Balancing Act (4 page)

The giddiness stayed with Rita till she sat down to write to her son. First she filled out a check for two hundred dollars. She knew it was too much, knew that Charles would view it as a buy-off and smirk to himself. One of these days she would grab him by the scruff of the neck and slap him silly, regardless of the fact that he was almost nineteen years old. She stared at the check for a long time. Finally, she drew a big
X
over it and wrote another one, this one for twenty-five dollars. He was Brett’s son too; let him share the expenses.

She could have written an entire chapter in the time it took her to compose a carefully written letter to her only son. Charles picked everything apart. Once he saw the check he would pour over the letter looking for ways to “zap” her. Certainly, he would expect mention of the football game the day after Thanksgiving. How she dreaded it. Brett would be there with his new wife. It would be her first meeting with the new and second Mrs. Bellamy. Charles expected her to be there and she had promised. Still, she dreaded it. Charles would smirk; Brett would be oblivious to everything and anything except his new wife. Melissa would preen beneath his adoring gaze while she tried to look away to hide her anger and hostility.

It took seven sheets of paper before Rita was satisfied with her draft. She copied over the one-paragraph letter and signed it “Love, Mom.”

Instead of feeling strange and unfamiliar among the new furnishings for the cottage, she was exhilarated. Here was the proof of her first decision in too long a time. The contemporary style had been bought on impulse, on the opposite end of the pendulum from the cozy colonial she and Brett had chosen. Or had it been Brett?

Her computer now sat on a burled oak desk, and she sat on a chrome and beige director’s-style chair that rolled easily on shiny ball casters. Tabletops were bronze tinted glass, and the upholstered pieces were modular, accommodating themselves to different arrangements in the rectangular room. Beiges, browns, startling touches of turquoise and cream. The roll-up blinds were perfect, mobile contraptions to control the light and her need for privacy without yards and yards of dust-collecting fabric. Geometric area rugs brought the pieces together in groupings, and she took delight in the oak-veneered three-piece étagère for holding her books and knickknacks. Rita decided she had done the wise thing in purchasing entire rooms right off the display floor. She had no time for selective buying, and she knew that it was more than possible that faced with hundreds of little choices for the cottage she might have made none.

The second bedroom for Rachel was completed, even to the pressed silk flowers framed in brass and hanging over the low double bed. Splashes of orange and deep brown for the spread, rust and beige for the rug near the bed. She realized now that she much preferred it this way: clean, almost stark, color substituting for bulky furniture. Even the small dining table just off the kitchen, with its cane and chrome chairs, was perfect, utilitarian, and yet giving the illusion of space and sleekness because of its glass tabletop. Arc lamps and two or three startling oriental-flavored pieces, such as the vase holding tall pussy willow branches and the mural-sized picture to hang over the hearth, complemented the decor. Satisfied, more than satisfied, Rita took a tour of the cottage, appreciating everything she had bought and applauding her decision to at last make the cottage her own. Already her head was buzzing with items she would purchase when she next went to town. There were those long-stemmed glasses she had admired in Rose’s, and the florist in town would create something wonderful for the dining table. Perhaps next spring she would look into getting new porch furniture. Something really colorful . . . that was next spring. Before long, winter would set in up here at the lake and snow would cover the ground.

Reluctantly, her mind went back to those times when she and Brett had escaped for those long, intimate weekends to the lake, leaving the children in her mother’s care. Those had been wonderful times, much needed times to reacquaint them with each other. Too often the pressures of Brett’s job in advertising would be overwhelming, and the routine chores of children and home would put a distance between them. Those long, lovely weekends. Brett would sleep late, and she would have breakfast ready for him when he awoke. Those were the best times, making love in the morning, going back to bed in the early evening with the gentle snow falling against the window.

Rita frowned. Perhaps she had been too quick to refuse Camilla and Tom. She remembered how important those times alone with Brett had been and how they had restored their love for one another until again the pressures would build and they would run away together like naughty schoolchildren playing hookey. Her eyes swung to the computer and then to the phone.

