Balancing Act (8 page)

Don’t be a Dumb Dora! she told herself. If a child of seventeen can think about protecting herself from an unwanted pregnancy, certainly her mother can! Almost viciously, she dialed the phone and hastily made an appointment to see the doctor. She nearly choked when she told the nurse she needed an immediate appointment, and it was for a birth control device. The voice on the other end remained cool and businesslike. God, did they always get emergency phone calls from forty-three-year-old women demanding birth control so their lovers wouldn’t get them pregnant? Four o’clock. Today? Tomorrow? No, today. Rita’s palms became sweaty and she could barely speak. It was unthinkable she was actually doing this! Cold. Contrived. Hell no! She finally breathed relief. The word was
smart. Adult. Responsible.

 

 

There was a little discomfort and cramping after the insertion of the IUD, but the doctor had told her to expect it and it didn’t worry her. It had occurred to Rita as she sat in the nearly empty waiting room that if she had been home in New Jersey, no amount of frantic calling would have gotten her a same-day appointment with her own doctor. Thank heavens for small towns.

She was to refrain from sexual activity for at least twenty-four hours, the physician had said sternly, and she had felt herself blush. Did he know? Did it show that she had an ardent lover who was only thirty-two years old and very impetuous?

Twigg was coming for dinner, and Rita wondered what she would do if he wanted to make love. One did not just come out and announce to one’s lover that a crazy loop of plastic had been inserted into one’s vagina that was meant to prevent the embarrassment of an unwanted pregnancy and forbid one from indulging oneself that particular evening. Did one?

It was over the salad that Rita blurted out her news. Twigg sat there, fork in midair, and stared, astonished. Suddenly, he burst out laughing. Her innocence was amazing, and he was amused by it. But he was also deeply touched, for two reasons. First, that she thought enough of him to confide something so personal. Second, that he knew he was her only lover, something he had not dared ask.

Standing up, he went to her quickly, putting his arms around her and kissing the back of her neck in an impetuous gesture. “Rita, sweet, I think you’re wonderful.”

“Do you? Even though I sit here and confess my naivete, I’m having growing pains, Twigg, and they hurt. I’ve been so protected all my life, and now I know I must face the fact that I’m a grown woman and accept responsibility for it.”

“That’s what’s so wonderful. That you’ll let me stand around to watch and share it with you.”

Later that night, when all the world should have been asleep, Twigg held her in his arms, smoothing his hands over her naked body and just holding her. They talked, they laughed and shared secrets. They touched and caressed and kissed, but the fires of their passions were banked and kept to softly glowing embers. She knew he wanted her, he told her so, and the hard evidence of his desire was pressed between her legs. She learned there were other and very meaningful ways to express tenderness and passion without the act of intercourse. And all of them left her cheeks pink and lips ruddy and feeling completely loved. Twigg’s brand of loving.

 

 

It was late in the afternoon when Rachel pulled up the driveway, horn blaring to herald her arrival. Rachel never did anything without noise and fanfare, and the more the better, Rita smiled to herself. Only that morning Rachel had called to say she was making a “surprise” visit before she winged off to Miami with “whatz-izname.”

Rita shut down her computer when she heard the Jaguar sports car in the drive. She enjoyed Rachel’s outrageous company, and while she might secretly disapprove of some parts of the girl’s lifestyle, she would never condemn her own child.

Rachel was a striking young woman, sable-haired and model-thin, with soft feminine curves in only the right places. The slinky blouse and the painted-on jeans with designer label made Rita’s eyes bulge. How did she walk and bend in them? Carefully, Rachel giggled.

“How goes it, Mummy dear? Slaving away in the boonies with no one but the chipmunks to keep you company?” Not waiting for a reply, she asked, “What’s for dinner? Spaghetti. I knew it. It smells delicious, as always. I could eat spaghetti seven days a week.”

Rita poured two glasses of orange juice, wondering if she was pleased that Rachel had decided at the spur of the moment to come up to the lake. Worse, and contrary to all she thought maternal, she wondered exactly how long her daughter intended to stay. Not that she would ever ask her to leave. Everything would simply have to be put on a back burner for the present, or at least while Rachel was here. Everything included Twigg. Rita wasn’t ready to reveal that relationship to her offspring, if she ever would be, not even to high-flying, free-winging Rachel.

