Balancing Act

by Fern Michaels

“Hungry?” Griff asked.

  “No. They served a bagel with cream cheese on the plane along with a copy of the Wall Street Journal. How about you?”

  “I had some coffee and toast. We’ll have an early lunch. I thought we’d start on the Virginia side and work toward D.C. I’d like to avoid the city if possible. Traffic in the morning is a bitch. First stop Arlington.”

  They spent the morning looking at cramped apartments with no closet space and outrageous rental fees. Dory vetoed all of them. The last apartment building was a complete disaster. Two of the three elevators had OUT OF ORDER signs on them with messages tacked below in green crayon, making it clear what the tenants thought. The lobby tile was grimy and artificial plants were heavy with dust, making Dory sneeze. The rent for a studio was thirteen hundred dollars and a bargain, the manageress said in a squeaky voice. She reeked of stale beer and garlic.

  “We’ll let you know,” Griff said hurriedly, as he ushered Dory past a loathsome rubber plant and out a smeared glass doorway.

  They both inhaled deeply and Dory laughed. “Griff, the main road we were on before we got to the second apartment, what was it called?”

  Griff checked his map. “Jefferson Davis Highway. Why?”

  “I saw some town houses that looked nice. Why don’t we take a look.”

  Griff shrugged. “Okay, but I think those rentals are more than I can afford right now.”

  “I’d like to take a look. Really, Griff, what we’ve been looking at is barely big enough for you, much less me.”

  The Georgian-style town houses were set back from closely cropped boxwood hedges and wide borders of colorful flowers. Dory liked them immediately. She jabbed at the buzzer of the manager’s office and waited. Griff rolled his eyes and whistled under his breath. Dory knew he was thinking the rent would be outrageous. Outrageous plus utilities. They were here, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

  Dory blinked at the man who opened the door. He was a jock of the first order. Skin-tight Stitch’s jeans, ankle-high boots with a shine that any Marine would envy. From the looks of his arms and chest he pumped iron when he wasn’t out jocking. His navy blue shirt had a sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulders. “Call me Duke, everyone does,” he said in a phony Texas twang that was one hundred percent Brooklyn.

  Griff seemed mesmerized by Duke’s attire, so Dory took the lead. “We’d like to take a look at one of the houses if you have a vacancy.”

  “Well, little lady, I just happen to have two. A congressional aide moved out the last of the month and the place was just renovated last week. Two stews are moving out this weekend. It’s a duplicate of the aide’s with a different color scheme. Want to take a look?”

  “That’s what we’re here for, pardner,” Griff drawled in annoyance. He hated macho jocks almost as much as he hated politicians. Shady and slick, the lot of them.

  “Is there a lease?” Dory asked.

  “Two-year lease but it’s not firm. We bend if you bend. Get my idea?” he said, nudging Dory playfully on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, we get it. We pay off and it goes into your pocket, right, pardner?” Griff snapped.

  “It’s a mean, hard, cold world around here. This ain’t the nation’s capital for nothing.”

  “You’re right. This is Virginia, not Washington, D.C.,” Griff said as he ushered Dory through the doorway.

  The smell of fresh paint assailed their nostrils. The place was antiseptically clean. The dove-gray wall-to-wall carpeting had been shampooed, the windows sparkled, and the fireplace with its Italian marble facade was a dream to behold. Dory loved it immediately, The kitchen was yellow and green, and she mentally hung green checkered curtains and added a hanging fern. A braided rug and some wrought-iron furniture would make it bright and cheerful. She loved it. The first-floor powder room was a soft plum color. She could decorate with blue, deeper plum or stark white. Upstairs, the master bedroom with fireplace made her draw in her breath. Griff did a double take as Dory walked into the huge bathroom, done in shades of beige and dark brown. A king-sized bed with a spread to match the lightning zigzag foil of the wallpaper would be perfect. Congressional aides certainly knew how to live. She knew that the wallpaper and carpeting were the aide’s choices, not the management’s.

  “Where did the aide go?” she asked bluntly.

  “Georgetown,” Duke said in a belligerent tone.

  Griff smirked. “How much is the rent?” he demanded.

