Balancing Act

chapter Six


He carried her into his darkened cottage, completely sure of his movements through the darkness. Rita nestled her face into his neck, hurrying him with playful touches of her tongue against the faint stubble of tomorrow’s beard. She loved the way he smelled: spicy, musky, and most of all, masculine.

I’m like a girl again, she thought, delicious tremors racing through her body. I never thought I would feel this way again, all quivery inside, a little nervous in my stomach, more than a little light-headed. She had thought those sensations were left far behind her, that a woman her age would be too old, too knowledgeable about why her blood pressure rose, to respond with any spontaneity. It wasn’t so, she rejoiced. There was no such thing as “too old.” Here, inside her, were those old but never forgotten feelings: the skittishness of a new colt, the wild flutter of wings, the desire, no need, to please and be pleasured. In his arms she was as smooth and supple as that sixteen-year-old girl within her. Her hair was as dark as walnut, her skin as white as alabaster. She felt beautiful and, feeling it, became beautiful.

He took her into his bedroom and gently placed her on his bed. She was aware of his scent in here—aftershave, soap and dampness from the adjoining bathroom, leather and tobacco. All aphrodisiacs to her senses.

Twigg flicked on the night table lamp; it glowed dimly, filling the room with a cozy glow. “I want to see you, Rita. I want to watch you when I make love to you.” There was a huskiness in his voice, a seductive look in his eyes, that set her pulses racing. She watched his hands as they came down to undo the buttons on her blouse, slowly lifting it off her shoulders and kissing the newly bared flesh and the top of her breasts.

She was mesmerized by his movements, a little frightened, very much aroused. Whispers filled her head as he kissed and petted her, telling her how much she pleased him, how very much he wanted her. One by one her garments came away under his hands, and always he abated the sudden chill of skin bared to cool night air with the caress of his hands and the touch of his lips. The sound of his voice, deep, throaty, brought echoing vibrations from somewhere deep within her. She responded to him totally, entirely, allowing him to be the aggressor, the maestro.

She heard herself moaning with pleasure as his lips ignited tiny flames of fire she had thought were long cold and dead, swept like ashes in a winter wind. He was murmuring his pleasure in her, telling her she was beautiful, womanly, desirable.

Rita wanted to be beautiful for him. Wanted to bring him pleasure, make him happy. At the center of Twigg’s pleasure she would find her own, waiting for her, exciting her, making her fully aware of herself as a woman. Standing before her, he began to undress. He was gold from the sun, slender and hard muscled. His chest was broad, his long arms powerful, his hips sleek and narrow. Gilt hair bloomed on his chest and threaded over his belly to thicken again in a darker grove between his thighs. His legs were long and lithely muscled, but it was to the darkness between his thighs that her eyes returned. His desire for her was evident in the proudness of his sex, and she reached out to touch him, her hands lovingly holding his maleness and falling between his thighs to that special fragility that was a man’s. His hands were in her hair, his eyes closed, head thrown back on the thick column of his neck. “I love how you touch me,” he told her softly, so softly, she might have only imagined he’d uttered the words.

Her arms opened to him, taking him into her embrace as he slid down into the bed, sliding his nakedness against hers and reveling in the contact between them. She was electrically charged. His mouth against hers demanded her willing response. His hands heated her flesh, finding each womanly curve and claiming them for his own. Her abandoned movements against him provoked deep sounds of delight that left him breathless. He found the roundness of her breasts and she trembled as he sought them with his mouth, kissing and teasing.

Reaching down to take him in her hand, she stroked him, her fingers wandering to the secrets between his legs and the rough surrounding hair that so enticed her fingers. She felt the waves of bliss that emanated from him as he surrendered himself to her caress. Propping herself on an elbow, she raised herself up, tasting the freshness of his skin, nuzzling in the golden furring of his chest, trailing her lips lower, lower, until buried in the thicket surrounding his sex.

Laying back, he yielded to her, his hands never leaving her body, availing himself of the nearness of her hips, the roundness of her bottom. She captured him with her hand, drawing him to her, her mouth finding him, and she took her reward from the sound of his indrawn breath and the sudden arching of his hips.

He slid her lower body toward him, stroking the line of her back and following it over the curve of her haunches to the shadow between her thighs, parting them to avail himself of the center of her. His lips and tongue teased the sensitive flesh, his hands held her hips firmly, driving her closer to him. His mouth tasted her, devoured her, arousing echoing paroxysms in her caresses to his own body, doubling their excitement in one another, multiplying their desires.

