Balancing Act

chapter Two


Dory’s stomach churned all the way down in the elevator as she stood beside David Harlow, feeling his shoulder brush insistently against her own. She had been aware of the speculating glances from the women in the outer offices as Mr. Harlow escorted her to the elevator. Word was out that he was taking her to dinner. She must have been mistaken, Dory cautioned herself; those same speculating glances couldn’t have been touched with pity. Could they?

Mr. Harlow stood aside to allow her to walk through the revolving doors in the lobby. He walked too close and she resented the way he cupped her elbow in his hand as they walked to the corner.

“A taxi? Or would you rather walk?” Harlow asked.

“Let’s walk. It’s a nice evening. We could use the exercise after sitting in an office all day.” There was no way she was going to sit in a taxi with David Harlow. If all the stories were true, and she was beginning to suspect they were, she had no intention of allowing him to paw at her.

They made small talk as they walked to the restaurant. She winced and tried to draw away from him when he put his arm around her shoulder as they waited to be seated. There was something possessive in his touch, something too deliberate, too firm, too certain.

“Drink?”

“Whiskey sour on the rocks,” Dory replied smoothly. She wouldn’t allow him to rattle her. And she wouldn’t have more than two drinks with this man. She needed her wits. This was supposed to be a spectacular day! A day that held such promise for her future . . . if she wanted it. She wouldn’t allow a man like David Harlow to spoil it for her. Why hadn’t she made some excuse that she couldn’t join him for dinner? She should have. But she had been so filled with herself, so confident, and he had approached her at the height of her ego trip. All through the afternoon she had had time to reconsider, but by then it was too late.

“The food here is excellent,” Harlow said as he lifted his drink to toast Dory. “Here’s to a long and fruitful relationship.”

“I’m leaving, Mr. Harlow. How long and fruitful our relationship will be still remains to be seen.” Her mouth was dry and she could barely get the words out of her mouth. She didn’t like this man. Neither his reputation as a lecherous bastard nor his arrogance.

“You’ll be back,” Harlow said loftily. “I carry a lot of weight at the magazine. I have your future right here in my hip pocket, Dory. You and I could make an excellent . . . working team.” Dory was fully aware of the pregnant pause in his statement. “I personally approved of Lizzie’s choice to have you succeed her. I’ve already gone to the board of directors and read off your qualifications like a litany. They were as impressed as I. We’re all looking forward to your return.”

“I haven’t even left yet. And, I didn’t say I would be back. I haven’t decided.” Dory didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. “Why all this sudden interest, Mr. Harlow? You’ve never expressed interest in my career before this.”

“Darling, a man of my position cannot offer his attentions to every little copy girl whom Soiree employs. I admit I am irrevocably attracted to executive women who share my station and power. Didn’t you know, I’m an equal opportunity employer!” Harlow seemed to find this extremely funny, and as he laughed he firmly gripped Dory’s hand. “I could be of tremendous help to you, Dory. The right word here and there, and you could make it all the way to the top. I could do that for you.”

Dory cringed and tried to cover her distaste, hating herself for her pretended politeness and her reluctance to make an enemy of this man. She knew she should simply stand, excuse herself and leave him. To hell with David Harlow. She didn’t need this weasel . . . did she? Evidently, he thought she did. How slick he was. So certain she would seek his patronage. Dory forced what she hoped was a smile to her lips. “Are you saying I won’t be able to succeed without your help? What about those qualifications you lit-anized for the board?”

“Dory, I’m not quibbling about your ability. Your ideas have always been creative and valuable to the magazine. All I said was I could help you make it to the top. Success requires a particular type of woman. A sophisticated worldly woman who knows where her allegiances lie. I believe you’re that kind of woman.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What would I have to do to have you in my corner?” Her heart was pumping madly and she was certain the man across from her could hear it.

Harlow set his drink down and leaned across the table. Dory felt herself shrink back into her chair. He reached for her hand again. Swallowing hard, she steeled herself against the feel of his clammy hands on her. His flat white skin repelled her. Still, she didn’t withdraw her hand. “We’re both mature, consenting adults,” she heard him say. “Don’t play games with me. The only time I play games is in the bedroom. How good are you at games?”

“I manage,” Dory said in a strangled voice. This couldn’t be happening to her. She couldn’t be sitting here, listening to this man threaten her integrity. She couldn’t be letting him hold her hand. For what? For what, for God’s sake? For a job? Was she actually compromising herself to this miserable excuse for a man? She had to do something, say something, get out of this somehow. “There are other jobs.”

