Balancing Act

chapter Five


Griff left for the clinic early in the morning, kissing Dory good-bye as she put their coffee cups into the dishwasher. “Here’s for luck your first day of school. Nervous?”

“You bet. It’s been some while since I’ve sat in a classroom, don’t forget. But I think there’s still some life in the old gray matter,” she laughed, tapping her head.

Dory was nervous, more than she cared to admit. After Griff left the house she found herself compulsively straightening cushions and smoothing the bed and giving another swipe of the dishcloth to an already clean white Formica counter. She walked through the house, trying to see the results of her efforts through objective eyes. The soft gray carpeting in the living room picked up the gentle pinks and buffered whites in the Italian marble fireplace. Most of the furnishings from her apartment in New York were already in place; only a few decorator items and knickknacks were still left to be unpacked. The chrome and glass étagère and end tables from Griff’s loft added a striking note of contrast against her more formal traditional pieces of white velvet and damask. She could run into town today and see if she could pick up some toss pillows, a few in the same shade as the carpeting and others in that deep plum color she liked so well, Perhaps she could order several huge stack cushions in plum velvet to serve as extra seating. Her collection of crystal paperweights would look terrific on the glass table banked against the sofa.

Dory shook her head. What was she doing standing here decorating the living room when she should be upstairs this minute getting dressed?

Up the carpeted stairs and down the short hallway, Dory entered the bedroom, which, along with its accompanying dressing room and bath, comprised the entire second floor of the town house. There was still much work to be done here. New drapes to be hung, deciding on the accent colors, finding a love seat and easy chair to place before the fireplace. She must see about finding a wax or a finishing compound to bring out the best in the ornately designed andirons. Set with white fieldstone, the fireplace was built into a stuccoed wall and centered on the far side of the room. A really striking tapestry or rug would be just the thing to hang over the hearth.

Dory’s eye caught the movement of the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. If she didn’t hurry, she would be late for school. The city map she had bought made finding the university easy, but she still didn’t know about parking or even how to find the buildings where her classes were to be held.

Rifling through her drawers to find underwear and stockings, Dory chewed her bottom lip with worry. She had had every intention of driving out to Georgetown yesterday to get the lay of the land, but somehow she hadn’t done it. Why had she allowed herself to become distracted by household chores and preparing that extravagant dinner? Griff had told her he would be more than satisfied with sandwiches. She could have put her time to better use.

Rushing for the bathroom and turning on the shower, Dory berated herself for not making her priorities stand. She never should have let herself be sidetracked. She detested being late, and even judged others by how promptly they kept appointments. Stepping under the steaming spray, she pushed back the thought that perhaps her dallying around the house with her various chores might be an indication that she was not as eager to go back to school as she had thought.

Midway through the first day of school Dory had what Griff later described as an anxiety attack. It hit her when she was walking from one building to the next shortly after the lunch hour. She felt weak and her head reeled. The first thought that ricocheted through her brain was that she was pregnant. Then she realized how ridiculous the thought was and felt worse. She sat down on a bench until the dizziness passed, her heart fluttering wildly. By the time she teetered to her class she had herself diagnosed and was making out a will in her mind. She was to be cremated and . . . God, what would they do with her ashes? Her parents might want them or Aunt Pixie might find some use for them. Griff wanting her ashes never occurred to her. If she was going to die, why was she sitting here in this damn dumb, stupid class trying to convince herself and the instructor that she did indeed want to get her doctorate? As the courtroom voice of the professor droned on, Dory let her mind wander. Some inner sense told her that there was nothing wrong with her, physically. It was nerves, it was all too much, too quick, too fast. She hadn’t adjusted yet. Time. She needed time.

Time was measured by clocks and calendars, things she had worked with for years. She had always watched the clock, ticked off the days on the calendar, made a schedule and stuck to it. Now, she felt adrift.

When the class was over Dory hadn’t the faintest idea of what had been said or who sat next to her. The instructor was almost out the door before she got up from her seat. Thank God, she had taped the class. She switched the button on the small Sony recorder and slipped it into her bag. She felt rotten. Not physically rotten. Just rotten. She glanced at her watch and wondered what Katy and the others were doing. If she really wanted to know, she could call up and find out. She didn’t really want to know, she told herself as she walked down the hall looking for a student lounge. A cup of coffee would help. Maybe some crackers or something to settle her churning stomach. She was behaving worse than a child on the first day of school.

