Damn, now her mood was broken. The Dutch East India Company would have to wait. For exactly two seconds she had been proud of herself in refusing Camilla and then the guilt had set in. Undoubtedly Camilla would report to Brett that Rita had refused to care for the children. She could almost envision him shaking his head and sighing in silent condemnation.
Food. Always eat and add to the midriff bulge when you’re unhappy. She could certainly do that. She had spent two hundred dollars in the supermarket and could make a gourmet meal if it pleased her. A five-thousand-calorie meal. Poking about in the fridge, she decided on sausage and peppers so that she would have something left for lunch the next day.
The headache came on with blinding force as she started to chop the onions and peppers. The sausage was simmering in a stainless steel pot along with some tangy tomato sauce. She swallowed three Tylenol and went back to the chopping board. It always happened this way. The moment the guilt set in, the headache arrived, and before she knew it she had a three-day migraine. She didn’t need the migraine any more than she needed her grandchildren for the weekend. Her movements were awkward, as if being performed by a stranger as she dumped the peppers and onions into the fry pan for a few quick stirs before adding them to the sausage to simmer. She couldn’t wait to get to the phone to call Camilla back. Anything to get rid of the headache, the damnable guilt. Anything.
Her trembling hand was on the receiver when she heard a voice call her name. “Rita, it’s Twigg Peterson. I hate to be a bother but I let some oil bubble over and now the burners won’t light. Could I impose on you long enough to fry some hamburgers. God, that smells good, what is it?”
Rita stared at the tall man through the screen door. She had to do something, say something. “Come in” was the best she could manage.
Seeing Rita’s white, drawn face and the trembling of her hands, he asked, “Is anything wrong? I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I can eat them raw.”
“Raw?” Rita asked, not understanding. “No, it’s just that this headache came on so suddenly and it’s brutal. Of course you can use the stove. What else did you ask?”
“I asked what you were cooking, it smells so good.”
“Sausage and peppers. I didn’t know quite what to make, so I settled for that.” Damn, why did she feel the need to explain? Why was she always explaining? She’d be damned if she would apologize for the emptiness of the cabin.
“Rustic,” Twigg said enigmatically. “I like sausage and peppers especially on a hard roll. Are you having hard rolls? I’ll bet you are.”
In spite of herself, Rita laughed.
Twigg stared at the woman and grinned. He hadn’t realized how attractive she was down by the pier when she was squinting into the sun. Very expressive eyes, good features. No makeup. Natural. He bet she was a knockout when she was made-up. Late thirties, early forties, he judged. “How bad is the headache?” he asked with real concern in his voice.
Tears of frustration gathered in the blue eyes. It had been so long since anyone asked how she felt, or showed concern at what she was feeling. A stranger out of nowhere suddenly appears and I fall apart at the seams, she thought. “It’s a bad one. Usually leads to a migraine and I can’t afford a three-day lapse.”
“Then allow me.” Before she knew what was happening, Twigg was behind her, massaging her neck and shoulder muscles. She winced and closed her eyes. He had strong hands, capable hands. Was it her imagination or was the pain lessening? “Okay, now hold still and then relax. I’m going to snap your neck. On the count of three.” Rita did as she was told. She heard her neck snap, crack, and then the gentle pressure was back. “There, that should do it.”
The blue eyes were confused when she stared up at Twigg. “It really works. Can you guarantee it won’t come back?”
“Absolutely.”
“You just saved me from making a phone call that I would regret. Thank you. You wanted to use the stove, you said.” He was unnerving her with his close scrutiny.
“Right. That’s what I said.” He held out a plate with a brown glob on it.
“What is it?” Rita asked as she stared down at what looked like a cross between hamburger and dog food.
“Actually, it’s chopped meat that I think has seen better days. I should probably throw it out.”
“That would be my advice.” Rita smiled. The headache was gone. Thank God she hadn’t called Camilla. “How would you like some of my sausage and peppers? It’ll be done in a few minutes. We’ll have to eat outside on the picnic table though.”
“Lady, I thought you were never going to ask. I’d love to eat with you, and if you have a beer to go with it, I’ll be in your debt forever.”
“Oh, do you like beer with your sandwiches? So do I,” Rita confided. How comfortable she felt with him. There was no fear, no anxiety. It seemed like she had known him for a long time. Such gentle fingers.
Twigg watched her as she set about making the sandwiches. She was at home in a kitchen. He wondered if there was a Mr. Bellamy and what she was doing living in an empty cottage. He craned his neck to see if a wedding ring was in sight. He almost sighed with relief when he saw her bare hand. Maybe she didn’t like rings. He liked the way she moved, the way she handled the kitchen equipment, the way she spooned the rich sauce over the sausage and then closed the roll tight so it wouldn’t drip. He noticed that she made three sandwiches. His eyes asked the question. Rita laughed. “Two for you and one for me. You bring the beer. The glasses are in that cabinet over your head.”
“Bottle is okay with me. How about you?”
“Okay with me too. Napkins are over there. Bring a handful. Now that you’re dressed to the nines, I wouldn’t want you to drip on your clean shirt.”
