Balancing Act (3 page)

“Absolutely.”

“You just saved me from making a phone call that I would regret. Thank you. You wanted to use the stove, you said.” He was unnerving her with his close scrutiny.

“Right. That’s what I said.” He held out a plate with a brown glob on it.

“What is it?” Rita asked as she stared down at what looked like a cross between hamburger and dog food.

“Actually, it’s chopped meat that I think has seen better days. I should probably throw it out.”

“That would be my advice.” Rita smiled. The headache was gone. Thank God she hadn’t called Camilla. “How would you like some of my sausage and peppers? It’ll be done in a few minutes. We’ll have to eat outside on the picnic table though.”

“Lady, I thought you were never going to ask. I’d love to eat with you, and if you have a beer to go with it, I’ll be in your debt forever.”

“Oh, do you like beer with your sandwiches? So do I,” Rita confided. How comfortable she felt with him. There was no fear, no anxiety. It seemed like she had known him for a long time. Such gentle fingers.

Twigg watched her as she set about making the sandwiches. She was at home in a kitchen. He wondered if there was a Mr. Bellamy and what she was doing living in an empty cottage. He craned his neck to see if a wedding ring was in sight. He almost sighed with relief when he saw her bare hand. Maybe she didn’t like rings. He liked the way she moved, the way she handled the kitchen equipment, the way she spooned the rich sauce over the sausage and then closed the roll tight so it wouldn’t drip. He noticed that she made three sandwiches. His eyes asked the question. Rita laughed. “Two for you and one for me. You bring the beer. The glasses are in that cabinet over your head.”

“Bottle is okay with me. How about you?”

“Okay with me too. Napkins are over there. Bring a handful. Now that you’re dressed to the nines, I wouldn’t want you to drip on your clean shirt.”

“You noticed.” Twigg grinned in mock pleasure.

“I noticed.” And she had. She had noticed the tight fit of the worn jeans, the designer sneakers with their frayed laces. And the six freckles he had on his left hand. It was because she was a writer and observant, she told herself as she bit into the sandwich.

They ate in companionable silence. Twigg finished first and asked if he could have another beer. Rita nodded.

“Bring me one too,” she called after him.

“How long are you going to be here?” Twigg asked.

“As long as it takes to finish my novel. A week, two, I’m not sure, and then I always need a week to unwind. There’s no hurry for me to get back home, so I may stay a little longer. How long will you be here?”

“I rented the cottage for six months. It’s going to take at least that much time to collate my notes, draft the research reports, and then write the articles.”

How many times she had sat on this same bench and watched the sun set with Brett and the kids, but she never enjoyed it as much as she did this minute. “I love the sunsets here,” she said quietly.

“The end of the day. Tell me, what are you writing? Or don’t you talk about it. I heard writers are scary people and are afraid someone will wander off with their ideas.”

Rita laughed. “I’m past that stage. I write romantic novels for women.”

“Oh, you’re
that
Rita Bellamy. I thought there was something familiar about your name. When I was doing my dolphin research, several of the biologists were reading your books. They said you were good.”

Rita was pleased with the compliment. “I try. I write what I like to read.”

Twigg’s gaze was puzzled. “Do you put any of yourself into your novels?”

Rita contemplated her answer. “Not myself exactly. Perhaps my longings, my yearnings, some of my secret desires,” she said honestly. Somehow, anything less than an honest reply to this strange new friend—and he was a friend, she could sense it—would have been cheating.

“I guess I understand that. How does your family feel about what you write?”

“They tolerate it.” Damn, this man was making her talk, making her see and feel all the things she wanted to forget. Honesty again in her reply. “The children are more or less on their own. Charles is away this summer doing camp counseling and then he goes to Princeton in the fall. Camilla has her own family, and Rachel is living in an apartment in the city. They all have their own lives.”

“What happened to Mr. Bellamy?” Twigg asked bluntly. He had to know and what better way than to ask outright. He held his breath waiting for her reply.