Dory suffered through a two-hour lecture on Chaucer’s boyhood, watching the minute hand on her watch. The instructor walked up and down in front of the class, tapping a pencil against his fat, pink palm. It might have helped her concentration if he was handsome with good teeth. It was no fun to look at a middle-aged, balding man with baggy trousers. There was even a shine to his pants. For shame on his wife, Dory thought. His white shirt was polyester, and gray with repeated washings. Ring around the collar, no doubt. Lily would know how to make the shirt clean again. Little Ricky’s bibs were so blindingly white they hurt the eyes. She wondered what Lily was doing. Where was Sylvia? She wished she was with Griff.

Her palms were starting to sweat again. By forcing herself to stare at the instructor’s shirtfront she was able to control the attack of dizziness. Think about something pleasant, anything. A meadow of daisies. A clear, sparkling lake filled with jumping fish. Christmas with Pixie and a mound of presents. Damn it to hell, why wasn’t it working? Why was her throat closing? My God, what if she collapsed? She tried clearing her throat and got an annoyed glance from the instructor. Her throat constricted again and she could feel the saliva building up in her mouth. Oh God, don’t let me drool, not here in front of all these people. Was it her imagination or were people staring at her as she dabbed at her wet mouth?

To get up now and walk out would only call attention to herself. Better to sit still and try to concentrate on the lecture. Why was this instructor so damn long-winded? Didn’t they cut classes short anymore? She wanted to cry when she felt her throat muscles relax. She drew in deep breaths and exhaled slowly. She felt a little better. Thank God.

Dory looked around at the other students. They all wore rapt expressions. None of them was having an anxiety attack or whatever it was she was having. None of their minds appeared to be wandering the way hers was. They seemed to be accepting the instructor regardless of his looks and clothing. What was wrong with her? How could she be thinking about such ridiculous things? Or was this one more indication that she wasn’t taking her doctorate seriously? Intentions, good or bad, were one thing; following through was something else entirely. She had to give that theory a lot of thought.

Dory was the first one out of the room when the professor nodded his head in the general direction of the class. Dismissed. Thank God. If she checked the map, she might have time to stop by the garden nursery she had noticed on her way to school. Autumn blooms and some plants for the house. There would be time to arrange them and place them to the best advantage. Also time for making a pot roast. Griff loved pot roast and so did she. Aunt Pixie always said if you added apple juice to the gravy, you had pure ambrosia.

She drove with the windows down. She felt wonderful with the crisp fall air whipping at her through the open window. She couldn’t wait to get home and out of the tight, clinging silk slacks and Oscar de la Renta overblouse with matching belt. She kicked the two-hundred-dollar shoes off and wiggled her toes. She had to remember to buy some foot powder for her sneakers. And she needed more than one pair of sneaker socks. Back in New York she had only used the washers and dryers in the basement of the building once every three weeks or so. Everything else went to the cleaners. Now there were Griff’s clothes to launder.

While the nursery man loaded the ferns, the philodendrons, and Swedish ivy into the back of the SUV, Dory stared at the colorful blooms of the autumn flowers. To the right there was a decorative display of pumpkins and coppery colored chrysanthemums. On impulse, she bought the biggest pumpkin and four pots of the bronze flowers. Then she added one of the deep yellow and another of rich lavender. There was barely room in the car for herself. The owner was delighted with the check she wrote out for two hundred thirty dollars. She didn’t bat an eye. It was worth it. Griff would love the flowers and the pumpkin. Everyone needed a fern at the kitchen window. Fireplaces always needed greenery on the hearth. Oh, what she could do with that fireplace come Christmas.

Back at the town house her silken garments slithered to the floor. The alligator shoes lay lopsidedly beside them. A lacy froth of powder blue bra found a home on the neat spread. Jewelry went back into the nest of velvet.

Dory stepped into faded jeans and a pullover shirt of deep orange. She liked the feeling against her skin. What a pleasure to go without underwear. A wicked grin split her features. If Griff liked all that froth and lace, he would love bare skin even more. She liked it when he ran his hand up under a blouse or shirt. God, he had such delicious hands.

The Coach case with its notebooks and cassette recorder landed with a thump on a coffee-colored slipper chair. Dory grimaced as she read her initials in gold lettering. Ostentatious, she thought.

