Balancing Act

chapter Eight


Dory woke up an hour later feeling little better than when she had escaped into sleep. Her drowsiness gave way to self-pity when her eyes fell on the open suitcase at the foot of the bed. Groggily, she inched her way to the bottom of the bed and slammed the suitcase shut. The sound was almost terminal in the silent room. She fell back against the warm nest of the silken comforter, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. In some inexplicable way she was feeling threatened. Frightened. Afraid. And she realized that instead of trying to understand the reasons, she was trying to escape her roiling emotions. But if she couldn’t feel safe here, in her home and Griff’s, where would she be safe? If she couldn’t handle her own emotions, she couldn’t handle anything. So much for her brief high on Katy’s phone call.

Impatient with herself, Dory slid from the bed. Perhaps she should give more thought to marrying Griff. It wouldn’t be hard to manipulate him . . . What was she thinking of! Manipulate ! Certainly Griff still wanted to marry her; he had asked her to be his wife months ago—before coming to Washington. If anything, he wanted her to marry him more than ever! She was the one with the problem, the indecision! Had she actually thought of manipulating him into marriage? She was aghast. She needed to get her head together. Needed to talk to someone.

She could call Lily. Lily was safe. Safe in her role as mother and as wife. Lily knew exactly what she wanted. And, she had her own little built-in insurance policy—the baby. Lily was as safe as if she were wrapped in a silken cocoon. There were no pressures on Lily to succeed. Lily never had to worry about failing, Lily was safe and Dory could be safe too. If she married Griff, she wouldn’t be failing; she would just be quitting the game. There was no dishonor in that. Or was there? God, she just didn’t know anymore.

She lugged the Gucci suitcase back to the closet. Angrily, she kicked at the red and green strip on its side. If she took it to the flea market, she could sell it and get enough money to buy groceries or maybe even pay the electric bill. Would anyone at the flea market even know what a Gucci suitcase was? How pleased she’d been the day she had bought it, along with its matching weekend bag. She had wanted it, so she had bought it, using over two week’s salary to pay for it. She hadn’t even given the price a second thought. It was enough to know that she had earned the money and could spend it as she saw fit. There was nothing wrong with wanting things. Permission wasn’t required to buy it. God, how she hated the damn thing. On Saturday she would sell both the pieces. Lily would approve. Sylvia . . . Sylvia would sneer and ask her what she planned on packing her clothes in . . . a shopping bag? Sylvia had a complete set of Louis Vuitton.





November turned into a depressing month. All the glorious colors of autumn were long gone. The days turned cold and rain seemed to be a daily occurrence. Dory dreaded the coming of winter with the biting wind and icy sleet almost as much as she dreaded Griff’s end-of-the-month lectures on spending.

Thanksgiving passed as just another day except for dinner at Lily’s house. She had dutifully baked her pies and mashed the turnips as requested. She vowed to eat sparingly and then said the hell with it and ate as much as everyone else.

The digital scale in the mulberry bathroom said she was now eleven pounds over her normal weight. Just one pound over ten. Only three pounds over eight. Referred to in that manner, it didn’t seem so ominous.

And always, no matter what she did, no matter how she tried to avoid contact with the kitchen calendar, she found her eyes clicking off the red X’s. It was now dangerously close to the countdown when she would have to make the call to Lizzie.

Georgetown was a farce. She cut more classes than she attended. When she did do the reading, she couldn’t remember any of it afterward. Oh, she made a pretense of poring over books and compiling long lists of notes. More often than not they were household lists and grocery lists. Griff never seemed to notice. He tiptoed around the kitchen if he saw her bent over her books and notebooks.

For some reason, Dory felt betrayed. Or was she the betrayer?

December made its entrance with a heavy snowfall. The mounds of white stuff depressed Dory. It wasn’t till Lily called and suggested a trip to the evergreen farm to pick and chop their own Christmas trees that her spirits perked up. They bundled little Ricky into an apple-red snowsuit and started off. First, they stopped by Sylvia’s house to see if she wanted to accompany them.

“Darlings, no one in her right mind chops down Christmas trees. It’s . . . it’s decadent. Your feet will get wet in all that . . . that snow. You’ll catch cold and your hands will get chapped. Ridiculous! And, what about that child? What if he needs to nurse? I think you’re out of your mind, Lily. Call Sears and have them deliver an artificial tree. They even come trimmed.”