Mother and daughter were settled next to the fireplace sipping their juice. “I really love what you’ve done to the cottage, Mum. Did you have a decorator come in and do it for you? It’s a glad and far cry from your usual stuffy choices, Mum. Did I ever tell you I never liked chintz and antiques and overstuffed chairs? And I always hated those ridiculous tester beds you had in the room Camilla and I shared at home.”

Rita looked blankly at her child. She had always thought she had furnished their home with love and comfort. A fine time to discover that her child had never appreciated the furnishings and had actually hated the beautiful antique beds she had refinished and stained especially with her daughters in mind. Rachel was so opinionated, had always been, even as a child, and Rita couldn’t help but wonder what else Rachel had disliked and hated while she was growing up. Something else to go on the back burner, she supposed, deciding not to pursue the subject. But it hurt terribly, to know that her efforts had not been appreciated. “How is everything, Rachel? Have you seen Camilla and the children?”

“Mother, you know Camilla is pissed with me. I knew you were going to ask, so when I stopped for gas on the way up here, I called her, from a phone booth. She was cool, very cool. I asked about the monsters and she said they were fine. Tom is fine. The dog is fine. What that means is the dark stuff hit the fan when you refused to babysit. Not to worry. Camilla will come around. She has to pout first. I’m surprised at you, Mum, Camilla was always your favorite, you should know how she does things.”

“Rachel, that’s not true. I have no favorites among my children. I’ve never shown favoritism and you know it.”

“Mum, it doesn’t matter. We’re each our own person. Camilla is a dud. Charles has potential, if you don’t smother him. Daddy, well, Daddy wanted something and he went for it. Now you, Mother, are another brand of tea.”

“When are you leaving for Miami?” Rita asked, trying to change the subject. It was because Camilla was the oldest. A parent sometimes felt something special for the firstborn. It didn’t mean the other children were loved any less.

“Tomorrow, the plane leaves at five ten. I’ll be back Monday morning. Mom, they picked my designs for the new trade show. A hefty bonus. That means I can start paying you back. Will one hundred fifty dollars a month be okay to start? If I pick up the top prize, I can pay you back in one lump sum.”

“Fine. Whenever. Don’t cut yourself short. You know I was glad I could help you. More than that I’m proud of you and appreciate your effort to repay me. Have you seen your father?”

“No. But I talked to him a week or so ago. He doesn’t call. I do my duty and try to call once every ten days or so. He really has nothing to say to me. I think he’s embarrassed. I asked him if he heard from Charles and he said no. Camilla calls him every day and makes sure the kids get on the phone. I just know Daddy is thrilled to be reminded that he has three grandchildren when he just married a twenty-two-year-old chick.”

“Rachel, that’s no way to talk about your father.”

Rachel’s wide, blue eyes were innocent. “Why?”

“I really don’t want to go into it now. Why don’t you take a walk around the lake or go outside and rake some leaves for me? I want to finish something I’m working on, and then we’ll have dinner. We can spend the evening together. Ian was here and he brought me some new books.”

“Sounds good to me, Mummy. Are you cooking the long spaghetti or the shells?”

“Shells. Two boxes of them so I can put on another five pounds.” Rita grinned.

“You
are
getting a little hefty. Must be all this good clean living up here. You just sit and work and then sit and eat, right? That’ll do it. You’re at that age where it all goes to the middle. You should give some thought to working it off. Join an exercise class! It’s bad enough being a grandmother at forty-three, but a fat grandmother is a no-no. By the way, I think you need a touch-up. You don’t want to be a fat and gray-haired grandmother. I’ll do it for you tonight, if you like. Okay?”

Rita nodded as she sucked in her stomach. “Dinner is in an hour. Don’t get lost.”

“That’s what you used to say when I was a kid. How can I get lost? This place is about as big as a penny and I know it like the back of my hand. Listen, I saw smoke coming out of the Johnson chimney. Are they here?”

Rita swallowed hard. “No, they have a tenant.” Leave it to Rachel; don’t ask questions, she prayed. She turned her back on her daughter and turned on the computer. Her shoulders were tense as she tried to work with her stomach sucked in.

Two hours later Rita glanced down at her watch. Rachel should have been back by now. It was almost dark outside. From the bedroom window she had a clear view of the lake and the Johnson cottage. She would not spy. She would not look out that window to look for her daughter.

Bustling into the kitchen, she busied herself with the sauce and setting the table, laying out napkins, putting water on to boil for the macaroni. She cleaned the coffeepot and measured out coffee. Mixed a salad and slit the Italian garlic bread and stuck it in the oven, only to take it out again. Where was Rachel?

