Balancing Act

chapter Two


Rita entered her spartan cottage and for the first time was truly faced with the quiet and emptiness. Living like this was ridiculous. She deserved more and had certainly earned it! Why was she constantly trying to prove herself, to punish herself?

Quickly she washed her face and hands and changed to a clean blouse. Making a shopping list, gathering her credit cards and checkbook, she prepared to leave the house. There was no need to make an inventory of the refrigerator; the only thing it contained was a half dozen eggs and a can of evaporated milk for her coffee.

Willie Nelson warbled on the MP3 player in the SUV, and she hummed along with his reedy voice. It was the only recording of his she owned, bought impulsively despite Brett’s comments about country western music appealing to vacant intellects. He had always been taking jabs at her intelligence near the end of their marriage, trying to shake her belief in herself and even in those things she enjoyed. “Sing on, Willie, honey,” Rita spoke to the voice coming out of the speakers. “Your secret listener is coming out of the closet. She’s a little afraid of the light of day after all this time, but she’s coming out anyway.”

In Maxwell’s Furniture Store, Rita went up and down the aisles with the amazed salesman. She had first ascertained that delivery could be made the next day. She purchased entire display rooms, everything down to the accessories. Tables, lamps, modular pieces, and area carpets. As she made her choices, she felt the strain lightening between her shoulders. Everything was light, contemporary, gleaming and new. Nothing even remotely resembled the formal colonial cherry and bright chintzes that had previously occupied the cottage, and Rita worried that the house might not lend itself to this sleek style. But when she thought of the smooth varnished oak floors and light sandalwood paneling and floor to ceiling windows looking out on the open air decks, she realized it was actually contemporary in spirit. Besides, she didn’t want to restore the cottage to what it had once been. She didn’t need reminders.

“And send me those silk palm trees over there in the corner,” she said, writing out a check for the full amount of her purchases. She had just spent eleven thousand dollars without a blink. Writing out the check made her feel good. She had worked for the money, earned the right to spend it in whatever way she wanted. There was no one to ask now, no cajoling, no reasoned arguments. She wanted it and that was reason enough. She now had four and a half rooms of new furniture that would be delivered by four o’clock the next day.

Her next stop was Belk Department Store. In the linen department she selected coarsely woven tablecloths, bright place mats and napkins, kitchen dish towels, bath towels, sheets, blankets, bedspreads. The salesgirl thought she was an hysterical housewife as she pointed and picked, but Rita smiled and whipped out her credit card. Lastly, she bought curtains for the bedroom and simple roll-up blinds for every other window in the house. They were easy to hang, needing only a few nails to secure them to the frame, and they would offer privacy in the evening. Privacy, not self-imposed exile, Rita smiled to herself.

At the grocery store the first item on the list was a kit of hair color, some body lotion, and a huge container of bubble bath. She filled two shopping carts with groceries for the freezer and empty shelves. Last on her list was a stop to the garden department and the purchase of six hanging baskets of flowers, two containing feathery ferns. One would go over her sink in the kitchen and the other next to her desk. If she had to be indoors, she could at least look at something green. She wondered if Twigg Peterson liked plants. Researching whales and dolphins, he was definitely an outdoor man. And a Ph.D. at that! She felt heat at the base of her throat and immediately switched her mind to the characters in her novel. Only thing was, the hero was beginning to look exactly like Twigg in her mind.

Driving up the scenic road leading to her cottage, Rita passed the Baker cottage and was surprised to see Connie’s prized Jaguar sitting in the drive. Connie Baker and she had been friends for what seemed a lifetime, yet somehow as often happens they only really saw each other up here at the lake. God, it was two years since she had seen her friend! So much had happened in those two years, so much to talk about.

On impulse, Rita almost swung into Connie’s drive but at the last instant thought better of it. She just wasn’t in the mood right now to hash and rehash the defects and failures of the divorce. Soon, she promised herself, she would call Connie.