No. Not this time. And if she really took a good, honest look at it, those runaway weekends hadn’t been all that terrific. Had they freed her from the humdrum chores it took to keep a home? Hadn’t she just traded one kitchen for another? And before leaving, it was she who had stripped the beds, collected the towels and the laundry to take back to New Jersey. She still had the cooking, the shopping, the laundry, and the feeling that the time spent away from home was more for Brett than herself. It was because of
his
need to get away, the pressures of
his
job that had to be relieved. Her job had been the same regardless of where they went.

Still . . . she looked at the phone again, already mentally dialing Camilla’s number. Determinedly she sat down at the computer and began working. This was
her
time now, and she was doing what
she
wanted. Wasn’t she?

Rita was so deep into her novel she failed to eat lunch and kept working straight through the afternoon. Once she got up for a bottle of diet soda and a quick trip to the bathroom. She rubbed her aching shoulders as she stared out the front door. Again she stared down at the lake and the empty pier. There was no sign of life from the Johnson cottage. She didn’t really expect to see any signs at all. Last night was over and done with. It was the soft, dark night and the three beers that made Twigg take her in his arms. It didn’t mean anything. It was only women who conjured up feelings and emotions when there were none. She was forty-three and should know better.

Thirty-two was so young to be a full professor. Thirty-two was young, period. Forty-three was middle age. Downhill on greased sneakers. Forty-three was the respite before the onset of menopause, a time for face-lifts and night creams, a time to sit back and take stock, a time to stare at the rocking chair and realize it was the enemy. A time to cover the gray hairs, time to buy a chin strap, time to lay aside old ghosts.

She had literally been going down for the count until last evening. With a huge mouthful of air she had surfaced. It was a beautiful world out there, and she wanted to be part of it. And she would, in time. But time could be the biggest enemy of all. Time. Time. Time to call Rachel before she got back to work. She should call Ian but she had nothing to say. Let him call her.

It was late afternoon when Rita pulled the phone toward her and dialed Rachel’s number. Rachel finally answered the phone. Rachel was a textile designer and worked at her apartment three days out of the week. “Mom, how’s it going? Almost finished?” She sounded interested, like she really cared. Rachel understood deadlines.

“Fine, honey, almost done, another week and it will be ready. How are you?”

“Just great, Mom. I met the sweetest guy. I’m going to Miami with him this weekend. He’s in advertising and already has an ulcer at twenty-nine. You’ll love him.”

“Does that mean I finally get to meet one of your young men?” Rita asked caustically. Rachel talked a lot but usually didn’t do what she’d promised.

“Depends on how it works out. He’s not Mr. Perfect. I may move in with him or vice versa to see how compatible we are. Again, I might not. I’ll let you know after the weekend. Anything exciting going on up there?”

Rita listened and felt the vague stirrings of a headache. It was impossible to follow Rachel. This had to be her fifteenth or sixteenth man. “Not much going on here. Rather cool today. The chipmunks are out in full force. I ordered new furniture and it was delivered this morning. It looks nice,” Rita volunteered.

“Mom, Camilla called me last night after your talk with Tom. She was simply beside herself. Mom, she repeated your conversation word-for-word.”

There was a ripe giggle in Rachel’s voice. She approved. “Way to go, Mom. I’m proud of you. She would have dumped those kids on you like she always does and go off and have a good time. That’s why I said no. I take the pill. Camilla should take the pill. It was her choice and now that she has those nasty children, let her take care of them. Mom, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” Rita said softly. “What’s the young man’s name, Rachel?”

“What young man?”

“The one you’re going to Miami with.”

“Oh, him. I had to think for a minute. Patrick, I think. Why, is it important?”

Rita bristled. “Of course it’s important. How can you go away with a man if you don’t even know his name?”