“Of course there are, my dear. This is New York. I think it’s safe to say I know every editor-in-chief on every magazine in the city. I’m sure you could apply at any one of the magazines.”

There it was, out in the open. She knew exactly what the words meant. If she didn’t play ball, his way, she was out of a job and she wouldn’t find it easy to get another one, not if he knew every editor-in-chief in the city. She could feel the bile rising in her throat. She withdrew her hand from his grasp and brought the glass to her lips. She gulped the sour drink and finished it in two swallows. She had to get out of here, back to her apartment. She would never come back to this sleazy city, with all its sleazebags like David Harlow. Griff. Think about Griff and a new life. She didn’t have to sit here and listen to this weasel with his slick words and heavy threats. All she had to do was get up and walk out. Tell him to go to hell, drop dead, who did he think he was talking to anyway? This was sexual harassment at its worst. But if she did that, there would be gossip. Shameful things would be said. People would look at her and snicker. They’d talk about her behind her back. They’d say things and believe them, terrible, degrading things. Who would hire her with something like that hanging over her head? She had to do something, say something, get through this somehow.

“I’d like to order now. I have an early day tomorrow.” After dinner she would make a graceful exit.

David Harlow leaned back in his chair and opened his menu. A smile played around his mouth. They were all alike. The woman hadn’t been born who wouldn’t climb in bed for the promise of money and some semblance of power. Words like threat, coercion, were not in David Harlow’s vocabulary. This one was an easy piece. He wished he had noticed her earlier.

“May I suggest the lobster . . .”





Griff slid behind the wheel of the clinic van and stared at the ashtray full of plum pits. He grimaced. John’s wife might look as if she’d stepped off a Vogue magazine cover, but she was the sloppiest woman he had ever come across. Tissues littered the floor and the stale scent of her perfume was embedded in the velour seat covers. He hated it. God damn, the van was for clinic use, not for Sylvia to joyride around in. That Sylvia might consider him to be joyriding didn’t enter his mind. He was picking up Dory at the airport and then they were going apartment hunting. There was a difference.

There were times when he felt boxed in, almost trapped. For the past several days the feeling had grown stronger and stronger, making him uneasy and skittish. He had hungered for this chance for so long, had worked so hard toward this end that he didn’t understand his discomfort. It must be the practice. Surely it had nothing to do with Dory. Or did it? He loved her. God, how he loved her. Maybe it was Dory he was really worried about and not himself. After all, it was Dory who was giving up her career. It was Dory who would have to make a new life for herself here in the D.C. fishbowl. Dory would be starting from scratch. He at least had a job, colleagues he liked and admired, and a purpose in life. Was he robbing Dory of the very things he was gaining? Was he being fair to her, to himself? Hell, Dory was a vibrant, go-for-it young woman with sophisticated savvy. Wherever she went she would take those traits with her. Dory was Dory and that was why he loved her. So why was he uneasy?

He liked New York, even loved it, but when opportunity knocked he had to respond. Everyone had to respond to a dream at one time or another. This move was a must if he was to get on with life and career. He knew in his gut that another opportunity like this wouldn’t come along again. The timing was perfect and Dory was part of the dream; she belonged in it. But was this what Dory really wanted? Was he being fair to her? She said he was, and he had to believe her. She said it was right, felt right. And, she had added, it was the perfect opportunity for her to finish her studies. In the end the decision had been hers.

Griff sighed. If all this was true, then why did he feel so anxious? Why was he so skittish? What was really bothering him?

The mere fact that anything at all was bothering him made him mad as hell. He hated it when he couldn’t solve problems, come up with the right answer and get on with things. He was never one to sit and ponder. Either the dream was right or it wasn’t. He loved Dory and Dory loved him. The practice was a golden opportunity, a step onward and upward for his career. He was happy with his decision to move here. If it was possible to be delirious with joy that Dory was moving here with him, then he was delirious with joy. So what was the problem?

The lack of commitment on Dory’s part, perhaps? Her decision not to get married at this time? That’s what it was. It was too loose. Not exactly temporary, just loose. When things were loose they could go either way. Marriage was a big step, an awesome responsibility. Perhaps Dory was right in not wanting to take such a step yet. Giving up her job, moving to a strange place, going back to school were probably all the decisions she could comfortably handle right now. He should understand it and he did understand it. He just didn’t like it. He wanted to marry Dory. He wanted her to be the mother of his children. She wanted those same things, but she didn’t want them right now. He was going to have to accept that because he loved her. He felt better now that he had put words to his feelings. The bottom line to his edginess was the lack of commitment. He could and would live with it. He had no other choice.