Lily grinned. “This is Ricky’s first Christmas and it would be sacrilegious to have a plastic tree. Do you want us to bring you back some evergreens for trimming?”

“And mess up the house? No, thank you!”

“I wonder how she’d notice a few pine needles.” Lily continued to giggle.

Dory sat contentedly watching the baby in his carseat. He was cute even if he slobbered all over everything, even if his shrill sounds made Dory wince. Motherhood. They did require a lot of work. Everyone wasn’t cut out for parenting. Lily was the perfect mother who should have a houseful of kids to run after. Bottles and diapers and laundry. Babysitters and mashed food. She hated the idea. Still . . . maybe she could learn to adjust. Having one’s own baby would certainly be different from watching someone else’s. Your own flesh and blood. Griff’s blood and her flesh. Her labor, her agony. Her sweat. Her stitches. Long and careful thought would be required before she made a decision.

Lily had borrowed the clinic van so she and Dory could bring back their Christmas trees. Now, fingers frozen and toes just beginning to warm from the van’s heater, they were on their way home. Two trees and bundles of green boughs filled the van with fresh natural scent. Little Ricky sat placidly in his car seat, drooling onto the front of his Winnie-the-Pooh snowsuit. His sweet, warm head lolled as he nodded off to sleep.

“Lily, little Ricky is falling asleep and I know it’s not his nap time. The cold air must have knocked him out. Do you want me to keep him awake so he’ll sleep when you get him home?” After numerous days spent with Lily and her baby Dory was becoming quite familiar with their schedules and the way Lily liked to do things.

“Let him sleep if he wants.” Lily concentrated on the road. “It really doesn’t make much difference. Rick won’t be coming home till late.”

Dory raised her brows, looking at Lily quizzically. What had happened since they left the evergreen farm? Why did Lily seem so despondent? Or was it her own brand of anger? “I suppose you’re dissatisfied when Rick needs to stay late at the clinic.”

“That’s a funny word, Dory. Dissatisfied? Don’t you mean disappointed?”

Dory wasn’t used to having Lily bring her up short. “Yes . . . yes, I suppose I do. Disappointed, then?”

Lily bit her lip, her pink, wind-stung cheeks making her chestnut hair seem more vivid. “I am disappointed in a lot of things.” This she said quietly, almost solemnly, and Dory wondered if there was trouble in Lily’s paradise. But Lily didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and Dory was glad. She didn’t want to hear that Lily wasn’t safe. Out of the blue, Lily asked a question.

“Have you met the new receptionist-secretary at the clinic yet? I’ve been meaning to bring in one of my coffee cakes and get down there to decorate for Christmas. You know, just to bring the holiday spirit into the outer office. Little Rick’s pediatrician has these cute little felt angels hanging around the waiting room. I don’t know who made them, probably his wife.”

Dory was having difficulty following Lily’s train of thought. Did she want to talk about Ginny, the new receptionist, or did she want to talk about decorating the office? The latter seemed safer. “If you want we could buy some of those Hallmark paper decorations, and I’ll go down there with you to put them up. We could go when surgery is scheduled so the waiting room will be empty.”

Lily nodded, concentrating on the road. “Well, have you? Have you met this girl they’ve hired?”

“No, but I’ve spoken to her on the phone. She seems very nice . . . I guess,” she added when she saw Lily’s features stiffen.

“When the baby was born Rick promised he wouldn’t work past office hours,” Lily complained. “I even heard him tell Griff and John myself. This will be the second night this week he’s staying late.”

“Do you want me to say something to Griff? Perhaps he and John don’t understand how important your evenings are.”

“No, Dory, don’t say anything. I . . . I wouldn’t want Rick to know I’m being such a baby just because he had to work late a few nights.” Her mouth was drawn into a thin line as though she were biting back what she really wanted to talk about. “Hey!” She tried for forced brightness. “There’s the stand where they sell the best apple cider outside of New York State! You remember, Dory, I served it for Thanksgiving and everyone loved it. Let’s stop.”

“Sure. I love cider. I’ll stay here with the baby.”

Something was wrong with Lily. She was trying too hard. There were times, like right now, when Lily seemed almost frantic and just a shade too enthusiastic about her recipes and her decorating, not to mention her “happy, happy” home life. She seemed to be working overtime to convince herself that everything was wonderful. Or was she trying to convince Dory? Poor Lily, she was so vulnerable. How, Dory wondered, was it so possible for a woman to become so locked into family and home? She supposed she could question Lily, but Lily would say only what she wanted Dory to know, no more and no less. She would wear a stricken look and tears would come to her eyes. No, it was better not to ask questions of Lily. If Lily had a problem she would have to be the one to bring it up.