“Mom, don’t spin your wheels. It’s Patrick. Patrick Ryan. I’d like to talk longer, Mom, but Jake is coming over to work on a new design. We’ll probably work through the night. I gotta go now. I’ll see you Thursday.”

“Rachel, I thought Jake moved out.”

“He did, but we’re still friends. This is a working arrangement. If he wants to sack out, that’s okay. Not to worry, Mom. I can handle it. Give my regards to the chipmunks.”

Rita stared at the receiver in her hand. If she didn’t control herself, she was going to get a headache. If Rachel could handle it, then that let her off the hook. She didn’t have to play mother and worry. Rachel was old enough to take care of herself. She wished she knew if her second daughter had any bouts with VD. Evidently not or she would have confided the fact to her mother. Rachel confided everything. Nothing was secret as far as she was concerned. Rachel was right; she was spinning her wheels for nothing.
Nada.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing she
wanted
to do. “Headache, go away,” she muttered as she scanned the papers scattered on her desk. She wondered what the thirty-two-year-old professor would think of her children if he ever met them. Somehow she didn’t think he would be impressed. She wasn’t impressed either. Had she failed them in some way? Was she guilty of untold atrocities that would come out later when they all went through analysis? That was all in the future. This was now. She had to get through the
now
before she could worry about past and future. She liked curly hair, especially with red and gold mixed. Green eyes went with that particular shade of hair. Usually only women were lucky enough to be green-eyed. Twigg Peterson was probably the first and only man she had ever met who had green eyes. She tried to remember the color of Ian Martin’s eyes. She could barely remember what Ian looked like, much less the color of his eyes.

Something strange was happening to her. She was thinking. She was feeling. The process was similar to a sleeping hand coming back to life. Pinpricks of awareness were making her alive again. She had to put Rachel from her mind and concentrate on work and dinner. Dinner. She might as well get it ready now so she could continue to work.

Stew. Stew would be good. The evening was going to be cool, and a good, hot meal always worked wonders. It could simmer for hours, needing no care, no basting, no checking. She refused to admit to herself that she was purposely making stew so there would be something left over to take to her new neighbor. What kind of middle-aged fool would do a thing like that? “My kind,” Rita snapped to the empty kitchen. She switched the satellite radio on and heard Willie Nelson singing the lyrics to some country western tune.

Her step was light as she moved about the kitchen to the beat of the music. The dredged beef cubes sizzled in the hot fat along with the sliced onions and celery, making a tantalizing aroma. She loved the smell of frying onions. Quickly, she rinsed off the vegetables and chopped them. She added water and waited for it to boil before she adjusted the heat and covered the pot. She glanced at her watch and then set the timer so she would remember to add the vegetables. A loaf of crusty, French bread was set on the counter to thaw, along with a stick of butter. There was nothing worse than trying to spread hard butter on hot bread. She wished she still had the microwave oven, but that was one of the first things Brett had carried out to the car the day the movers came. She could always get another one. There had been a time when she lived to eat; now she ate to live, she deceived herself. Food was almost secondary at this stage in her life. Binges didn’t count. Everyone went on food binges at one time or another. Unconsciously, Rita tugged at the navy sweatshirt to make sure it rode down over her stomach and buttocks.

From time to time Rita sniffed the aromatic air and then glanced at her watch. She really didn’t expect him to stop by. He hadn’t said anything about seeing her today, had he? She couldn’t remember. Her raw, new emotions kept getting in the way of her remembering.

I
t was ten minutes after seven when Rita’s stomach growled ominously. She turned off the computer and tidied her desk. Useless draft pages were shoved into one of the new desk drawers. She missed using the old door on the sawhorses. There had been miles of room for all her scattered research notes. This way she would have to hunt and fish for everything she needed.

