Balancing Act

chapter Seven


The front door opened and Rachel walked in, Twigg behind her. Rita’s heart flopped and then righted itself. She forced a smile to her lips. “Hello, Twigg. I see you’ve met my daughter.”

“I’ve invited him for dinner, Mother. He said you were friends so I didn’t think you would mind. When you make spaghetti, you make lots. Twigg was sitting on his front porch when I walked by. He thought I was you. I don’t know how he could have made such a mistake.” She laughed, a derisive note in her tone. “I don’t look anything like you!” Rita sucked in her stomach again.

“That’s nice. I hope you like spaghetti, Twigg.” How brittle and dry her voice sounded. “Love it.” Did his voice sound apologetic? Again, Rita tucked in her stomach.

“Can I get either of you something? I have a few more things to do in the kitchen. Coffee, beer, wine?”

“Nothing for me,” Twigg said quietly.

“Me neither, Mummy. I was telling Twigg about your grandchildren on the way over. Tell him I didn’t lie, that they really are called ‘the monsters.’ ”

“They’re mischievous, like most children,” Rita said defensively. Why did she have to call her a grandmother in front of Twigg? Because, an inner voice responded, she doesn’t know you slept with him, and she is only saying what she would say under any circumstance. You’re nitpicking, Rita.

She attacked the salad greens with a vengeance as she chopped and sliced them into a large wooden bowl. She wondered what they were talking about in the living room. It sounded too quiet. Knowing Rachel as well as she did, it didn’t have to mean they were talking. They could be doing other . . . She sucked in her stomach again as she bent down to take the garlic bread from the oven. She set it on a rack to cool before slicing. Waiting impatiently for the pasta to boil, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to enjoy dinner. Rachel was so young and beautiful. God, she couldn’t be jealous of her own child, could she?

She called them for dinner and sat down. Twigg was opposite her, and Rachel was at the end of the table.

Rita picked at her dinner not wanting to eat the heavy pasta. She stirred the salad around on her plate and ate a piece of lettuce from time to time as she listened to Rachel and Twigg talk about the tennis match at Forest Hills. “As far as I’m concerned, Djokovic has great form, do you agree?” Twigg nodded as he wolfed down the meal.

“I think Federer has about had it—he’s such a show-off. Mother, you aren’t eating, how come? Don’t tell me I really got to you with that business of getting too fat. I was just teasing you.”

Twigg stared across at Rita, his eyes wide and thoughtful, even puzzled. She hadn’t said much, not that her loquacious daughter gave her much of a chance. “How did the writing go today? I don’t mind telling you I had a hard time,” he said enthusiastically. “I have to admire you, the way you can string words together. Two words at one time is okay, but give me three or four and I have to rewrite.”

“It will get easier as you go along. Don’t be so quick to discard what you write. Usually, the first thing you do is the best. You just spin your wheels after that. That’s the way it works for me, anyway.”

Rachel stared from her mother to Twigg. A glimmer of comprehension appeared in her wide-eyed gaze. Her mother was uncomfortable. Twigg was at ease and concerned with Rita’s silence. He was going out of his way to include her in the dinner conversation. And the way he got up and opened the refrigerator, as though he knew just where everything was.

Hating to be ignored, Rachel interrupted the conversation. She was aware that her mother was annoyed with her and that Twigg had forgotten she was there. “How long are you staying at the lake, Twigg?” Rachel asked pointedly.

“I’m not sure,” Twigg replied evasively.

“Mother?”

It took Rita several moments until she realized the one word was a question.

“I haven’t definitely decided. It depends on how soon I finish and if there are going to be any further rewrites. There’s no reason for me to hurry back with Charles away at college.”

“But, Mother, it’s going to be getting cold. You don’t like the mountains in the winter. You know how you like to snuggle in with your woolly bathrobe early in the evening.”

Rita almost laughed as she met Twigg’s eyes. His bright green gaze said he could offer other ways to keep warm.

Rachel felt her eyes narrow. “You won’t mind then if I come up to keep you company after the trade show, will you? I’ll have some time off before I have to get back into the swing of things. It’s the week of Charles’s big game.”

