness. Think about something pleasant, anything. A meadow of daisies. A clear, sparkling lake filled with jumping fish. Christmas with Pixie and a mound of presents. Damn it to hell, why wasn’t it working? Why was her throat closing? My God, what if she collapsed? She tried clearing her throat and got an annoyed glance from the instructor. Her throat constricted again and she could feel the saliva building up in her mouth. Oh God, don’t let me drool, not here in front of all these people. Was it her imagination or were people staring at her as she dabbed at her wet mouth?

To get up now and walk out would only call attention to herself. Better to sit still and try to concentrate on the lecture. Why was this instructor so damn long-winded? Didn’t they cut classes short anymore? She wanted to cry when she felt her throat muscles relax. She drew in deep breaths and exhaled slowly. She felt a little better. Thank God.

Dory looked around at the other students. They all wore rapt expressions. None of them was having an anxiety attack or whatever it was she was having. None of their minds appeared to be wandering the way hers was. They seemed to be accepting the instructor regardless of his looks and clothing. What was wrong with her? How could she be thinking about such ridiculous things? Or was this one more indication that she wasn’t taking her doctorate seriously? Intentions, good or bad, were one thing; following through was something else entirely. She had to give that theory a lot of thought.

Dory was the first one out of the room when the professor nodded his head in the general direction of the class. Dismissed. Thank God. If she checked the map, she might have time to stop by the garden nursery she had noticed on her way to school. Autumn blooms and some plants for the house. There would be time to arrange them and place them to the best advantage. Also time for making a pot roast. Griff loved pot roast and so did she. Aunt Pixie always said if you added apple juice to the gravy, you had pure ambrosia.

She drove with the windows down. She felt wonderful with the crisp fall air whipping at her through the open window. She couldn’t wait to get home and out of the tight, clinging silk slacks and Oscar de la Renta overblouse with matching belt. She kicked the two-hundred-dollar shoes off and wiggled her toes. She had to remember to buy some foot powder for her sneakers. And she needed more than one pair of sneaker socks. Back in New York she had only used the washers and dryers in the basement of the building once every three weeks or so. Everything else went to the cleaners. Now there were Griff’s clothes to launder.

While the nursery man loaded the ferns, the philodendrons, and Swedish ivy into the back of the SUV, Dory stared at the colorful blooms of the autumn flowers. To the right there was a decorative display of pumpkins and coppery colored chrysanthemums. On impulse, she bought the biggest pumpkin and four pots of the bronze flowers. Then she added one of the deep yellow and another of rich lavender. There was barely room in the car for herself. The owner was delighted with the check she wrote out for two hundred thirty dollars. She didn’t bat an eye. It was worth it. Griff would love the flowers and the pumpkin. Everyone needed a fern at the kitchen window. Fireplaces always needed greenery on the hearth. Oh, what she could do with that fireplace come Christmas.

Back at the town house her silken garments slithered to the floor. The alligator shoes lay lopsidedly beside them. A lacy froth of powder blue bra found a home on the neat spread. Jewelry went back into the nest of velvet.

Dory stepped into faded jeans and a pullover shirt of deep orange. She liked the feeling against her skin. What a pleasure to go without underwear. A wicked grin split her features. If Griff liked all that froth and lace, he would love bare skin even more. She liked it when he ran his hand up under a blouse or shirt. God, he had such delicious hands.

The Coach case with its notebooks and cassette recorder landed with a thump on a coffee-colored slipper chair. Dory grimaced as she read her initials in gold lettering. Ostentatious, she thought.

Time to put the pot roast on. While it was browning, she would bring in the plants and arrange them. But when she was finished she felt disappointed. She should have bought more. A tree, a big leafy tree was called for, and she needed more fill-in plants. Damn, she had been so sure she had enough. If there was one thing she disliked, it was something that looked unfinished. A glance at the digital clock told her she had time to make a quick run back to the nursery. But first she called the clinic to see what time Griff would be home. He sounded annoyed when he said some time around seven. Dory barely noticed the annoyance as she calculated her driving time.

It was six o’clock when Dory backed the SUV into her parking space. She struggled with the bushy tree and had to drag it into the house. The second tree, reed slim with lacy pointed leaves, found its way to the living room. A second pumpkin and the three boxes of assorted fill-in plants sat next to the fireplace. When she was finished arranging them, she stifled the urge to call Lily to come for a look-see. Lily would love it. Sylvia would say, “Darling, it looks like a goddamn jungle and what do you mean, you wax the leaves?” Griff would be delighted and compliment her on making the town house look like a home. She decided not to mention that this batch of greenery had set her back another two hundred forty dollars. Trees were expensive but every leaf was worth the money. She would economize somewhere else.

Satisfied with her handiwork, Dory retreated to the kitchen to wash the greens for a salad. Fresh string beans and four ears of corn would complete their meal. Dessert would be fresh pears soaked in brandy. Griff was going to love it, just love it.

 

 

Griff’s mind was on the interstate as he watched for the Arlington turnoff. John had to speak to him twice before he turned to look at the older man. “I’m sorry, John, what did you say?”

“I said Sylvia is going back to work at the beginning of the week. You know she likes to have her summers off for golf and tennis. It’s not that she makes a fistful of money; actually, she uses up half of what she makes driving that gas guzzler of hers, but it makes her happy. I’m glad she’s doing something for herself. It’s important that women do things just for themselves. Makes them . . .” he sought for the word Sylvia had drilled into his head a hundred times. “. . . fulfilled. Of course, you know what I’m talking about. Dory is a career girl. And now that she’s going back for her doctorate, you must be very proud of her, Griff. She’ll definitely be an asset to you. Of course, Sylvia isn’t anywhere near Dory’s league, but selling cosmetics is something she likes, and Neiman-Marcus is a prestigious store.”

Griff wondered why John sounded so defensive when he spoke of Sylvia and fulfillment. Dory as an asset. His eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. “Dory is her own person, John. Always has been. I love her. I respect her intelligence. I admire her independence and the way she’s climbed her way to the top of her field. I don’t mind telling you I’m a little in awe of her now that she’s going back to pursue her studies. She’s probably the only person I know who is a ‘whole’ person. Capably whole.”

John swiveled in his seat to stare at Griff. Was there a hint of something other than admiration in the man’s voice? Surely, he couldn’t be jealous of his . . . live-in. John always felt uncomfortable when he had to refer to Dory in a manner other than calling her by name. These live-in situations were not to his liking. In the end they always caused problems. Sylvia, with all her free-spirited ways, was probably even more suited to marriage than Lily. Sylvia liked being married. She preferred being Mrs. instead of Miss or Ms.