She sat down to her solitary dinner at seven forty. The French bread was browned perfectly. The stew was hearty and yet tangy. It was the tablespoon of horseradish that gave it a special touch. She ate ravenously, topping off the meal with two cups of black coffee. Lighting a cigarette, she decided to walk off the heavy dinner with a stroll down to the pier. She was almost afraid to open the front door, hating the thought of seeing lights in the Johnson cottage. Lights meant Twigg was there and hadn’t wanted to see her. If she took the stew over as was her original intention, he might think she was ready to initiate something. Better to leave it behind and just take her walk down to the pier as planned. The Johnson cottage was dark. The only light came from a street lamp on the other side of the lake and was so faint and yellowish it was barely distinguishable. Maybe something happened to him. Perhaps she should walk around and knock on the door. That’s what she should do, what she would have done a week ago. It was the mothering instinct in her. Rita caught herself up short. Twigg might be younger, but there was nothing motherly about the way she felt last night or right now for that matter. Tomorrow would be time enough to see if he was all right. A grown man of thirty-two could pick up the phone and ask for help if he needed it. She was listed in the phone book. Perhaps he went into town and hadn’t gotten back. Anything was a possibility and she, for one, certainly shouldn’t be worrying.

Rita walked out to the end of the pier and stood staring across the lake. She shivered in her light jacket. She suddenly felt the loneliness for the first time and wished Twigg were here if only to talk about the dolphins and killer whales. She liked the resonant timbre of his voice, the lazy, confident way he moved. She liked to watch his slender hands that he waved about to express a point. How well she remembered the feel of those hands on the back of her neck and the way they stroked her cheeks. He was a gentle man, of that she was sure. He was Twigg Peterson, marine biologist. Why couldn’t she say she was Rita Bellamy, writer? She sat down on the edge of the pier. I’m an ex-wife, a mother, a best-selling writer, she mused to herself. She stared across the water and it hit her like a bolt of lightning. Those are things I do, not who I am. I’m Rita Bellamy. Me, Rita, the person.

Something strange was happening to her, had been happening to her since she arrived. She was looking at things differently, feeling things.

She felt comfortable sitting here on the pier thinking about her life and where it was going. For the first time in nearly two years she felt comfortable with herself. She felt comfortable with her wants, and right now she wanted to talk to Twigg Peterson. She debated going back to the cottage for the stew and realized it was nothing more than a prop. She didn’t need a prop. She didn’t want a prop. She slithered sideways and got to her knees and then to her feet. There were still no lights on in the Johnson cottage.

Rita lengthened her stride and almost ran to the cottage. She rapped loudly and waited for some response. When none came, she knocked a second time, this time so loud her knuckles smarted. There was still no answer. Without hesitating, Rita opened the door and peered into the dimness. There was no sign of anyone. God, what if he was in the bedroom with a woman? She swallowed hard. There was only one way to find out. She reached for the wall switch and the living room came to life. Carefully, she tiptoed to the bedroom and inched the door open. Twigg lay sprawled across the bed fully dressed in the clothes he had been wearing the night before. Was it possible he had slept through the day? She had to know if he was all right before she left. She inched her way over the polished plank floor and dropped soundlessly to her knees. Satisfied that his breathing was deep and regular. She was getting to her feet when a long arm snaked out and reached for her. Caught off guard she floundered and then fell on top of a laughing Twigg. “I may be a heavy sleeper, but not that heavy. I was aware of you the minute you walked in the door.”

“I wanted to be sure you were all right. I didn’t see any lights and I thought . . .”

“That your sausage and peppers made me sick.” Twigg grinned, his grip on her arm secure.

“No. I just wanted to see you and talk to you,” Rita said honestly.

“Talk,” Twigg said, rolling over on one elbow. His grip never lessened as he brought his face within inches of her own. Rita could smell his warm, sleepy breath as he stared into her eyes. She felt an exultant thump of warm delight as she saw the glowing, ardent look in his gaze.