Christ, he was tired. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until he saw Dory step off the plane from New York. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and fall asleep against her softness. No thought of sex entered his mind. The clean fragrance of her was a balm to his senses. They kissed, a long, hungry kiss that made his head reel, oblivious to the stares and smiles of the other travelers. National Airport was a great place for kissing.

“Don’t tell me the smell in this van is from some poodle, because I’d never believe it,” Dory teased.

“John’s wife was using it till their car was fixed. Needed new shock absorbers or something. She isn’t the neatest person, as you’ll find out. I didn’t think you’d want to stay with them so I took a room at the Airport Holiday Inn. What’s your feeling on orange bedspreads and drapes? You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind? I adore the color orange. I love motels, if you go with them. Tell me, what prospects do you have lined up for us to see? Griff, you look tired. Are you sure you want to bother with apartment hunting today? I’ll go alone and only bring you to the most likely ones.”

“I am tired, but I’ll be all right. We’re going to look together and that’s settled. Sylvia and Lily really knocked themselves out lining up apartments. I hope one of them pans out. By the way, we’re having dinner with the four of them. I wanted you all to myself, but the sooner you meet them the better we’re all going to be. The girls are dying to meet you.”

Dory felt a little annoyed. What if she didn’t like “the girls”? How would Griff react? How like a man to assume that just because he and John and Rick got on so well, she would get on equally well with their wives. She was tempted to put her annoyance into words but changed her mind. Griff had made it clear that he liked the two women. He would never understand if she didn’t, so it was grin and bear it. She was probably worrying about nothing. Griff didn’t include any undesirables among his friends. If Griff liked them, so would she. Think positive, she told herself.

“Hungry?” Griff asked.

“No. They served a bagel with cream cheese on the plane along with a copy of the Wall Street Journal. How about you?”

“I had some coffee and toast. We’ll have an early lunch. I thought we’d start on the Virginia side and work toward D.C. I’d like to avoid the city if possible. Traffic in the morning is a bitch. First stop Arlington.”

They spent the morning looking at cramped apartments with no closet space and outrageous rental fees. Dory vetoed all of them. The last apartment building was a complete disaster. Two of the three elevators had OUT OF ORDER signs on them with messages tacked below in green crayon, making it clear what the tenants thought. The lobby tile was grimy and artificial plants were heavy with dust, making Dory sneeze. The rent for a studio was thirteen hundred dollars and a bargain, the manageress said in a squeaky voice. She reeked of stale beer and garlic.

“We’ll let you know,” Griff said hurriedly, as he ushered Dory past a loathsome rubber plant and out a smeared glass doorway.

They both inhaled deeply and Dory laughed. “Griff, the main road we were on before we got to the second apartment, what was it called?”

Griff checked his map. “Jefferson Davis Highway. Why?”

“I saw some town houses that looked nice. Why don’t we take a look.”

Griff shrugged. “Okay, but I think those rentals are more than I can afford right now.”

“I’d like to take a look. Really, Griff, what we’ve been looking at is barely big enough for you, much less me.”

The Georgian-style town houses were set back from closely cropped boxwood hedges and wide borders of colorful flowers. Dory liked them immediately. She jabbed at the buzzer of the manager’s office and waited. Griff rolled his eyes and whistled under his breath. Dory knew he was thinking the rent would be outrageous. Outrageous plus utilities. They were here, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

Dory blinked at the man who opened the door. He was a jock of the first order. Skin-tight Stitch’s jeans, ankle-high boots with a shine that any Marine would envy. From the looks of his arms and chest he pumped iron when he wasn’t out jocking. His navy blue shirt had a sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulders. “Call me Duke, everyone does,” he said in a phony Texas twang that was one hundred percent Brooklyn.

Griff seemed mesmerized by Duke’s attire, so Dory took the lead. “We’d like to take a look at one of the houses if you have a vacancy.”

“Well, little lady, I just happen to have two. A congressional aide moved out the last of the month and the place was just renovated last week. Two stews are moving out this weekend. It’s a duplicate of the aide’s with a different color scheme. Want to take a look?”

“That’s what we’re here for, pardner,” Griff drawled in annoyance. He hated macho jocks almost as much as he hated politicians. Shady and slick, the lot of them.

“Is there a lease?” Dory asked.

“Two-year lease but it’s not firm. We bend if you bend. Get my idea?” he said, nudging Dory playfully on the shoulder.

“Yeah, we get it. We pay off and it goes into your pocket, right, pardner?” Griff snapped.

“It’s a mean, hard, cold world around here. This ain’t the nation’s capital for nothing.”