Deep into the history of the Dutch East India Company, Rita almost decided not to answer the phone that pealed insistently. The instant she picked it up she was sorry. It was her oldest daughter, Camilla, and if there was one thing she did not need right now this minute, it was to listen to Camilla trying to coax her children into saying “hello Grandma” despite the certainty that they would cry and scream. The least Camilla could have done was to wait until the kids were quiet before she made the call instead of trying to quiet them while Rita was on hold.

“Mother, I need a favor from you,” Camilla said breathlessly, a hint of emergency in her voice covering the imperceptible whine that was always present when she knew she was about to ask the impossible.

Rita clenched her teeth. “What is it, dear?”

“You sound as though you’re going to refuse even before I ask,” Camilla complained, immediately putting Rita on the defensive.

Rita shifted into what she called neutral and tried to concentrate on what her daughter was about to say. “I’m in the middle of a very important scene, Camilla. You know I came up here to work, and I did ask all of you children not to call unless it was an emergency.”

“Yes, Mother. But this is an emergency. Tom has to go to San Francisco over the weekend, and he said I could go along if I could find a sitter for the children. I’ve already asked Rachel, but she said she had a big weekend planned. You always used to go with Daddy when he went away on business,” she said accusingly. “No, Jody, you can’t talk to Grandma right now. She’s very busy talking to Mommy! Mother, Jody wants to say hello. Here, talk to him, won’t you?”

For the next few minutes Rita carried on an infantile conversation with three-year-old Jody while little Audra cried in the background, I don’t need this! I really don’t need this! Rita was telling herself over and over even while she cooed and crooned to Jody. She was ashamed of herself. They were her grandchildren! She loved them! What kind of grandmother was she that she resented this intrusion? On another level of her brain, Rita was formulating excuses to decline babysitting. Camilla finally returned to the phone.

“What do you say, Mother? I really need a break from these darling demons. San Francisco would be such fun at this time of the year, and Tom and I need some time together.” The tone of Camilla’s voice was conclusive, as though Rita had already agreed.

“Darling, it isn’t as though I haven’t babysat for you in the past. You know I love the children. . . .”

“Good! Tom and I plan to take the six thirty out of Kennedy tomorrow evening. I’m so excited ! I haven’t been to California in over a year, and it was no easy trick getting my reservations at the eleventh hour.”

Camilla had booked even before asking Rita. This chafed. There was starch in Rita’s voice when she replied. “I’m very sorry, dear, but this weekend is definitely out. I must finish to meet my deadline. I’ve never been late and I don’t intend to start being unreliable at this stage. Why can’t you hire a babysitter?”

“Motherrr!” Camilla’s tone was aghast. “Tom won’t allow just anyone to take care of the children! You know how he is about that! You just don’t know how important this is to me! There is more to life than laundry and children, you know. I remember how you used to go off with Daddy . . .”

“Yes, Camilla, I did go off with your father many times. But it was never at the last minute, and I always made preparations ahead of time. You are being unfair, dear. I don’t like to refuse you, but I do have to finish this book . . .”

“Where would you have been if your mother put a career ahead of you?” Camilla accused. “Grandma would always drop everything to come and stay with us and you know it.”

“Camilla, my mother was a wonderful help to me and she loved her grandchildren. But that hardly applies here. Grandma was alone in the world without ties or a job and she looked for ways to make herself useful. Darling, it isn’t as though I haven’t helped you in the past. Only last month . . .”

“That was last month.” Camilla’s voice was cold. “I need you this weekend.”

“I’m sorry, Camilla, I just can’t see my way clear this weekend.”

“Mother, you don’t even have to come back to the city. I’ll drive the kids up to you. Tom and I thought we’d stay on in San Francisco for a few days. Four at the most. I need you, Mother.”

Rita clenched her fist around the receiver. She almost capitulated, but something stiffened within her. “No, dear, I simply have no time for the children this weekend. If there’s nothing else, I must hang up now. Say hello to Tom for me.”