  “Nine hundred a month. Management pays all utilities. Look around some and if you’re interested, come over to the office. This place will be snapped up by Sunday, so decide now. We require a two-month security deposit.”

  “Twerp,” Griff snarled as Duke left the room.

  “Dory, I can see you love this place and I don’t blame you after what we’ve seen so far, but there’s no way I can afford it now. Maybe next year.”

  Dory’s face fell. “But, Griff, there are two of us. I’ll help with the expenses. How much were you willing to pay? You haven’t said.”

  “I didn’t want to look at anything more than six hundred. How are you going to help? You’ll be going to school, and I wouldn’t want to dip into your securities. I can’t afford this, Dory. I’m sorry.”

  “Griff, I’m going to be doing some freelance work for Lizzie. Profiles of congressmen and senators. The pay is adequate, believe me. I can carry my share. Please reconsider. Look at this fireplace. Can’t you just see us making love in front of it on some cold, snowy night?” Not waiting for him to respond, she rushed on, “You’re going to want to do some entertaining, and this place is perfect. We could even have a small barbecue in the back. Each house has a patch of garden in the rear, I saw it from the kitchen window. Some yellow canvas chairs and a table to match. Griff . . .”

  “Honey, I didn’t plan on you paying or helping out. If I can’t afford you, then I have no business asking you to share my life. It’s my responsibility to care for you.”

  “Just for now, Griff, until you get on your feet. Later we can change the arrangements if you want. Let me help. It’s fair. With your furniture and mine this place could be a knockout.”

  “What about your apartment?”

  “I’ll sublet. No problem. Apartments on the Upper East Side are like gold. Say yes, Griff.”

  Griff stared down at Dory. She was probably right, but it hurt his ego that he would have to rely on her to pay half the rent. “Okay. I can see how badly you want this place. It’s yours. Let’s go talk to Superjock and settle it now.”

  “Oh, Griff, thank you.” Dory threw her arms around his neck. “How far away is the Holiday Inn?”

  “About four and one-half minutes from this doorway,” Griff laughed.

  Twenty-seven hundred dollars poorer, Griff looked stunned when they left the rental office of the Clayton Square Complex. Dory was oblivious to his tight expression and tense shoulders. She had mentally decorated the entire town house, both floors, while Duke explained to Griff tiresome things like yard maintenance and the workings of the water heater and snow removal in the winter.

  A fat, red-eyed pigeon wobbled down the walkway in search of his dinner. Two more joined him in the quest, making Griff step off the walk onto the lawn that brashly displayed the mandate, KEEP OFF THE GRASS.

  On the short ride back to the motel Dory was eagerly anticipating the moment when she and Griff would be alone at last. It seemed months rather than days since he had left New York, and she had missed him dearly, especially that closeness they shared after lovemaking. Not since that first kiss at the airport had Griff attempted any intimacy with her. That sudden advance of hers in their newly rented town house didn’t seem to count. That had been an impulsive move entirely her own and now, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember if he had returned the gesture.

  He’s tired, poor dear, she excused him for his lack of ardor. Nevertheless, she was already looking ahead to the solitude of the motel room and Griff’s embrace.

  Immediate
ly upon entering the room and locking the door behind him, Griff collapsed on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light from the wide windows. “Do you want to shower first, or shall I?” Dory asked, a bit annoyed. She assumed that Griff had missed her just as much as she had missed him, and when the door closed she waited for him to take her into his hungry embrace. Romantic, she accused herself. Give the guy a break. It’s obvious he’s worn out. Still, her charitable logic did nothing to lift her disappointment.

  “You shower first, honey. I don’t mind a steamy bathroom and used soap. Training from the Marines.”

  Dory sat down on the edge of the bed, her fingers ruffling through his dark, wavy hair. “We could always shower together,” she whispered invitingly, “that way, no one gets to use a steamy bathroom . . .”

  Even before she uttered the words, she realized Griff was already asleep. He looked so pathetically weary, so vulnerable. Quietly, Dory closed the drapes to darken the room and then carefully removed Griff’s shoes. She stripped off her dress and crawled onto the bed beside him, pulling up the spare blanket at the foot of the bed. Nestling down beside him, she offered her warmth and tenderness. In response to her, Griff turned on his side and wrapped her into his embrace, holding her.