“You’re right. This is Virginia, not Washington, D.C.,” Griff said as he ushered Dory through the doorway.

The smell of fresh paint assailed their nostrils. The place was antiseptically clean. The dove-gray wall-to-wall carpeting had been shampooed, the windows sparkled, and the fireplace with its Italian marble facade was a dream to behold. Dory loved it immediately, The kitchen was yellow and green, and she mentally hung green checkered curtains and added a hanging fern. A braided rug and some wrought-iron furniture would make it bright and cheerful. She loved it. The first-floor powder room was a soft plum color. She could decorate with blue, deeper plum or stark white. Upstairs, the master bedroom with fireplace made her draw in her breath. Griff did a double take as Dory walked into the huge bathroom, done in shades of beige and dark brown. A king-sized bed with a spread to match the lightning zigzag foil of the wallpaper would be perfect. Congressional aides certainly knew how to live. She knew that the wallpaper and carpeting were the aide’s choices, not the management’s.

“Where did the aide go?” she asked bluntly.

“Georgetown,” Duke said in a belligerent tone.

Griff smirked. “How much is the rent?” he demanded.

“Nine hundred a month. Management pays all utilities. Look around some and if you’re interested, come over to the office. This place will be snapped up by Sunday, so decide now. We require a two-month security deposit.”

“Twerp,” Griff snarled as Duke left the room.

“Dory, I can see you love this place and I don’t blame you after what we’ve seen so far, but there’s no way I can afford it now. Maybe next year.”

Dory’s face fell. “But, Griff, there are two of us. I’ll help with the expenses. How much were you willing to pay? You haven’t said.”

“I didn’t want to look at anything more than six hundred. How are you going to help? You’ll be going to school, and I wouldn’t want to dip into your securities. I can’t afford this, Dory. I’m sorry.”

“Griff, I’m going to be doing some freelance work for Lizzie. Profiles of congressmen and senators. The pay is adequate, believe me. I can carry my share. Please reconsider. Look at this fireplace. Can’t you just see us making love in front of it on some cold, snowy night?” Not waiting for him to respond, she rushed on, “You’re going to want to do some entertaining, and this place is perfect. We could even have a small barbecue in the back. Each house has a patch of garden in the rear, I saw it from the kitchen window. Some yellow canvas chairs and a table to match. Griff . . .”

“Honey, I didn’t plan on you paying or helping out. If I can’t afford you, then I have no business asking you to share my life. It’s my responsibility to care for you.”

“Just for now, Griff, until you get on your feet. Later we can change the arrangements if you want. Let me help. It’s fair. With your furniture and mine this place could be a knockout.”

“What about your apartment?”

“I’ll sublet. No problem. Apartments on the Upper East Side are like gold. Say yes, Griff.”

Griff stared down at Dory. She was probably right, but it hurt his ego that he would have to rely on her to pay half the rent. “Okay. I can see how badly you want this place. It’s yours. Let’s go talk to Superjock and settle it now.”

“Oh, Griff, thank you.” Dory threw her arms around his neck. “How far away is the Holiday Inn?”

“About four and one-half minutes from this doorway,” Griff laughed.

Twenty-seven hundred dollars poorer, Griff looked stunned when they left the rental office of the Clayton Square Complex. Dory was oblivious to his tight expression and tense shoulders. She had mentally decorated the entire town house, both floors, while Duke explained to Griff tiresome things like yard maintenance and the workings of the water heater and snow removal in the winter.

A fat, red-eyed pigeon wobbled down the walkway in search of his dinner. Two more joined him in the quest, making Griff step off the walk onto the lawn that brashly displayed the mandate, KEEP OFF THE GRASS.

On the short ride back to the motel Dory was eagerly anticipating the moment when she and Griff would be alone at last. It seemed months rather than days since he had left New York, and she had missed him dearly, especially that closeness they shared after lovemaking. Not since that first kiss at the airport had Griff attempted any intimacy with her. That sudden advance of hers in their newly rented town house didn’t seem to count. That had been an impulsive move entirely her own and now, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember if he had returned the gesture.

He’s tired, poor dear, she excused him for his lack of ardor. Nevertheless, she was already looking ahead to the solitude of the motel room and Griff’s embrace.

Immediately upon entering the room and locking the door behind him, Griff collapsed on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light from the wide windows. “Do you want to shower first, or shall I?” Dory asked, a bit annoyed. She assumed that Griff had missed her just as much as she had missed him, and when the door closed she waited for him to take her into his hungry embrace. Romantic, she accused herself. Give the guy a break. It’s obvious he’s worn out. Still, her charitable logic did nothing to lift her disappointment.