“Mr. Bellamy is remarried to a young lady, a very young lady, who is one year younger than my oldest daughter,” Rita said in an emotionless voice.

“Is that bitterness I hear in your voice?”

“Yes, dammit, it’s bitterness you hear. I haven’t exactly come to terms with it, but I will. Any more questions?” she snapped irritably.

“Not on your life. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up old wounds. Hell, yes I did, I wanted to know about you. Because I want to know you better. I’ve never been one to dance around something. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“It’s all right. I shouldn’t be so defensive. It’s been two years now and time enough for me to adjust.” The phone shrilled in the kitchen saving her from further explanations. “Excuse me, she said, getting up.

Twigg sat back, leaning against the rough redwood table. He tried not to listen, but Rita’s intense voice carried clearly. It sounded brittle and defensive.

“Tom, how are you? You know I’m always glad to talk to you but I’m afraid you can’t make me change my mind. I have commitments and I intend to honor them.... No, Tom. It’s out of the question.... Of course, I love my grandchildren. Pay someone, Tom. There are all sorts of reputable agencies with people who take care of children.... No, Tom, bringing them here will not make me change my mind. I explained my deadline to Camilla this afternoon.... Of course, I realize how important your job is, I just wonder how important you think mine is. I try not to depend upon anyone to do things for me, Tom, and I think you can take that as good advice.”

Rita listened to Tom’s voice coming over the receiver. He had no right, no right at all. She listened for a few more minutes, but when he began calling Jody to the phone to ask Grandma to let him come for a visit, Rita became incensed. That was playing dirty. “Tom, that’s not fair and I cannot understand why you and Camilla refuse to accept my answer. If it had been another time, even next weekend . . .” Damn, there she was making excuses again. What she needed was another beer and a course in assertiveness training. Why? She had absolutely no trouble dealing with those outside her family. Secretaries, publishers, editors, publicists, smart people, important people, demanding and exacting, and yet here she was practically pleading for Camilla and Tom to understand why she could not babysit for them and allow her care of the children to interfere with her writing.

“Tom,” Rita said in a cool, controlled voice, “I would not make the drive up here if I were you. I have given you my answer and it stands. You must make other arrangements for the children this weekend. Have you tried Brett and his wife?” Lord, she was doing it again, trying to solve their problem for them.

“Yes, Rita, we did call and they both have colds. Besides, as Camilla says, you are their grandmother. And there’s no one the children would rather be with than you.”

“That’s very sweet, Tom, however this weekend it is just impossible.” She put conviction into her voice. The last thing she needed this weekend was the children. What with the delivery of furniture, Ian coming . . . no, it was just impossible.

“Rita,” Tom lowered his voice to a level of confidence, “Camilla is quite upset. You know how she admires you, even tries to emulate you. You are disappointing her terribly. We don’t understand what’s come over you. You’ve never refused before.”

“Then why is it so terrible of me to refuse this one time? No, Tom”—her voice hesitated; she had almost apologized again—“it’s impossible this weekend. You are an intelligent man; I’ve every confidence you’ll solve your dilemma. Give my best to Camilla and the children. Good night, Tom.”

Twigg winced when he heard the receiver slam down onto the cradle. He had gotten the gist of the conversation and had intuitively surmised Rita’s conflict over refusing to babysit. He heard the slight tremor in her tone, the apologetic manner. When at last she had curtly ended the conversation, he found himself rooting for her, cheering her on. Atta girl, Rita! That took some doing, can tell, but if it’s what you want, then good for you!

“Don’t ask me to explain that conversation to you,” Rita said, setting a fresh bottle of beer in front of him. Great God! Had she actually stood up to Tom and Camilla? No doubt she would be punished for it, and they would probably keep the children away until the next time they needed her. Realizing she was neglecting her guest, she smoothed the grim line from her mouth and directed her attention to Twigg. “Why don’t you tell me about what you’re writing? Are dolphins actually as intelligent as I’ve heard?”