Rita tried to inch back a bit. “Now that I know you’re all right I have to get back to work. Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow if you’re not too busy?” Rita asked impulsively as she struggled to withdraw her arm. Damn, she had forgotten how long his arms were.

“You’re a damn beautiful woman, Rita Bellamy,” Twigg said quietly.

Positioned half on the bed and half off, Rita felt awkward and flustered. She had always found compliments of any kind hard to handle. Certainly, no one had ever called her beautiful, not even Brett. She became more aware of her surroundings, the double, maple, four-poster and the man staring at her. But more than that she was aware of her thumping heart and her fast-beating pulse. She had to say something to this man who wanted more than she was prepared to give. She tried to pull away. His grip was firm.

“I want you in this bed next to me. You know that, don’t you?” Twigg said quietly. “I think I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman before.” Twigg was shocked at how true the words were. He did want her. He did desire her. Goddamn it, he
liked
her and that was something he couldn’t say about too many women in his circle of friends.

Rita met his unflinching gaze. “You barely know me. Twigg, you’re thirty-two years old. I’m forty-three years old, ten years older than you. Why, you’re not that much older than my children.” Had she responded correctly? She had come here to talk, maybe have him kiss her again. She had no intention of playing games or teasing. Did women still tease men, she wondered.

“Age is a number. I have a number and you have a number. So what. We’re people with feelings and desires. Lady, I have very strange feelings where you’re concerned and I sure as hell do desire you.”

“A number. Yes, you’re right. Age is a number but my children . . .” she broke off lamely.

“Your children have nothing to do with this, with you or me. This is something that is strictly between you and me. Don’t clutter up the issue with children.”

“I don’t know if I can do that. I want to be friends with you. I do feel something for you, but I . . . this is new to me, and I just don’t think I’m ready to . . . to . . .”

Twigg studied her. There was no pretense about this woman. Tricks, schemes, maneuvers, and all the deviousness that made for beguilement were not part of her. He released his hold on her arm and she jerked it to her side. “Look, Rita, I’m no skirt chaser, and I’m a far cry from being a womanizer. I met you, I like you, and this is more or less a natural progression of events. Dammit, I really am tuned into you for some reason. It hit me the minute I saw you on the pier. I’m being honest with you.”

“And I’m trying to be honest with you,” Rita said softly.

“Come here, I want to tell you something. Look at me,” he commanded gently. “I take my relationships seriously. I want you to understand that I am not what the kids call a jock. I agree I haven’t known you all that long, but I want to get to know you better. My body is telling me it wants to go to bed with you. I think your body is telling you the same thing. That’s physical. We can deal with that when it’s time. I promise I will not take advantage of you or try to trick you unless it’s to get you to feed me. I’m a lousy cook. I can’t be any more up-front than that.”

There was a slight misting in Rita’s blue eyes. “I think I can accept that,” she said lightly. “Come on, I made some stew. I was going to bring it over with me, but I thought you might think I was using that as an excuse to see you. I realized I didn’t need an excuse. I wanted to see you so I came. But, it’s time to go back.”

They walked arm in arm back to her cottage, laughing and kicking at stray pebbles. “How’s the book coming?” Twigg questioned.

“Fine. My agent is coming up tomorrow evening to take back what I’ve finished. He’ll be spending the night. In the spare bedroom,” she said hastily. “I got some furniture today.”

Twigg spun Rita around till she was within inches of him. “You don’t owe me any explanations. I don’t want you to sound defensive when you talk with me. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Rita said. They went inside and she turned the burner on under the stew.

Later, Rita sat across from Twigg, drinking a cup of coffee while he finished the last of the stew. “I think you’re a hell of a lady, Rita Bellamy, and a good cook in the bargain. Let’s take a walk around the lake so I can work off all that French bread.”