Time to put the pot roast on. While it was browning, she would bring in the plants and arrange them. But when she was finished she felt disappointed. She should have bought more. A tree, a big leafy tree was called for, and she needed more fill-in plants. Damn, she had been so sure she had enough. If there was one thing she disliked, it was something that looked unfinished. A glance at the digital clock told her she had time to make a quick run back to the nursery. But first she called the clinic to see what time Griff would be home. He sounded annoyed when he said some time around seven. Dory barely noticed the annoyance as she calculated her driving time.

It was six o’clock when Dory backed the SUV into her parking space. She struggled with the bushy tree and had to drag it into the house. The second tree, reed slim with lacy pointed leaves, found its way to the living room. A second pumpkin and the three boxes of assorted fill-in plants sat next to the fireplace. When she was finished arranging them, she stifled the urge to call Lily to come for a look-see. Lily would love it. Sylvia would say, “Darling, it looks like a goddamn jungle and what do you mean, you wax the leaves?” Griff would be delighted and compliment her on making the town house look like a home. She decided not to mention that this batch of greenery had set her back another two hundred forty dollars. Trees were expensive but every leaf was worth the money. She would economize somewhere else.

Satisfied with her handiwork, Dory retreated to the kitchen to wash the greens for a salad. Fresh string beans and four ears of corn would complete their meal. Dessert would be fresh pears soaked in brandy. Griff was going to love it, just love it.





Griff’s mind was on the interstate as he watched for the Arlington turnoff. John had to speak to him twice before he turned to look at the older man. “I’m sorry, John, what did you say?”

“I said Sylvia is going back to work at the beginning of the week. You know she likes to have her summers off for golf and tennis. It’s not that she makes a fistful of money; actually, she uses up half of what she makes driving that gas guzzler of hers, but it makes her happy. I’m glad she’s doing something for herself. It’s important that women do things just for themselves. Makes them . . .” he sought for the word Sylvia had drilled into his head a hundred times. “. . . fulfilled. Of course, you know what I’m talking about. Dory is a career girl. And now that she’s going back for her doctorate, you must be very proud of her, Griff. She’ll definitely be an asset to you. Of course, Sylvia isn’t anywhere near Dory’s league, but selling cosmetics is something she likes, and Neiman-Marcus is a prestigious store.”

Griff wondered why John sounded so defensive when he spoke of Sylvia and fulfillment. Dory as an asset. His eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. “Dory is her own person, John. Always has been. I love her. I respect her intelligence. I admire her independence and the way she’s climbed her way to the top of her field. I don’t mind telling you I’m a little in awe of her now that she’s going back to pursue her studies. She’s probably the only person I know who is a ‘whole’ person. Capably whole.”

John swiveled in his seat to stare at Griff. Was there a hint of something other than admiration in the man’s voice? Surely, he couldn’t be jealous of his . . . live-in. John always felt uncomfortable when he had to refer to Dory in a manner other than calling her by name. These live-in situations were not to his liking. In the end they always caused problems. Sylvia, with all her free-spirited ways, was probably even more suited to marriage than Lily. Sylvia liked being married. She preferred being Mrs. instead of Miss or Ms.

“I hope the girls hit it off and can do things together. Sylvia still has a lot of time on her hands. Lily has never managed to domesticate her, so it’s up to Dory to take her in hand. Sylvia doesn’t like to be pushy, if you know what I mean. She’s going to stand back and give Dory room. You mark my word, those two are going to be good friends. You do think they’ll hit it off, don’t you?”

Griff noted the anxious tone of the older man. “I’m sure of it, John. But I do think we should let them pace it out themselves.”

“Absolutely.” John leaned back and closed his eyes. There was no sense in telling Griff that he was worried about Sylvia and the way she was spending her time and money. His money. It was nothing for her to drop two thousand dollars at the Galleria in one day. Even with wise and careful investing, he was going to have to draw the line with her. And, she was now annoyed when he asked her where she was and how she spent the day. He hated to use the word secretive, but, it was the only word that applied to Sylvia these days. He also wasn’t going to tell either Griff or Rick that he had joined a men’s health club. His blood pressure was up and he had willingly given up salt and spicy foods. It wasn’t too late, he assured himself. There was still time to put that lift in his step and beef himself up a bit. He had never been athletic and his lean body seemed to be shrinking into a kind of old man’s stringiness. Sort of like a tough, old rooster.

“I think I’ll tell Dory to put whatever she cooked for dinner in the fridge and take her out to dinner. I could use some ambiance this evening. Dory started school today and I know she’s not going to be in the mood for much of anything. A nice, quiet dinner, just the two of us.”

