Balancing Act (9 page)

They had gone into the city together three times. Once for Rita to lunch with her publicist and twice for Twigg to meet with Ian and an interested publisher. Each time Rita had seen and appreciated another side of him. She liked the way he put people at their ease, thoroughly enjoying their conversation and learning about their interests outside their work. He fit in. Simply put, but true. The young female publicist had winked surreptitiously at Rita, and the publisher, known to be a hard-nosed, opinionated man, had been charmed by him. Twigg easily won respect and a handsome publishing contract into the bargain.

Rita poured another cup of coffee when she saw Twigg running up the path after a morning’s work. “You’re invited to dinner tonight,” he told her, carefully sipping the steaming brew. “My place around six. Nothing special, steaks and salad, I suppose. I’ll run into town and pick everything up. I’m having some guests, good friends of mine, and I know you’ll enjoy them.” Suddenly his eyes locked with hers, concern wrinkling his brows. “You will come, won’t you? It’s short notice and I know my cooking isn’t the best . . .”

Rita laughed delightedly. “Of course I’ll come,” she assured him, rewarded by his smile. Inwardly, there was a note of alarm. She wasn’t quite certain she was ready to share him with his friends or to have their solitude invaded. Because of this, she had tried to keep her own children away, and in Camilla’s case it was met with sullen disappointment.

“You’ll like them, both of them. They live in New York and they’ll probably stay the night because we’re known to stay up to the wee hours talking. It’s sort of a celebration for the publishing contract. Both of them are eager to meet you, especially Samantha, who proclaims herself to be your most ardent fan.”

“You’ve told them about me?” she said weakly.

“Of course. You’re my lady, Rita, and very important to me. I want my friends to meet you, to know you. I would be selfish to keep you all to myself.” His hand reached over the table, capturing hers. “They’re very good friends, and very discreet. I promise you. But if you’re uneasy about meeting them or having them know about us, I’ll call them back and tell them it’s off.” He spoke quietly but without a trace of judgment. He was simply concerned for her feelings and would sacrifice an evening with his friends if it was what she wanted.

Feeling terribly selfish and yet somehow proud that he had admitted to his relationship with her, Rita grasped his fingers and squeezed. “You’re very sweet, Twigg, and terribly sensitive to my feelings and I appreciate it. Truly. Certainly want to meet your friends, especially if one of them is a fan.”

“Samantha said she was getting all her books together to have you autograph them.” He laughed. “You’ll find her somewhat exuberant but altogether charming. Is there anything I can get for you in town? Would you like to come with me?”

“No, on both counts. If you’re going to have guests, I’d better give my hair a wash. I can’t disappoint my public, you know.”

Twigg kissed her soundly, telling her they’d have time for their walk when he came back from town. Then, in a teasing and seductive voice, he said, “Of course, if you can think of some other kind of exercise while I’m gone, I want you to know I’m open to suggestions.”

A delicious shiver ran up her spine. It was heaven being wanted by this man, and she was drunk with the power of her own sensuality.

After he left, Rita allowed herself to frown into her coffee cup. She was presented with the problem of what to wear that evening. Slacks, skirt, jeans? If she knew who these friends were, how old they were, she would know what to wear. There it was again, the age problem. She had every reason to suppose that Twigg’s friends were as young as he, younger even. And the name Samantha brought to mind a young, slim girl with long blond hair and not much on her mind. That was unfair! And ridiculous! Here she was picturing a flower child of the sixties just because of the name Samantha. If Twigg had thought his friends would not like her or that she would be uncomfortable with them, he never would have invited them up to the lake. You’ve got to begin trusting, Rita, my dear, she chastised herself, both yourself and others.

At five after six Rita knocked on the door to the Johnson cottage. Twigg’s friends had arrived, she knew. Their car was parked beside his in the drive. She could hear the sound of voices from within. Earlier that afternoon, Twigg had returned from town and they had taken their walk. When she offered to help him with dinner or straightening the cottage, he had refused, telling her to take the time to make herself beautiful. After a long leisurely bath Rita had decided upon gray slacks and a bulky turtleneck sweater of banded pastel colors from beige to pink to lavender. Her chestnut hair gleamed in soft, collar-length waves, and she carried a bottle of Twigg’s favorite wine. It had taken all of her courage to overcome her sudden shyness and actually walk the path to his cottage.