Another half hour crawled by as Rita drank two cups of steaming coffee. She would not spy. She could throw open the front door, walk out onto the deck, and shout Rachel’s name as she had when Rachel was a child. No, she wouldn’t do that either. Rachel was all grown, a woman, used to making her own choices and decisions.

Unconsciously, she sucked in her gut and marched into the living room. She felt angry. And guilty. What if Rachel had walked up to the Johnson cottage and knocked on the door and introduced herself? That was Rachel’s style. What if they were both inside, laughing and talking? What if Rachel was telling tales about her childhood, making it perfectly obvious to Twigg that Rita was really too old for him? Rachel was spontaneous and charming and totally disarming.

This is ridiculous! Rita snapped to herself. Twigg knows exactly how old I am . . . no, that wasn’t what was eating her. The truth was, she felt threatened by her own daughter who was young and lovely. And her maternal pride was prompting her to think Rachel was everything and more a man like Twigg would find to his tastes.

T
he front door opened and Rachel walked in, Twigg behind her. Rita’s heart flopped and then righted itself. She forced a smile to her lips. “Hello, Twigg. I see you’ve met my daughter.”

“I’ve invited him for dinner, Mother. He said you were friends so I didn’t think you would mind. When you make spaghetti, you make lots. Twigg was sitting on his front porch when I walked by. He thought I was you. I don’t know how he could have made such a mistake.” She laughed, a derisive note in her tone. “I don’t
look
anything like you!” Rita sucked in her stomach again.

“That’s nice. I hope you like spaghetti, Twigg.” How brittle and dry her voice sounded. “Love it.” Did his voice sound apologetic? Again, Rita tucked in her stomach.

“Can I get either of you something? I have a few more things to do in the kitchen. Coffee, beer, wine?”

“Nothing for me,” Twigg said quietly.

“Me neither, Mummy. I was telling Twigg about your grandchildren on the way over. Tell him I didn’t lie, that they really are called ‘the monsters.’ ”

“They’re mischievous, like most children,” Rita said defensively. Why did she have to call her a grandmother in front of Twigg?
Because,
an inner voice responded,
she doesn’t know you slept with him, and she is only saying what she would say under any circumstance. You’re nitpicking, Rita.

She attacked the salad greens with a vengeance as she chopped and sliced them into a large wooden bowl. She wondered what they were talking about in the living room. It sounded too quiet. Knowing Rachel as well as she did, it didn’t have to mean they were talking. They could be doing other . . . She sucked in her stomach again as she bent down to take the garlic bread from the oven. She set it on a rack to cool before slicing. Waiting impatiently for the pasta to boil, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to enjoy dinner. Rachel was so young and beautiful. God, she couldn’t be jealous of her own child, could she?

She called them for dinner and sat down. Twigg was opposite her, and Rachel was at the end of the table.

Rita picked at her dinner not wanting to eat the heavy pasta. She stirred the salad around on her plate and ate a piece of lettuce from time to time as she listened to Rachel and Twigg talk about the tennis match at Forest Hills. “As far as I’m concerned, Djokovic has great form, do you agree?” Twigg nodded as he wolfed down the meal.

“I think Federer has about had it—he’s such a show-off. Mother, you aren’t eating, how come? Don’t tell me I really got to you with that business of getting too fat. I was just teasing you.”

Twigg stared across at Rita, his eyes wide and thoughtful, even puzzled. She hadn’t said much, not that her loquacious daughter gave her much of a chance. “How did the writing go today? I don’t mind telling you I had a hard time,” he said enthusiastically. “I have to admire you, the way you can string words together. Two words at one time is okay, but give me three or four and I have to rewrite.”

“It will get easier as you go along. Don’t be so quick to discard what you write. Usually, the first thing you do is the best. You just spin your wheels after that. That’s the way it works for me, anyway.”

Rachel stared from her mother to Twigg. A glimmer of comprehension appeared in her wide-eyed gaze. Her mother was uncomfortable. Twigg was at ease and concerned with Rita’s silence. He was going out of his way to include her in the dinner conversation. And the way he got up and opened the refrigerator, as though he knew just where everything was.

Hating to be ignored, Rachel interrupted the conversation. She was aware that her mother was annoyed with her and that Twigg had forgotten she was there. “How long are you staying at the lake, Twigg?” Rachel asked pointedly.