Drawing her up beside him, he covered her mouth with his own, allowing her to taste herself on his lips, tasting himself on hers. Rita’s body undulated beneath his touch as his hands strayed along her breasts, her back, between her legs. There was not an inch of her left untouched, unloved. He tantalized her, teased her, bringing her so close to the gates of her release only to deny her entrance. A fire burned in her belly and her need for him to take her grew into a hunger all-consuming. Her world was filled with him, her needs were for him alone. Only he could bring her the triumphant joy she could know as a woman.

Greedily, she took his rigid, throbbing maleness into her hand, frantically bringing it against her, rubbing it against the wetness of her yearning body. “Please, have me,” she whispered, pleading, imploring, “have me now!”

He rose over her, taking her into his arms, covering her mouth with his own, his silken-tipped tongue coming in to touch and devour hers. She opened herself to him, demanding he come into her and fill this pulsing emptiness he had created within her.

He watched her face, exhilarated by the rampant lust he saw there, by the need for fulfillment she had allowed him to create within her. Lovely, so lovely. Lips parted to reveal the tip of her velvet-lined tongue; head thrown back and eyes closed with the weight of her passion. He entered her, feeling her warm, satiny sheath close and ripple around him. He wanted to bury himself in her, become a part of her, know her as he had never known another woman. Soft, kittenish sounds of pleasure fell on his ears as he moved within her, thrusting gently, becoming more insistent as his own restraint began to fail. He plunged into her, becoming one with that honeyed flesh, feeling her meet each thrust with a lift of her hips, holding fast to him with her arms, her legs, taking him deeper, wanting him deeper.

At the point of no return, Rita’s eyes flew open, staring up at him, a smile lifting the corners of her kiss-bruised mouth. He felt himself falling into those clear blue depths, turning over and over, down and down, rushing toward that magical and mysterious melding of their souls that made the mating of the flesh an insignificant interlude compared to the full and total joy of loving and being loved.





Rita nestled her head against Twigg’s shoulder.

“Sleepy?” Twigg murmured. Rita nodded. “I’ll watch the clock for you if you want to sleep. I don’t own an alarm but my watch is trustworthy.”

“Hmmm,” she purred contentedly, “just like you are.”

“Me? Trustworthy? Why, madame, haven’t you noticed that I’ve just ravished you?” She liked the sound of his laughter.

“You, sir, have been reading too many romances !” she pretended to scold, lightly pulling his chest hair.

“I haven’t been reading romance, Rita, I’ve been living one. Since the day I met you.” There was a deep note in his voice that started a shudder between her shoulder blades. “You, darling, are the most romantic woman I’ve ever known. Sweet, sensitive, womanly. Without false charades or devious facades. I like you, Rita Bellamy, very much.”

His words warmed her as his embrace tightened around her, holding her close to him. He’s good for me, she thought, so very good. Time spent with him was exciting and at the same time soothing. Her work was going well, and he didn’t intrude himself upon her and make demands. He had work of his own, and he understood how difficult it was to restore a nebulous train of thought.

“Admit it,” he whispered into the soft cloud of her hair, “you’d completely forgotten about Ian, hadn’t you?”

“Rascal! How did you know?”

“By the look in your eyes when I was making love to you. I was the only man who existed for you. Wasn’t I? Admit it!” His tone was teasing, joking, but there was an underlying note prompting her confession.

“All right, I admit it. Yes, you were the only man who existed for me. You filled my world and I loved it. You touched me, Twigg, here, inside.” Her hand covered her breast and her words, meant to be light and noncommittal, suddenly became her truth.

“You make me feel special,” he told her, rolling over to press himself against her. His lips worshipped her breasts, the pulsing hollow of her throat, and his hands began a ritual of possession, awakening hungers she had thought satisfied. “I want to love you again, Rita. And I’m not certain I’ll ever stop wanting to love you.”

He took her mouth, possessed it suddenly, intently, and she felt the quickening of her response. Yes, she thought before she surrendered herself to their shared ecstasy, this is a kind of loving. If it wasn’t “till death do us part,” it was still a very special kind of loving.





