Balancing Act

chapter Four


It was ten minutes after seven when Rita’s stomach growled ominously. She turned off the computer and tidied her desk. Useless draft pages were shoved into one of the new desk drawers. She missed using the old door on the sawhorses. There had been miles of room for all her scattered research notes. This way she would have to hunt and fish for everything she needed.

She sat down to her solitary dinner at seven forty. The French bread was browned perfectly. The stew was hearty and yet tangy. It was the tablespoon of horseradish that gave it a special touch. She ate ravenously, topping off the meal with two cups of black coffee. Lighting a cigarette, she decided to walk off the heavy dinner with a stroll down to the pier. She was almost afraid to open the front door, hating the thought of seeing lights in the Johnson cottage. Lights meant Twigg was there and hadn’t wanted to see her. If she took the stew over as was her original intention, he might think she was ready to initiate something. Better to leave it behind and just take her walk down to the pier as planned. The Johnson cottage was dark. The only light came from a street lamp on the other side of the lake and was so faint and yellowish it was barely distinguishable. Maybe something happened to him. Perhaps she should walk around and knock on the door. That’s what she should do, what she would have done a week ago. It was the mothering instinct in her. Rita caught herself up short. Twigg might be younger, but there was nothing motherly about the way she felt last night or right now for that matter. Tomorrow would be time enough to see if he was all right. A grown man of thirty-two could pick up the phone and ask for help if he needed it. She was listed in the phone book. Perhaps he went into town and hadn’t gotten back. Anything was a possibility and she, for one, certainly shouldn’t be worrying.

Rita walked out to the end of the pier and stood staring across the lake. She shivered in her light jacket. She suddenly felt the loneliness for the first time and wished Twigg were here if only to talk about the dolphins and killer whales. She liked the resonant timbre of his voice, the lazy, confident way he moved. She liked to watch his slender hands that he waved about to express a point. How well she remembered the feel of those hands on the back of her neck and the way they stroked her cheeks. He was a gentle man, of that she was sure. He was Twigg Peterson, marine biologist. Why couldn’t she say she was Rita Bellamy, writer? She sat down on the edge of the pier. I’m an ex-wife, a mother, a best-selling writer, she mused to herself. She stared across the water and it hit her like a bolt of lightning. Those are things I do, not who I am. I’m Rita Bellamy. Me, Rita, the person.

Something strange was happening to her, had been happening to her since she arrived. She was looking at things differently, feeling things.

She felt comfortable sitting here on the pier thinking about her life and where it was going. For the first time in nearly two years she felt comfortable with herself. She felt comfortable with her wants, and right now she wanted to talk to Twigg Peterson. She debated going back to the cottage for the stew and realized it was nothing more than a prop. She didn’t need a prop. She didn’t want a prop. She slithered sideways and got to her knees and then to her feet. There were still no lights on in the Johnson cottage.

Rita lengthened her stride and almost ran to the cottage. She rapped loudly and waited for some response. When none came, she knocked a second time, this time so loud her knuckles smarted. There was still no answer. Without hesitating, Rita opened the door and peered into the dimness. There was no sign of anyone. God, what if he was in the bedroom with a woman? She swallowed hard. There was only one way to find out. She reached for the wall switch and the living room came to life. Carefully, she tiptoed to the bedroom and inched the door open. Twigg lay sprawled across the bed fully dressed in the clothes he had been wearing the night before. Was it possible he had slept through the day? She had to know if he was all right before she left. She inched her way over the polished plank floor and dropped soundlessly to her knees. Satisfied that his breathing was deep and regular. She was getting to her feet when a long arm snaked out and reached for her. Caught off guard she floundered and then fell on top of a laughing Twigg. “I may be a heavy sleeper, but not that heavy. I was aware of you the minute you walked in the door.”

“I wanted to be sure you were all right. I didn’t see any lights and I thought . . .”