Twigg himself opened the door, smiling approvingly at her and kissing her lightly in thanks for the presented wine. He made informal introductions to Eric and Samantha Donaldson.

“You’ve seen Eric on the six o’clock news, Rita. That’s why he looks so familiar. Samantha used to teach pottery and ceramics at the university; that’s how I came to know them.”

Immediately, Rita was brought into their fold. Eric was a handsome man, dressed casually in slacks and a hand-knit sweater, and when she commented on it, Samantha smilingly took the credit.

Samantha, Rita was glad to see, was a far cry from the “flower child” she had envisioned. A tall, slim woman with Titian hair and an obvious flare for fashion, Rita liked her immediately because of her charming smile and warmth.

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” Samantha said brightly, without gushing as so many did when meeting a renowned novelist. “I so enjoy your work and want you to know it.”

Rita was pleased to know this stylish and graceful woman liked her work. She spied several of her older titles on the coffee table and remembered what Twigg had said about Samantha wanting them autographed.

“Twigg has been telling us about you,” Eric supplied, smoothing a hand over his iron-gray hair. “He admires you greatly.”

“That’s my stuffy, news commentator husband for you, Rita.” Samantha smiled. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you since Twigg first told us about you, and you’re everything he said you were.” There was an embarrassed moment. What had Twigg told them? How much had he said? Twigg slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him, easing the awkward moment.

“We’re going to sit right here while the
men
fix the dinner,” Samantha announced. “If you need help, don’t call us, call Betty Crocker,” she told them as she pointed them in the direction of the kitchen. “And whatever you do, do it quickly. I’m starved!”

Sitting beside Samantha, Rita felt herself relax. Samantha was a friendly and talkative woman, enthusiastic and knowledgeable. It wasn’t long before they were discussing acquaintances they had in common in New York and favorite recipes for spaghetti sauce. As an artist in ceramics, Samantha was familiar with the antique pottery Rita collected and was impressed with the author’s knowledge of early American pottery houses.

“It was something I stumbled upon while doing research for one of my books,” Rita explained. “I found myself intrigued and began a modest collection. However, I must admit I frequent a shop in the city and pick up pieces from a favorite potter of mine. The name is Jeffcoat, and I particularly like the banded shades of blue she uses and the mottled browns. Have you ever heard of her?” she asked Samantha.

“Heard of her!” Eric laughed as he came from the kitchen carrying a tray with two glasses of wine. “You are speaking to Samantha Jeffcoat Donaldson. Jeffcoat is Samantha’s maiden name.”

“How trite that sounds,” Samantha complained. “Maiden name, posh! It’s my name, sweetheart. Donaldson is your name! You distinguish yours and I’ll distinguish mine!”

Everyone laughed when Eric complained some of Sam’s brainstorms were right out of the pages of
Ms.
magazine. “Except the floor wax advertisements and laundry powder ads. Sam does discriminate against anything to do with household chores,” he said good-naturedly.

“Oh, hush, Eric, I want Rita to stroke my ego by telling me how she loved my work! It will make me feel so much better about asking her to autograph her books for me and allow me to present her with that little hand-thrown bowl I’ve brought along for her!”

Dinner was delicious and afterward Twigg threw more logs on the fire and they all congregated near the hearth. There was an unforced camaraderie, and they all basked in one another’s company. Eric and Sam were easy people, sensitive and discerning. Listening to them speak on a wide range of subjects and enthusiastically offering her own opinions and having them respected was good for her ego. But it was when Eric and Sam asked after some friends they had left behind on the west coast that Rita realized Twigg traveled in a varied circle of people. Some of them artists, some in the media, academics and even what Sam called “Hollywood types.” Twigg made eclectic choices in his friendships, and yet their varied backgrounds seemed to blend harmoniously in his life. Apparently, somewhere, there were “flower children” with whom he associated, but he did not restrict himself to types when it came to making relationships.