It was on the tip of Rita’s tongue to say yes, she did mind, she minded very much! If there was one thing Rachel had never done, that was to spend more than one day in her mother’s company, becoming definitely antsy to get back to the city and her own lifestyle. She shrugged. “If I’m still here, of course you can come up. However, you don’t like the mountains in the winter either.”

“Mother, how can you say that! I ski every winter. Do you ski, Twigg?”

“Some,” Twigg answered as he pushed his plate away. “I go to Tahoe a couple of times a year. Do you ski, Rita?”

Rachel laughed. “Mother ski! Mummy’s idea of exercise and sports is to watch it on TV. Right, Mother?”

Rita forced a smile to her lips. Rachel couldn’t be doing this deliberately, or could she? The thought of the two snowmobiles she had bought on impulse anticipating wondrous hours of her and Twigg skimming over the snow nearly choked her.

Her tone was light, casual, when she replied. “Rachel’s right. I’m a creature of comfort. I don’t do any of the things you young people do.” She bit back the urge to mention her secret of the snowmobiles. “Why don’t you take your coffee and go into the living room. I’ll clear away here and join you when I’m finished.”

“I’ll help you, Rita. It’s the least I can do after such a good dinner.”

“I can see you don’t know Mom very well. If there’s one place you stay away from, it’s her kitchen. C’mon, we’ll do what she wants. If you leave them we can do them later, Mother, while I’m dyeing your hair,” Rachel called over her shoulder.

“I changed my mind, Rachel. I decided I like the little bit of gray I have. Go along, I can finish up here.”

Twigg’s eyes frantically sought hers in apology for the second time. Rita smiled before she turned to the sink to run the water.

The minute the door closed behind them, Rita wanted to smash something. Hot, scorching anger engulfed her. She couldn’t ever remember being so angry. Angry at herself, angry at Rachel. But never angry with Twigg.

Rita washed and dried the dishes slowly, delaying the time when she would have to go back into the living room. She cleaned the coffeepot and got it ready for the morning. She carried out the trash and put a new liner in the wastebasket. She swept minuscule crumbs from the floor and then washed off the dustpan; she didn’t know why she did it. She looked at the yellow plastic scoop and grimaced. Whoever heard of washing a dustpan? There was nothing else to do but light a cigarette. So far she had killed thirty-seven minutes.

She almost bumped into Twigg when she pushed the swinging door that led to the living room. He was so near, so close, she thought she could hear the beat of his heart. It was probably her own. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“I’ve got to be going, Rita. I want to transcribe some tapes and I promised myself an early start in the morning. Thanks for dinner.” He squeezed her shoulder intimately before he left. Rachel waved good-bye and Rita walked to the door and opened it for him. “Good night, Twigg.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Rachel mocked after the door closed. “Mother, is something going on here I don’t know about?” Not waiting for a reply to her ridiculous question, she rushed on. “He’s fascinating. Wouldn’t you know I had to come to the woods to find a really titillating man. He’s not married either. How old would you say he is, Mom?”

“In his early thirties I would imagine.”

“Just right.” Rachel grinned. “If you’re serious about not dyeing your hair, I think I’ll turn in. I’m beat. Don’t forget to wake me early. Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Rachel.”

Rita walked back to the kitchen for a wineglass and a bottle of wine. She sat in front of the fire drinking steadily. He skied, he played tennis. He was thirty-two. He didn’t take vitamins with extra iron like she did. He was lean and fit. He was only a few years older than her children. He was young. God, thirty-two was so young. A set of tennis would kill her. Skiing would make her a basket case.

Rita nursed the bottle of wine until she was tipsy. “Drunk!” she admitted rebelliously. Her last conscious thought before she fell into bed fully clothed was that it wasn’t fair. Nothing about any of this was fair—from Twigg, to Ian, to Rachel, to herself.

It was early morning; Rita could tell from the filtered light coming in between the drawn drapes. She half heard Rachel when she poked her head into the room to announce, “It’s a good thing I have my own built-in alarm or I would still be out. See you soon, Mother. I’ll call you when I get back from Miami.”

“Regards to Patrick,” Rita mumbled as she slid beneath the covers.

“Who? Oh, Patrick. Right! See you, Mom. Say good-bye to Twigg for me.”





