Dory reached for the telephone, punched out Griff’s number and waited for the receptionist to put her through.
“Griff, I’m calling about your mother. I plan to call her today but I did want to talk to you first.”
“Is something wrong, Dory? Look, if you feel it isn’t convenient, cancel out. Mother will understand. Make it for later.”
Damn, he was making it too easy. Besides, she didn’t want later. She didn’t want now, but she was stuck.
“That’s just it, Griff. I don’t want to make it for later. To be perfectly honest, I don’t want to make it for now either. I don’t think I can handle your mother for more than two days. Don’t be angry. I’m trying to be honest with you. I didn’t want to go ahead and call Esther till I spoke to you. She is your mother. But, you’re going to be busy with the clinic and I’m the one who will have to entertain her. I don’t want to do it, Griff. I can handle two days because I feel that’s fair to you and to me. More than that I can’t . . .”
“Dory, it’s okay with me. You’re right. Mom is demanding as a house guest and yes, you’re right, you are the one who would have to entertain her. The decision is yours.”
“Then you aren’t upset with me?”
“Of course not. I know what Mom is like. I understand, Dory,” Griff said softly. “Honey, I’m glad that you felt you could be honest with me about all of this. Don’t give it another thought.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll call Esther now. See you later, Griff.”
It was done. Her second breakthrough. Her second decision. Esther was coming for just the weekend. Dory felt good when she hung up the phone—good about herself. And ready for Esther.
She would have to clean the spare room and change the sheets. She felt as if some kind, wise person had given her a personal reprieve when she yanked sheets and pillowcases out of a drawer. A week ago she would have stewed and fretted over the pattern and probably even ironed the creases. Lily ironed permanent press. But Dory Faraday’s ironing days were over. When she was finished she stood back to view her work for neatness. She blinked. The orange and brown zigzag pattern was almost blinding. These had been Griff’s sheets. He joked that he had bought them on purpose so they would wake him up in the morning. Esther would certainly be wide-eyed.
Dory dusted the furniture with a tissue and blew the dust off the top of the small portable television. As she was leaving the room she contemplated the lint on the carpet. Instead of running the vacuum, she bent down sixteen times to pick up the little bits and pieces of lint. Good for the waistline, she told herself.
When Griff hung up the phone, his mind went blank for a few seconds. The Siamese cat waiting for his gentle touch snoozed peacefully with the aid of a tranquilizer. Damn, his stomach felt as if it was tied in a knot. He didn’t like the idea that the two women in his life might be having a problem. His mother could be a pain. If Dory felt she couldn’t handle a lengthy visit he could accept that. Hell, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to his mother’s visit himself. He had to admit, though, that he was surprised by Dory’s phone call. For some reason he had expected her to grin and bear it. He had never known her to dig in her heels and make a decision and then call and announce it to him. Suddenly he laughed. By God, that was exactly what she had done. She didn’t ask—she simply told him. It was a good thing. He wasn’t stupid. Dory was going through some personal turmoil now and Esther would only crowd the issue. Esther could do that without even trying. He loved his mother but—he grinned down at the sleeping cat—he did his maternal loving better from a distance.
The Siamese opened one eye and looked at the giant towering over him, then rolled over on his side and let the doctor examine him. All thoughts of his mother and Dory fled Griff’s mind as he began his careful probing of the ailing animal. Dory had the situation in hand.
Chapter Eleven
Griff arrived home that evening ravenously hungry. For her. Dinner could wait, he told her with authority. Right now, there were needs food couldn’t satisfy.
Dory flushed pink as he wrapped his arms around her, his cheek frigidly cold from the night air, whispering hoarsely into her ear, stirring new yet familiar longings within her.
Dory took Griff by the hand, leading him up to their room, her smile a promise. The fire in their eyes warmed the room as they watched each other undress, readying themselves for the caresses and kisses they hungered for, Griff lowered himself to the bed, gathering her into his arms, burying his lips into the hollow of her throat. Delighted little mewings sounded in her throat when she pressed her face into the furring on his chest, nuzzling at his nipples and feeling him shudder beneath her touch.