Rita sat staring at the phone, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her teeth. It was just after nine in the morning and Ian was long gone, sent off splendidly with a “good, old-fashioned breakfast,” as he liked to call it. Coffee, bacon, eggs, juice, and a special treat of hash browned potatoes. Mountain air was invigorating, he told her as he polished off his second piece of toast and perused her downloaded pages.

Ian was not an admirer of historical romances, Rita knew. He considered them slightly better than trash and had once, to her horror, referred to the explicit but gently written love scenes as “soft-core porn for the ladies.” She had immediately set him straight on that fact, and he had never mentioned it again. He was always encouraging her to begin work on a contemporary novel, and there was a nucleus of an idea roaming around in her head. But how could he expect her to bring her head out of the seventeenth century, or thereabouts, to begin work on something modern when there was still another book due on her present contract? Impossible. Yet she had found herself dallying more and more with this particular plot line and had even sketched in some of the characters. She sighed. Perhaps after completing the next book she would take a stab at it.

Ian had not mentioned his declaration of the night before. It was painfully obvious to him that Rita was not romantically inclined in his direction. No, it would seem her interests lent themselves to much younger men. Peterson must be in his early thirties, he told himself as he gulped his coffee. He was fully aware of the fact that shortly after sending himself off to bed Rita had left the cabin with that Peterson fellow. He was already awake when she crept back into the cottage to awaken him at five thirty as she had promised. Ian didn’t care for the situation at all and believed Rita was riding for a fall. A hard fall. But he didn’t suppose there was much he could do about it, unless, of course, it was affecting her work. That was why he was perusing through the pages she had delivered to him. Everything seemed to be in order, he found to his dismay. The dialogue was sharp and clean and uncluttered, and her concentration on visual description was typical Rita Bellamy, playing out the action as though it were being projected on the wide screen. Here he had been all set to gear himself up to a paternal talk with her, chastising her for her amorous activities. If Rita would no longer allow him to see to her financial affairs, he knew she would at least listen to advice concerning her work. But there was no fault to be found, and, disgruntled, he had choked down the last of his coffee and made his departure.

Rita had been glad to see him go. Ian was a dear, a good friend, but his declaration last night and her suspicions that he knew she had not spent the night in her own bed made her uncomfortable. Go! Go! she thought. I don’t want you here. I don’t want anyone here. I want to explore and discover this new person I’m becoming. This new woman.

Now, sitting before the telephone, Rita had her directory opened to the number of a local gynecologist. She was being silly. She was a grown woman with three children and certainly familiar with birth control methods. But still, it all seemed too contrived. So cold and calculating.

Buck up, Rita old gal! she thought. Face it. The real dilemma comes after you discover you’re pregnant! Use your head!

Her finger traced the line of names in the phone book. Neither she nor Twigg had spoken of birth control, but then it wasn’t as though she were a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake, and it was natural that Twigg expected her to know how to take care of herself. Even Rachel had been on the pill since she was seventeen years old. Why, then, had it been so easy for her to come to terms with the fact that her seventeen-year-old daughter was sexually active but not with herself? Brett had always seen to that part of their relationship, using condoms or practicing coitus interruptus. Birth control was something Rita Bellamy had never given a thought to pertaining to herself. And now here she was, faced with it.

Don’t be a Dumb Dora! she told herself. If a child of seventeen can think about protecting herself from an unwanted pregnancy, certainly her mother can! Almost viciously, she dialed the phone and hastily made an appointment to see the doctor. She nearly choked when she told the nurse she needed an immediate appointment, and it was for a birth control device. The voice on the other end remained cool and businesslike. God, did they always get emergency phone calls from forty-three-year-old women demanding birth control so their lovers wouldn’t get them pregnant? Four o’clock. Today? Tomorrow? No, today. Rita’s palms became sweaty and she could barely speak. It was unthinkable she was actually doing this! Cold. Contrived. Hell no! She finally breathed relief. The word was smart. Adult. Responsible.





There was a little discomfort and cramping after the insertion of the IUD, but the doctor had told her to expect it and it didn’t worry her. It had occurred to Rita as she sat in the nearly empty waiting room that if she had been home in New Jersey, no amount of frantic calling would have gotten her a same-day appointment with her own doctor. Thank heavens for small towns.

She was to refrain from sexual activity for at least twenty-four hours, the physician had said sternly, and she had felt herself blush. Did he know? Did it show that she had an ardent lover who was only thirty-two years old and very impetuous?