Rita hung up as her daughter was saying, “. . . your own grandchildren, I can’t believe . . .”

When the receiver was back in the cradle, Rita sat down, nearly collapsing. Her forehead was damp with perspiration and her hands trembled. She felt guilty and angry at the same time. God, why did they do this to her? Why couldn’t they leave her alone and manage for themselves? Better yet, why hadn’t Camilla called upon her new stepmother for assistance, or even her father?

The clear blue eyes misted over. They think I just play at this, that I have nothing else to do. None of them had ever taken her career seriously. Wife, mother, cook, laundress, seamstress, confessor, mechanic, baker, chauffeur . . . she was never Rita Bellamy, author. Rita Bellamy, person. No, they only thought of her in direct relationship to themselves and their own needs. They looked upon her writing as a competitor, alienating her from them. Even now, when she was alone, without a husband, needing to make a living for herself, they only considered themselves.

Damn, now her mood was broken. The Dutch East India Company would have to wait. For exactly two seconds she had been proud of herself in refusing Camilla and then the guilt had set in. Undoubtedly Camilla would report to Brett that Rita had refused to care for the children. She could almost envision him shaking his head and sighing in silent condemnation.

Food. Always eat and add to the midriff bulge when you’re unhappy. She could certainly do that. She had spent two hundred dollars in the supermarket and could make a gourmet meal if it pleased her. A five-thousand-calorie meal. Poking about in the fridge, she decided on sausage and peppers so that she would have something left for lunch the next day.

The headache came on with blinding force as she started to chop the onions and peppers. The sausage was simmering in a stainless steel pot along with some tangy tomato sauce. She swallowed three Tylenol and went back to the chopping board. It always happened this way. The moment the guilt set in, the headache arrived, and before she knew it she had a three-day migraine. She didn’t need the migraine any more than she needed her grandchildren for the weekend. Her movements were awkward, as if being performed by a stranger as she dumped the peppers and onions into the fry pan for a few quick stirs before adding them to the sausage to simmer. She couldn’t wait to get to the phone to call Camilla back. Anything to get rid of the headache, the damnable guilt. Anything.

Her trembling hand was on the receiver when she heard a voice call her name. “Rita, it’s Twigg Peterson. I hate to be a bother but I let some oil bubble over and now the burners won’t light. Could I impose on you long enough to fry some hamburgers. God, that smells good, what is it?”

Rita stared at the tall man through the screen door. She had to do something, say something. “Come in” was the best she could manage.

Seeing Rita’s white, drawn face and the trembling of her hands, he asked, “Is anything wrong? I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I can eat them raw.”

“Raw?” Rita asked, not understanding. “No, it’s just that this headache came on so suddenly and it’s brutal. Of course you can use the stove. What else did you ask?”

“I asked what you were cooking, it smells so good.”

“Sausage and peppers. I didn’t know quite what to make, so I settled for that.” Damn, why did she feel the need to explain? Why was she always explaining? She’d be damned if she would apologize for the emptiness of the cabin.

“Rustic,” Twigg said enigmatically. “I like sausage and peppers especially on a hard roll. Are you having hard rolls? I’ll bet you are.”

In spite of herself, Rita laughed.

Twigg stared at the woman and grinned. He hadn’t realized how attractive she was down by the pier when she was squinting into the sun. Very expressive eyes, good features. No makeup. Natural. He bet she was a knockout when she was made-up. Late thirties, early forties, he judged. “How bad is the headache?” he asked with real concern in his voice.

Tears of frustration gathered in the blue eyes. It had been so long since anyone asked how she felt, or showed concern at what she was feeling. A stranger out of nowhere suddenly appears and I fall apart at the seams, she thought. “It’s a bad one. Usually leads to a migraine and I can’t afford a three-day lapse.”