“You shower first, honey. I don’t mind a steamy bathroom and used soap. Training from the Marines.”

Dory sat down on the edge of the bed, her fingers ruffling through his dark, wavy hair. “We could always shower together,” she whispered invitingly, “that way, no one gets to use a steamy bathroom . . .”

Even before she uttered the words, she realized Griff was already asleep. He looked so pathetically weary, so vulnerable. Quietly, Dory closed the drapes to darken the room and then carefully removed Griff’s shoes. She stripped off her dress and crawled onto the bed beside him, pulling up the spare blanket at the foot of the bed. Nestling down beside him, she offered her warmth and tenderness. In response to her, Griff turned on his side and wrapped her into his embrace, holding her.

Dory lay quietly. She wanted to talk about her plans for the town house. She wanted to talk about their new life and what living together would mean to both of them. Instead, she heard the deep, sonorous breathing that indicated he was sound asleep.





John and Sylvia Rossiter lived in a large white and wedgwood-blue colonial house set back from the street. Natives of Virginia, they had occupied the same house for twenty-three years of their twenty-four-year marriage. Griff liked and respected John Rossiter, and when he had made his offer three years ago, Griff had jumped at the opportunity. John had been in New York to read a paper on equine medicine, and the two had hit it off immediately and had been friends ever since.

While Griff liked and respected John, he always felt a little nonplussed about Sylvia. Sylvia was, as she put it, thirty-nine and holding. She admitted that she liked to be considered a trendsetter in fashion and often attired herself in outlandish costumes that made Griff wince. Dory might recognize the style and the cost of Sylvia’s wardrobe and be impressed, but secretly, he considered his partner’s wife to be a plastic creation, and he often wondered how she managed to dress herself at all with those three-inch nails. He must ask Dory if she thought they were real. Sylvia couldn’t cook or clean house, and John pretended to be amused by his wife’s constant references to domestic chores, saying if God wanted her to be a domestic he would have permanently attached a mop to one hand and a broom to the other. The Rossiters’ house had more than a lived-in look. Griff sought the right word and finally came up with “disaster.” Satisfied, he rang the bell and grinned down at Dory. “This is going to be one hell of an experience for you. Just keep your cool and ride with it.”

Sylvia Rossiter opened the door herself and smiled widely as she offered a carefully made-up cheek for Griff to kiss. Long, thin arms reached out to draw Dory to her but not before her eyes added up the prices of Dory’s complete outfit, right down to the shoes. Outrageous lashes fluttered wildly as she calculated. She approved.

Dory fought the urge to sneeze at the cloying smell of Sylvia’s perfume. Later, Griff told her it always reminded him of a cross between Pine-Sol and rose water.

“Darlings, darlings, darlings!” she cooed shrilly. “Come along, we’re all shivering out on the patio. As you can see, I didn’t get a chance to clean today, or yesterday or the day before that.” Her tone indicated it was not something she ever planned on doing. “We’ll just get a few drinks in you and you won’t feel the chill. John is already cooking. Dory,” she trilled, “I just know you’re going to love it here, and you are not to worry your pretty little head for one minute about what people will say. If I hear so much as one word, I’ll straighten it out immediately.”

“She means it,” Griff said. “She’s hell on wheels about justice and the American way.” It was Dory’s turn to be nonplussed.

“That’s a lovely outfit you’re wearing,” Dory said, smiling as she, too, mentally calculated the cost of Sylvia’s outfit—the culottes with the tight band about the knee, raw silk in the palest shade of pink she had ever seen; a long, karate-style coat with a three-inch-wide crimson obi. Shoes to match the obi completed her outfit. It didn’t go for a penny less than seven hundred dollars. Sylvia had four strands of jet-black beads at her throat and a matching band of beads and fringe worn low on her forehead. Dory felt awed, not so much at the cost but at the sheer audacity of the outfit.

“Darling, there is a story behind this getup. I had just bought it in Bergdorf’s on my last trip to New York. There I was, carrying this outfit, walking down the street, minding my own business, wearing all my really good jewelry, when these four hoodlums started tracking me. I was more than a little nervous. I knew they were going to attack me any minute. Just any minute! I don’t mind telling you I had to make one hell of a quick decision. It was either give up the outfit and jewelry or take a chance that someone might see me run into Lord & Taylor. God!”

“As you can see, she opted for the unthinkable. She went into Lord & Taylor,” John Rossiter said, holding out his hand to Dory.