The golden idyllic days of autumn were upon them. October had fulfilled the promise of an Indian summer—warm, balmy days and cool, crisp nights. The landscape became a tapestry of golds, oranges, and reds, wild and abandoned color to match the abandon of Rita’s emotions.

Her novel was completed and she knew it was good. Via Ian, it had been sent to the copy editor with no revisions due. Time was her own and she reveled in it. Until the first of the year she had only to research and set up her next outline.

Twigg was still busy with his project and hoped to be finished before Christmas. Christmas! Had another year rolled nearly to the end? Neither of them could believe it. Had it only been just after Labor Day that they had met? Only weeks ago, really. How had they come to know one another so well, learned so much about the other? Concentration, Twigg had laughingly said.

Writing was new to him. Theses and papers published through the university came easily enough, writing for an audience of students and biologists already quite familiar with his subject of marine life. However, preparing for a larger, less-informed audience was totally different, and he had come to depend upon Rita to review his work, encouraging her to be free with her criticism and she was, boldly. Her point of view was valuable to him, and she would not diminish it with flattery instead of honesty. Recognizing this, Twigg followed her advice where she suggested he clarify certain passages.

Rita liked helping him this way, instinctively knowing he never would have asked if she were still busy with work of her own. It was another side of their relationship and their growing dependence upon one another, and she enjoyed it immensely.

She was learning she could allow herself to be dependent upon Twigg for companionship and fun and a sharing of interests. Yet it was a new kind of dependency that required nothing of her, only her desire to be with him and he with her. There was none of the feeling that he might begin directing her life, press his opinions upon her, or try to protect her the way Ian had done. And when her opinion differed from his, there was none of the bitter derision there had been with Brett. With Twigg, Rita could be together with him, feel he was a part of her life and she of his, and yet remain an entity herself.

The day after Rachel’s departure, Rita had contemplated her life. She had thought about Twigg, her children, and her grandchildren, but, mostly, she had thought about herself. This alone was a breakthrough as far as she was concerned. Too often for too many years she had shirked the effort of coming to know herself the way she was today, now, instead of remembering herself as she had been twenty years before when her role in life was clear-cut and simple. Wife and mother.

She attempted to decide if a diet and weight loss would make her happy. If so, would she be doing it for herself or for Twigg’s approval? Then she made the decision to diet and watch her weight because it was what she wanted. Her cigarette habit was consciously cut in half, going down to less than a pack a day and switching to a low tar brand. Soon, with effort and willpower, she planned to kick the habit altogether. She lived with her decisions for several days before she started her new routines, wanting to be certain she was comfortable with what she was doing. She made no mention of it to Twigg nor to her children when she spoke with them on the phone. She believed her decisions were wise and healthful and would benefit her in the end.

It was Twigg who invited her to come jogging with him, and at first she demurred, claiming it was too rigorous. But she did take walks, long ones, while he worked on his articles, and she liked the fresh bloom of color that was returning to her cheeks. Often, when he noticed her through his window, he would join her, silently urging her to quicken her pace. Now, four weeks later, she was actually jogging with him a quarter way around the lake and seeing her reward on the bathroom scale.

The pretense of separate living quarters had been abandoned by mutual consent. Twigg used the Johnson cottage for work and had moved into Rita’s cottage with her.

It was delicious waking in the morning and finding herself in his arms. It was heaven to no longer eat dinner alone. Reading, watching TV, or just sitting by the fire talking, everything was wonderful with Twigg.

Their lovemaking had reached new heights of intimacy and freedom. He encouraged her to be the aggressor when the mood struck her, and yet he never took her for granted. His delight with her seemed to increase and take on new colorations. His lusty demands in bed left her feeling desirable and every inch a woman. He told her he couldn’t get enough of her and proved it by his ardor and attention.

They had gone into the city together three times. Once for Rita to lunch with her publicist and twice for Twigg to meet with Ian and an interested publisher. Each time Rita had seen and appreciated another side of him. She liked the way he put people at their ease, thoroughly enjoying their conversation and learning about their interests outside their work. He fit in. Simply put, but true. The young female publicist had winked surreptitiously at Rita, and the publisher, known to be a hard-nosed, opinionated man, had been charmed by him. Twigg easily won respect and a handsome publishing contract into the bargain.