“Well what’s it going to be, are we going to get the decorations for the office or not?” Dory asked as she sipped her apple cider.

It wasn’t Dory’s imagination. Lily’s eyes took on a frightened look as she contemplated her answer. “No, I don’t think so. When I mentioned it to Rick he didn’t seem too interested. He said Ginny would do the decorating.”

“But I thought you said . . .” Dory clamped her mouth shut at Lily’s stricken face.

“I know what I said. The truth is, I wanted an excuse to go to the office to take a look at Ginny. Sylvia said she’s stunning. If Sylvia says she’s stunning that means she looks like Gisele Bündchen.”

“Sylvia exaggerates a great deal. So what if she does look like a model? What does that have to do with you?” Dory asked softly.

Lily turned to face Dory. “It has a great deal to do with me. It happened once before. I told you Rick was going to be late; this is the second time this week. That’s the way it started the last time. Beautiful receptionist, handsome young doctor. Sylvia took it on herself to tell me about it. She also took it upon herself to have John fire the girl. Her name was Maxine. I never told Rick I knew. He was different for a while but he straightened out. That’s why I decided to have the baby. I was so sure it would bring us closer together. I was so sure if I had a baby things would go back to the way they were before. I keep a spotless house, I cook wonderful meals. Little Rick is a delight to both Rick and me. I do everything a good wife is supposed to do. I think I’m reasonably good in bed. Rick certainly never complained. Everyone who comes to the house compliments Rick on what a wonderful wife and mother I am.” Tears filled Lily’s eyes as she stared at Dory. “If I’m such a wonderful wife and mother why does Rick have to look somewhere else? And he’s looking. It’s the same old pattern.”

Dory stared at her friend, aware of the contented baby in his car seat. My God, Lily had actually had a baby to try and solve her problems. How awful for Lily. Playing Mother Earth wasn’t her answer. Poor Lily. Men were such bastards. How could Rick do this to her? “Lily, I don’t know. I just don’t know. I assumed that everything was all right between you and Rick. You aren’t sure of anything. You think he’s doing something, but you aren’t sure. Why don’t you talk to him, get it out in the open? Tell him you know about the first time. It may not be true this time. Give him a chance.”

Lily was appalled at the suggestion. “I could never do that!”

“Why not? Once the air is cleared you can go on from there. I know you love Rick deeply. Make a fresh start.”

“I can’t do it. I simply can’t do it.”

“What are you going to do, have another baby to make it come right for you? Are you going to depend on Sylvia to find out about this one so she can tell John to fire Ginny? You can’t rely on babies to solve your problems. You have to work them out yourself, and silent suffering isn’t the answer.”

“Maybe not, but that’s the way it has to be for now,” Lily said in a cheerful voice. “I’m so glad we stopped for the cider. Rick likes to drink it in front of the fireplace before we go to bed. He’ll be so pleased that I got it.”

Dory had to physically shake her head to clear it. How could Lily turn on and off like that? From long practice she answered herself: Safe, secure Lily was frightened. Safe, secure Lily who thought she had Rick to support her and love her and give meaning to her life. If Lily could be insecure, where did that leave Dory?

When Dory arrived home from the evergreen farm she found a note from Griff on the kitchen table telling her he wouldn’t be home that night and not to expect him until late the following evening. Something about a horse and a colt that was refusing to nurse. Dory hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath till a long sigh escaped her with a loud swoosh. She would certainly have more than enough time to decorate the house with boughs of greenery. She was removing her boots when the phone rang. Kicking off one stout rubber boot, she hopped to the phone and caught it on the second ring. She fully expected to hear Sylvia’s voice demanding to know if she was sneezing yet or had a fever. The breathless, squeaky voice left no doubt who was on the other end of the phone. It was Aunt Pixie. Pixie never believed in the social amenities. She got right to the point.

“I’m at the damn airport. Will you kindly tell me how in the living hell I get to the boonies where you live?”

“You’re early, aren’t you?”

“Only by two weeks. Will it be a problem? If it is, you’re stuck with me regardless. Just give me directions. The cab driver hasn’t been born yet that I’d trust.”