“Dory,” he breathed, ragged and husky, falling back against the pillows, taking her with him. He found her eager mouth, returning her kisses with a bittersweet ardor. Hers were the softest lips he had ever kissed, and he believed he would never satisfy himself for their touch. His kisses wandered over the planes of her face, in the dimple near her chin, in the shining paleness of her hair.
His hands caressed her body, finding it beautiful as always, and he sighed with contentment as womanly curve fit against manly muscle.
Dory exerted pressure against him, forcing him to his back while she followed, her knees tightly clamped to his sides. She looked down into his adored face, feeling her love for him well inside her. Her long, silver-blond hair created a curtain as she bent to kiss him—long, loving kisses, meant to touch the soul and stir the senses.
Griff smiled up at her when he felt himself being taken within her. This was his Dory, the Dory he loved—always equal, sometimes dominant, sharing the best of herself, the most of herself, making him more a man because she was more a woman.
Their joining was loving, tender, and filled with joy. It had been too long since they had come together this way, equally, hungry for what each could bring to the other instead of that sorry, dispassionate surrender that was a poor balm for a sick spirit.
Sitting in the living room, sharing a glass of wine, Griff told Dory about things at the clinic and listened while she told him about her day in New York. The conversation went from acquaintances in the Big Apple to friends here at the capital.
“What did Sylvia do while I was in New York?” Dory asked. “I suppose she made a raid on Neiman-Marcus.”
“Actually, Sylvia is down with the flu. John left early this afternoon to stay with her. He was joking that it’s a good thing there are no emergencies at the clinic, otherwise it would all fall to me. Sometimes John and I regret the deal we made with Rick that he’d never have to work evenings. He always shows up extra early at the clinic, and he’s no slouch on the job, so I suppose it all evens out in the end.”
“Rick never stays late?” Dory asked, thinking of the last time she was with Lily and how despondent she had seemed. If memory served her, Lily had said that Rick would definitely be working late that particular evening. Dory also remembered the oncoming anxiety attack she’d suffered when she realized that if domestic, all-giving, Lily wasn’t safe, then no one was. Safe. What a funny word, Dory thought as she nestled down into the curve of Griff’s arm. Still, when she thought of making her decision and calling Lizzie on Monday, she wanted to actually crawl inside Griff, have him make the decision for her. She would like it if he would tell her what to do, take the responsibility away from her. Be one of those arrogant, chauvinistic men her mother was always reading about in romantic novels. Dory took another sip of wine, feeling it cool against her tongue. She hadn’t told Griff about having to make that call on Monday and now she was glad she hadn’t. This was one decision she’d have to live with the rest of her life, and it was one she was going to be totally responsible for. For the first time in a long while Dory finally felt good about herself. That didn’t make the decision any easier, and she knew it, but she still felt good.
Dory was misting the fresh evergreen and the plants when she saw a taxi pull up in front of the town house and a mink-cloaked woman emerge
, looking up at the house number. Griff’s mother.
Esther Michaels arrived carrying a poinsettia plant that Dory could only describe as regal. Poinsettias were by nature full and leafy with bright scarlet leaves; Esther’s plant grew straight up like a tree. She carried it as though she were the Olympic torch bearer. A Neiman-Marcus shopping bag and one from Gucci were clutched in her free hand. The taxi driver set her pullman bag down in the kitchen and waited patiently while Esther settled the plant and her shopping bags. She counted out the exact amount from a small change purse and added a skimpy gratuity.
“Merry Christmas, to you too, lady,” the driver said sourly as he slammed the back door behind him.
“What was that all about?” Esther asked frigidly, honestly perplexed. “He gets paid by the company he works for, doesn’t he?”
Dory eyed the large pullman. Just how long would Esther be staying? Maybe she was joining Pixie halfway around the world. The ridiculous thought almost choked her. This imperious woman would hardly acknowledge someone like Pixie, much less travel with her. Now, that isn’t fair, Dory old girl. Esther is a lovely person; quit thinking these shabby thoughts about the poor woman. Nuts, she told herself.