Twigg was coming for dinner, and Rita wondered what she would do if he wanted to make love. One did not just come out and announce to one’s lover that a crazy loop of plastic had been inserted into one’s vagina that was meant to prevent the embarrassment of an unwanted pregnancy and forbid one from indulging oneself that particular evening. Did one?

It was over the salad that Rita blurted out her news. Twigg sat there, fork in midair, and stared, astonished. Suddenly, he burst out laughing. Her innocence was amazing, and he was amused by it. But he was also deeply touched, for two reasons. First, that she thought enough of him to confide something so personal. Second, that he knew he was her only lover, something he had not dared ask.

Standing up, he went to her quickly, putting his arms around her and kissing the back of her neck in an impetuous gesture. “Rita, sweet, I think you’re wonderful.”

“Do you? Even though I sit here and confess my naivete, I’m having growing pains, Twigg, and they hurt. I’ve been so protected all my life, and now I know I must face the fact that I’m a grown woman and accept responsibility for it.”

“That’s what’s so wonderful. That you’ll let me stand around to watch and share it with you.”

Later that night, when all the world should have been asleep, Twigg held her in his arms, smoothing his hands over her naked body and just holding her. They talked, they laughed and shared secrets. They touched and caressed and kissed, but the fires of their passions were banked and kept to softly glowing embers. She knew he wanted her, he told her so, and the hard evidence of his desire was pressed between her legs. She learned there were other and very meaningful ways to express tenderness and passion without the act of intercourse. And all of them left her cheeks pink and lips ruddy and feeling completely loved. Twigg’s brand of loving.





It was late in the afternoon when Rachel pulled up the driveway, horn blaring to herald her arrival. Rachel never did anything without noise and fanfare, and the more the better, Rita smiled to herself. Only that morning Rachel had called to say she was making a “surprise” visit before she winged off to Miami with “whatz-izname.”

Rita shut down her computer when she heard the Jaguar sports car in the drive. She enjoyed Rachel’s outrageous company, and while she might secretly disapprove of some parts of the girl’s lifestyle, she would never condemn her own child.

Rachel was a striking young woman, sable-haired and model-thin, with soft feminine curves in only the right places. The slinky blouse and the painted-on jeans with designer label made Rita’s eyes bulge. How did she walk and bend in them? Carefully, Rachel giggled.

“How goes it, Mummy dear? Slaving away in the boonies with no one but the chipmunks to keep you company?” Not waiting for a reply, she asked, “What’s for dinner? Spaghetti. I knew it. It smells delicious, as always. I could eat spaghetti seven days a week.”

Rita poured two glasses of orange juice, wondering if she was pleased that Rachel had decided at the spur of the moment to come up to the lake. Worse, and contrary to all she thought maternal, she wondered exactly how long her daughter intended to stay. Not that she would ever ask her to leave. Everything would simply have to be put on a back burner for the present, or at least while Rachel was here. Everything included Twigg. Rita wasn’t ready to reveal that relationship to her offspring, if she ever would be, not even to high-flying, free-winging Rachel.

Mother and daughter were settled next to the fireplace sipping their juice. “I really love what you’ve done to the cottage, Mum. Did you have a decorator come in and do it for you? It’s a glad and far cry from your usual stuffy choices, Mum. Did I ever tell you I never liked chintz and antiques and overstuffed chairs? And I always hated those ridiculous tester beds you had in the room Camilla and I shared at home.”

Rita looked blankly at her child. She had always thought she had furnished their home with love and comfort. A fine time to discover that her child had never appreciated the furnishings and had actually hated the beautiful antique beds she had refinished and stained especially with her daughters in mind. Rachel was so opinionated, had always been, even as a child, and Rita couldn’t help but wonder what else Rachel had disliked and hated while she was growing up. Something else to go on the back burner, she supposed, deciding not to pursue the subject. But it hurt terribly, to know that her efforts had not been appreciated. “How is everything, Rachel? Have you seen Camilla and the children?”

“Mother, you know Camilla is pissed with me. I knew you were going to ask, so when I stopped for gas on the way up here, I called her, from a phone booth. She was cool, very cool. I asked about the monsters and she said they were fine. Tom is fine. The dog is fine. What that means is the dark stuff hit the fan when you refused to babysit. Not to worry. Camilla will come around. She has to pout first. I’m surprised at you, Mum, Camilla was always your favorite, you should know how she does things.”