“That your sausage and peppers made me sick.” Twigg grinned, his grip on her arm secure.

“No. I just wanted to see you and talk to you,” Rita said honestly.

“Talk,” Twigg said, rolling over on one elbow. His grip never lessened as he brought his face within inches of her own. Rita could smell his warm, sleepy breath as he stared into her eyes. She felt an exultant thump of warm delight as she saw the glowing, ardent look in his gaze.

Rita tried to inch back a bit. “Now that I know you’re all right I have to get back to work. Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow if you’re not too busy?” Rita asked impulsively as she struggled to withdraw her arm. Damn, she had forgotten how long his arms were.

“You’re a damn beautiful woman, Rita Bellamy,” Twigg said quietly.

Positioned half on the bed and half off, Rita felt awkward and flustered. She had always found compliments of any kind hard to handle. Certainly, no one had ever called her beautiful, not even Brett. She became more aware of her surroundings, the double, maple, four-poster and the man staring at her. But more than that she was aware of her thumping heart and her fast-beating pulse. She had to say something to this man who wanted more than she was prepared to give. She tried to pull away. His grip was firm.

“I want you in this bed next to me. You know that, don’t you?” Twigg said quietly. “I think I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman before.” Twigg was shocked at how true the words were. He did want her. He did desire her. Goddamn it, he liked her and that was something he couldn’t say about too many women in his circle of friends.

Rita met his unflinching gaze. “You barely know me. Twigg, you’re thirty-two years old. I’m forty-three years old, ten years older than you. Why, you’re not that much older than my children.” Had she responded correctly? She had come here to talk, maybe have him kiss her again. She had no intention of playing games or teasing. Did women still tease men, she wondered.

“Age is a number. I have a number and you have a number. So what. We’re people with feelings and desires. Lady, I have very strange feelings where you’re concerned and I sure as hell do desire you.”

“A number. Yes, you’re right. Age is a number but my children . . .” she broke off lamely.

“Your children have nothing to do with this, with you or me. This is something that is strictly between you and me. Don’t clutter up the issue with children.”

“I don’t know if I can do that. I want to be friends with you. I do feel something for you, but I . . . this is new to me, and I just don’t think I’m ready to . . . to . . .”

Twigg studied her. There was no pretense about this woman. Tricks, schemes, maneuvers, and all the deviousness that made for beguilement were not part of her. He released his hold on her arm and she jerked it to her side. “Look, Rita, I’m no skirt chaser, and I’m a far cry from being a womanizer. I met you, I like you, and this is more or less a natural progression of events. Dammit, I really am tuned into you for some reason. It hit me the minute I saw you on the pier. I’m being honest with you.”

“And I’m trying to be honest with you,” Rita said softly.

“Come here, I want to tell you something. Look at me,” he commanded gently. “I take my relationships seriously. I want you to understand that I am not what the kids call a jock. I agree I haven’t known you all that long, but I want to get to know you better. My body is telling me it wants to go to bed with you. I think your body is telling you the same thing. That’s physical. We can deal with that when it’s time. I promise I will not take advantage of you or try to trick you unless it’s to get you to feed me. I’m a lousy cook. I can’t be any more up-front than that.”

There was a slight misting in Rita’s blue eyes. “I think I can accept that,” she said lightly. “Come on, I made some stew. I was going to bring it over with me, but I thought you might think I was using that as an excuse to see you. I realized I didn’t need an excuse. I wanted to see you so I came. But, it’s time to go back.”

They walked arm in arm back to her cottage, laughing and kicking at stray pebbles. “How’s the book coming?” Twigg questioned.

“Fine. My agent is coming up tomorrow evening to take back what I’ve finished. He’ll be spending the night. In the spare bedroom,” she said hastily. “I got some furniture today.”

Twigg spun Rita around till she was within inches of him. “You don’t owe me any explanations. I don’t want you to sound defensive when you talk with me. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Rita said. They went inside and she turned the burner on under the stew.