“Sounds good to me,” John drawled. He wondered if Sylvia was going to serve Swanson’s pot pies or make soup and sandwiches. Someday he was going to figure out how many cans of Campbell’s soup he had consumed since marrying Sylvia. Christ, how he hated what Sylvia called grilled cheese sandwiches. White bread with a slice of cheese on a paper plate warmed in the microwave oven. Low-calorie yogurt on a stick was dessert seven days a week. But he loved her, heart and soul. It never occurred to him to complain. Sylvia wouldn’t like it if he complained. When he complained Sylvia turned away from him in bed and spent money faster than he could breathe. He wondered who was going to take care of him in his twilight years. He smiled. Sylvia would hire the best nurse possible to wheel him around. She would check on him three times a day. The thought made him want to gag. I’m counting on Dory Faraday to bring some stability to my marriage, he admitted to himself. If it didn’t work out, naturally he would bring pressure to bear on Griff. He wouldn’t like doing it, but if it meant saving Sylvia from whatever she needed to be saved from, he would do it. In his gut he knew she wasn’t sleeping around. Sylvia would never do that to him. She respected her marriage vows. He was almost sure of it. But why was she so restless, so lacking in serenity? He hoped Dory could find out.

Griff dropped John off and headed north toward his own home. The goddamn plum pits were still in the van. Sylvia’s stale perfume curled his nostril hair. He fought off a fit of sneezing and turned on the air-conditioning. It didn’t help. Sylvia might be a class act, but she sure needed a lesson or two in the use of perfume. He wondered how John stood it.

The van slid in next to the SUV. Walking around the back, he noticed the spilled dirt and broken leaves and branches in the back of the wagon. He frowned. He’d always been meticulous about his car. What in the hell had Dory been lugging around?

“Hi, honey, I’m home. What say we splurge and go out to dinner this evening?” Griff called out to Dory as he walked down the hall to the kitchen.

Dory stared at the thickening gravy of the pot roast and then at Griff. Griff’s eyes took in the set table, the bubbling pots and Dory’s flushed face. “You did all this and went to school too?” he asked in amazement.

Dory nodded happily. “Pot roast, gravy, string beans, corn on the cob and pears soaked in brandy for dessert. Do you still want to go out to dinner?” she teased.

“Hell no, only a fool would do a thing like that. How about a beer while I get ready to shower?”

“Go along and I’ll bring it up to you. How did you like the living room?”

“Why, what did you do? I just headed straight down the hallway.”

Dory uncapped a bottle of beer and trailed behind Griff. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

“Honey, this is fantastic. How in the hell did you do all of this? I didn’t know you were Superwoman.”

“By working my tail off. I’m so glad you’re pleased. Plants make all the difference. Tell me you like it, Griff.”

“You did a great job, honey. Was it expensive?”

“Not really. I got some bargains and . . . the total was . . . around one hundred dollars or so,” Dory lied.

“Fantastic. A bargain hunter too. I definitely approve. I knew I liked you for a reason. What time is dinner?”

“Dinner is whenever you finish your second beer,” Dory said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

Griff ate voraciously. He praised everything at least three times. Dory preened as he complimented her. She rattled on about the care and feeding of the plants and the amount of sunshine they needed, and how a grow light was a must. From there, she babbled on about the apple juice in the pot roast gravy and how she had, just by a stroke of luck, found the last corn of the season. Griff listened to every word, mesmerized by her excitement. “How did school go?” he asked when she slowed down to sip at her wine.

Dory frowned and told him about her dizzy spell. Griff stared at her with concern. “And you did all this when you got home? No more spells?”

“No. Never felt better. Nerves, I guess.”

“Anxiety attack. Don’t overdo, Dory. We have a year’s lease. Take your time and don’t push yourself. Promise me that if it happens again, you’ll tell me and we’ll get it checked out. I’m as sure as you are that it’s just nerves, but it doesn’t pay to leave anything to chance.”

“It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but I’m okay and I promise. Now tell me what you’re going to do this evening? Do we watch television like an old married couple or do you have work to do in your den?”

“Honey, I have to go back to the clinic. We have a Kerry blue that had nine pups today, and they aren’t doing all that well. Upper respiratory problems. They’re such valuable dogs, I want to make sure we do everything possible for them. I’d do the same for a mutt, but these particular dogs belong to Senator Gregory. Politics, my dear.” He grinned.