“Then allow me.” Before she knew what was happening, Twigg was behind her, massaging her neck and shoulder muscles. She winced and closed her eyes. He had strong hands, capable hands. Was it her imagination or was the pain lessening? “Okay, now hold still and then relax. I’m going to snap your neck. On the count of three.” Rita did as she was told. She heard her neck snap, crack, and then the gentle pressure was back. “There, that should do it.”

The blue eyes were confused when she stared up at Twigg. “It really works. Can you guarantee it won’t come back?”

“Absolutely.”

“You just saved me from making a phone call that I would regret. Thank you. You wanted to use the stove, you said.” He was unnerving her with his close scrutiny.

“Right. That’s what I said.” He held out a plate with a brown glob on it.

“What is it?” Rita asked as she stared down at what looked like a cross between hamburger and dog food.

“Actually, it’s chopped meat that I think has seen better days. I should probably throw it out.”

“That would be my advice.” Rita smiled. The headache was gone. Thank God she hadn’t called Camilla. “How would you like some of my sausage and peppers? It’ll be done in a few minutes. We’ll have to eat outside on the picnic table though.”

“Lady, I thought you were never going to ask. I’d love to eat with you, and if you have a beer to go with it, I’ll be in your debt forever.”

“Oh, do you like beer with your sandwiches? So do I,” Rita confided. How comfortable she felt with him. There was no fear, no anxiety. It seemed like she had known him for a long time. Such gentle fingers.

Twigg watched her as she set about making the sandwiches. She was at home in a kitchen. He wondered if there was a Mr. Bellamy and what she was doing living in an empty cottage. He craned his neck to see if a wedding ring was in sight. He almost sighed with relief when he saw her bare hand. Maybe she didn’t like rings. He liked the way she moved, the way she handled the kitchen equipment, the way she spooned the rich sauce over the sausage and then closed the roll tight so it wouldn’t drip. He noticed that she made three sandwiches. His eyes asked the question. Rita laughed. “Two for you and one for me. You bring the beer. The glasses are in that cabinet over your head.”

“Bottle is okay with me. How about you?”

“Okay with me too. Napkins are over there. Bring a handful. Now that you’re dressed to the nines, I wouldn’t want you to drip on your clean shirt.”

“You noticed.” Twigg grinned in mock pleasure.

“I noticed.” And she had. She had noticed the tight fit of the worn jeans, the designer sneakers with their frayed laces. And the six freckles he had on his left hand. It was because she was a writer and observant, she told herself as she bit into the sandwich.

They ate in companionable silence. Twigg finished first and asked if he could have another beer. Rita nodded.

“Bring me one too,” she called after him.

“How long are you going to be here?” Twigg asked.

“As long as it takes to finish my novel. A week, two, I’m not sure, and then I always need a week to unwind. There’s no hurry for me to get back home, so I may stay a little longer. How long will you be here?”

“I rented the cottage for six months. It’s going to take at least that much time to collate my notes, draft the research reports, and then write the articles.”

How many times she had sat on this same bench and watched the sun set with Brett and the kids, but she never enjoyed it as much as she did this minute. “I love the sunsets here,” she said quietly.

“The end of the day. Tell me, what are you writing? Or don’t you talk about it. I heard writers are scary people and are afraid someone will wander off with their ideas.”

Rita laughed. “I’m past that stage. I write romantic novels for women.”

“Oh, you’re that Rita Bellamy. I thought there was something familiar about your name. When I was doing my dolphin research, several of the biologists were reading your books. They said you were good.”

Rita was pleased with the compliment. “I try. I write what I like to read.”

Twigg’s gaze was puzzled. “Do you put any of yourself into your novels?”

Rita contemplated her answer. “Not myself exactly. Perhaps my longings, my yearnings, some of my secret desires,” she said honestly. Somehow, anything less than an honest reply to this strange new friend—and he was a friend, she could sense it—would have been cheating.

“I guess I understand that. How does your family feel about what you write?”

