Balancing Act (6 page)

“I remember,” she lied. Several months back she was hardly interested in tax-free funds or anything else, for that matter

“The time seemed right to buy and I did. Several more opportunities like that and you’ll make a handsome living just from the interest you earn.”

Rita was puzzled. “How . . . I mean, wasn’t I supposed to sign something?”

Ian laughed, amused, as though she were a little, precocious child. “You don’t have to bother your head about things like that. Remember, that’s why you signed a power of attorney over to me. That tax-free fund was quite a coup, I can tell you that.... What’s the problem, Rita? Am I mistaken or did you not tell me you had no interest in financial matters?”

“No, you’re right, Ian. I did tell you that.” Soberly, she sipped the wine, finding it tasted acid on her tongue. She had told him she wanted nothing to do with the financial end. Suddenly, she realized why. It wasn’t that she didn’t consider herself capable; after all, throughout her marriage she had been the one to manage the checking account, pay the bills, sock away a little fund for vacations. No, it wasn’t that she felt inadequate. After all, Ian’s prestigious firm had not always been her agent. She hadn’t signed with the Ian Martin Agency until she was a fully established author. In the beginning she had been the only one to decide upon contracts, payments, royalty rates, always keeping her eye on the market and delivering books that were salable and in keeping with the readers’ wants and likes. She had decided whether or not she could devote periods of time, her life, actually, to fulfill a contract. And if it happened to be the wrong choice for her, she had lived with it anyway and learned from it.

Rather, her sudden dislike for finances coincided with the trouble in her marriage. In a roundabout way she blamed her income for the distance between Brett and herself. It was almost as though she were ashamed of it. Brett had certainly made her feel that along with her increased income she had also taken to wearing the pants in the family. His words, not hers. At the end it had been such a bone of contention that she had simply turned away from such things and cheerfully deposited the responsibility with Ian.

Ian’s hazel eyes blinked and his face ruddied against the stark white of his shirt collar. What had happened to the woman he had sent up here to finish her novel? He had left a trembling, insecure woman and now he found a different woman entirely. Oh, she had the same face, same name, but she wasn’t the Rita Bellamy he knew, and it rankled and displeased him. Not that he ever wanted to feed on her insecurities and indecisions, but he had to admit it was certainly nice being needed and admired by an intelligent woman. Women weren’t the same any longer, not since that ridiculous Women’s Lib, at any rate. They all pretended to be fiercely independent, self-sufficient. What happened to those simple, endearing women who depended upon a man? Even the talented ones, like Rita, who knew their own limitations and admitted them?

Rita Bellamy was one of those old-fashioned women a man could depend on to boost his ego and see to his comforts. Maternal, loving, quietly deceptive because he knew that within her beat the heart of a very passionate woman. She stirred his blood, flattered his ego, and was so damned pretty. He liked her tremendously and would marry her if she would have him, but Rita always shied away, content to keep things on a professional level. Although there were times when he had thought she was softening to him. Like now, inviting him up to the cottage. He had even packed his silk dressing gown.

Ian had always been Rita’s confidant and protector, taking care of her when the breakup in her marriage occurred. Hadn’t he been the one to find her the lawyer and consult with him so that ingrate husband of hers wouldn’t rake her over the coals? Now she wanted to handle her own affairs. She had no right to go and change on him, Ian’s temper flared, no right at all! Taking a swallow of wine, he soothed himself. Perhaps it was only this change of life he was always reading about. Rita couldn’t possibly actually mean she intended to take up the reins and make her own decisions.

“We’re having broiled chicken and salad for dinner, just the way you like it,” Rita called from the kitchen. “The daisies are lovely, thank you, Ian. I’ll keep them near my desk to cheer me up.”

“You don’t appear to need cheering, darling,” he told her tartly. He had thought he would spend a long evening quietly comforting her and telling her she should come back to the city as soon as her book was finished. He wished someone would comfort him; he had this strange feeling as though the rug was being pulled from under him . . . an inch at a time.