John Rossiter was a credit to his barber. His chalk-white hair and mustache were trimmed to perfection. His tailor had nimble fingers, as did the shoemaker who crafted his handmade loafers. The family genetic pool could take credit for the weathered golden-brown skin that contrasted sharply with his prematurely white hair. His eyes were nut brown, observant, and keen, and the laugh lines etched deep grooves at the corners. Dory liked him immediately.

“Come along and meet Rick and Lily.” Dory dutifully followed but not before she saw Sylvia roll her eyes at Griff.

Seated away from the smoke of the open barbecue, Lily Dayton was breast-feeding a cherub of a baby. Her husband sat beside her, his eyes glued to his firstborn son. Dory’s first thought was Madonna and Child. Griff had a strange look on his face as he watched the baby suck, making soft little sounds in the quiet of the patio. A spurt of grease shot in the air from the barbecue, startling Dory. She looked up; Sylvia stared pointedly at Lily and grimaced.

“Why you can’t bottle-feed that child is something I’ll never understand,” Sylvia all but snapped. “She even does that in department stores,” she said to Dory. Her tone became light and could almost be taken for teasing, but Dory knew better. She herself felt embarrassed for Lily, who was now propping the baby over her left shoulder, leaving her right breast exposed while she made him comfortable. “Disgusting,” Sylvia hissed between clenched teeth.

Dory looked around. John and Griff, as well as Rick, seemed mesmerized by the large, swollen breast.

Rick, a tall, splinter-thin man, shook hands warmly. He reminded Dory of an intense young Anthony Perkins. A good surgeon, Griff had said. Sensitive hands, not a nerve in his body. Animals rarely had to be sedated while Rick examined them. “Welcome to our little group,” Rick said softly. Everything about him seemed in place. He gave the impression that there was nowhere else he would rather be and that his life was in perfect order. It probably was, Dory thought, as her eyes went to Lily and the sleeping baby.

“Aren’t you going to put him down now and button up?” Sylvia demanded.

“In a minute. I just want to hold him for a few minutes. It’s a shock to their little systems to be taken from the warm breast and then placed in a cold bed.”

“This is Dory, Griff’s live-in,” Sylvia said brashly.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” Lily said. “I hope you can come over and lunch with me some time. I have some wonderful recipes I can share with you. Just ask Rick. I made a carrot cake that turned him into a beast.”

Rick bared his teeth to show that he agreed. “We brought one with us. Sylvia never serves dessert.”

“I’d like that,” Dory lied. Imagine her swapping recipes with this little mother. Somehow Dory didn’t think Lily would be interested in her recipe for Alabama Slammers. This child didn’t look old enough to drink, and if she did, it was orange squash or grape Nehi.

The evening progressed and so did the chill. When it became apparent that everyone was shivering, Sylvia called a halt to the party. “I have a seven A.M. golfing date, kiddies, so we better call it a night.”

Dory was thankful that the party was over. For the past two hours since finishing the burnt steak, she had been afraid to smile for fear tiny bits of charcoal would be stuck between her front teeth.

Lily’s sweet voice continued chattering. “Have you been having a problem with the water, Sylvia? Ours is so hard I’m afraid to wash little Rick’s clothes in it. I can’t get the rust stains out of the toilet either. Do you know what I can use? It’s really upsetting me.”

The look on Sylvia’s face was ludicrous. “I thought it was supposed to be like that.” Dory turned her head to avoid laughing. Not for the world would she open her mouth and tell them her own secret for removing rust stains.

As they walked through the living room, Dory could hear Lily telling Sylvia that she had tried baking soda, vinegar and Clorox and nothing worked, and, “Sylvia, you might get germs if you don’t do something.”

“For Christ’s sake, let’s get the hell out of here,” Griff said, sotto voce, as he led Dory out the front door. “See you Monday,” he called over his shoulder.

“Well, what do you think?” Griff asked anxiously as he started up the van.

“They all seem very nice,” she replied in a noncommittal voice. She had to think about the lot of them before she made any statements that she might regret later on. Slow and easy for now.

Griff laughed. “When you get to know them, they don’t get better, they stay the same. John is fantastic, as you know. Sylvia is Sylvia. She’s into clothes. Spending money is her hobby. She plays golf and tennis and drinks more than she should. She can’t cook worth a damn and you saw how she cleans house. She does get a cleaning crew, or wrecking crew, to come in twice a year to give the place a once-over and then she throws a party that would knock your eyes out. She’s generous and friendly. You’ll get along. Fashion is something you have in common.”

Dory bit her tongue to keep from replying. She could see little that she and Sylvia Rossiter had in common, particularly in matters of taste.