Dory’s face fell. Her wonderful mood was shattered. Griff didn’t seem to notice as he talked on about the Kerry blues. “I guess you’ll have the den to yourself for studying. I shouldn’t be too late. Around ten or ten thirty. I’ll be back before you know it. By the time you get the kitchen cleaned up and do some studying, I’ll be home, and then look out,” he leered. “Say, why don’t you call Sylvia? John told me she’s about to go back to work at Neiman-Marcus. I know she’d love to hear from you.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” Dory promised as she started to clear the table. Griff pecked her on the cheek and left by the kitchen door. It was at times like this that Dory wished she smoked.

While the dishwasher sloshed its way through two rinse cycles Dory called Sylvia and chatted for a few minutes. “Darling, how nice of you to call. How was school?” Not waiting for a reply, Sylvia rattled on. “I always hated school. So Griff told you about my job. I just adore it. And,” she said, laughing, “I get thirty percent off anything I buy. Let me know what you need. And, darling, when you have some free time and want to go shopping, just call me. I can show you the stores to stay away from. If Lily would just stop breast-feeding that tot and get a sitter, we could have some wonderful times. I don’t know about you, but I’m mortified every time she unhooks her bra. That baby just . . . guzzles and Lily always has this stupid look on her face as though she’s orgasmic. Disgusting. I’d love to chat longer, but John and I are playing bridge with some friends this evening. Call me now,” Sylvia said airily. Dory stared at the phone for a minute and then hung up. So much for Sylvia. Thirty percent off. That was good. She wondered if it applied to anything in the store or just cosmetics.

Dory stared at the phone, willing Sylvia’s animated face to appear. What made Sylvia run? What was Sylvia all about? A little dose of Sylvia went a long way. She thought she knew what the older woman’s problem was, if it was a problem. She feared old age, suffered from a fear of being unloved and ending up alone someday. Fear was the crack in Sylvia’s veneer. Dory could understand that fear. It was something every woman could understand. It was the way a woman handled that fear that made the difference. Tolerant . . . that’s what she must be, with Sylvia.

Dory sighed. She might as well call Lily too. She felt as though she needed an excuse. Her eyes fell to the trash can and the blueberry muffins she had thrown out. “Lily, I just wanted you to know Griff loved the muffins.”

“Oh, I knew he would. Men always love anything homemade. How are you, Dory? I’ve been thinking about you all day and how I admire you going back to school and all. I wish I had the stamina to do it, but I’m locked in here with little Ricky and big Rick. Did Griff tell you about the Kerry blues? Rick said they’re all worried about them. Wouldn’t it be awful if all nine of them died?”

“Yes, it would. Sylvia told me she’s going back to work. Isn’t that wonderful?” God, it was hard to talk to Lily.

“I’m not sure if it’s wonderful or not. Sylvia just pretends to work. She spends most of her time making up her face for the customers. I hardly find that work. In fact, I think it’s dull. I rarely use cosmetics myself, Rick doesn’t like them. So when I do use them I use the organic kind.”

“Somehow I knew you would.” Dory’s tart tone was lost on Lily.

“Dory, I’m starting to make quilt squares. I’m going to make a quilt for little Ricky. Quilting makes me feel so . . . so Old American, you know, like in Colonial times or something. If you want to do one, we could work on them together. I have the pattern and loads of material. I save everything, all kinds of scraps. I have so much we could each make three quilts and I’d have some leftovers.”

“Lily, I’m all caught up in school and everything. It sounds . . . interesting. If I find the time, I’ll be glad to give it a try. I better get going now, I have a lot of work to catch up on. I’ll call you as soon as I have some free time.”

“Any time. I’m always here. Now, don’t you work too hard. Those old teachers are slave drivers. I remember what it was like.”

Quilts. Quince jelly. Blueberry muffins. I bet she paints murals on little Ricky’s wall too, Dory thought uncharitably as she turned off the kitchen light and headed for the den.

The tape cassette she had recorded in class was playing, but she listened with only half an ear. Curled up on the new recliner she had bought for Griff’s den, Dory recalled her conversation with Lily and tried to figure out what it was about the young woman that irritated her. She had known other women, her mother included, who concentrated all efforts, physical and emotional, to the making of a home. Lily’s devotion to home and husband wasn’t really that unusual, so what was it?