  Dory lay quietly. She wanted to talk about her plans for the town house. She wanted to talk about their new life and what living together would mean to both of them. Instead, she heard the deep, sonorous breathing that indicated he was sound asleep.

  John and Sylvia Rossiter lived in a large white and wedgwood-blue colonial house set back from the street. Natives of Virginia, they had occupied the same house for twenty-three years of their twenty-four-year marriage. Griff liked and respected John Rossiter, and when he had made his offer three years ago, Griff had jumped at the opportunity. John had been in New York to read a paper on equine medicine, and the two had hit it off immediately and had been friends ever since.

  While Griff liked and respected John, he always felt a little nonplussed about Sylvia. Sylvia was, as she put it, thirty-nine and holding. She admitted that she liked to be considered a trendsetter in fashion and often attired herself in outlandish costumes that made Griff wince. Dory might recognize the style and the cost of Sylvia’s wardrobe and be impressed, but secretly, he considered his partner’s wife to be a plastic creation, and he often wondered how she managed to dress herself at all with those three-inch nails. He must ask Dory if she thought they were real. Sylvia couldn’t cook or clean house, and John pretended to be amused by his wife’s constant references to domestic chores, saying if God wanted her to be a domestic he would have permanently attached a mop to one hand and a broom to the other. The Rossiters’ house had more than a lived-in look. Griff sought the right word and finally came up with “disaster.” Satisfied, he rang the bell and grinned down at Dory. “This is going to be one hell of an experience for you. Just keep your cool and ride with it.”

  Sylvia Rossiter opened the door herself and smiled widely as she offered a carefully made-up cheek for Griff to kiss. Long, thin arms reached out to draw Dory to her but not before her eyes added up the prices of Dory’s complete outfit, right down to the shoes. Outrageous lashes fluttered wildly as she calculated. She approved.

  Dory fought the urge to sneeze at the cloying smell of Sylvia’s perfume. Later, Griff told her it always reminded him of a cross between Pine-Sol and rose water.

  “Darlings, darlings, darlings!” she cooed shrilly. “Come along, we’re all shivering out on the patio. As you can see, I didn’t get a chance to clean today, or yesterday or the day before that.” Her tone indicated it was not something she ever planned on doing. “We’ll just get a few drinks in you and you won’t feel the chill. John is already cooking. Dory,” she trilled, “I just know you’re going to love it here, and you are not to worry your pretty little head for one minute about what people will say. If I hear so much as one word, I’ll straighten it out immediately.”

  “She means it,” Griff said. “She’s hell on wheels about justice and the American way.” It was Dory’s turn to be nonplussed.

  “That’s a lovely outfit you’re wearing,” Dory said, smiling as she, too, mentally calculated the cost of Sylvia’s outfit—the culottes with the tight band about the knee, raw silk in the palest shade of pink she had ever seen; a long, karate-style coat with a three-inch-wide crimson obi. Shoes to match the obi completed her outfit. It didn’t go for a penny less than seven hundred dollars. Sylvia had four strands of jet-black beads at her throat and a matching band of beads and fringe worn low on her forehead. Dory felt awed, not so much at the cost but at the sheer audacity of the outfit.

  “Darling, there is a story behind this getup. I had just bought it in Bergdorf’s on my last trip to New York. There I was, carrying this outfit, walking down the street, minding my own business, wearing all my really good jewelry, when these four hoodlums started tracking me. I was more than a little nervous. I knew they were going to attack me any minute. Just any minute! I don’t mind telling you I had to make one hell of a quick decision. It was either give up the outfit and jewelry or take a chance that someone might see me run into Lord & Taylor. God!”

  “As you can see, she opted for the unthinkable. She went into Lord & Taylor,” John Rossiter said, holding out his hand to Dory.

  John Rossiter was a credit to his barber. His chalk-white hair and mustache were trimmed to perfection. His tailor had nimble fingers, as did the shoemaker who crafted his handmade loafers. The family genetic pool could take credit for the weathered golden-brown skin that contrasted sharply with his prematurely white hair. His eyes were nut brown, observant, and keen, and the laugh lines etched deep grooves at the corners. Dory liked him immediately.