“I spent eighteen months in Australia researching and studying the habits of whales and dolphins and it was fascinating. As a matter of fact, I only returned to the States a few weeks ago and found the Johnson cottage through a Realtor. My eyes got hungry for the autumn colors. Change of seasons and all that. Who knows when I’ll get another chance like this.” Twigg was encouraged by the genuine interest Rita displayed, gazing at him intently with those remarkable blue eyes of hers. “There was one dolphin we called Sinbad who literally took my breath away. The species has developed a sophisticated sonar system. They can hear up to one hundred forty kilocycles; that’s eight times higher than a human. They can dive to almost a thousand feet with no decompression problems and use eighty percent of their oxygen to the fullest advantage.”

As he spoke, describing the seas, the animals, and their habits, the conversation with Tom was already fading from Rita’s mind.

“The females are more playful than the males, actually. Sinbad was an exception to the rule. The female is also the aggressor in courtship; the males don’t mature sexually till they’re almost seven years old. It takes eleven months for a calf to be born, and the mothers are very protective of their young.”

“Most mothers are,” Rita said quietly, thinking of her own role as a mother and the failures and successes she had achieved.

“I suppose so,” Twigg answered. “Time for me to be getting back to work. I’ll return the dinner invitation as soon as I wash my dishes. Thanks again, Rita.”

“It’s a beautiful evening. I’ll walk along with you as far as the pier.”

At the pier they said their good nights, and Rita watched him lope away down the sandy beach. She liked him, liked being with him. He made her feel good about herself. He hadn’t asked any questions concerning the phone conversation with Tom nor had he given any indication that he had an opinion one way or the other about what she had done.

Twigg started off down the beach. He didn’t want to go home but instinctively knew Rita needed some time to herself to mull over the unpleasant phone call. He didn’t want to work on his articles; he wanted to be with Rita. He turned, making his way back to her. She was still standing on the edge of the pier. “I forgot something,” he shouted, that lopsided grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

“What did you forget?” She was puzzled at the expression in his eyes as he drew close to her.

“This.” His arms drew around her, holding her close to him. She realized how tall he was, towering over her, lifting her chin with the tips of his fingers to look down into her eyes. His lips, when they touched hers, were soft, giving as well as taking, gently persuading her to respond. His arm, cradling her against him, was firm, strong, but his fingers still touching her face were tender, trailing whispery shadows over her cheekbones. Having him kiss her seemed to be the most natural ending to an enjoyable evening. It was just that. A kiss. A tender gesture, tempting an answer but demanding none.

“Good night, pretty lady,” he said huskily, his tone plucking the strings of her emotions. And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone while she watched him retrace his steps.

Rita moistened her lips that were so recently kissed. Soundly kissed, she would have written if it were a scene from one of her books. She had been licked by the flame of remembered passions, good lusty feelings she had thought were lost to her. Twigg Peterson was good for the ego. “Pretty lady” he had called her, and suddenly she did feel pretty and just a little bit more excited than she would have liked.

Back in his cottage Twigg faced the blank page on the computer. He had wanted to kiss her and he had. Wanted to kiss her almost from the moment he had introduced himself to her earlier that day. There was something vulnerable about Rita Bellamy and something strong too. How good she had felt in his arms, how sweetly she had returned his kiss. There was no need to sit here and ponder what she had thought of him, if he had offended her. With Rita, everything was up front. Black and white. She either liked you or she didn’t. And that was good too. Emotional games were for children and more often they hurt rather than gave pleasure. The white page glared accusingly under the goosenecked lamp and he began to work.