“You noticed.” Twigg grinned in mock pleasure.
“I noticed.” And she had. She had noticed the tight fit of the worn jeans, the designer sneakers with their frayed laces. And the six freckles he had on his left hand. It was because she was a writer and observant, she told herself as she bit into the sandwich.
They ate in companionable silence. Twigg finished first and asked if he could have another beer. Rita nodded.
“Bring me one too,” she called after him.
“How long are you going to be here?” Twigg asked.
“As long as it takes to finish my novel. A week, two, I’m not sure, and then I always need a week to unwind. There’s no hurry for me to get back home, so I may stay a little longer. How long will you be here?”
“I rented the cottage for six months. It’s going to take at least that much time to collate my notes, draft the research reports, and then write the articles.”
How many times she had sat on this same bench and watched the sun set with Brett and the kids, but she never enjoyed it as much as she did this minute. “I love the sunsets here,” she said quietly.
“The end of the day. Tell me, what are you writing? Or don’t you talk about it. I heard writers are scary people and are afraid someone will wander off with their ideas.”
Rita laughed. “I’m past that stage. I write romantic novels for women.”
“Oh, you’re that Rita Bellamy. I thought there was something familiar about your name. When I was doing my dolphin research, several of the biologists were reading your books. They said you were good.”
Rita was pleased with the compliment. “I try. I write what I like to read.”
Twigg’s gaze was puzzled. “Do you put any of yourself into your novels?”
Rita contemplated her answer. “Not myself exactly. Perhaps my longings, my yearnings, some of my secret desires,” she said honestly. Somehow, anything less than an honest reply to this strange new friend—and he was a friend, she could sense it—would have been cheating.
“I guess I understand that. How does your family feel about what you write?”
“They tolerate it.” Damn, this man was making her talk, making her see and feel all the things she wanted to forget. Honesty again in her rep
ly. “The children are more or less on their own. Charles is away this summer doing camp counseling and then he goes to Princeton in the fall. Camilla has her own family, and Rachel is living in an apartment in the city. They all have their own lives.”
“What happened to Mr. Bellamy?” Twigg asked bluntly. He had to know and what better way than to ask outright. He held his breath waiting for her reply.
“Mr. Bellamy is remarried to a young lady, a very young lady, who is one year younger than my oldest daughter,” Rita said in an emotionless voice.
“Is that bitterness I hear in your voice?”
“Yes, dammit, it’s bitterness you hear. I haven’t exactly come to terms with it, but I will. Any more questions?” she snapped irritably.
“Not on your life. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up old wounds. Hell, yes I did, I wanted to know about you. Because I want to know you better. I’ve never been one to dance around something. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“It’s all right. I shouldn’t be so defensive. It’s been two years now and time enough for me to adjust.” The phone shrilled in the kitchen saving her from further explanations. “Excuse me, she said, getting up.
Twigg sat back, leaning against the rough redwood table. He tried not to listen, but Rita’s intense voice carried clearly. It sounded brittle and defensive.
“Tom, how are you? You know I’m always glad to talk to you but I’m afraid you can’t make me change my mind. I have commitments and I intend to honor them.... No, Tom. It’s out of the question.... Of course, I love my grandchildren. Pay someone, Tom. There are all sorts of reputable agencies with people who take care of children.... No, Tom, bringing them here will not make me change my mind. I explained my deadline to Camilla this afternoon.... Of course, I realize how important your job is, I just wonder how important you think mine is. I try not to depend upon anyone to do things for me, Tom, and I think you can take that as good advice.”
Rita listened to Tom’s voice coming over the receiver. He had no right, no right at all. She listened for a few more minutes, but when he began calling Jody to the phone to ask Grandma to let him come for a visit, Rita became incensed. That was playing dirty. “Tom, that’s not fair and I cannot understand why you and Camilla refuse to accept my answer. If it had been another time, even next weekend . . .” Damn, there she was making excuses again. What she needed was another beer and a course in assertiveness training. Why? She had absolutely no trouble dealing with those outside her family. Secretaries, publishers, editors, publicists, smart people, important people, demanding and exacting, and yet here she was practically pleading for Camilla and Tom to understand why she could not babysit for them and allow her care of the children to interfere with her writing.
“Tom,” Rita said in a cool, controlled voice, “I would not make the drive up here if I were you. I have given you my answer and it stands. You must make other arrangements for the children this weekend. Have you tried Brett and his wife?” Lord, she was doing it again, trying to solve their problem for them.
“Yes, Rita, we did call and they both have colds. Besides, as Camilla says, you are their grandmother. And there’s no one the children would rather be with than you.”
“That’s very sweet, Tom, however this weekend it is just impossible.” She put conviction into her voice. The last thing she needed this weekend was the children. What with the delivery of furniture, Ian coming . . . no, it was just impossible.
“Rita,” Tom lowered his voice to a level of confidence, “Camilla is quite upset. You know how she admires you, even tries to emulate you. You are disappointing her terribly. We don’t understand what’s come over you. You’ve never refused before.”