“It looks as though you’ve been shopping,” Dory said, hoping to ease the conversation into a light pattern, anything to get Mrs. Michaels to loosen up and make the visit bearable. Clearly, having dinner in the city with Griff’s mother was quite different from having her come to stay.
“Christmas presents for you and Griffin. I do so like the holidays, and I’m so glad you invited me. I was afraid I’d be excluded from my son’s Christmas,” she said as she slipped out of her twenty-year-old mink that, unbelievably, was coming back into style because of its straight lines and wide Joan Crawford shoulders. “How is Griffin?” Esther asked as she removed her powder-puff mink hat and patted at her silvery hair. She looked lacquered, Dory assessed, and she would stake her life that Esther was a product of Elizabeth Arden . . . five days a week with pedicures thrown in. She was perfectly groomed from the top of her sleek French twist to the tip of her shoes.
“Griff’s fine. He’s working very hard to make the clinic a success. They all are, John and Rick included. Sometimes I think he does more than his share, but he’s doing what he wants and what he likes best. That’s what’s important,” Dory said quietly, mentally calculating the cost of Esther’s Oleg Cassini suit. She’d been hanging around Sylvia too much!
Esther’s look was sharp as she confronted Dory. She had just taken a really good look at the young woman. This couldn’t be the same Dory she had met for lunches in the city, or could it? Griffin, dear boy, what have we here? Good Lord, Dory’s cheeks stopped just short of being plump. Esther’s eye skimmed down Dory’s figure, focusing on the waistline, which was concealed beneath the lilac sweatshirt she wore. Was there a grandchild in the making? What did Griffin think of this? Where was the chic, the elegance, the success of Dory Faraday that had so attracted Griffin and had so pleased her?
Esther would not be a snob. Griffin hated snobbery. Still . . . this young woman, and she wasn’t that young . . . something was definitely amiss. She could sense it. She hoped her tone was light when she replied, “Griffin has had this dream ever since he was a small boy. He’s worked hard and I’m so proud of him. I do love winners, you know, Dory.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Dory’s suspected pregnancy was a fact, but Esther bit back the words. She would ask Griff. She didn’t want Dory to think that a grandchild was eagerly anticipated. It wasn’t. And should suspicion become reality, Esther knew she’d be hard-pressed to hide her disappointment.
Dory nodded. She should be verbally agreeing with Esther, but it was hard to concentrate. Esther kept staring at her as if she were a bug on the end of a pin. She knew that in the past ten minutes she had failed miserably in Esther’s eyes. She didn’t measure up. She came up short. A lump settled in her throat. Damn it, why did people always have to judge other people? Why couldn’t they just accept them?
Esther’s tone became fretful. Lord, was she really going to have to stay here for an entire weekend? What would they do? The scent of the pine boughs and the giant tree was making her nauseous. Why couldn’t they have had a plastic tree like everyone else? And all those decorations. God! Elves, gnomes, reindeer, and a lot of little stuffed mice. God! She forced a smile to her lips, lips that Dory knew were painted with a brush. The eyelashes came out of a case. Dory wished the bright blue gaze weren’t so piercing, so probing. Lord, surely she wasn’t waiting for confidences. The thought was so horrific, Dory almost gagged.
“Esther, would you care for a drink? Coffee? Soft drink? Brandy?” Damn, there wasn’t any brandy; Pix drank it all. Please don’t ask for brandy. There wasn’t any Scotch either; Pix finished that the day she left. Her eyes tried to probe the liquor cabinet to see what there was. Vodka, gin, and some bourbon.
“Do you have any Diet Pepsi?”
Dory stared at Esther, Diet Pepsi. Of course, she would ask for Diet Pepsi. Pixie’s experience with Diet Pepsi made her laugh aloud. Esther stared at her, frowning. “Private joke,” Dory mumbled as she got up to get the drink for Griff’s mother.
An hour later Esther said she felt tired and perhaps a warm bath and a tiny little nap might be in order. Dory almost killed herself getting up from the couch to show Esther the way to her room.