R
ita lay deep in the sleeping bag, snuggling for warmth. It was early, still dark outside, probably no later than five
A.M.
Soon the birds would begin their incessant chatter. Rita groaned aloud. She wasn’t ready for this particular day. She would not think about Twigg. No, she absolutely would not think about the long and lingering kiss that had reached something so deeply buried within her that she hesitated to put a name to it. Instead, she would think of something else. Camilla popped into her thoughts. She had always felt closest to her oldest child, and she did not like the rift coming between them.

It had always been Camilla who emulated Rita. Playing house, caring for her dolls, liking tedious household chores, always being the first to help with the dishes. Now there was an unspoken hostility between them, and Rita didn’t quite know how to mend the fences. What had she done besides refuse to immerse herself in Camilla’s life? It would seem that the girl had everything she had always wanted: a home, a successful husband, children. What could she still possibly want from her mother?

Children. She wondered if she had made impossible demands on her own mother. If she had, she had never known it. Yet, before Rita’s mother had died hadn’t there been a distance between them? In the end, when she was so sick, her mother had decided to go to Chicago to stay with Rita’s brother and his wife, as though she was loath to impose upon her only daughter. Mother, too, had resented Rita’s writing. Going out to Ted in Chicago had been meant as a slap in the face, and Rita had felt it. Was that what Camilla was feeling? As though she’d been slapped? No, impossible. Yet, Rita’s mother had resented the fact that her only daughter had drifted away into a professional world, no longer validating her own lifestyle by devoting herself to family and home. Just before she had died they had talked about it, openly, honestly. Was it possible that Camilla, who had always identified so closely with Rita, was feeling abandoned and invalidated?

Camilla, who had always sought to be like her mother, to be a wife, a mother, now felt Rita to be a different person entirely. A divorcee, living on her own, making decisions and involved in the world of books and business. She was still demanding that Rita set the example and prove out the rewards of a domestic life, still wanted her to validate the life she had chosen for herself.

Rita shrugged off the depression that was descending over her thinking about Camilla. There were still Charles and Rachel. She hadn’t written that letter to Charles yet . . . Chuck. She must remember. Chuck. And she must call Rachel and find out exactly when she planned to arrive so she could cook something special for her. The only time the model-thin Rachel ate decent food was when Rita cooked it for her.

Why should I care if Rachel eats or not? She’s certainly old enough to take care of herself. And that was another thing. If she didn’t remind Rachel and Charles about dental appointments, they would have a mouth full of decay. Not only did she have to remind them, she also had to make the appointments, often telephoning several times to fit their schedules.

Ian often offered to find her a secretary to see to the tedious arrangements of life, but Rita wouldn’t hear of it. She did not want anyone to know what a slave she had become to her family. Ian only suspected half of her commitment to her grown children, and he doled out advice in choking amounts as to how she should deal with it. A widower with grown children of his own, he often pointed out how independent his offspring were. He would not accept that children always became independent of their fathers long before they were willing to separate from their mothers. It was an entirely different situation, she knew, but somehow could not convince Ian.

Dear, sweet Ian. Always looking out for her, protecting her, willing to take on the burden of any and all decisions if she so desired. Dependable Ian in his double-breasted suits and sparkling white shirts. A decent man, her mother would have called him. And good-looking in his middle years. Rita’s eyes flew open. She was middle-aged. Ian was middle-aged. She knew there had been a smirk in the thought. She also knew if she encouraged him he would ask her to marry him. He wanted to take care of her as though she were a homeless waif needing his counseling, his protection from the big, bad world. Good, kind, safe Ian.

Perhaps she had needed protection in the beginning, just after the divorce when her emotions were like raw sores. But now she suspected she needed adventure. The sores had scabbed over and only a few of them were still terribly tender. She was just learning to enjoy this new freedom. She could eat when she wanted, do the dishes when and if she felt like it, go to bed, get up when she wanted, shop and buy whatever pleased her. She was beginning to learn to deal with mechanics and repairmen. She had even engaged a gardener in Ridgewood so Charles would be free for tennis and all the sports he loved. She wasn’t even lonely anymore, except at night, and then a good book could ease even that. She was coping after two long years.
Twigg was too thin.