“Then why is it so terrible of me to refuse this one time? No, Tom”—her voice hesitated; she had almost apologized again—“it’s impossible this weekend. You are an intelligent man; I’ve every confidence you’ll solve your dilemma. Give my best to Camilla and the children. Good night, Tom.”
Twigg winced when he heard the receiver slam down onto the cradle. He had gotten the gist of the conversation and had intuitively surmised Rita’s conflict over refusing to babysit. He heard the slight tremor in her tone, the apologetic manner. When at last she had curtly ended the conversation, he found himself rooting for her, cheering her on. Atta girl, Rita! That took some doing, can tell, but if it’s what you want, then good for you!
“Don’t ask me to explain that conversation to you,” Rita said, setting a fresh bottle of beer in front of him. Great God! Had she actually stood up to Tom and Camilla? No doubt she would be punished for it, and they would probably keep the children away until the next time they needed her. Realizing she was neglecting her guest, she smoothed the grim line from her mouth and directed her attention to Twigg. “Why don’t you tell me about what you’re writing? Are dolphins actually as intelligent as I’ve heard?”
“I spent eighteen months in Australia researching and studying the habits of whales and dolphins and it was fascinating. As a matter of fact, I only returned to the States a few weeks ago and found the Johnson cottage through a Realtor. My eyes got hungry for the autumn colors. Change of seasons and all that. Who knows when I’ll get another chance like this.” Twigg was encouraged by the genuine interest Rita displayed, gazing at him intently with those remarkable blue eyes of hers. “There was one dolphin we called Sinbad who literally took my breath away. The species has developed a sophisticated sonar system. They can hear up to one hundred forty kilocycles; that’s eight times higher than a human. They can dive to almost a thousand feet with no decompression problems and use eighty percent of their oxygen to the fullest advantage.”
As he spoke, describing the seas, the animals, and their habits, the conversation with Tom was already fading from Rita’s mind.
“The females are more playful than the males, actually. Sinbad was an exception to the rule. The female is also the aggressor in courtship; the males don’t mature sexually till they’re almost seven years old. It takes eleven months for a calf to be born, and the mothers are very protective of their young.”
“Most mothers are,” Rita said quietly, thinking of her own role as a mother and the failures and successes she had achieved.
“I suppose so,” Twigg answered. “Time for me to be getting back to work. I’ll return the dinner invitation as soon as I wash my dishes. Thanks again, Rita.”
“It’s a beautiful evening. I’ll walk along with you as far as the pier.”
At the pier they said their good nights, and Rita watched him lope away down the sandy beach. She liked him, liked being with him. He made her feel good about herself. He hadn’t asked any questions concerning the phone conversation with Tom nor had he given any indication that he had an opinion one way or the other about what she had done.
Twigg started off down the beach. He didn’t want to go home but instinctively knew Rita needed some time to herself to mull over the unpleasant phone call. He didn’t want to work on his articles; he wanted to be with Rita. He turned, making his way back to her. She was still standing on the edge of the pier. “I forgot something,” he shouted, that lopsided grin lifting the corners of his mouth.
“What did you forget?” She was puzzled at the expression in his eyes as he drew close to her.
“This.” His arms drew around her, holding her close to him. She realized how tall he was, towering over her, lifting her chin with the tips of his fingers to look down into her eyes. His lips, when they touched hers, were soft, giving as well as taking, gently persuading her to respond. His arm, cradling her against him, was firm, strong, but his fingers still touching her face were tender, trailing whispery shadows over her cheekbones. Having him kiss her seemed to be the most natural ending to an enjoyable evening. It was just that. A kiss. A tender gesture, tempting an answer but demanding none.
“Good night, pretty lady,” he said huskily, his tone plucking the strings of her emotions. And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone w
hile she watched him retrace his steps.
Rita moistened her lips that were so recently kissed. Soundly kissed, she would have written if it were a scene from one of her books. She had been licked by the flame of remembered passions, good lusty feelings she had thought were lost to her. Twigg Peterson was good for the ego. “Pretty lady” he had called her, and suddenly she did feel pretty and just a little bit more excited than she would have liked.
Back in his cottage Twigg faced the blank page on the computer. He had wanted to kiss her and he had. Wanted to kiss her almost from the moment he had introduced himself to her earlier that day. There was something vulnerable about Rita Bellamy and something strong too. How good she had felt in his arms, how sweetly she had returned his kiss. There was no need to sit here and ponder what she had thought of him, if he had offended her. With Rita, everything was up front. Black and white. She either liked you or she didn’t. And that was good too. Emotional games were for children and more often they hurt rather than gave pleasure. The white page glared accusingly under the goosenecked lamp and he began to work.
Chapter Three
Rita lay deep in the sleeping bag, snuggling for warmth. It was early, still dark outside, probably no later than five A.M. Soon the birds would begin their incessant chatter. Rita groaned aloud. She wasn’t ready for this particular day. She would not think about Twigg. No, she absolutely would not think about the long and lingering kiss that had reached something so deeply buried within her that she hesitated to put a name to it. Instead, she would think of something else. Camilla popped into her thoughts. She had always felt closest to her oldest child, and she did not like the rift coming between them.
Balancing Act Page 3