Rita poured another cup of coffee when she saw Twigg running up the path after a morning’s work. “You’re invited to dinner tonight,” he told her, carefully sipping the steaming brew. “My place around six. Nothing special, steaks and salad, I suppose. I’ll run into town and pick everything up. I’m having some guests, good friends of mine, and I know you’ll enjoy them.” Suddenly his eyes locked with hers, concern wrinkling his brows. “You will come, won’t you? It’s short notice and I know my cooking isn’t the best . . .”

Rita laughed delightedly. “Of course I’ll come,” she assured him, rewarded by his smile. Inwardly, there was a note of alarm. She wasn’t quite certain she was ready to share him with his friends or to have their solitude invaded. Because of this, she had tried to keep her own children away, and in Camilla’s case it was met with sullen disappointment.

“You’ll like them, both of them. They live in New York and they’ll probably stay the night because we’re known to stay up to the wee hours talking. It’s sort of a celebration for the publishing contract. Both of them are eager to meet you, especially Samantha, who proclaims herself to be your most ardent fan.”

“You’ve told them about me?” she said weakly.

“Of course. You’re my lady, Rita, and very important to me. I want my friends to meet you, to know you. I would be selfish to keep you all to myself.” His hand reached over the table, capturing hers. “They’re very good friends, and very discreet. I promise you. But if you’re uneasy about meeting them or having them know about us, I’ll call them back and tell them it’s off.” He spoke quietly but without a trace of judgment. He was simply concerned for her feelings and would sacrifice an evening with his friends if it was what she wanted.

Feeling terribly selfish and yet somehow proud that he had admitted to his relationship with her, Rita grasped his fingers and squeezed. “You’re very sweet, Twigg, and terribly sensitive to my feelings and I appreciate it. Truly. Certainly want to meet your friends, especially if one of them is a fan.”

“Samantha said she was getting all her books together to have you autograph them.” He laughed. “You’ll find her somewhat exuberant but altogether charming. Is there anything I can get for you in town? Would you like to come with me?”

“No, on both counts. If you’re going to have guests, I’d better give my hair a wash. I can’t disappoint my public, you know.”

Twigg kissed her soundly, telling her they’d have time for their walk when he came back from town. Then, in a teasing and seductive voice, he said, “Of course, if you can think of some other kind of exercise while I’m gone, I want you to know I’m open to suggestions.”

A delicious shiver ran up her spine. It was heaven being wanted by this man, and she was drunk with the power of her own sensuality.

After he left, Rita allowed herself to frown into her coffee cup. She was presented with the problem of what to wear that evening. Slacks, skirt, jeans? If she knew who these friends were, how old they were, she would know what to wear. There it was again, the age problem. She had every reason to suppose that Twigg’s friends were as young as he, younger even. And the name Samantha brought to mind a young, slim girl with long blond hair and not much on her mind. That was unfair! And ridiculous! Here she was picturing a flower child of the sixties just because of the name Samantha. If Twigg had thought his friends would not like her or that she would be uncomfortable with them, he never would have invited them up to the lake. You’ve got to begin trusting, Rita, my dear, she chastised herself, both yourself and others.

At five after six Rita knocked on the door to the Johnson cottage. Twigg’s friends had arrived, she knew. Their car was parked beside his in the drive. She could hear the sound of voices from within. Earlier that afternoon, Twigg had returned from town and they had taken their walk. When she offered to help him with dinner or straightening the cottage, he had refused, telling her to take the time to make herself beautiful. After a long leisurely bath Rita had decided upon gray slacks and a bulky turtleneck sweater of banded pastel colors from beige to pink to lavender. Her chestnut hair gleamed in soft, collar-length waves, and she carried a bottle of Twigg’s favorite wine. It had taken all of her courage to overcome her sudden shyness and actually walk the path to his cottage.

Twigg himself opened the door, smiling approvingly at her and kissing her lightly in thanks for the presented wine. He made informal introductions to Eric and Samantha Donaldson.

“You’ve seen Eric on the six o’clock news, Rita. That’s why he looks so familiar. Samantha used to teach pottery and ceramics at the university; that’s how I came to know them.”