“They tolerate it.” Damn, this man was making her talk, making her see and feel all the things she wanted to forget. Honesty again in her reply. “The children are more or less on their own. Charles is away this summer doing camp counseling and then he goes to Princeton in the fall. Camilla has her own family, and Rachel is living in an apartment in the city. They all have their own lives.”

“What happened to Mr. Bellamy?” Twigg asked bluntly. He had to know and what better way than to ask outright. He held his breath waiting for her reply.

“Mr. Bellamy is remarried to a young lady, a very young lady, who is one year younger than my oldest daughter,” Rita said in an emotionless voice.

“Is that bitterness I hear in your voice?”

“Yes, dammit, it’s bitterness you hear. I haven’t exactly come to terms with it, but I will. Any more questions?” she snapped irritably.

“Not on your life. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up old wounds. Hell, yes I did, I wanted to know about you. Because I want to know you better. I’ve never been one to dance around something. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“It’s all right. I shouldn’t be so defensive. It’s been two years now and time enough for me to adjust.” The phone shrilled in the kitchen saving her from further explanations. “Excuse me, she said, getting up.

Twigg sat back, leaning against the rough redwood table. He tried not to listen, but Rita’s intense voice carried clearly. It sounded brittle and defensive.

“Tom, how are you? You know I’m always glad to talk to you but I’m afraid you can’t make me change my mind. I have commitments and I intend to honor them.... No, Tom. It’s out of the question.... Of course, I love my grandchildren. Pay someone, Tom. There are all sorts of reputable agencies with people who take care of children.... No, Tom, bringing them here will not make me change my mind. I explained my deadline to Camilla this afternoon.... Of course, I realize how important your job is, I just wonder how important you think mine is. I try not to depend upon anyone to do things for me, Tom, and I think you can take that as good advice.”

Rita listened to Tom’s voice coming over the receiver. He had no right, no right at all. She listened for a few more minutes, but when he began calling Jody to the phone to ask Grandma to let him come for a visit, Rita became incensed. That was playing dirty. “Tom, that’s not fair and I cannot understand why you and Camilla refuse to accept my answer. If it had been another time, even next weekend . . .” Damn, there she was making excuses again. What she needed was another beer and a course in assertiveness training. Why? She had absolutely no trouble dealing with those outside her family. Secretaries, publishers, editors, publicists, smart people, important people, demanding and exacting, and yet here she was practically pleading for Camilla and Tom to understand why she could not babysit for them and allow her care of the children to interfere with her writing.

“Tom,” Rita said in a cool, controlled voice, “I would not make the drive up here if I were you. I have given you my answer and it stands. You must make other arrangements for the children this weekend. Have you tried Brett and his wife?” Lord, she was doing it again, trying to solve their problem for them.

“Yes, Rita, we did call and they both have colds. Besides, as Camilla says, you are their grandmother. And there’s no one the children would rather be with than you.”

“That’s very sweet, Tom, however this weekend it is just impossible.” She put conviction into her voice. The last thing she needed this weekend was the children. What with the delivery of furniture, Ian coming . . . no, it was just impossible.

“Rita,” Tom lowered his voice to a level of confidence, “Camilla is quite upset. You know how she admires you, even tries to emulate you. You are disappointing her terribly. We don’t understand what’s come over you. You’ve never refused before.”

“Then why is it so terrible of me to refuse this one time? No, Tom”—her voice hesitated; she had almost apologized again—“it’s impossible this weekend. You are an intelligent man; I’ve every confidence you’ll solve your dilemma. Give my best to Camilla and the children. Good night, Tom.”

Twigg winced when he heard the receiver slam down onto the cradle. He had gotten the gist of the conversation and had intuitively surmised Rita’s conflict over refusing to babysit. He heard the slight tremor in her tone, the apologetic manner. When at last she had curtly ended the conversation, he found himself rooting for her, cheering her on. Atta girl, Rita! That took some doing, can tell, but if it’s what you want, then good for you!

