Balancing Act

chapter Ten


Rita 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.

I love him, for all I am and for all I can be.