It was nearly three in the morning when Rita made a move to leave, and the Donaldsons begged off to go to bed. Twigg walked her back to the cottage and kissed her warmly at the front door. “I told you you would like them. And they adore you, especially Eric. I saw the approving glances he was throwing at you all evening. I should be jealous, but I’m not. I know Samantha is the only woman for him.”

Returning his kiss, Rita expected him to return to his cottage, but he opened her door and stepped in behind her. He took her into his arms. “I love you like this, all sleepy and warm from the conversation and the wine. I want to make love to you, Rita Bellamy, and then I’m going to hold you in my arms all night long.” And he made good on his promise and never once did Rita worry what the Donaldsons were thinking when Twigg didn’t return.

T
he days slid by, each more beautiful and wonderful than the day before. Two and a half months had passed since she had met Twigg Peterson. Two and a half months that were probably the happiest of her life.

It was ten days before Thanksgiving and Charles’s important football game. Rita had promised to attend and attend she would. Somehow, she had managed to lose ten pounds and had also whittled off several inches in crucial areas. Her breathing was less labored because she had cut her smoking in half. One of these days she hoped she could give it up entirely. But not yet.

The only blight on her happiness was that Twigg would be leaving the day after Christmas. She knew she would have to deal with that when the time came.

Rita got up, stretched luxuriously, and then added more logs to the fire. It felt like snow. It even looked like snow. She hoped so. She had never been marooned before and would enjoy it. It was a known fact that this area of the Poconos was the last to see a snowplow, and it was not unheard-of to remain snowbound for as long as four or five days.

The phone rang, jarring her from her thoughts. “Hi, Mother. It’s Rachel. I’m calling to make sure you’re still in residence. If you want I’ll bring the turkey. Talk to me, Mum.”

“Yes, I’m here, Rachel. It feels like snow so you better bring your boots and warm clothing. When are you planning on coming up? I appreciate your offer, but I’ll take care of the turkey.”

“Thursday. I’ll stay through the weekend after Thanksgiving. By the way, is your handsome neighbor still there? If it snows, maybe we could go skiing together.”

Rita drew in her breath. “Yes, he’s still here. I’m not sure if he has skis. Perhaps you should bring Charles’s if that’s what you want to do.”

“Good thinking, Mum. Okay, see you Thursday.”

Rita replaced the phone. She could have told Rachel not to come, that she was knee-deep in work. That she couldn’t holiday on Thanksgiving and lose time if she intended to be at Charles’s game the next day. Why hadn’t she? The question punished her, demanding she admit the truth. “Because,” she blurted aloud, “because I’m challenging Twigg to find my young, vivacious daughter more desirable than me. I’m testing him and I hate myself for it, but God help me that’s what I’m doing.”

Now she was in a funk. All the old insecurities flooded through her. All the old guilts. And jealousy. She was jealous of her own daughter. Twigg had been more gallant after Rachel’s last visit. Neither of them had discussed her child and her tactless comments concerning Rita. As long as she was keyed on self-destruct she might as well call Camilla and then Charles.

Rita waited patiently while Camilla quieted the children. “Mother, I can’t believe what you’re telling me. Are you saying Charles’s football game is more important than spending Thanksgiving with your grandchildren? I spoke to Rachel last night, and she said she was going up to see you and said there was the most interesting man there that she wanted to get to know better. Why is it always Rachel, Mother?”

“Camilla, I promised Charles when he started the semester that if he made the team I would go to the Thanksgiving game. I can’t go back on my word. Surely, you can understand how important it is to your brother.”

“Are you planning on leaving Rachel there at the cottage with the new, interesting man? Mother, I can’t understand you anymore. You seem to have changed. Anything goes, anything Rachel does, no matter how outrageous it is, is okay with you. Mother, ever since you started that . . . that career of yours, you’ve . . . never mind. I think you should know that Daddy is going to the game too. He’s probably going to take Melissa. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

Rita cringed. Not at the words but at Camilla’s bitchy tone. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Rita said, forcing a light note into her voice.

“You’re so different, Mother. Everything is so different. I’m sorry if I sound like I’m ticked-off. You don’t seem to care anymore. Do you realize you’ve been gone for almost four months. We’ve missed you, especially the kids.”