Dory issued brief, concise instructions that she knew Pixie would never remember, “I’ll have a hot toddy waiting. Shouldn’t take you more than twenty minutes. You’ll beat traffic by at least an hour.”

“Never mind the toddy. I don’t want any garbage clouding up my drink. You just get the bottle out and make sure you have a long-stemmed glass.”

Dory laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit. I’m dying to see you. Hurry and hang up and get here so we can talk.”

Forty-five minutes later a whirlwind with six suitcases and a trunk sailed through Dory’s kitchen. “I take it you’re staying awhile,” Dory grinned.

“Three days. I’m on my way to Hong Kong,” Pixie said as she uncapped the squat bottle of Scotch. She poured the amber liquid into the long-stemmed glass and drank it neat. “What do you say we get sloshed?” she said, tilting the bottle a second time.

“Sounds good to me,” Dory agreed, getting out a glass for herself. Pixie tossed her sable coat over the kitchen chair and Dory hugged her enthusiastically. “Watch the wig, watch the wig!” Pixie squeaked as she tried to adjust the precarious pile of red-gold curls.

“Oh, God, Pix, I forgot. Sorry. You look . . . great.”

“I know, I know. A real pity you and I are the only ones who think so. People actually turn around and stare at me and it’s not always with admiration.” She sipped her Scotch approvingly. “Now that I’ve taken the edge off a little we can do some serious drinking. All they served on that miserable flight was Diet Pepsi. Diet Pepsi. I told that stewardess what I thought of that, let me tell you. All that saccharin. My God! A body isn’t safe anywhere anymore. By the way, you look like something the cat dragged in, took a second look and then dragged back out. What’d you do, sneak back in when he wasn’t looking?”

“Thanks,” Dory said dryly. She sipped at her drink.

Pixie fumbled in her handbag and eventually found a pair of granny glasses. She propped them on the end of her nose and stared at Dory. Her mouth dropped open as she regarded her favorite niece. Her only niece. “Pudgy. God, I envy women who have the guts to be pudgy. I have to work at staying this thin,” she said proudly as she stuck out a long, skinny leg clad in a white leather boot. Dory wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pom-pom attached to the top.

“I know you do,” Dory agreed as she watched the glass tilt again. There was no stopping Pixie. She drank like a fish and had no intention of stopping. She also smoked incessantly.

“What time will Grit be home. I’m anxious to see him. I’m sorry I won’t be able to spend Christmas with you two but I got this offer”—her voice dropped to a hushed whisper—“from this gentleman I’ve been corresponding with and he invited me to come to Hong Kong for a visit. He makes shoes. Hand-made shoes. He’s Chinese, Japanese, one of those nationalities. He said he has Western eyes. Shoes. Imagine, Dory. If he works out, we can get all our shoes for nothing. Just tell me what you want. Do you still have some kind of fixation about shoes? Or maybe it’s a fetish.”

Dory giggled. It was just like Pixie to go traipsing halfway around the world in the hopes of getting something free. It wasn’t so much the shoes as a man that Pixie hoped to get.

“I’ll be seventy-two next year. It’s time I thought about settling down. I always liked Hong Kong. I can see me settling down over there. I’ll get manicures and pedicures. Those people love to do that. I can have all the help I want. I don’t think Mr. Cho lives in a rice paddy. He sounds well off. Anyone in shoes has to be well off—think how many feet there are in Hong Kong. My dear, you can count on me sending you a pair of shoes at least once a week. Isn’t it wonderful?” she trilled.

Dory’s mind raced. “Pix, reassure me. You didn’t tell this Mr. Cho about your money and all those blue chip stocks. Tell me you didn’t.”

“But I did. I believe in honesty.”

“Did you tell him about your drinking and smoking?”

“Bite your tongue. Do you think I want to scare him off? This is the closest thing to an offer of marriage in twenty years. I’m not a complete fool!” She emptied her glass with a loud slurp.

“What exactly is Mr. Cho going to bring into this relationship! Besides his shoes?”

Pixie’s eyes glowed like marbles. “His body and his country home. I see you’re skeptical. Let me put it to you another way.” More Scotch found its way into her glass. “God, I have a headache. I know it was that damnable Diet Pepsi. As I was saying, my dear, I’m seventy-two years old. Life is whizzing by. Just whizzing. You as well as the world must be aware of my frailties, I’ve made no secret of them.”

Dory tried not to laugh. “I try not to think of them,” she said.

