“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.
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.
Balancing Act Page 9