Rita snuggled deeper into the sleeping bag. How warm and comfortable the thick down was. It was going to be a brisk day, she could feel it in her bones. A day for a sweatshirt and warm slacks. The weather in the Poconos was always temperamental.
His hair needed trimming.

Her thoughts hopscotched to her ex-husband. He had always been an early riser; like herself, and had liked sex in the morning. She felt no shame when she wondered how he made love to his new wife. Probably with all the ardor he had shown on their own honeymoon twenty odd years ago. In many respects Brett had nesting instincts, something usually reserved for women. He liked a comfortable, cheery home. Good, home-cooked meals that took hours to prepare, shirts that had to be ironed, all fourteen of them, every week. He liked his slippers and pipe and his
Business Week
and
Wall Street Journal.
He liked the fireplace and his old sweater. Sometimes she wondered how he had managed to become as successful as he was. He had no imagination, no interest in anything outside his home and business. He had been a moderately good father, she supposed, going to the dancing recitals and the Little League games.
For God’s sake! Twigg was only thirty-two years old, ten years her junior!

She wished she had a cigarette. She should get up and make some coffee. Decaffeinated of course. Fry some bacon and eggs. Maybe pancakes. Or French toast with cinnamon and powdered sugar. Did she buy syrup? She rolled over on her stomach and reached for a cigarette and drew the ashtray closer. She counted the cigarette butts. Twenty-two. Two more than a pack. The kids were always on her back about her smoking. Even Camilla had gotten little Jody to make comments. She was an adult, capable of reading and understanding the Surgeon General’s medical warning. The bottom line was she liked to smoke and she had no intention of stopping. Certainly not for someone else. When she was out in mixed company she never lit up without asking if anyone minded. The cigarettes were her pacifier, her security blanket. If and when the day ever came when she didn’t need them, it would be because she had made the decision.
The tobacco Twigg smoked was aromatic. Her cigarettes didn’t seem to bother him.

Rita slid back down in the sleeping bag just as the first early bird chirped. Was he sleeping or was he awake too? Would he amble by today or would he ignore her after last night? She
knew
he would be back, if not today then tomorrow.

She laced her hands behind her head and felt her stomach go taut. You couldn’t see the excess flesh when you stretched out. A pity she couldn’t remain in a supine position so that she would look trim and fit. Maybe she should diet and start some moderate form of exercise. Was middle age too late to take it off? Three healthy eight-pound deliveries had added unsightly stretch marks. She had read somewhere that one could never get rid of those unless one had cosmetic surgery. That was out; she wouldn’t go under the knife for stretch marks. Or would she? She liked him. She liked his up-front attitude and the way he was in touch with his own feelings, his confidence, his gentleness. She wished she was half the person he was. She had so much to learn, so far to go till she could be like that. Each step was new, alien, and she had to think twice before she moved in any one direction.

The word “affair” bounced around in her head. She didn’t like the word. “Relationship” sounded better. Brett had had an affair. She wondered if an affair ever turned into a relationship. She didn’t think so. Brett wouldn’t have given it time. An affair and then marriage. What was her name? Sometimes she couldn’t remember. Oh yes, Melissa. The children pretended they didn’t like her but they did. She could tell. Charles walked around with a smirk on his face after seeing his father and stepmother. Camilla was forever talking about Melissa’s apple pies and lamb stew. Even Rachel said she had to respect Melissa and her “go-for-it” attitude. The fact that she “went” for her father didn’t seem to bother Rachel at all. They all accepted Melissa and the new marriage and then took out their hostility on Rita in small, picayune ways. Hurtful ways, degrading ways. They blamed her and were still blaming her that the family wasn’t intact.

She knew in her gut that they, all three of them, resented her career. Resented that she spent time on something that was not only creative but lucrative. They made cutting remarks about her television appearances and her magazine interviews.