“Flatulence . . . that’s the worst. God, it strikes at any time and any place. I have four partials in my mouth, and that horse’s rear end that tends my teeth now tells me my gums are receding. Receding! On top of that, my skin has lost its . . . its . . . zap. It just hangs. This turkey wattle under my chin is not something I try to show off to its best advantage. I have varicose veins that reappeared at the same time my tonsils tried for a comeback. My boobs are not up and out; even after the last lift they’re more like down, down, down. Just yesterday I counted my hair. I have thirty-seven strands. I’m addicted to booze and cigarettes. No one loves me but you and your mother, and I think she just pretends. Now, if you were me, what would you do?”

“Go to Hong Kong.”

“Right. Right, that’s exactly where I’m going. I do, however, have two traits that drive men out of their minds.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not discriminating and I put out!”

Dory shrieked with laughter. Dabbing at her eyes and gasping for breath, she felt better than she had in months.

Pixie stared at the young woman across the table. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the Dory she knew. Not this frowzy-looking hausfrau . . . this creature clad in blue jeans and rubber boots. She glanced around the homey kitchen. Christ, the child had become domesticated.

“When are you getting married?” Pixie asked bluntly.

“It’s not that I disapprove of living in sin, it just seems that with all this . . .” She waved her stringy arms about “. . . that you should have something that says half is yours.”

“It’s a rental,” Dory said soberly. “What do I need half a rental for?”

“You certainly don’t look like yourself, and I can see that something is bothering you. Want to talk about it? If you do, you better replenish this bottle; I think we just killed it.”

“Yes, no . . . what I mean is yes, I want to talk about it, but no, not now, but before you leave, and I don’t have any more Scotch. How about some wine? Neither Griff nor I are much for drinking. I didn’t know we were so low. The wine is a good California chablis.”

“As long as it’s at least a month old I’ll drink it. Remember the time we built the still on the farm? By God, I’d sell my soul for a bottle of that white lightning. That would certainly kill this headache.”

Dory laughed. Pixie was just what she needed. The farm, as she called it, was a two-hundred-acre estate in upstate New York. The “we” she referred to was her fifth, or was it sixth, husband whom she had rescued from the clutches of the law for running shine across the line as she was driving through Tennessee in her Rolls-Royce.

“He did sing a mean ballad after a few sips of our ambrosia. God, that was an experience. Pity he had to die. When a man can’t hold his liquor, he isn’t much of a man. I may be dissipated, but I can hold my liquor. Mr. Cho says he’s fond of rice wine. I think we’ll get along very well.”

“Better be careful. You know what they say about white slavers in those foreign countries. Pray Mr. Cho isn’t a procurer.”

“I’m praying. Now, tell me how school is going. I’m impressed, sweetie, that you decided to go for your doctorate. It’s about time someone in our family did something serious. I’m sick and tired of carrying the ball for everyone. All your silly mother wants to do is play golf and get her nails done. I love her, she is my baby sister, but she doesn’t know the meaning of the word fun. Don’t you believe a word she tells you about our last visit,” Pixie said, wagging a bony, purple-tipped finger at Dory. Outrageous false eyelashes fluttered wildly as Pixie made her point.

“Let’s not talk about that now. Later. With you leaving, I just want to spend time with you before Mr. Cho gobbles you up,” Dory said lightly, hoping to divert Pixie from her questions.

“My life is an open book. I’ve told you my news.” Pixie’s eyes were sharp and questioning. “What is a safe topic of conversation with you? The weather? What happened, Dory? Is this . . .” she waved her bony arms again, “. . . is this a mistake? Do you want out and can’t find a way? All I have to do is look at you to know your world is upside down. What can I do? Is it money? Is it Grit, or is it you? Maybe you need to talk to your mother.”

“It’s Griff, not Grit. No, I don’t need to talk to Mother. I’m working on it, Pix.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“What?”

“For you to work on it? A week, a month, a year? Do you even know what it is you’re working on? What is it, baby, you can tell me. We’ve never had secrets before. Don’t close me out now.” Pixie slapped her forehead so hard her wig tilted to the side. “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

“I’m not pregnant. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, though.”

“Well, stop thinking right now. Parenthood is something to be taken seriously. It’s not something you go into to make something else work. If things aren’t working now, a baby will only compound the problem. Why don’t we get comfy, slip into our lounging clothes and find something better to drink than this . . . grape water. I’ve had apple juice that tasted better. Do you have any vodka? How about brandy? I really don’t want to open my trunk. Would you believe Mr. Cho demanded a dowry. Since he wasn’t specific, I’m bringing my favorite drink that I’m sure he’ll learn to love. A dowry yet, for God’s sake. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“Sounds like a good idea. Would you like to help me decorate the house?” Dory asked, pointing to all the evergreens dripping on the kitchen floor.