“Rachel, that’s not true. I have no favorites among my children. I’ve never shown favoritism and you know it.”

“Mum, it doesn’t matter. We’re each our own person. Camilla is a dud. Charles has potential, if you don’t smother him. Daddy, well, Daddy wanted something and he went for it. Now you, Mother, are another brand of tea.”

“When are you leaving for Miami?” Rita asked, trying to change the subject. It was because Camilla was the oldest. A parent sometimes felt something special for the firstborn. It didn’t mean the other children were loved any less.

“Tomorrow, the plane leaves at five ten. I’ll be back Monday morning. Mom, they picked my designs for the new trade show. A hefty bonus. That means I can start paying you back. Will one hundred fifty dollars a month be okay to start? If I pick up the top prize, I can pay you back in one lump sum.”

“Fine. Whenever. Don’t cut yourself short. You know I was glad I could help you. More than that I’m proud of you and appreciate your effort to repay me. Have you seen your father?”

“No. But I talked to him a week or so ago. He doesn’t call. I do my duty and try to call once every ten days or so. He really has nothing to say to me. I think he’s embarrassed. I asked him if he heard from Charles and he said no. Camilla calls him every day and makes sure the kids get on the phone. I just know Daddy is thrilled to be reminded that he has three grandchildren when he just married a twenty-two-year-old chick.”

“Rachel, that’s no way to talk about your father.”

Rachel’s wide, blue eyes were innocent. “Why?”

“I really don’t want to go into it now. Why don’t you take a walk around the lake or go outside and rake some leaves for me? I want to finish something I’m working on, and then we’ll have dinner. We can spend the evening together. Ian was here and he brought me some new books.”

“Sounds good to me, Mummy. Are you cooking the long spaghetti or the shells?”

“Shells. Two boxes of them so I can put on another five pounds.” Rita grinned.

“You are getting a little hefty. Must be all this good clean living up here. You just sit and work and then sit and eat, right? That’ll do it. You’re at that age where it all goes to the middle. You should give some thought to working it off. Join an exercise class! It’s bad enough being a grandmother at forty-three, but a fat grandmother is a no-no. By the way, I think you need a touch-up. You don’t want to be a fat and gray-haired grandmother. I’ll do it for you tonight, if you like. Okay?”

Rita nodded as she sucked in her stomach. “Dinner is in an hour. Don’t get lost.”

“That’s what you used to say when I was a kid. How can I get lost? This place is about as big as a penny and I know it like the back of my hand. Listen, I saw smoke coming out of the Johnson chimney. Are they here?”

Rita swallowed hard. “No, they have a tenant.” Leave it to Rachel; don’t ask questions, she prayed. She turned her back on her daughter and turned on the computer. Her shoulders were tense as she tried to work with her stomach sucked in.

Two hours later Rita glanced down at her watch. Rachel should have been back by now. It was almost dark outside. From the bedroom window she had a clear view of the lake and the Johnson cottage. She would not spy. She would not look out that window to look for her daughter.

Bustling into the kitchen, she busied herself with the sauce and setting the table, laying out napkins, putting water on to boil for the macaroni. She cleaned the coffeepot and measured out coffee. Mixed a salad and slit the Italian garlic bread and stuck it in the oven, only to take it out again. Where was Rachel?

Another half hour crawled by as Rita drank two cups of steaming coffee. She would not spy. She could throw open the front door, walk out onto the deck, and shout Rachel’s name as she had when Rachel was a child. No, she wouldn’t do that either. Rachel was all grown, a woman, used to making her own choices and decisions.

Unconsciously, she sucked in her gut and marched into the living room. She felt angry. And guilty. What if Rachel had walked up to the Johnson cottage and knocked on the door and introduced herself? That was Rachel’s style. What if they were both inside, laughing and talking? What if Rachel was telling tales about her childhood, making it perfectly obvious to Twigg that Rita was really too old for him? Rachel was spontaneous and charming and totally disarming.

This is ridiculous! Rita snapped to herself. Twigg knows exactly how old I am . . . no, that wasn’t what was eating her. The truth was, she felt threatened by her own daughter who was young and lovely. And her maternal pride was prompting her to think Rachel was everything and more a man like Twigg would find to his tastes.