Back in the kitchen she sat with her hands propped under her chin. I don’t need this. I don’t want this. This visit isn’t making me happy. And what are you going to do about it? her friend the inner voice chided. Not much, Dory grimaced. I’m temporarily stuck. After all, she is Griff’s mother and I have . . . I want . . .
Damn, the holidays with all the pressures were getting to be a bore. The word startled Dory. A bore? It was true. Everything of late was a bore. And, I’m the biggest bore of all. The mental statement of fact did nothing for her mood.
When life and everyone in it was a bore there was only one thing to do. Dory stretched full length on the sofa. She pressed the ON button on the remote control. A soap opera sprung to life. Ha! And they thought they had problems. Within seconds, Dory was asleep.
The next two days were torture for Dory. Griff seemed to creep about, and Esther kept looking at Dory out of the corner of her eye. Dory couldn’t wait for Esther to leave, and Esther couldn’t wait to be gone. Griff kept looking at the two women in his life with puzzled expressions. Christmas Eve came and went with carols on the television and the opening of gifts. Nothing seemed to faze Dory. Christmas Day was dinner and a scrumptious dessert that only Griff ate.
Esther packed her bags while Dory cleaned the kitchen and Griff watched someone’s family on television tell what their Christmas was like. B-o-r-i-n-g.
When Griff returned from the airport, he stalked into the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, would you tell me just what the hell is going on. What went on here? What in the hell has happened to you, Dory?”
Dory stared at Griff. He had never spoken to her like this before. Damn, put a man’s mother into the picture and it was a whole new ball game. Was he taking sides?
“I wish you had warned me what a pain in the neck your mother was. Two or three lunches weren’t enough time to get to know her. And what gives you the right to talk to me that way? I’m not your wife, you know,” Dory said bluntly.
Griff slumped down on the sofa, his red muffler with the missed stitches, Dory’s first effort, still around his neck. His voice was soft, too soft, when he spoke. “I know that. I mean about you not being my wife. Even if you were, I had no right to blast off like that. I’m sorry.”
“I guess I am too.”
“You guess, don’t you know?” Griff said coldly.
“No, I, guess I don’t know for sure. Everything is all mixed up. I feel so confused, Griff. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for weeks now, but you’re always busy or tired or something.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means wh
atever you want it to mean. Something’s wrong, Griff, can’t you feel it? Can’t you see it?”
“Something’s been wrong for a long time. I’ve been waiting for you to get your act together so we could discuss it. I’m not that busy. Every time I want to talk to you, you’re making bread or cookies or sewing or some damn thing. If you aren’t doing that, you’re on the phone with Lily or Sylvia. What am I supposed to think? The next thing you’ll be getting headaches and backaches.”
“That was a low thing to say,” Dory snapped.
“It’s true, isn’t it? I damn near knocked myself out for your aunt when she was here. I had every right to expect you to do the same for my mother.”
“I did. Is it my fault she doesn’t want to go outside because her makeup will crack, and is it my fault that she has ulcers and can’t eat regular food, and is it my fault that her last two accounts fell through, and is it my fault that I didn’t know where her church was, a church that she attends once a year? Don’t hang any guilt trips on me, Griff. The whole time she was here she kept staring at me as though I were something that should be under a microscope. I’ve had enough guilt to last me a lifetime. My aunt asked nothing of you; she didn’t put you out, and she went out of her way to be extremely generous to both of us. If you didn’t like her, why don’t you just say so? No more guilt, you’ve given me enough trips that if I laid them end to end I could go to the moon. I’ve had enough!”
“So have I!” Griff yelled back.
Tears burned Dory’s eyes. It shouldn’t be happening like this. They should be talking it out like the sensible adults they were. She dropped to her knees in front of Griff and grasped both of his hands in hers. “I’m sorry, Griff, this is all my fault. This . . . this fight we’re having is something that bubbled up and got out of hand. In a way, I suppose I subconsciously wanted it this way so I could . . . what I mean is . . . I thought it would make it easier for me to say what I have to say.”
Balancing Act Page 32