“I would not. Point me to the bathroom so I can get out of these clothes.”

Dory showed her the way and then headed upstairs to her bedroom to change.

Pixie felt every year of her age as she watched Dory climb the stairs to the second floor. She disliked problems of any kind. How in the living hell could she go off to her fates while her beloved niece was having problems? She tried to look at it philosophically as she struggled to pull off the high, white boots. She rubbed her aching feet. She was getting old, and from the looks of things, she was also getting a few callouses on the balls of her feet. What next, she grumbled. She rummaged in her overnight bag for a Dior creation that swirled and swished when she walked. Now, if she just didn’t trip and kill herself she would be all right. She wished she had remembered to ask Mr. Cho how old he was. The Oriental nature surely would prevent him from expressing comments about the ravages of time. If he refused to be a gentleman about the whole thing, she would simply pack up and leave.

She had three days to straighten out her niece. If she kept her wits about her, she might pull it off. Dory always listened to reason. She was bright, quick as a fox and razor sharp. At least she used to be. Now she appeared dull and listless. Oh, she laughed and talked, but all the sparkle, all the life, all the zest was gone from her. She had to get to the bottom of it. She also had to remember to ask what the red X’s on the kitchen calendar meant.

Pixie rummaged some more in the cavernous bag and withdrew a pair of beaded Indian slipper sox. She pulled them up to her knobby knees with a flourish. She straighened her wig, patted the curls into place and then added a spritz of perfume that smelled like vanilla. She needed a drink. The headache was still with her. By God, that was the last time she was going to drink Diet Pepsi and read a magazine on a plane. Why couldn’t that cheapo airline serve liquor like everyone else? She gulped down three aspirins and a sip of water. She coughed, sputtered and cursed out the Pepsi Cola Company, along with various cigarette manufacturers. Her language was ripe, colorful, and to the point. She hoped Mr. Cho would understand her penchant for choice words. If not, he had a problem. There were some things she wouldn’t do for shoes.

Dory, attired in a flowing rainbow of silk, was uncorking a bottle of brandy in the living room. The fire was hissing and crackling and sending sparks up the chimney. She wished Griff were here to enjoy her aunt Pixie. Nothing was working right. She had been looking forward to the Christmas holidays with Pixie and Griff, the people she loved best in the world. Now, it would just be Griff and his mother.

Dory could feel Pixie’s eyes on her, assessing her, judging her. No, Pix would never judge her. Assess her, yes, but she would never judge. She fixed a bright smile on her face and held out a three-quarters-full brandy snifter.

“The fire is nice,” Pixie said, staring into the flames.

“That’s one of the reasons I picked this place. Later I’ll show you around the upstairs. There’s a fireplace in the master bedroom. Cozy.”

“I hate that word,” Pixie grumbled. “Cozy is for old people who have to snuggle to keep warm or for youngsters who are necking in the backseat of a car. Cozy is not a word I like.” She sniffed at the brandy and took a healthy swallow.

There was a hint of belligerence in Dory’s tone. “I like to be cozy. I find it restful and . . . and . . .”

“Safe,” Pixie said bluntly. “You’re hiding behind words. I wonder if you’re hiding from life, too, stuck here in this house. I want to compliment you on the bathroom. It must have taken you days.”

“Weeks,” Dory said grimly, not liking the turn the conversation was taking. Sometimes Pixie could get on her nerves. She didn’t know everything. She didn’t have all the answers. No one had all the answers.

“How’s the freelance work going?” Pixie asked, watching Dory carefully.

“I haven’t really started yet. I have a senator in mind. It’s just a question of getting together at the right time.”

“He must have been impressed when you asked him,” Pixie said coolly.

“Well, actually I haven’t asked him yet. I know where to find him when I’m ready. I’ve been pretty busy, Pix,” Dory hedged.

“I can see that. This house just screams at you. It’s so goddamn . . . homey it makes me sick. If you tell me you bake bread and cookies, I’m going to throw up.”

Dory flushed but didn’t defend herself.