“I’m not sure,” Twigg replied evasively.

“Mother?”

It took Rita several moments until she realized the one word was a question.

“I haven’t definitely decided. It depends on how soon I finish and if there are going to be any further rewrites. There’s no reason for me to hurry back with Charles away at college.”

“But, Mother, it’s going to be getting cold. You don’t like the mountains in the winter. You know how you like to snuggle in with your woolly bathrobe early in the evening.”

Rita almost laughed as she met Twigg’s eyes. His bright green gaze said he could offer other ways to keep warm.

Rachel felt her eyes narrow. “You won’t mind then if I come up to keep you company after the trade show, will you? I’ll have some time off before I have to get back into the swing of things. It’s the week of Charles’s big game.”

It was on the tip of Rita’s tongue to say yes, she
did
mind, she minded
very much
! If there was one thing Rachel had never done, that was to spend more than one day in her mother’s company, becoming definitely antsy to get back to the city and her own lifestyle. She shrugged. “If I’m still here, of course you can come up. However, you don’t like the mountains in the winter either.”

“Mother, how can you say that! I ski every winter. Do you ski, Twigg?”

“Some,” Twigg answered as he pushed his plate away. “I go to Tahoe a couple of times a year. Do you ski, Rita?”

Rachel laughed. “Mother ski! Mummy’s idea of exercise and sports is to watch it on TV. Right, Mother?”

Rita forced a smile to her lips. Rachel couldn’t be doing this deliberately, or could she? The thought of the two snowmobiles she had bought on impulse anticipating wondrous hours of her and Twigg skimming over the snow nearly choked her.

Her tone was light, casual, when she replied. “Rachel’s right. I’m a creature of comfort. I don’t do any of the things you
young
people do.” She bit back the urge to mention her secret of the snowmobiles. “Why don’t you take your coffee and go into the living room. I’ll clear away here and join you when I’m finished.”

“I’ll help you, Rita. It’s the least I can do after such a good dinner.”

“I can see you don’t know Mom very well. If there’s one place you stay away from, it’s her kitchen. C’mon, we’ll do what she wants. If you leave them we can do them later, Mother, while I’m dyeing your hair,” Rachel called over her shoulder.

“I changed my mind, Rachel. I decided I like the little bit of gray I have. Go along, I can finish up here.”

Twigg’s eyes frantically sought hers in apology for the second time. Rita smiled before she turned to the sink to run the water.

The minute the door closed behind them, Rita wanted to smash something. Hot, scorching anger engulfed her. She couldn’t ever remember being so angry. Angry at herself, angry at Rachel. But never angry with Twigg.

Rita washed and dried the dishes slowly, delaying the time when she would have to go back into the living room. She cleaned the coffeepot and got it ready for the morning. She carried out the trash and put a new liner in the wastebasket. She swept minuscule crumbs from the floor and then washed off the dustpan; she didn’t know why she did it. She looked at the yellow plastic scoop and grimaced. Whoever heard of washing a dustpan? There was nothing else to do but light a cigarette. So far she had killed thirty-seven minutes.

She almost bumped into Twigg when she pushed the swinging door that led to the living room. He was so near, so close, she thought she could hear the beat of his heart. It was probably her own. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“I’ve got to be going, Rita. I want to transcribe some tapes and I promised myself an early start in the morning. Thanks for dinner.” He squeezed her shoulder intimately before he left. Rachel waved good-bye and Rita walked to the door and opened it for him. “Good night, Twigg.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Rachel mocked after the door closed. “Mother, is something going on here I don’t know about?” Not waiting for a reply to her ridiculous question, she rushed on. “He’s fascinating. Wouldn’t you know I had to come to the woods to find a really titillating man. He’s not married either. How old would you say he is, Mom?”

“In his early thirties I would imagine.”

“Just right.” Rachel grinned. “If you’re serious about not dyeing your hair, I think I’ll turn in. I’m beat. Don’t forget to wake me early. Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Rachel.”

Rita walked back to the kitchen for a wineglass and a bottle of wine. She sat in front of the fire drinking steadily. He skied, he played tennis. He was thirty-two. He didn’t take vitamins with extra iron like she did. He was lean and fit. He was only a few years older than her children. He was young. God, thirty-two was so young. A set of tennis would kill her. Skiing would make her a basket case.