Later, Rita sat across from Twigg, drinking a cup of coffee while he finished the last of the stew. “I think you’re a hell of a lady, Rita Bellamy, and a good cook in the bargain. Let’s take a walk around the lake so I can work off all that French bread.”

The quarter-moon bathed the sandy beach in a silvery glow as Rita and Twigg strolled along, her arm linked in the crook of his arm. She felt happy, alive, but a bit apprehensive. Conversation was casual, beginning with the contrary weather of the Poconos and going on to Twigg’s sleeping an entire day, to Rita’s children. She started off with Camilla and eased into Charles, leaving Rachel for last. Rachel always needed so much explaining.

“Whatever Rachel is or isn’t, you are not to blame. She’s her own person, Rita. For some reason you seem to blame yourself and I can see the guilt all over your face. All of them are adults now, even your son,” Twigg said lightly. “You have to cut the strings, Rita, and when you cut them, let them stay cut. They have lives and you have a life of your own. You must be very proud of yourself,” he said, easing out of the painful subject of her children.

“I am. I think I’m what you call a late bloomer. I’m doing something I love doing and getting paid while I do it. As they say in encounter groups, I think I’m ‘realizing my potential.’ ”

They were on the way back and nearing the path that wound beneath giant hanging hemlock trees that, if followed, would bring them up and around to the back of Rita’s cottage. It was eerie in the darkness, but down the center of the path was a white flood of moonlight. Prickles of electricity raced down Rita’s arms as she tightened her hold on Twigg.

His embrace was neither expected nor unexpected. It was natural. Rita felt herself melting into his embrace as though she had been doing it for hundreds of years. He felt good. He felt right. His arms tightened, bringing her closer to him. No words were spoken, none were necessary. Gently, she felt his lips in her hair, on her cheek and throat. Tenderly, his fingers lifted her chin, raising her lips to his own. He was pressing her closer to his chest, crushing her breasts against him. His body was hard, muscular. Rita’s arms encircled his back. Without reason or logic she felt safe and secure in his embrace, and she faced her tumultuous emotions with directness and truth. She couldn’t help it, she wanted this man.

Their eyes met in the moonlight and without a trace of embarrassment she was aware she could drown in that incredibly dark gaze and emerge again as the woman she wanted and needed to become.

Seeing her moist lips part and offer themselves to him, he lowered his mouth to hers, touching her lips, tasting their sweetness, drawing from them a kiss, gentle, yet passionate. As the kiss deepened, searing flames licked her body, the pulsating beat of her heart thundered in her ears.

When he released her, his eyes searched hers for an instant, then time became eternal for Rita. From somewhere deep within her a desire to stay forever in his arms, to feel the touch of his mouth upon hers, began to crescendo, threatening to erupt like fireworks. Thick, dark lashes closed over her blue eyes and she heard her own breath come in ragged little gasps as she boldly brought her mouth once more to his, offering herself, kissing him deeply, searchingly, searing this moment upon her memory.

She kissed him as she had never kissed another man, a kiss that made her knees weak and her head dizzy. She knew, in that endless moment, that somehow this man belonged to her in a way no other man could ever belong to her, for however brief this time together would be. She had found him, a man who could make her feel like the woman she always knew she was.

Twigg’s fingers were gentle as they danced through her hair. He sensed what she was feeling. There are needs of the soul that go beyond the hungers of the body. His voice was deep, husky, little more than a whisper. “Will you come with me so that we can make this a night for all eternity?”

He waited for her answer, wanted to hear her say it, commit herself to it. Wordless agreement would not do for him, he realized, not with this woman whose skin was so soft and fragrant beneath his lips and whose eyes were lowered with shyness. “Tell me, Rita. It can be wonderful between us. I know it can and I want to show you.”