“I didn’t call you so we could get into a hassle. I wanted you to know about Thanksgiving in plenty of time. Besides, Camilla, this year it’s your turn to have dinner with Tom’s family. Maybe you think I’ve forgotten, but I haven’t. This is your year for Christmas with Tom’s family too.”

“Mother, does that mean you aren’t coming back for Christmas?” Camilla shrieked.

“I’m not sure. More than likely, I’ll stay here. Charles will want to come here so he can do some skiing. We have plenty of time for all of that. I hesitate to remind you, but you do have a father.”

“Oh, Mother, he’s so wrapped up in Melissa, he has no time either. The whole family is falling apart. Rachel is so flaky and you never know where or what she’s going to be doing from one minute to the next. Charles is away and he never writes or calls. I feel so alone.”

“Camilla, you have your own life, your own little family, and it’s going to be whatever you make it. I’ll always be here if you need me, but I do have my own life to lead, and I intend to lead it the way I see fit. I won’t allow you or Rachel or Charles to dictate to me.”

“All you think about is your books, your royalty statements, and your super-duper business deals. You have no time for us anymore, Mother.”

“That’s not true, Camilla. What you mean is I’m not at your beck and call anymore. You also resent that I now do something other than housework. That I’ve become my own person and am no longer an extension of your father.”

“There’s no point in discussing this anymore. I can see I can’t get anywhere with you. Do you want to speak to the kids?”

“I’d love to talk to them if they aren’t screaming and crying. I can’t see paying long-distance rates for me to listen to you yell at them and then all they do is scream more.”

“Forget it, Mother, just forget it. Tom isn’t going to believe this. Oh, yes, he will, he still remembers the last conversation he had with you. Good-bye, Mother.”

“Give my regards to Tom and the children. Good-bye Camilla.”

One ten-minute conversation with Camilla was enough to drain one’s life’s blood. Now, for Charles.

Rita listened to some good-natured banter while she waited for Charles to come to the phone. “Hey, Bellamy, there’s some chick on the phone for you” made her grin from ear to ear. She had to remember to tell Twigg.

“Charles, it’s Mom. How are you?”

“Mom, wow, why are you calling? Is something wrong?”

“Good heavens, no. I just wanted to see if you were all right and if you got your allowance.”

“Got, it and spent it. The guys had a beer party and I had to put in my share. I’m okay. Hey, you still coming up for the game?”

“I’ll be there, you can count on it.”

“Uh, Mom, you do know Dad is coming, don’t you? Do you think it will be a problem? I think he’s bringing Melissa. I didn’t know what to do so I just sort of ignored the whole thing.”

“I think we’re all adult enough to handle it.”

“There is something I need to talk to you about.”

Need. He had said
need.
He needed her. How different he sounded. How grown up. “Yes, Charles, what is it?”

“With the situation between you and Dad as it is, I thought there might be a problem about Thanksgiving dinner. About who to have dinner with, I mean. So what I thought I’d do was accept an invitation to Nancy Ames’s house for dinner. She doesn’t live far from here, and she said I could bring you along. What do you think, Mom?” he asked anxiously.

Oh, God, oh, God, her baby was worrying about her. He was making decisions for himself and for her. He cared about her feelings being hurt.

“I think that’s wonderful, but you go alone. Rachel is coming up to the cottage for Thanksgiving so I won’t be alone. I was worried about you. Is Nancy your girl?”

“Almost. I haven’t clinched it yet. You know, given her my high school ring. I’m working on it though. Do you think it would be all right if I brought her up to the cottage the weekend after Thanksgiving?”

“I sure do. I’d like to meet her.” She suddenly wanted to see Charles share his happiness and his new sense of himself.

“One more thing, Mom. Is Dulcie still staying in the house, or did you let her go when you moved to the cottage?”

“No, she’s still at the house. Someone had to stay there to make sure the pipes don’t freeze. Charles, I didn’t move to the cottage; I’m only staying here between books. Why did you want to know?”

“Do you think she could make me a batch of brownies and send up my gray sweatsuit? Ask her if she’ll fish around for my Izod socks, the black and gray ones.”

Rita smiled. “Charles, I have some free time, I could make the brownies for you.”

“Thanks, Mom, but I think I’d rather have Dulcie’s. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“What time do you think you’ll get to the game?”