“Lily Dayton is a lovely, sweet person, as you must have seen.” Dory wondered if Griff was aware of how his voice changed when he spoke of Lily Dayton. “She’s wrapped up in her baby and so’s Rick. They really and totally live for one another. She loves to bake and cook and fuss in the house. She had a garden this summer that was mind-boggling. Rick said she canned vegetables and fruits for weeks on end. She has a cold closet in the basement where she keeps all the things she cans. It’s remarkable,” he said in an approving voice. “Rick said she knitted all the baby’s blankets and sweaters last winter. Their house, while not as large and expensive as the Rossiters’, is a showpiece. Lily refinished all the furniture herself, hooked the rugs, sanded down the woodwork, and repainted it. She has some priceless antiques that she’s collected since she and Rick got married. I’ll bet she can help you when you start decorating our place.”

Our place. How wonderful it sounded. But he was wrong. Lily Dayton would have no part in her decorations. This was something she was going to do on her own. Imperceptibly, she moved a little closer to the door. She was annoyed. Did he have to be so damn complimentary where Lily Dayton was concerned? It surprised her and rankled that Griff had never even alluded to the fact that he admired homemaking. And babies. Maybe it was the baby that made him so agreeable and . . . just what the hell was it, she wondered. Was she jealous? Of course she was jealous. She wanted Griff to look at her the way he looked at Lily. She wanted to hear that approving tone in his voice when he spoke about her and her accomplishments. She inched still closer to the door. What could he say after he said, “Dory works for Soiree magazine in New York.” Now he could say she was going for her doctorate. Big deal. She suddenly realized she would never get that reverent approval unless she singlehandedly canned eighty-seven quarts of string beans. Men! She didn’t think she was going to like Lily Dayton.

“By the way. You were a knockout. Everyone liked you. Sylvia will be after you to find out where you get your clothes. You looked every inch New York and Fifth Avenue. New dress, huh?”

“Not really. It’s three days old.” Dory grinned. It was okay now. Now he noticed her and was paying her compliments. There for a minute she had felt like the forgotten woman. He approved of her and the way she dressed. He approved of her.

“When do your classes start?”

“I thought I’d come down early next Friday for final registration. I have Katy doing all the paperwork and making the phone calls. I don’t anticipate any problems.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle the freelance work and school, not to mention the house?”

There it was again. Keeping house. Homemaking. Was that what he wanted? A homemaker?

“Of course I can handle it. We’re just two people, so how much housekeeping can there be? You aren’t messy and neither am I. If we both pick up after ourselves, there shouldn’t be much of a problem. If I must, I can engage a cleaning person once a week. I don’t want you to start worrying about me and how I’m going to cope. You have enough on your mind without all of this. Let me handle this end of it, Griff.” Even to her own ears she sounded so certain, so confident. But was she? If she were back in New York, at Soiree, among people she knew and places that were familiar, her confidence would be well founded. Here in Washington, everything was new—new people, new situations, the pressures of school, making a home for herself and for Griff . . . why, she didn’t even know where the grocery market was or where to get a really fine cut of steak. Dry cleaners . . . Dory gulped back a wave of doubt. She would handle it, she must handle it. Smiling, she decided to cross those bridges when she came to them. For now, she’d concentrate on Griff. “What do you say we get back to that motel where we can be alone. Together?”

“She’s a mind reader, too,” Griff grinned in the darkness. “I really dislike bucket seats in automobiles. Wiggle closer, we can at least hold hands.”

Dory reached for his hand and gave a little involuntary shiver. “Cold?” Griff asked. “The evenings always get damp this time of year, even here in Virginia. Autumn is hard upon us, gal, it’s already the middle of September, or almost. Only seventeen shopping weeks till Christmas. Think you can handle it?”

Dory laughed. “Goon. Reminding me about Christmas when I’m still in the midst of setting up a home for us. And school . . .” Her tone softened, becoming a little breathless. “Christmas. Our first Christmas, Griff!”

“Home. Our first home, Dory,” he mimicked her dreamy tone, teasing her. Then more seriously, “Would you mind if I invited my mother for at least a part of the Christmas festivities?”

“Not a bit. If you think she’d come . . .”

“Mom doesn’t set herself up as a judge, Dory. You should know that. Mom would love to share the holidays with us.”

“As long as you’re talking family, I have this zany aunt who actually advocates the racier side of life . . .”

“It’s settled then.” Griff squeezed her hand. “We’ll invite Pixie, too!”