“So tell me how it’s going?” He had to know what was making her look like this. He had never noticed the lilt in her voice before or the sparkle in her eyes. She had always seemed like a wounded puppy. Oh, she smiled and even laughed, but she had been so defenseless that he wanted to crush her to him and tell her it would be all right, that
he
would make it all right. That he would share his life with her. After all, their children were grown and neither of them had to account to anyone. He wondered vaguely if the ten-year difference in their ages made a difference. When he was seventy-four she would be only sixty-four.

As they sipped at the wine and made small talk, he was more than ever aware of the change in her. She was still gentle, she would always be gentle, and the sensitivity still showed, but she was different.

“When do you think you’ll be coming in to the city?” Ian asked over the rim of his wineglass.

“I’m not sure,” Rita said vaguely. Maybe never, she thought. Maybe when Twigg left. Maybe before. Maybe she would stay through the winter. She didn’t have to make a decision now. She could drift with the days and make up her mind when she was ready. With Charles in college there was no need to rush back, and she deserved a respite between books.

“I thought your intention was to stay only till you finished the book.” He tried to keep the snap and churlishness out of his voice but realized he was unsuccessful. Rita didn’t notice.

“I know, but I like it here. I’m surprised, Ian, that you didn’t notice my new furniture. As you can see, I’m quite comfortable here. I think I write better up here. It’s certainly going well. There’s nothing pressing for me back in town, and we both agreed that I wasn’t going on tour for this book, so really, my time is my own. It won’t cause a problem, will it?” Her voice asked a question, but it clearly stated that she didn’t care if it did make a problem. “What about the children. The grandchildren?” Ian asked sourly.

Again, Rita failed to notice his tone. “What about them? Ian, they aren’t babies. Camilla is a responsible adult and has a husband to look after her. She’s a wonderful mother and she has her own friends. Even when I’m home I talk to her on the phone, but I don’t see her that often. As for the grandchildren, of course, I’ll miss them but they aren’t my responsibility. Their mother can tend them or get a sitter. I’m sure that you must have noticed that for some reason we’ve grown apart lately.”

“Yes, of course. It saddens me. You’ve always said that Camilla is closest to you, the one most like you in so many ways.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem. She was too much like me when we were all a family and growing. Things have changed. I’ve changed and Camilla has changed. She has a stepmother who is a year younger than she is. She doesn’t like my career. Over the past months I’ve sensed that there isn’t a lot Camilla does like about me. I’m sure that in her heart she blames me for the divorce. The word divorcee is not something Camilla has come to terms with. I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything I can do about it. Brett forced me into this position and I intend to grow from it, not backpedal and languish in an empty house. I’m just a late bloomer getting on my feet.”

“Rita, you’re surprising me. I’ve never seen this side of you. Whatever you want is fine with me. I’m just concerned that you don’t make . . . make . . .”

“A fool of myself? Say it, Ian. Don’t talk around it and up and down it. If I do make a fool of myself over something, anything, then I’ll have to take the responsibility for it. It will be my decision, my choice. I may do things wrong, make a mess of certain things, but I’ll learn from my mistakes. I can live with that. Everyone else will have to live with that too.”

“And Rachel and Charles?”

“Rachel is Rachel. She accepts me as I am. She has never made demands on me, and I sincerely believe she’s the only one who doesn’t secretly blame me for the divorce. She’s been after me for over a year to ‘get with it,’ as she puts it. I think she’ll encourage me in my independence. Charles, I’m not sure about. He still needs me, but in a limited way. He wants to know that Mom is there when he wants her. He may never physically need me, but it’s important for him to know that he can at least count on me. He’s going to start growing on his own now that he’s in college. If we’re very lucky, we can grow together. If not, one of us is going to have to take some lumps.”

Ian finished the last of his wine and poured some more from the bottle. “Rita, I hardly know you anymore,” he said softly.

Rita smiled. Now where had she heard those words before? “I think our dinner is ready. You’re a good friend, Ian. I hope you won’t endanger our wonderful relationship by censoring me for
anything.
Let me try my wings. But don’t catch me if they get clipped. Deal?”