“Just about game time if the weather is okay. Do you need anything else?”

“Nope, that about covers it.”

“Okay, I’ll see you a week from tomorrow.”

“Bye, Mom.”

She felt pleased with herself when she hung up the phone. Charles was going to be okay. Nancy, whoever you are, you have my blessing and my thanks. Her baby worried about her. It was wonderful. Everything was wonderful. Well,
almost
everything; the thought of her daughters popped into her mind.

 

 

Twigg arrived back at Rita’s cottage, his face glowing with excitement like a small boy’s, “Have you looked outside?” At her bewilderment, he led her away from her desk where she was making notes for her next book and brought her to the panoramic windows in the living room. “Look!” He pointed to the lightly falling snow as though it were something he had conjured up especially for her. “It’s snowing. Our first snowfall,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in the back of her neck.

His words touched Rita. Was there something in his voice that promised this was only the first of many snowfalls they would share together? Inexplicably, her heart broke rhythm. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had been preparing herself for the day when he would no longer be a part of her life. No, that was wrong, Twigg would always be a part of her life, a most important part. But nothing had been said about their relationship after the coming Christmas when he planned to return to California. It was almost as though she were living each day to its fullest and after that future point in time everything seemed dark and hazy.

His arms tightened around her, his breath warm and soft on her skin. So warm, warmer than the fire’s glow, which shed the only light into the afternoon’s dimness. She felt his desire rising firm and hard against the swell of her buttocks and the insistent caress of his fingers upon the tips of her breasts. He turned her into his embrace, finding her mouth with his own and possessing it with soft and myriad kisses that deepened imperceptibly and aroused her senses to beat in tune with his own.

He drew her down onto the geometric carpet before the hearth; the fire’s heat seemed cool and distant in comparison to the warmth he imparted to her flesh as he tenderly stripped away her clothes, leaving them in a heap mingled with his own. His hands caressed her tenderly, tracing the sweet hollows of her body and rounding over the supple, womanly curves of her breasts and belly, wandering in teasing, erotic touches to the moist, warm valley where thigh met thigh.

Her clear blue eyes closed then, heightening her perception of his lovemaking. She moved against his fingers and mewed in delight when his lips followed where his hand had explored, tracing her contours with delicate ardor.

Twigg began to tremble with the force of his desire. He reveled in her responses, knowing he had found the woman who could both give and take, who needed this sensuous contact of his flesh upon hers. He wanted to wait, to double her pleasure and watch her rock beneath him with the force of her climax. But the sight of her half-parted lips beckoned to him, tempting him, sounding an echoing note in his very center. Her vulnerability, so much a part of her, deepened his emotions for her while her responsive body appealed for the complete fulfillment she could only share when his flesh entered hers and he claimed her for his own.

His mouth descended upon hers as he parted her thighs and he felt her warm, pulsing flesh welcoming him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, clinging to him, making herself a part of him and he a part of her. He loved to watch her face smile up at him, her mirror blue eyes seeming to fill themselves only with him.

Rita’s eyes opened to see him looking down at her, his eyes dark with seduction and passion, the line of his mouth softening and forming the shape of her name. He came to her and took her, this marvelously loving man who had filled her life even more sweetly than he was now filling her body. She did not know if she loved him, did not know if she wanted to love him. Would she ever trust herself to that emotion again? Love demanded so much, it seemed. There were no demands here, only a sharing and a needing and giving. Love had too many sharp edges, able to cut through the soul like a razor, unlike this that seemed to be more a melding and a joining of the heart and the body.

The lines of her body seemed to perfectly match his, meeting him thrust for thrust and driving him closer and closer to the edge of that abyss where he would carry her with him into the shattering void. Her arms held him tightly, her mouth yielded beneath his and she took him into her again and again, deeper, closer, caressing him in undulating waves until he heard the sound of his own pleasure in his ears and she clung to him as they toppled over the edge of carnality into the wondrous garden where soul touched soul.

 

 

The world filtered back into consciousness; the flicker of the fire, the soft fall of snow against the window. They had held each other following their simultaneous release, closing their eyes into the shared oblivion, warmed by their pleasure and astounded by the force of their passion.