He felt her indecision, was aware that a part of her had withdrawn from him. Intuitively, he knew that she had not been with another man since her divorce and that she felt his touch was strange and alien. He was tapping at the walls of her insecurity and he did not want to rush her, did not want to frighten her away, yet his own burning need for her prompted him to persuade, to insist. “Tell me, Rita,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat, sending little tremors vibrating through her.

“Yes, yes,” she whispered huskily. Was that voice her own? A voice deep and singing with desire, a woman’s voice. “Twigg,” she murmured against his lips, feeling them soft and moist on her own, “I want you to make love to me.”

Twigg was excited by her admission, each sensation heightened because she wanted him to love her. He captured her mouth with his own, entering with his tongue, feeling the velvet of hers. Together they knelt and fell into a soft bed of pine needles where she offered herself to him, allowing his hands to move over her body, exciting her, matching his hunger with her own.

Mindlessly, she surrendered to his touch, barely aware that he was methodically stripping away her clothing. The chill night air did not touch her, not in his arms, with his body sheltering hers, giving her the warmth she so desperately needed. She grew languorous under his touch as his hands possessed her breasts, the soft tenderness of her belly, and the smoothness of her inner thighs. His mouth gently opened hers, his silken-tipped tongue exploring, tasting, caressing with a fervor that sent her senses spinning.

When his hand moved between her thighs, rising upward, she moved against his touch and she heard the response to her passion in the catch of his breath and the deep, deep sound that came from his throat. “You’re so beautiful, Rita. So beautiful. I love the way you want me to touch you.” His voice was softer than a will-o’-the-wisp, and she wondered if she only imagined it.

He tore away his clothes, eager to be naked against her, wanting the warmth of her touch on his body. Rolling over onto his back, he took her with him, trailing his fingers down the length of her spine and returning over and over again to the roundness of her bottom. He invited her touch, inspired her caresses, always watching her in the dim moonlight, reveling in the heavy-lidded smoldering in her eyes. He wanted her to take pleasure in him, wanted her to find him worthy of her finely tuned passions. Did he please her, he wondered as she smoothed the flat of her palms over his chest, her fingertips gripping and pulling at the thicket of hairs. Her mouth found his nipples, licking, tasting, lowering her explorations to the tautness of his belly and the hardness of his thighs. He reveled in her touch, in the expression of her eyes as he took her face in his hands and held it for his kiss.

Putting her beneath him once again, he kissed the sweetness of her mouth, her eyes, the soft curve of her jaw. Her breasts awakened beneath his kisses; she arched beneath his touch.

She sought him with her lips, possessed him with her hands, her own passions growing as she realized the pleasure she was giving him. The hardness of his sex was somehow tender and vulnerable beneath her hand as she felt it quiver with excitement and desire . . . for her. His hands never left her body, seeking, exploring, touching . . . she wanted to lay back and render herself to him, yet at the same time she wanted to possess him, touch him, commit him to memory and know him as she had never known another man. Instead of being alien to her, his body was as familiar to her as her own. She felt her body sing with pleasure and she knew her display of passion was food for his.

Rita was ravaged by this hunger he created in her. She wanted him to take her and bring her release. “Take me,” she breathed, feeling as though she would die if he did not, yet hating to put an end to excruciating pleasure.

He put himself between her opened thighs, his eyes devouring her as she lay waiting for him. Her soft, chestnut hair reflected the silver of the moon, her skin was bathed in a sleek sheen that emphasized her womanly curves and enhanced the contact between their flesh. Sitting back on his heels, his gaze locked with hers as his hands moved over her body. Rita met his eyes, unashamedly, letting him see the hungers that dwelled there and the flutter of her lashes that mirrored the tremblings in her loins. His hands slipped to her sex and she cried out softly, arching her back to press herself closer against his gently circling fingers. “You’re so beautiful here,” he told her, watching her eyes close and her lips part with a little gasp.

He gentled her passions, fed her desires, brought her to the point of no return and smiled tenderly when she sobbed with the sweetness of her passions. She climaxed beneath his touch, uttering her surprise, whispering his name. His hands eased the tautness of her thighs, kneading the firmness of her haunches and smoothing over her belly.