Pixie got angry as she slapped her brandy snifter down on the cocktail table. “You aren’t going to school on a regular basis. Don’t lie to me, Dory. You aren’t doing any freelance work. You and Griff seem to be having some problems. Just what the hell is it you’re doing? I don’t want to hear about this homemaking nonsense. I’m not knocking homemakers. I think they’re wonderful if that’s what they want. What happened to your creativity? When was the last time you used your brain? When was the last time your adrenaline flowed? When was the last time you bought a new pair of shoes, a new dress? A scarf, for God’s sake? I want an answer and I want it now. If it means I have to give up Mr. Cho and Hong Kong, I’m prepared to do it. There’s another fool out there waiting for me somewhere. You’re the most important thing in my life, Dory. You’re not happy. I saw that the minute I walked through the door. When was the last time you made a concrete decision?” She hated the stricken look on Dory’s face, hated the brutal tone of voice she was using.

Dory shivered and hugged her knees to her chest. “I don’t know, Pix. I just don’t know. Somehow I got off the track. I don’t know how to get back on. Help me.”

“Oh, no. This is do-it-yourself time. I’m here to listen but that’s it. In the end it has to be you who makes the decisions, the choices. I can help you pick up the pieces, but don’t expect more from me.”

“Are you telling me it’s bail-out time?”

“Only if it’s right and you’re comfortable with it.”

“That’s just it, I don’t know.”

“Look, Dory, we all bottom out from time to time. If we didn’t fail once in awhile, how would we know what it is to succeed? You have to do what’s right for you. In here,” Pixie said, thumping her thin chest. “There’s a big world out there and you were part of it. This is another world, here in this house. If this is what you want, that’s fine. If it isn’t what you want, totally, then don’t settle. Never settle, Dory. All your life I’ve told you not to settle. For if you do, you’ll hate yourself in the end. We’ll go into that some more later. Tell me about the friends you’ve made here.”

Dory told her about Sylvia and Lily. “There were a few women I might have gotten to know better if I attended class regularly. That’s it,” Dory said defensively.

“That Lily sounds like Ms. Clean. Does she have a glass mobile too?”

In spite of herself, Dory laughed. “Just about. She’s a wonderful person, so is Sylvia. Neither of them really has anything in common with me, though. I tried, Pix, I really did. It wasn’t right from the beginning. Griff admires both of them, for different reasons, of course. I was thinking about it last night. I think I tried to be both Sylvia and Lily to please him.”

Pixie yawned. Why did women always want to please men? Why did they forever put themselves second? Why? Probably because as soon as a female baby could make sounds, da da pleased the father. We’re conditioned, she thought grumpily.

“How do you feel about Griff now that you’ve been living with him?” Pixie asked.

“There was some adjusting to come to terms with but I did. I love him, with all my heart. What’s even more wonderful, he loves me.” It was true, he did love her. Even when he was preoccupied he would look up sometimes and smile at her. Her heart would flutter and delicious thoughts would course through her. “I love him,” she repeated more forcefully.

“I suppose he’s a goddamn thunderbolt in the bedroom too.”

“You’ve got it.”

“I’ve heard that diminutive Orientals have . . . scaled down . . . what I mean is their . . . they aren’t fully as equip . . . have you heard that?” Pixie asked fretfully.

“It’s probably some old wives’ tale that started with a disgruntled woman to get even with some man. Worry about it when the time comes.”

“You’re probably right.” Pixie’s tone turned crafty. “I always found that when the New Year rolled around it was a good time to make decisions and get on the right track. New start, new everything. Diets are particularly successful because all the rich food of the holidays is gone. Expensive clothes go on sale. Bathing suits are out in full force and there’s nothing to perk up a woman like a string bikini.”

“Pix, you’re about as transparent as cellophane. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I know my bottom line is coming up. I’ll handle it, really I will.”

“I have to believe that. You have my looks and my backbone. They’ve stood me in good stead for seventy-two years, and I can only hope they last as long for you. Soul searching is a precarious business. No one likes to look in the mirror and see anything less than perfection. “But perfect is just a word they threw into the dictionary. It’s traits like truth, justice, honesty, the American way that are important when you look in the mirror. Those things show up.” Dory wouldn’t have been surprised to see an invisible cape appear with Pixie tossing it over her shoulder à la Wonder Woman.

“Are you hungry?” Dory asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Yes, but I’m not going to eat. How do you think I stay so scrawny? Not by eating, that’s for sure. Well, maybe something to pick on. What do you have?”