The remainder of the recorded lecture went unheard as Dory pondered her own questions. Finally, after much soul searching, she decided that Lily’s capabilities and unswerving sense of direction made Dory feel inferior and inept. Rick seemed so content and happy due to Lily’s ministrations, and Dory wanted to put that same gleam in Griff’s eyes.

This was silly, Dory chided herself. Of course Griff was happy. What was there to be unhappy about? The niggling thought that she had refused Griff’s proposal of marriage crept into the back of her mind. Was it possible that Griff really needed the stability and contentment of a legal, committed relationship? Was this arrangement of theirs somehow threatening? Why wasn’t she able to commit herself to marriage? If she was happy with Griff, why shouldn’t she turn in her resignation to Soiree and plant her roots here in D.C.? Did Griff suspect her of always needing a back-door escape out of a situation, and was he right?

The sudden, unwelcome thought of David Harlow sent a shameful shudder down her spine. It was true, she was trying to cover all the angles, even to the point of compromising herself to Harlow by not making it perfectly clear that she could never have more than a professional interest in him and that she resented his implying that she might. Compromised. She had walked into his trap with her eyes open, and now Harlow was sitting back in New York thinking that when she returned as managing editor there would be after-hours recreation. Fool! Fool!

The sound of a key in the door made Dory jump in alarm. Griff! How long had she sat here? Her eyes flew to her watch. It was after nine and she still hadn’t listened to the recorded lecture.

“Hi, I’m home!” Griff called. Dory was on her feet and running out to the living room, throwing herself into Griff’s arms.

“Hey, what’s this?” he asked, holding her tightly, feeling the tremblings race down her spine. “What’s the trouble, honey? Did something frighten you?”

Dory clung to Griff as if for dear life. That was the word—frightened. Scared to death. She wanted him to hold her and tell her it was all going to be all right, but she knew she couldn’t express what frightened her. It was impossible to put it into words, or even to face the fears head-on. Right this minute, she only knew she needed Griff’s strength, his love, his support. She wanted to hide herself away in him, have him protect her from the world and from her self-doubts. Safe. She wanted to be safe!

Dory buried her face in the crook of Griff’s neck, wrapping her arms around him, wanting to dissolve inside him. She began kissing him, frantic little kisses at first, then longer, more seductive caresses of her lips and tongue contrived to evoke his passions and responses.

Griff was overwhelmed by this display of emotion, but his confusion was allayed and finally stilled by a more primal need that she stirred. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her up the staircase, taking her to their bed. Dory’s insistent fingers worked the buttons on his shirt and the fastenings of his belt. She wanted him, she kept murmuring, breathlessly, almost desperately. Baring his chest to her hands, she caressed the smooth expanse of his skin, following her touch with moist, hungry explorations of her lips. Impatient with the confining fabric of their clothing, Dory practically ripped the garments from her body, turning back again to hurry Griff with his.

Feeling him against her, skin against skin, breath against breath, Dory stretched out beneath him, pressing herself into the strength of his embrace.

“Take me now, Griff!” she implored, thrashing wildly under his weight. “Please take me now!”

The desperate edge of her voice was disguised by the passion in her words. Griff covered her, rocking against her, feeling himself trapped in the grip of her thighs and the clutch of her arms. Her words echoed through his head; his love for her compelling him to satisfy her desires.

Dory tried to lose herself in the arms of the man she loved. She tried to hide in him, to make herself safe from those faceless shadows and self-doubts that pursued her.

Griff lay on his back, Dory’s head resting peacefully on his shoulder. Something told him that only her body was at peace; something was very wrong for Dory. “Want to tell me about it?” he asked softly, caressing her arm with the flat of his hand, much the way one would soothe a child. He waited for her response; it was so long in coming, he thought she might not have heard him.

“No,” Dory whispered at last. “This is something I’ve got to work out myself.” Her cheeks bloomed pink in the darkness. Griff knew her well enough to know that something was very wrong. She had initiated their lovemaking with wild and wanton behavior and then ended in surrendering herself to him. Whatever she had done, it was different than it had ever been before. They had always been equals as lovers, giving and taking, pleasing and being pleased, finding in one another that special sensitivity that nurtures love and shares in the responsibility for it. Tonight, Dory was ashamed of herself. Tonight, she had used Griff to hide from her insecurities. Her body was sated, but there was a lingering feeling of failure. Tonight was different. Not better. Dory knew it and Griff knew it too.