The quarter-moon bathed the sandy beach in a silvery glow as Rita and Twigg strolled along, her arm linked in the crook of his arm. She felt happy, alive, but a bit apprehensive. Conversation was casual, beginning with the contrary weather of the Poconos and going on to Twigg’s sleeping an entire day, to Rita’s children. She started off with Camilla and eased into Charles, leaving Rachel for last. Rachel always needed so much explaining.

“Whatever Rachel is or isn’t, you are not to blame. She’s her own person, Rita. For some reason you seem to blame yourself and I can see the guilt all over your face. All of them are adults now, even your son,” Twigg said lightly. “You have to cut the strings, Rita, and when you cut them, let them stay cut. They have lives and you have a life of your own. You must be very proud of yourself,” he said, easing out of the painful subject of her children.

“I am. I think I’m what you call a late bloomer. I’m doing something I love doing and getting paid while I do it. As they say in encounter groups, I think I’m ‘realizing my potential.’ ”

They were on the way back and nearing the path that wound beneath giant hanging hemlock trees that, if followed, would bring them up and around to the back of Rita’s cottage. It was eerie in the darkness, but down the center of the path was a white flood of moonlight. Prickles of electricity raced down Rita’s arms as she tightened her hold on Twigg.

His embrace was neither expected nor unexpected. It was natural. Rita felt herself melting into his embrace as though she had been doing it for hundreds of years. He felt good. He felt right. His arms tightened, bringing her closer to him. No words were spoken, none were necessary. Gently, she felt his lips in her hair, on her cheek and throat. Tenderly, his fingers lifted her chin, raising her lips to his own. He was pressing her closer to his chest, crushing her breasts against him. His body was hard, muscular. Rita’s arms encircled his back. Without reason or logic she felt safe and secure in his embrace, and she faced her tumultuous emotions with directness and truth. She couldn’t help it, she wanted this man.

Their eyes met in the moonlight and without a trace of embarrassment she was aware she could drown in that incredibly dark gaze and emerge again as the woman she wanted and needed to become.

Seeing her moist lips part and offer themselves to him, he lowered his mouth to hers, touching her lips, tasting their sweetness, drawing from them a kiss, gentle, yet passionate. As the kiss deepened, searing flames licked her body, the pulsating beat of her heart thundered in her ears.

When he released her, his eyes searched hers for an instant, then time became eternal for Rita. From somewhere deep within her a desire to stay forever in his arms, to feel the touch of his mouth upon hers, began to crescendo, threatening to erupt like fireworks. Thick, dark lashes closed over her blue eyes and she heard her own breath come in ragged little gasps as she boldly brought her mouth once more to his, offering herself, kissing him deeply, searchingly, searing this moment upon her memory.

She kissed him as she had never kissed another man, a kiss that made her knees weak and her head dizzy. She knew, in that endless moment, that somehow this man belonged to her in a way no other man could ever belong to her, for however brief this time together would be. She had found him, a man who could make her feel like the woman she always knew she was.

Twigg’s fingers were gentle as they danced through her hair. He sensed what she was feeling. There are needs of the soul that go beyond the hungers of the body. His voice was deep, husky, little more than a whisper. “Will you come with me so that we can make this a night for all eternity?”

He waited for her answer, wanted to hear her say it, commit herself to it. Wordless agreement would not do for him, he realized, not with this woman whose skin was so soft and fragrant beneath his lips and whose eyes were lowered with shyness. “Tell me, Rita. It can be wonderful between us. I know it can and I want to show you.”

He felt her indecision, was aware that a part of her had withdrawn from him. Intuitively, he knew that she had not been with another man since her divorce and that she felt his touch was strange and alien. He was tapping at the walls of her insecurity and he did not want to rush her, did not want to frighten her away, yet his own burning need for her prompted him to persuade, to insist. “Tell me, Rita,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat, sending little tremors vibrating through her.

“Yes, yes,” she whispered huskily. Was that voice her own? A voice deep and singing with desire, a woman’s voice. “Twigg,” she murmured against his lips, feeling them soft and moist on her own, “I want you to make love to me.”