Dory settled back against the seat, still holding fast to Griff’s hand, resting it on the top of his thigh, feeling the roll of the muscles as he manipulated the gas pedal and the brake. It was nice to know that he was thinking ahead to Christmas and the holidays and that she was first and foremost in his plans. There would be a continuity to their lives, a kind of settling down, a comforting safeness. With Griff, she knew exactly where she would be for Christmas and exactly what she would be doing. No more jaunting off for winter holidays at the Christmas season. No more touring around the ski slopes or lying in the Bahama sun with others who also lacked a connection and permanency in their lives. With Griff she had gained a definition of time and place. In December, at the holidays, she would be here, with the man she loved, in their very own home. If the excitement of spontaneous, last-minute plans was a thing of the past, that was all to the good . . . wasn’t it?

When Griff and Dory closed the door to their motel room, he took her into his embrace, biting lightly on the tender flesh beneath her ear. Dory heard herself laughing, delighted that Griff was once again the attentive lover he had always been. His hands impatiently moved to the tiny buttons at the back of her dress, hastily working the fastening, eager to bare the creamy skin of her shoulders and breasts.

Lips caressing, tongues touching, they stripped away the offending garments, exploring and kissing as though they had never made love before.

Dory’s hands were hot and demanding, covering his flesh with eager deliberation. “Easy, love,” Griff whispered in her ear. “We’ve got the rest of the night and I intend to spend every minute of it making love to you.” His lips were pressed against her throat, his voice sending little tremors through her body. “Easy, love, easy.”

In a graceful, swift movement, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, holding her against him while he threw back the spread and laid her gently down on the smooth sheets.

He stood beside her for a long moment, drinking in the long, sweeping lines of her body, traveling up the length of her slim thighs to the perfection of her small but sweetly molded breasts. The fire in his loins rose to his head, making him feel heady, knowing a deep, aching longing for her. She held out her arms to him, and with a sound that was close to a groan, he lay down beside her, entwining himself around her, drawing her close against him.

Dory’s head was swimming with anticipation. Her body was ready for him, arching, needing, eager for his touch and for his ultimate possession of her. But he would not take her quickly, she knew; his would be a slow, artful exploration, giving, taking, claiming for his own. And when she would feel herself splitting into fragments, incomplete without him deep inside her, only then would he take her, filling her world and joining her to himself.

Their mouths touched, teasing little tastes of his tongue, while he held her so tightly that each breath was a labor. He anchored her body to his while her senses took flight, soaring high overhead until her thinking became disjointed, and her world was focused only on those places that were covered by his hands, by his lips.

Taking his dark head in her hands, she cradled his face, kissing his mouth, his chin, the creases between his brows. His mustache tickled and aroused, adding further sensation to the contact between their mouths, making his lips seem softer and warmer in contrast.

“Love me, Griff, love me,” she implored, her voice deep, throaty, almost a primal cry of desire. The sound in the silent room made his passions flare. He covered her with his body, holding her fast with his muscular thighs, while he skillfully caressed her heated flesh. She drew his head down to her breasts, offering them. His lips closed over one pouting crest and then the other, nibbling, teasing, drawing tight, loving circles with his tongue. His excursions traveled downward to the flatness of her belly and the soft, darker recesses between her legs.

Dory felt herself arch instinctively against his mouth, her head rolling back and forth on the pillow as though to deny the exquisite demand of her sensuality. Her fingers curled in his thick, dark hair, her body moved of its own volition against the caress he excited against her. Release, when it came, was the ebbing of the flood tide, seeping from her limbs and the sudden exhaling of her breath. She was floating, drifting on a cloud, the whole of her world consisting of his lips and her flesh and the contact between them.

Still, his movements were slow, deliberate and unhurried, although there was a roaring in his ears that was echoed in the pulses of his loins. His hands grasped her hips, lifting her, drawing her against him, filling her with his bigness, knowing his own needs now and demanding they be met. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as though he had run a mile. Lips met, lingered, tasted and met again. He moved within her imprisoning flesh, insistently, rhythmically, bringing her with him to another plateau so different from the first yet just as exciting. He rocked against her, feeling the resistance she offered, knowing that as she tightened around him as though to expel him from her, she was coming ever nearer to that climaxing sunburst where he would find his own consolation.

Panting, Griff’s body covered hers, calming her shudders and comforting her until their spasms passed. It was with reluctance that he withdrew from her and silently pulled the covers over them, taking her in his arms to cradle her lovingly. Contentedly, Dory rested against him, sweeping her hand down the length of his body and finding him moist from her own wetness. Curled together in a dream of their own, they murmured love words until at last they slept.