Immediately, Rita was brought into their fold. Eric was a handsome man, dressed casually in slacks and a hand-knit sweater, and when she commented on it, Samantha smilingly took the credit.

Samantha, Rita was glad to see, was a far cry from the “flower child” she had envisioned. A tall, slim woman with Titian hair and an obvious flare for fashion, Rita liked her immediately because of her charming smile and warmth.

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” Samantha said brightly, without gushing as so many did when meeting a renowned novelist. “I so enjoy your work and want you to know it.”

Rita was pleased to know this stylish and graceful woman liked her work. She spied several of her older titles on the coffee table and remembered what Twigg had said about Samantha wanting them autographed.

“Twigg has been telling us about you,” Eric supplied, smoothing a hand over his iron-gray hair. “He admires you greatly.”

“That’s my stuffy, news commentator husband for you, Rita.” Samantha smiled. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you since Twigg first told us about you, and you’re everything he said you were.” There was an embarrassed moment. What had Twigg told them? How much had he said? Twigg slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him, easing the awkward moment.

“We’re going to sit right here while the men fix the dinner,” Samantha announced. “If you need help, don’t call us, call Betty Crocker,” she told them as she pointed them in the direction of the kitchen. “And whatever you do, do it quickly. I’m starved!”

Sitting beside Samantha, Rita felt herself relax. Samantha was a friendly and talkative woman, enthusiastic and knowledgeable. It wasn’t long before they were discussing acquaintances they had in common in New York and favorite recipes for spaghetti sauce. As an artist in ceramics, Samantha was familiar with the antique pottery Rita collected and was impressed with the author’s knowledge of early American pottery houses.

“It was something I stumbled upon while doing research for one of my books,” Rita explained. “I found myself intrigued and began a modest collection. However, I must admit I frequent a shop in the city and pick up pieces from a favorite potter of mine. The name is Jeffcoat, and I particularly like the banded shades of blue she uses and the mottled browns. Have you ever heard of her?” she asked Samantha.

“Heard of her!” Eric laughed as he came from the kitchen carrying a tray with two glasses of wine. “You are speaking to Samantha Jeffcoat Donaldson. Jeffcoat is Samantha’s maiden name.”

“How trite that sounds,” Samantha complained. “Maiden name, posh! It’s my name, sweetheart. Donaldson is your name! You distinguish yours and I’ll distinguish mine!”

Everyone laughed when Eric complained some of Sam’s brainstorms were right out of the pages of Ms. magazine. “Except the floor wax advertisements and laundry powder ads. Sam does discriminate against anything to do with household chores,” he said good-naturedly.

“Oh, hush, Eric, I want Rita to stroke my ego by telling me how she loved my work! It will make me feel so much better about asking her to autograph her books for me and allow me to present her with that little hand-thrown bowl I’ve brought along for her!”

Dinner was delicious and afterward Twigg threw more logs on the fire and they all congregated near the hearth. There was an unforced camaraderie, and they all basked in one another’s company. Eric and Sam were easy people, sensitive and discerning. Listening to them speak on a wide range of subjects and enthusiastically offering her own opinions and having them respected was good for her ego. But it was when Eric and Sam asked after some friends they had left behind on the west coast that Rita realized Twigg traveled in a varied circle of people. Some of them artists, some in the media, academics and even what Sam called “Hollywood types.” Twigg made eclectic choices in his friendships, and yet their varied backgrounds seemed to blend harmoniously in his life. Apparently, somewhere, there were “flower children” with whom he associated, but he did not restrict himself to types when it came to making relationships.

It was nearly three in the morning when Rita made a move to leave, and the Donaldsons begged off to go to bed. Twigg walked her back to the cottage and kissed her warmly at the front door. “I told you you would like them. And they adore you, especially Eric. I saw the approving glances he was throwing at you all evening. I should be jealous, but I’m not. I know Samantha is the only woman for him.”

Returning his kiss, Rita expected him to return to his cottage, but he opened her door and stepped in behind her. He took her into his arms. “I love you like this, all sleepy and warm from the conversation and the wine. I want to make love to you, Rita Bellamy, and then I’m going to hold you in my arms all night long.” And he made good on his promise and never once did Rita worry what the Donaldsons were thinking when Twigg didn’t return.