Balancing Act (13 page)

“I’ll be careful and, Charles, I like your girl.”

“I knew you would. See you, Mom.”

“See you, son.”

R
ita swung the car onto the interstate, hoping she could reach the lake before it began snowing again. It had been an enlightening afternoon, and she was glad she had gone to Charles’s game. Seeing Brett and Melissa had relieved her of those last vestiges of guilt, and she felt lighter now, as if she had shrugged off a heavy cloak. Oh, she knew it wouldn’t always be that simple; one just didn’t wipe away over twenty years of marriage. But she was making a good start. The guilt she had carried for not being the wife Brett wanted and the mother her children expected was unfair and unjust. She would have nothing more to do with it. She hadn’t traded her family and those she loved for the glory of a career or pursuing her own selfish interests. She was neither wife, nor mother, nor best-selling author. “Those are the things I do,” she said aloud as though to reaffirm her decision, “those are things I do and not who I am.”

Who am I? The answer came easily. I’m a woman who loves a man. I love Twigg. I’ll fight for him if I must, even if my adversary is my own daughter. Twigg understood. She loved him and, more, she trusted him. Even with her innermost and tenderest of feelings.

Perhaps Connie had known what she was asking of Rita. “Do you expect to be hurt?” At the time, Rita had missed the point. The truth was that she did. Always had.

She’d expected to be hurt by her children just because they were all growing as people, no longer babies to be cuddled and burped. That was a rough one, letting go. If the fact escaped her before this, she now faced the truth. She had sold them short, each one of them, Camilla, Rachel, and Charles. She had sent out unspoken but clear signals that cried, Need me! I’m your mother! I’ll always be here for you! Only Rachel had struck out on her own, becoming independent. And because Rita feared losing her altogether, she had catered to Rachel, refusing to censor, even silently, the girl’s most selfish and promiscuous behavior.

Making loans she never expected to be repaid, buying expensive gifts, becoming an easily available babysitter . . . it all amounted to the same thing. She had demanded her children prove their love by remaining dependent upon her. And when she had had enough and withdrew, they naturally resented it. The whole pattern was destructive, both to them and herself. Thank heavens she had seen it before it was too late! She might have destroyed her children, sacrificed them to her own needs. And in the end when they turned on her, and they would have, she would have seen herself as their victim! Just the way her own mother felt victimized when Rita turned away from her.

Victim. It had an ugly, unpleasant sound. Was that what Connie had meant? Did she realize Rita expected to be a victim? Did she expect to be hurt?

Rita had expected to be hurt when she saw Brett again. Instead, the meeting had given her new insights about who she had been and who she was now. Was it her image of herself as a victim that kept her from admitting her love to Twigg? Was that the real barrier and not the difference in their ages?

The snow was falling steadily, thick, heavy flakes freezing to the windshield.

Rita kept her eyes glued to the road. She was a fool to start out in such weather conditions. God, where were the plows, the snow trucks with their ashes and salt? Home, eating leftover turkey, she answered herself. Annoyed with the radio, she switched it off. She didn’t need to be reminded that driving conditions were hazardous. If there was anything to be glad about, it was that her car had front-wheel drive.

An hour to drive under normal conditions, two with this weather, possibly even three before she would make the Whitehaven turnoff.

She blessed the tiny red lights in front of her. They were like a beacon for her and helped her stay on the road. God, how her eyes ached. Her shoulders were hunched over as she strained to see through the driving, swirling snow. Fearfully, she noticed the sluggishness of the windshield wipers. Not ice, please God, not ice. If the wipers froze, she was in real trouble.

A low rumble behind her made her look into the rearview mirror. A snowplow. She inched over as far as she dared to let him pass her. Once the ash was spread, she could follow him, providing he was going past Whitehaven. Surely, he was just ashing the interstate and not the turnoffs or side roads.

The wipers were freezing badly now and needed to be scraped. Visibility, however, was better as the glow from the truck’s taillights provided her with a small beacon to follow. At least she was staying on the road with the ash for traction.

It had been a long time since she prayed. Far too long. To do so now seemed like cheating. Instead, she blessed herself and said her children’s names over and over. For the life of her she couldn’t remember the names of her grandchildren. For sure she would never make “Mother of the Year.” Mother of the Year would remember her grandchildren’s names.