When she thought the sensation too exquisite to be surpassed, he leaned forward, driving himself into her, filling her sheath with his pulsing masculinity. Her body strained beneath his, willing itself to partake of his pleasure, to be his pleasure. The fine hairs of his chest rubbed against her breasts. His mouth took hers, deeply, lovingly. His movements were smooth and expert as he stroked within her, demanding she match his rhythm, driving her once again to the sweetness she knew could be hers.

Her fingers raked his back, feeling the play of his muscles beneath his skin. She found the firmness of his buttocks, holding fast, driving him forward, feeling him buried deep within her. He doubled her delight and she climaxed again, and only then did he raise up, grasping her bottom in his hands and lifting it, thrusting himself into her with shorter, quicker strokes.

Her body was exquisite, her responses delicious, but it was the expression on her lovely face and the delight and pleasure he saw there that pushed him over the edge and destroyed his restraint. The total joy, the hint of disbelief in her clear blue eyes, the purity of a single tear on her smooth cheek, were his undoing. He found his relief in her, her name exploding on his lips.

They lay together, legs entwined, her head upon his shoulder as he stroked the softness of her arm and the fullness of her breasts. His lips were in her hair, soft, teasing, against her brow. “You’re a beautiful lover,” he breathed, tightening his embrace, delighting in the intimacy between them.

Rita was silent, enjoying this aftermath to their lovemaking. He had pulled her light jacket over her shoulder to ward off the chill, and his long, lean leg was thrown over hers. She was as snug as a bug, she smiled to herself, breathing in the scent of him and nuzzling her nose against the furring on his chest. His hand played with her hair as he told her how incredibly soft it was, almost as soft as her skin.

“It hasn’t been this way for me in a very long time,” she told him sincerely. For a moment he was so quiet she thought he had fallen asleep. Wasn’t that what men did immediately after making love? Leaving the woman filled with emotions and thoughts and no one to share them with?

“I know it hasn’t, Rita.” She liked the way he used her name rather than the impersonals of “honey” or “sweetheart.” “I knew we could share something wonderful.”

Rita tilted her head, looking up into his face. “Was it wonderful for you, Twigg? Oh, that’s silly. I sound as though I’m fishing for compliments and that’s not what I mean at all.”

He looked down at her, smiling. “Yes, it was wonderful for me. How could you think otherwise ? Oh, I see,” he said, suddenly comprehending. “I’m the one with all the experience, the free lifestyle, a part of the new morality. And I got all this experience while you were busy being faithful to your husband, and hence, I must have had sexual experiences more wonderful than tonight.”

Silently, Rita nodded, burying her face against his chest; she could not meet his eyes. That was exactly what she had meant. It was still a marvel to her that he had wanted to make love to her at all. She had never considered herself a beauty nor particularly desirable. Oh, perhaps when she was young, but certainly not since her marriage to Brett had fallen apart. The beauty and sensuality she should have felt about herself was instead imparted to the heroines in her books.

Turning over until he was looking down into her face, Twigg gently touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “You are beautiful, Rita, and tonight was wonderful. So very wonderful,” his mouth claimed hers, softly, tenderly. “I could make love to you again and again and again,” he told her, chuckling. “Only I don’t know if I’ll ever get these pine needles out of my behind. What say we run up to your place and try out that new bed of yours? I want to hold you in my arms all night long, Rita Bellamy. I don’t want to leave you until you’re sleeping, otherwise I might never have the strength to leave you at all.”

Laughing, they ran up to the cottage, dropping shoes, leaving behind jackets and picking pine straw out of their hair. And Twigg was as good as his word. He made love to her again, tenderly, lovingly, making her feel beautiful, truly beautiful. And only when she slept did he leave her to her dreams of him, a soft, slow smile lifting the corners of her lips.