What could he say? “Deal,” he said morosely.

Rita chattered happily all through dinner. She might see Twigg soon. She hoped she could carry off the visit so that Ian wouldn’t suspect anything. Ian was astute and tuned in. The warm feeling stayed with her when she realized she didn’t really care if Ian knew. It was just that everything was so new that she wanted to keep it to herself for a while. Later, much later, she would decide if the children needed to know, and if so, how she would handle it. Probably not well, she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Rita came out of her cocoon long enough to sense there was something bothering Ian. “Is something bothering you, Ian? Something you want to talk about? I didn’t mean to offend you before. I think it’s time that I started doing and thinking for myself. I could have written you a letter, but I thought it would be better if we discussed it between ourselves.” She didn’t want him to know that she had come to this decision suddenly. As suddenly as she had decided to take Twigg for her lover. Her lover. Just the thought brought pink to her cheeks.

Ian brushed at his salt-and-pepper hair. He knew he was an attractive man, well groomed and polished. He had never considered women a problem for him, not even during his marriage to Dorothy. When he was younger he had to literally beat them off, and his wife, rest her soul, had never been the wiser. He wasn’t a complete cad, after all. A few indiscretions, an occasional affair, but always he had been considerate of the woman who mothered his children, protecting her from any knowledge of the lapses due to his randier nature.

No, he had never had to force himself upon a woman, and it annoyed him that Rita seemed impervious to his charms. He didn’t like it. At all. He stared at Rita, knowing she expected an answer of some kind. He wasn’t certain he loved her. Wasn’t even certain he was capable of love at his stage in life. He did know he desired her and was certain that if he could get her into bed he could please her sexually.

His feelings for Rita were more complicated than mere loving. It was something deeper, more essential to him. Need, perhaps. She made him feel needed and he responded in a basic, masculine way. The feeling that he must protect her, shelter her from hurt and disappointment, was sometimes so overwhelming it took his breath away. Together, they could live a quiet, comfortable life, mutually benefiting one another.

Over the past years he had seen flashes of this independence she was right now wearing like a badge of honor. Those times in the past they had been quickly squelched, first by Brett and later by Camilla and Charles. Guiltily, he realized he could have encouraged her to find her own strength. But he liked it when she came to him for advice and he basked in her compliments for his astute business dealings on a particular contract. Most of his other clients lived their lives in the fast lane, and they sometimes resented what they called his interference. Once a contract was signed, they didn’t want to see or hear from him again unless he had a check for them.

Jesus, he didn’t even like the hokey garbage Rita wrote. But garbage or not, she was an established author with a huge following and even more potential than some of the “artists” who turned out a book once every seven years. Rita’s earnings stunned him, and at times he chortled all the way to the bank. “I’m sorry, Rita, my mind was elsewhere. What were you saying?”

Rita smiled. Ian appeared tired. If Twigg didn’t show up soon, Ian would go to bed and that would be the end of that. “It wasn’t important. Don’t feel you must stay up with me just because you’re my guest. You have a long drive in the morning. I might work a little longer and since it’s going good I’m getting ready to wind it down. I don’t want to skip over any loose threads in the plot.”

“It’s the difference in our ages, isn’t it? You’ve just realized that I’m ten years older than you are. I know you’re young and vital, but I think I still have a lot of good years left in me.”

Rita was about to light a cigarette. She stared at Ian, stunned at what he had just said. Her voice was brittle when she spoke. “Difference in our ages in regard to what?”

“Us. You and me.”

“Ian, there is no you and me. You’re my agent and I’m your client. We’re friends. I didn’t know that you . . . what I mean is, you never said . . . am I interpreting all of this right?”

Ian nodded. “I didn’t want to rush you. The divorce and all. The children like me. You like my children. We’re both grandparents. We do have a lot in common. I thought you sensed . . . perhaps, I should have spoken sooner.” His voice was sober and solemn and sent a chill down Rita’s spine.