She couldn’t see, the red lights in front of her were now barely visible. Her back window was full of snow and the side mirror frozen stiff with ice and sleet. She had to stop and pray that if there were anyone behind her, he would stop in time.

Her fingers were numb in their thin leather casing as she tried to chip and pry at the frozen wipers. Tears gathered in her soft blue eyes and instantly froze on her eyelashes. There was no point in trying the passenger side. She did the best she could and climbed back into the car. The twin red lights were specks in the distance. She accelerated slowly and caught up to the snowplow. Her grip in the sodden leather gloves was fierce, and her shoulders felt as though she was carrying a twenty-pound load.

She drove steadily for what seemed like hours. The huge road signs were covered with snow. God, how was she to know when she reached the Whitehaven turnoff? There was something there, but what was it? A marker, an identifying mark of some kind. If only she could remember. A campground sign, that’s what it was. She had to watch for a turnoff with a double sign. She switched on the radio and got nothing but static. She turned it off and felt like crying. How stupid she was. What if she had an accident and died all alone out here on an interstate highway? When would she be found? Who would mourn her? What would Twigg feel? What would he say? If only she knew. Crazy, wretched thoughts filled her mind as she continued to follow the ash truck.

She was so intent on planning her own funeral she almost missed the sign. A sob caught in her throat. She maneuvered the car slowly off the road and up the curving ramp. She turned right and saw the lights for the truck stop. Inching her way down the snowy road, she turned into the well-filled lot where the lights gleamed and sparkled like Christmas lights.

The warmth and steam from inside hit her like a blast furnace. She looked for a vacant seat and sat down. A beefy trucker moved his heavy jacket and looked at her sympathetically. “Bad out there, huh?” She nodded and ordered a cup of black coffee from the waitress. The young, friendly girl looked at her, took in the mink coat and designer boots. “Is your name Rita?”

“Yes, why?” Lord, she didn’t need another fan tonight.

“Some guy’s been in here six, maybe seven, times looking for a woman in a mink coat. You match his description. There’s somebody out there looking for you, lady. He’s like a phantom; he comes and goes on a red snowmobile.”

“He’s been riding up and down the interstate,” the trucker with the heavy jacket volunteered.

“Said for you to wait if you got here before he got back. I wish my boyfriend would worry about me like that,” the waitress said, placing the cup in front of Rita.

“Jody, and David, that’s their names,” Rita said triumphantly.

“Whose names?” the waitress asked, inching away from Rita.

“My grandchildren. What time was the man with the snowmobile last in here?”

“An hour at least, wouldn’t you say?” the waitress asked the trucker.

“Yeah, a good hour. He’s about due. We got bets on him around here.”

“I bet you do. I have a kind of bet myself.” Rita smiled.

“He your husband?” the trucker asked curiously.

“No,” Rita said quietly.

“Oh, one of those.”

“Yeah, one of those.” Rita grinned.

“Nothing wrong with that.” The trucker grinned back.

“My sentiments exactly,” Rita said over the rim of her coffee cup.

The door opened. Rita’s head jerked up. Her world stood in the doorway.

“Hi, I heard you were looking for me.”

“Didn’t have anything to do. Lady, you scared the goddamn living hell out of me,” Twigg said, sitting down next to her. His eyes never left hers. “You okay?” Rita nodded.

“You look like you’re frozen,” she said. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his.

“Frozen! I’m too numb to feel it if I am. They got bets running on me here, did you know that?”

“I heard. Drink this coffee,” she said, pushing her mug toward him.

“The roads are impassable. I think we can both ride the snowmobile. Tight fit.”

“I like tight fits,” she said, her eyes still on his.

“So do I.” His voice was husky and there were shadowy secrets in his eyes. She took his hands, warming them in hers. Her head fell against his shoulder and she felt his lips brush her hair.

Twigg heard her sigh, felt the treasured weight of her head on his shoulder. She was quiet, so quiet. “Penny for your thoughts, love.”

“I was just thinking that maybe it’s time we talked about that small word,” Rita murmured.

“Are we talking about that small word that’s so awesome? You mean ‘love’?” The shadows in his eyes lifted and he gazed at her sharply, steadily. There would never be a backing away with this man. His honesty would prevent it.

“That’s the one.”

“You ready to talk about it?” he questioned.

“I think so.” Rita grinned.

“Don’t think, Rita, my love. With me, you’ve got to know for certain.”

“I
know
so. Let’s go home.”