  “Come along and meet Rick and Lily.” Dory dutifully followed but not before she saw Sylvia roll her eyes at Griff.

  Seated away from the smoke of the open barbecue, Lily Dayton was breast-feeding a cherub of a baby. Her husband sat beside her, his eyes glued to his firstborn son. Dory’s first thought was Madonna and Child. Griff had a strange look on his face as he watched the baby suck, making soft little sounds in the quiet of the patio. A spurt of grease shot in the air from the barbecue, startling Dory. She looked up; Sylvia stared pointedly at Lily and grimaced.

  “Why you can’t bottle-feed that child is something I’ll never understand,” Sylvia all but snapped. “She even does that in department stores,” she said to Dory. Her tone became light and could almost be taken for teasing, but Dory knew better. She herself felt embarrassed for Lily, who was now propping the baby over her left shoulder, leaving her right breast exposed while she made him comfortable. “Disgusting,” Sylvia hissed between clenched teeth.

  Dory looked around. John and Griff, as well as Rick, seemed mesmerized by the large, swollen breast.

  Rick, a tall, splinter-thin man, shook hands warmly. He reminded Dory of an intense young Anthony Perkins. A good surgeon, Griff had said. Sensitive hands, not a nerve in his body. Animals rarely had to be sedated while Rick examined them. “Welcome to our little group,” Rick said softly. Everything about him seemed in place. He gave the impression that there was nowhere else he would rather be and that his life was in perfect order. It probably was, Dory thought, as her eyes went to Lily and the sleeping baby.

  “Aren’t you going to put him down now and button up?” Sylvia demanded.

  “In a minute. I just want to hold him for a few minutes. It’s a shock to their little systems to be taken from the warm breast and then placed in a cold bed.”

  “This is Dory, Griff’s live-in,” Sylvia said brashly.

  “I’m so happy to meet you,” Lily said. “I hope you can come over and lunch with me some time. I have some wonderful recipes I can share with you. Just ask Rick. I made a carrot cake that turned him into a beast.”

  Rick bared his teeth to show that he agreed. “We brought one with us. Sylvia never serves dessert.”

  “I’d like that,” Dory lied. Imag
ine her swapping recipes with this little mother. Somehow Dory didn’t think Lily would be interested in her recipe for Alabama Slammers. This child didn’t look old enough to drink, and if she did, it was orange squash or grape Nehi.

  The evening progressed and so did the chill. When it became apparent that everyone was shivering, Sylvia called a halt to the party. “I have a seven A.M. golfing date, kiddies, so we better call it a night.”

  Dory was thankful that the party was over. For the past two hours since finishing the burnt steak, she had been afraid to smile for fear tiny bits of charcoal would be stuck between her front teeth.

  Lily’s sweet voice continued chattering. “Have you been having a problem with the water, Sylvia? Ours is so hard I’m afraid to wash little Rick’s clothes in it. I can’t get the rust stains out of the toilet either. Do you know what I can use? It’s really upsetting me.”

  The look on Sylvia’s face was ludicrous. “I thought it was supposed to be like that.” Dory turned her head to avoid laughing. Not for the world would she open her mouth and tell them her own secret for removing rust stains.

  As they walked through the living room, Dory could hear Lily telling Sylvia that she had tried baking soda, vinegar and Clorox and nothing worked, and, “Sylvia, you might get germs if you don’t do something.”

  “For Christ’s sake, let’s get the hell out of here,” Griff said, sotto voce, as he led Dory out the front door. “See you Monday,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Well, what do you think?” Griff asked anxiously as he started up the van.

  “They all seem very nice,” she replied in a noncommittal voice. She had to think about the lot of them before she made any statements that she might regret later on. Slow and easy for now.

  Griff laughed. “When you get to know them, they don’t get better, they stay the same. John is fantastic, as you know. Sylvia is Sylvia. She’s into clothes. Spending money is her hobby. She plays golf and tennis and drinks more than she should. She can’t cook worth a damn and you saw how she cleans house. She does get a cleaning crew, or wrecking crew, to come in twice a year to give the place a once-over and then she throws a party that would knock your eyes out. She’s generous and friendly. You’ll get along. Fashion is something you have in common.”