Rita rolled over and lit another cigarette. Of course, when Camilla needed a ten-thousand-dollar loan, interest free, to build a swimming pool, Rita’s money was more than welcome. And Charles had no compunction about accepting nine thousand for a new muscle car. Rachel gladly took the “loan” for her new apartment security and three rooms of furniture. Rita didn’t expect to get the money back, didn’t want it. But it hurt that they hadn’t asked their father, that they had assumed she would be more than glad to help out. There hadn’t been one word about repayment. She would have demurred but it would have been nice to hear.

“All I wanted was a little respect, a little recognition for what I was doing. Goddamn it, why did it have to come from strangers’? Why can’t my own family see that I’m a person? I was a wife, a mother, and a writer. They had no right to force me to make a choice,” she said bitterly to the empty room. Actually, the choice had been forced on her by Brett.
Thirty-two years young.

Rita crawled from the sleeping bag and padded to the curtainless window. A low-lying mist crept across the ground like the swirly hem of a chiffon gown. In the lavender dawn she could see the diamond dew sparkle on the grass beneath the bedroom window.
Was he up yet?

Rita turned the heat up and then made coffee. While it perked she showered and dressed. Another casual outfit of jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt. She stood in front of the mirror and then turned sideways. She sucked in her stomach and then released it. She winced. It had been a long time since she stared at herself so clinically. She had put on weight. Her new jeans with lycra were deceiving. As long as the zipper went up, she had ignored the pounds. She wondered how far the zipper would go if they were one hundred percent cotton. She made an ugly face at herself in the mirror. Then she laughed. “Who are you fooling, Rita Bellamy?” she asked her reflection.

“No one, not even myself,” came the reply. “I’m almost to the top of the mountain now, and I don’t intend to slide back. I worked too hard.” Satisfied with her comment, she tugged the sweatshirt into place around her less-than-firm derrière and headed for the kitchen. She was who she was; it was as simple as that.

Two scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, two slices of toast, three cups of coffee, and several cigarettes later, Rita felt ready to start her day at the computer. It was six fifteen. She could work till the furniture people arrived and then she would take a break. Once everything was settled in, she would start dinner simmering on the stove and work for the rest of the afternoon. She allowed no time for visitors, for phone calls or meandering thoughts. She had to work, wanted to work. And there was the letter to write to Charles and the phone call she intended for Rachel. She could do both things while the delivery men carried in the furniture. Rachel was always on the run.

Before she sat down to start the day’s work she walked to the door and flung it open. She made a pretense of staring down at the lake and the surrounding grove of pines. The sandy beach and pier were deserted as they should be at this hour of the morning. She let her eyes go to the bend in the lake and on to the Johnson cottage. There was no telltale stream of smoke wafting upward. He was probably sleeping or working. She wondered if he had anything in the house for breakfast. She stood a moment longer, delaying the time she had to start to work. She didn’t realize how intense her gaze was till her eyes started to water. She was forty-three years old and would be forty-four in another month.

Rita wrote industriously, lost in her work for the next four hours. The knock, when it came, startled her. “Come,” she called as she finished typing a sentence.

“Your furniture, ma’am,” a man called through the door.

An hour later all the furniture was in place. For an extra twenty dollars the men assembled the bed and hung the ready-made drapes on the windows. Rita offered coffee and beer. The men accepted and they talked about the weather for a few minutes. When they left, Rita hastily made up the bed with the new sheets and bedspread. She stood back to admire her handiwork. Very colorful. She had chosen a king-size bed; she didn’t know why. The old bed had been a double four-poster. The sheets she had picked from the linen department had brown and orange butterflies flitting here and there. Very fitting, just like me—free, free, free. The bedspread picked up the deep autumn colors and lent character to the knotty pine walls. The thirsty, designer sheet towels were hung in the bathroom adding still more of her own personal tastes, her preferences, her own identity.