“Your place or mine,” he teased, that familiar, seductive glint visible in his eyes.

“Yours. I have a guest.”

They laughed with each other, standing to leave the diner, eager to be alone with one another. Impetuously, Twigg took her into his arms, lifting her chin to kiss her softly on the lips. Rita was oblivious to the eyes and stares from the others in the diner; she only knew she was in Twigg’s arms, being kissed by him, being wanted by him.

He hurried her out into the cold night. Their night. The snow was falling steadily, silently. Breathless, exhilarated by his nearness, Rita found herself once again in his embrace. She lifted her face for his kiss, unashamed to ask for it now, and she felt his lips trembling against hers.

He held her in the circle of his arms; she felt him strong and tall against her. This was her love. He had waited for her to learn about herself. He had trusted her to do so. She now knew she didn’t need to be a perfect, stereotypical mother. She did not need to feel guilty for wanting to be more than a wife and homemaker. What she did need, Twigg offered: to be a woman with him, the lover who touched her soul and knew her for the woman she was and not for the roles all women must play.

O
nly the rustling of their bodies against the sheets and the soft sounds of their murmurings broke the silence of the night. She nestled against him, burrowing her head into the hollow of his neck, the silly strands of her pale blond hair falling over his shoulder. She breathed the scent of him, mingled with the fragrance of her own perfume. Her fingers teased the light furring of his chest hairs; her leg, thrown intimately over his, felt the lean, sinewy muscles of his thigh.

They were like light and shadow—she silvered, the color of moonlight, and he dark, like the night. He held her, gentle hands soothing her, bringing her back down from erotic heights.

It was the best of all times, this moment after making love, when all barriers were down and satiny skin melted into masculine hardness. This closeness was the true communion of lovers who had brought peace and satisfaction to one another.

Dory Faraday burrowed deeper into the nest of Griff’s embrace. He drew her closer and she smiled. She loved this hunk, as she liked to call him. He was good for her in every way—understanding her and accepting her for the person she was.

“Want to talk about it?” Griff asked softly, as his fingers traced lazy patterns up her arm.

“I suppose we should. It’s just that this is such a perfect moment, and I hate to tamper with perfection.” She felt his smile through the darkness. They had discussed Griff’s leaving New York for months, but now that the time had almost arrived, Dory was finding it hard to accept. Washington, D.C., was only forty-five minutes away by air, but this knowledge did not bring her comfort. Holding tightly to Griff, Dory whispered, “This is our last day. I’m going to miss you until it’s time for me to join you. Up to now, everything has been so perfect. We had our work, our careers . . .” She stopped to dab at her eyes with the hem of the lavender-scented sheet.

“Shhh. Don’t cry, Dory.” His touch was comforting as he wiped away her tears with the tips of his fingers. “It’s only a few weeks. D.C. is only minutes away, and we can talk on the phone in the evening. You said you understood.” His wasn’t an accusing tone, but Dory felt compelled to move and struggled to prop herself on one elbow to face him.

“I do understand, Griff. It’s a golden opportunity for you and you had the idea long before you met me. You deserve this chance. You’ll broaden your horizons and do the work you like best. It’s just that I’m going to miss you. Simple as that. I also have a few qualms about telling Lizzie I want a leave of absence.”

There was an anxious note in Griff’s voice, and he reached to touch the silky strands of Dory’s hair, rubbing them between his fingertips. “You aren’t anticipating any problems, are you?” If he had been in a less romantic position, he would have crossed his fingers. How he loved this long-legged woman with the lithe cougar walk and one hundred sixty-two pairs of shoes. When she offered to take a leave of absence to join him in Washington, he had been more than pleased, but he was also apprehensive. Was it selfish of him to agree that Dory give up her prestigious position at
Soiree
magazine? He admired her independence and didn’t want to infringe on her career. Life in D.C. would be different for her but, as she explained, it would also present new opportunities. That had made him feel better, but now he wished, for the thousandth time, that she would accept his proposal of marriage instead of opting for a live-in arrangement. At least he would see more of her in D.C. than here in New York, where Dory lived in her small but stylish apartment while he continued occupying his loft. If things worked out with his new partnership in the veterinary clinic and if Dory could find challenging work, perhaps she would change her mind. Marriage was what Griff really wanted.