“You name it and I’ve probably got it. I hang out in supermarkets a lot these days.”

“Your mother told me I was as thin and flat as a swizzle stick. What do you think of that? She’s jealous,” she said, answering herself. “I’ll eat anything as long as it doesn’t have any calories.”

“That limits things a bit. How about a ham and swiss on rye with brown mustard and a piece of homemade apple pie?”

“Love it, just love it. Can I help?” This was her chance to follow Dory into the kitchen and question her about the red X’s on the calendar.

While Dory prepared the sandwiches Pixie trekked about the kitchen opening and closing cabinet doors. Neat too. She kicked at the evergreen boughs, shoving them into a corner, and peered through the glass on the back door. The cobalt sky was fast darkening. The snow had stopped, thank God. Snow was the enemy. A body could slip and fall and then they stuck pins in you to put you back together. She meandered back to the sink area. She forced a casual note into her tone. “What do the red X’s mean?”

Dory stared at her aunt and then at the calendar. She’d known that sooner or later the foxy old lady was going to question her about it. Her voice was light as air when she replied, “I suppose you could say they’re my bottom line.”

“The big red circle, what does that mean?”

“I have to make a phone call on that day. That’s the real bottom line. Here’s your sandwich, Pix. I trimmed the crust off the rye since I know it’s hard for you to chew.”

“I knew there was a reason I put you in my will. Did I tell you I have receding gums? It’s tough to grow old.”

“Pixie, you’ll never be old. Not to me. You want to hear something funny? Every time in my entire life that I’ve been in a fix you’ve showed up. ESP, eh?”

“Not exactly. That mother of yours is the one you can thank. She called me the other day and said she thought you could use a good dose of me ahead of schedule. Said you didn’t sound like yourself. That’s the main reason I’m here.”

Dory’s mouth dropped open. “You mean that entire business with Mr. Cho was a put-on?”

“My God, no. I was going to just call you from the airport on my way, but when your mother said you needed me, I decided that Mr. Cho would have to wait an extra three days to ravage my body. That’s what they do nowadays. They ravage and plunder your body. I read that in a romance book. God, I can’t wait.”

Dory stared at her aunt and then burst out laughing. “Pixie, you got guts.”

“So do you. Now, get on your hind legs and put them to use.”

Dory cleared the table. Pixie yawned and pleaded for a nap. “I think I’ll have a nightcap first,” she said, picking up the brandy bottle and carrying it into the den.

“Sofa bed’s all made up. Just crawl in. What time do you want me to wake you up?”

“You know I die when I fall in bed. Don’t ever try to wake me. I might be having one of those lascivious dreams I love. I’ll see you later.”

Dory flicked on the television. The evening news was going off the air. What was she going to do with the rest of the evening? She knew from long experience that Pixie would sleep straight through till morning. The greenery. She might as well start on it. It would be nice for Pixie to see the house decorated before she left. It was a good thing she had her present. She would have plenty of time to wrap it before the older woman left. It was a gag gift, the only kind that Pixie would accept. A leather-bound journal embossed in heavy gold leaf. The perils and pitfalls in the life of Pixie Browning Baldeman Simmons Caruthers Ninon Roland Fallon. The salesman had stared at her in amazement when she told him yes, I want every word on the front. It had been hard to keep a straight face. Even harder when he told her how much it was going to cost. Pixie would love it now that she was going off on another one of her escapades.

It was after midnight when Dory swept up the last pine needle. The place really did look gorgeous—festive, bright, and cheerful. That’s what the holidays were all about. The huge, red velvet bows on the staircase were magnificent. The garlands of greenery were fragrant and rich. Dory drew in her breath, savoring the tangy scene. She had always loved Christmas. She looked at the six-foot evergreen in the corner. That had been a job to get into the stand but she had managed. It used to take her father, her mother, her brother and herself to stand the tree in the tub that was used for just that purpose. She had done it alone. Alone, with no help. She had surveyed the scene, calculated the best way to get the screws into the thick trunk and then done it. True, she was scratched and her robe was almost ruined, but she had done it alone. She had put up a six-foot Scotch pine Christmas tree. Tomorrow, she would string the lights and put on the decorations. It wasn’t till she was climbing up the stairs that it occurred to her that she hadn’t wondered once how Griff was going to react to all the decorating.

It was womb dark when she turned off the last light and settled into bed. She smiled to herself in the darkness as Pixie’s loud, lusty snores wafted up the stairs.