Rita nursed the bottle of wine until she was tipsy. “Drunk!” she admitted rebelliously. Her last conscious thought before she fell into bed fully clothed was that it wasn’t fair. Nothing about any of this was fair—from Twigg, to Ian, to Rachel, to herself.

It was early morning; Rita could tell from the filtered light coming in between the drawn drapes. She half heard Rachel when she poked her head into the room to announce, “It’s a good thing I have my own built-in alarm or I would still be out. See you soon, Mother. I’ll call you when I get back from Miami.”

“Regards to Patrick,” Rita mumbled as she slid beneath the covers.

“Who? Oh, Patrick. Right! See you, Mom. Say good-bye to Twigg for me.”

 

 

The golden idyllic days of autumn were upon them. October had fulfilled the promise of an Indian summer—warm, balmy days and cool, crisp nights. The landscape became a tapestry of golds, oranges, and reds, wild and abandoned color to match the abandon of Rita’s emotions.

Her novel was completed and she knew it was good. Via Ian, it had been sent to the copy editor with no revisions due. Time was her own and she reveled in it. Until the first of the year she had only to research and set up her next outline.

Twigg was still busy with his project and hoped to be finished before Christmas. Christmas! Had another year rolled nearly to the end? Neither of them could believe it. Had it only been just after Labor Day that they had met? Only weeks ago, really. How had they come to know one another so well, learned so much about the other? Concentration, Twigg had laughingly said.

Writing was new to him. Theses and papers published through the university came easily enough, writing for an audience of students and biologists already quite familiar with his subject of marine life. However, preparing for a larger, less-informed audience was totally different, and he had come to depend upon Rita to review his work, encouraging her to be free with her criticism and she was, boldly. Her point of view was valuable to him, and she would not diminish it with flattery instead of honesty. Recognizing this, Twigg followed her advice where she suggested he clarify certain passages.

Rita liked helping him this way, instinctively knowing he never would have asked if she were still busy with work of her own. It was another side of their relationship and their growing dependence upon one another, and she enjoyed it immensely.

She was learning she could allow herself to be dependent upon Twigg for companionship and fun and a sharing of interests. Yet it was a new kind of dependency that required nothing of her, only her desire to be with him and he with her. There was none of the feeling that he might begin directing her life, press his opinions upon her, or try to protect her the way Ian had done. And when her opinion differed from his, there was none of the bitter derision there had been with Brett. With Twigg, Rita could be together with him, feel he was a part of her life and she of his, and yet remain an entity herself.

The day after Rachel’s departure, Rita had contemplated her life. She had thought about Twigg, her children, and her grandchildren, but, mostly, she had thought about herself. This alone was a breakthrough as far as she was concerned. Too often for too many years she had shirked the effort of coming to know herself the way she was today, now, instead of remembering herself as she had been twenty years before when her role in life was clear-cut and simple. Wife and mother.

She attempted to decide if a diet and weight loss would make her happy. If so, would she be doing it for herself or for Twigg’s approval? Then she made the decision to diet and watch her weight because it was what
she
wanted. Her cigarette habit was consciously cut in half, going down to less than a pack a day and switching to a low tar brand. Soon, with effort and willpower, she planned to kick the habit altogether. She lived with her decisions for several days before she started her new routines, wanting to be certain she was comfortable with what she was doing. She made no mention of it to Twigg nor to her children when she spoke with them on the phone. She believed her decisions were wise and healthful and would benefit her in the end.

It was Twigg who invited her to come jogging with him, and at first she demurred, claiming it was too rigorous. But she did take walks, long ones, while he worked on his articles, and she liked the fresh bloom of color that was returning to her cheeks. Often, when he noticed her through his window, he would join her, silently urging her to quicken her pace. Now, four weeks later, she was actually jogging with him a quarter way around the lake and seeing her reward on the bathroom scale.

The pretense of separate living quarters had been abandoned by mutual consent. Twigg used the Johnson cottage for work and had moved into Rita’s cottage with her.

It was delicious waking in the morning and finding herself in his arms. It was heaven to no longer eat dinner alone. Reading, watching TV, or just sitting by the fire talking, everything was wonderful with Twigg.

Their lovemaking had reached new heights of intimacy and freedom. He encouraged her to be the aggressor when the mood struck her, and yet he never took her for granted. His delight with her seemed to increase and take on new colorations. His lusty demands in bed left her feeling desirable and every inch a woman. He told her he couldn’t get enough of her and proved it by his ardor and attention.