“No, honey, I’m not anticipating problems with Lizzie. She’s fair and I’ve worked hard. The magazine can hardly refuse me a leave of absence to pursue my doctorate, can they?” She rushed on, as though not wanting to entertain for one instant the possibility that her request might be refused. “I can do all the freelance work I want from Washington. Contrary to popular opinion, Griff, New York is not the
only
city in the world where a woman can find work. Meaningful work. Even if we live in Alexandria or Arlington, school and work won’t be a problem.” Her tone was only a shade less anxious than Griff’s, and if the room weren’t darkened, he would have seen her vivid green eyes cloud with questions. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you, Griff?”

“Good God, no!” He ran his fingers through his thick, chestnut hair, the soft waves falling over his wide forehead. “I just want you to be aware of what you’re getting into. I’m going to be up to my neck in work for the first couple of months, and our long, lazy weekends are going to come to a screeching halt. The clinic is going to consume me, love. Rick and John are going to be just as busy, so you’ll have their wives to keep you company. You’re going to be pretty busy, too, going to Georgetown University and keeping house and freelancing. I’ll help as much as I can, but I think we should find housekeeping help right off the bat. Don’t you?”

Dory pondered the question. “Not right away. Let me settle in and then decide what I can and can’t handle. It’s going to work out, Griff. Let me take care of the domestic end of things and you concentrate on the veterinary clinic and your partners.” She leaned down and found his mouth, delighting in the feel of his lips against hers and the slight abrasiveness of his mustache.

“I should be getting back to the loft.” He stretched and squinted at the radium dial of the bedside clock. Three ten. His eye fell to the floor and the persimmon froth of her discarded nightgown. A lazy look veiled his expression as he lay back down and felt himself stiffening beneath the sheets. What the hell, he could just as easily leave an hour later. This was now and there were some things that would always be more important than sleep. Griff Michaels’s Law. He smiled indolently, turning to gather Dory in his arms and nuzzle the softness of her neck.

Dory sensed his immediate mood change and allowed herself to be carried with it. One moment his arms cradled her, soothing her, the next they became her prison, hard, strong, inescapable. She loved him like this, when the wildness flooded his veins and she could feel it beating through him. It brought her a sense of power to know that she could arouse these instincts in him. She yielded to his need for her, welcoming his weight upon her, flexing her thighs to bring him closer.

His hands were in her hair, on her breasts, on the soft flesh of her inner thighs. He stirred her, demanded of her, rewarded her with the adoring attention of his lips to those territories his hands had already claimed. And when he possessed her it was with a joyful abandon that evoked a like response in her: hard, fast, then becoming slower and sweeter.

She murmured her pleasure and gave him those caresses he loved. Release was there, within their grasp, but like two moths romancing a flame, they played in the heat and postponed that exquisite instant when they would plunge into the inferno.

Dory rolled over and stretched luxuriously, feeling vibrant and alive. Griff’s vigorous lovemaking always left her ready to conquer worlds and build universes. There was no point in going back to sleep now. She might as well shower and get to the office early after a leisurely breakfast.

A wicked grin stretched across her lips as she watched Griff dress. “You look better in those jockey shorts than any Calvin Klein model. Griff, how about doing a layout for
Soiree
?
”

Griff laughed. “And have every female who reads that racy magazine lusting after me? I have all I can do to handle my bills, let alone tons of fan mail. Besides, how would it look to old Mrs. Bettinger when she sees it? God, she’d never bring her cats to me again.”

“Nerd. She isn’t going to be bringing her cats to you anymore. You’re moving, remember? A head shot? How about a beefcake layout?”

“I can see the headline now: ‘Stud Michaels, his own best endorsement.’ ”

Dory giggled. “It would be something to show your grandchildren.”

Griff frowned. She hadn’t said “our” grandchildren. Immediately he erased the frown. Time. Time would take care of everything.

His kiss was long and lingering. Dory clung to him with a feverishness that surprised him. “Don’t forget we’re going to the theater with my aunt tonight.”

Griff smacked his forehead. “It’s a good thing you reminded me. I forgot all about it.”

“You’re going to love Aunt Pixie.”

“The question is, will she love me?”

“She’s going to adore you just the way I adore you. If there’s one thing Pix is good at, it’s sizing up a man. You’ll pass muster.”

For a moment Griff wore a frazzled look. “Dory, all those outrageous things you told me about her. Were they true or were you putting me on? It’s not that I care, it’s just that I want to be sure to say the right thing to her. I really want her to like me,” he finished lamely.