“Don’t ask me to explain that conversation to you,” Rita said, setting a fresh bottle of beer in front of him. Great God! Had she actually stood up to Tom and Camilla? No doubt she would be punished for it, and they would probably keep the children away until the next time they needed her. Realizing she was neglecting her guest, she smoothed the grim line from her mouth and directed her attention to Twigg. “Why don’t you tell me about what you’re writing? Are dolphins actually as intelligent as I’ve heard?”

“I spent eighteen months in Australia researching and studying the habits of whales and dolphins and it was fascinating. As a matter of fact, I only returned to the States a few weeks ago and found the Johnson cottage through a Realtor. My eyes got hungry for the autumn colors. Change of seasons and all that. Who knows when I’ll get another chance like this.” Twigg was encouraged by the genuine interest Rita displayed, gazing at him intently with those remarkable blue eyes of hers. “There was one dolphin we called Sinbad who literally took my breath away. The species has developed a sophisticated sonar system. They can hear up to one hundred forty kilocycles; that’s eight times higher than a human. They can dive to almost a thousand feet with no decompression problems and use eighty percent of their oxygen to the fullest advantage.”

As he spoke, describing the seas, the animals, and their habits, the conversation with Tom was already fading from Rita’s mind.

“The females are more playful than the males, actually. Sinbad was an exception to the rule. The female is also the aggressor in courtship; the males don’t mature sexually till they’re almost seven years old. It takes eleven months for a calf to be born, and the mothers are very protective of their young.”

“Most mothers are,” Rita said quietly, thinking of her own role as a mother and the failures and successes she had achieved.

“I suppose so,” Twigg answered. “Time for me to be getting back to work. I’ll return the dinner invitation as soon as I wash my dishes. Thanks again, Rita.”

“It’s a beautiful evening. I’ll walk along with you as far as the pier.”

At the pier they said their good nights, and Rita watched him lope away down the sandy beach. She liked him, liked being with him. He made her feel good about herself. He hadn’t asked any questions concerning the phone conversation with Tom nor had he given any indication that he had an opinion one way or the other about what she had done.

Twigg started off down the beach. He didn’t want to go home but instinctively knew Rita needed some time to herself to mull over the unpleasant phone call. He didn’t want to work on his articles; he wanted to be with Rita. He turned, making his way back to her. She was still standing on the edge of the pier. “I forgot something,” he shouted, that lopsided grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

“What did you forget?” She was puzzled at the expression in his eyes as he drew close to her.

“This.” His arms drew around her, holding her close to him. She realized how tall he was, towering over her, lifting her chin with the tips of his fingers to look down into her eyes. His lips, when they touched hers, were soft, giving as well as taking, gently persuading her to respond. His arm, cradling her against him, was firm, strong, but his fingers still touching her face were tender, trailing whispery shadows over her cheekbones. Having him kiss her seemed to be the most natural ending to an enjoyable evening. It was just that. A kiss. A tender gesture, tempting an answer but demanding none.

“Good night, pretty lady,” he said huskily, his tone plucking the strings of her emotions. And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone while she watched him retrace his steps.

Rita moistened her lips that were so recently kissed. Soundly kissed, she would have written if it were a scene from one of her books. She had been licked by the flame of remembered passions, good lusty feelings she had thought were lost to her. Twigg Peterson was good for the ego. “Pretty lady” he had called her, and suddenly she did feel pretty and just a little bit more excited than she would have liked.

Back in his cottage Twigg faced the blank page on the computer. He had wanted to kiss her and he had. Wanted to kiss her almost from the moment he had introduced himself to her earlier that day. There was something vulnerable about Rita Bellamy and something strong too. How good she had felt in his arms, how sweetly she had returned his kiss. There was no need to sit here and ponder what she had thought of him, if he had offended her. With Rita, everything was up front. Black and white. She either liked you or she didn’t. And that was good too. Emotional games were for children and more often they hurt rather than gave pleasure. The white page glared accusingly under the goosenecked lamp and he began to work.