“Don’t worry. She’s going to love you. And, with Pixie you could never do or say the wrong thing. She is outrageous. I used to think everyone had an aunt like her, but she’s unique. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Anytime I have a problem, she’s there. She’s been more of a mother to me than my own mother. Look, if you’re really worried we could meet in a coffeehouse for a visit before going on to the theater. Would that make you feel better?”

Griff nodded.

“Okay, I’ll give you a call when we’re ready to leave. Now go home and stop worrying. Or are you putting me on and what you’re really worried about is this big change in your life?”

Griff grinned. “Lady, you know me too well. Of course I’m concerned. This is a major step in my life. I want it so bad I can taste it, but I still have butterflies when I think about it.”

“Go home. Think happy thoughts,” Dory said impishly as she pushed him from her. “See you tonight.”

He was gone. For a brief moment it seemed as though the walls were going to close in on her, but she recovered quickly. He was gone but it wasn’t the end. In more ways than one it was a new beginning. She felt confident, sure of herself and her new choices. Options were something she liked. Options were a part of her life.

Her nakedness was something else she was comfortable with as she padded out to the kitchen to prepare the two-cup coffeepot. She would soak in a nice warm tub and work on her checkbook while the coffee perked. Some French toast for sustenance, and she would be ready to face her day.

The warm, steamy wetness worked its magic as she deftly computed the numbers in her checkbook. It looked good. This month she had an even two hundred dollars left that she could invest. She was pleased with the way she had handled her finances. All her bills were paid, money was set aside for the next three weeks for lunches, cab fare, hairdresser, even a new pair of shoes if the mood struck her. She calculated her airline fare into her totals and still she was ahead. Her small portfolio was looking better and better as the months went on. She could exist for an entire year on her savings account alone if she suddenly found herself jobless. Not bad for a career girl who just turned thirty-one.

Dory attacked her breakfast the way she did everything, with energy and gusto, savoring each mouthful. She enjoyed everything about life, more so now that Griff was a part of it. An important job at one of the most prestigious magazines in the country, a wonderful relationship, money in the bank all gave her the confidence she needed to be part of the active life in New York.

She would miss it. But nothing was forever. Now the important thing was being with Griff and taking the proper steps to finish her doctorate.

While the breakfast dishes soaked, Dory poked through her walk-in closet. It was bigger than her tiny living room, and the main reason she had leased the apartment. She finally selected a fawn-colored Albert Nipon original. She loved the feel of the exquisite silk that was one of Nipon’s trademarks. She scanned the specially built shelves holding her shoes. The sexy Bruno Magli strap shoe was the perfect choice.

When she left her apartment an hour later she was the epitome of the successful New York career woman. Her lithe cougar walk, as Griff liked to call her long-legged stride, drew more than one admiring glance. She was not unaware of her image, and she reveled in it as she slid gracefully into a cab, returned the driver’s smile, and gave the address of
Soiree.

Dory leaned back and closed her eyes for the ride uptown. Her thoughts were with Griff. Until he came into her life six months ago, she had been so busy carving out a career and seeing to her financial future that she dated rarely, preferring casual relationships that wouldn’t get sticky. But all her good intentions fell by the wayside the moment she met Griffin Michaels. It was at a cocktail party given by Oscar de la Renta, and Griff had been dating one of the designer’s models. He had looked so elegant in his Brooks Brothers suit and shoes that she had smiled. Loose was the only word that came to her mind at the time. He didn’t exactly fit in with that crowd, yet he did. He wasn’t impressed, of that she was certain; in fact, he seemed to be bored by all the surface glamour and sophistication. She had taken the initiative and introduced herself. Things progressed rapidly; within the hour he made his apologies to his date, who was hanging onto a male model, and he and Dory left together to have a drink at a small cocktail lounge.

It was a wonderful old-fashioned courtship. Long walks in Central Park, weekend dates that always ended at her front door at midnight or shortly thereafter. Delicious, searing kisses that left her breathless and wanting more were a way of life for six weeks until he finally seduced her. Or had she seduced him? It didn’t matter now. Now they were truly together.

They found they had much in common. They both knew the words to all the Golden Oldies and often danced in her small living room to the beautiful songs. They loved the same writers and laughingly compared books. He loved walking in the rain as much as she did and regarded snow as the most wondrous thing in the world.