It had always been Camilla who emulated Rita. Playing house, caring for her dolls, liking tedious household chores, always being the first to help with the dishes. Now there was an unspoken hostility between them, and Rita didn’t quite know how to mend the fences. What had she done besides refuse to immerse herself in Camilla’s life? It would seem that the girl had everything she had always wanted: a home, a successful husband, children. What could she still possibly want from her mother?
Children. She wondered if she had made impossible demands on her own mother. If she had, she had never known it. Yet, before Rita’s mother had died hadn’t there been a distance between them? In the end, when she was so sick, her mother had decided to go to Chicago to stay with Rita’s brother and his wife, as though she was loath to impose upon her only daughter. Mother, too, had resented Rita’s writing. Going out to Ted in Chicago had been meant as a slap in the face, and Rita had felt it. Was that what Camilla was feeling? As though she’d been slapped? No, impossible. Yet, Rita’s mother had resented the fact that her only daughter had drifted away into a professional world, no longer validating her own lifestyle by devoting herself to family and home. Just before she had died they had talked about it, openly, honestly. Was it possible that Camilla, who had always identified so closely with Rita, was feeling abandoned and invalidated?
Camilla, who had always sought to be like her mother, to be a wife, a mother, now felt Rita to be a different person entirely. A divorcee, living on her own, making decisions and involved in the world of books and business. She was still demanding that Rita set the example and prove out the rewards of a domestic life, still wanted her to validate the life she had chosen for herself.
Rita shrugged off the depression that was descending over her thinking about Camilla. There were still Charles and Rachel. She hadn’t written that letter to Charles yet . . . Chuck. She must remember. Chuck. And she must call Rachel and find out exactly when she planned to arrive so she could cook something special for her. The only time the model-thin Rachel ate decent food was when Rita cooked it for her.
Why should I care if Rachel eats or not? She’s certainly old enough to take care of herself. And that was another thing. If she didn’t remind Rachel and Charles about dental appointments, they would have a mouth full of decay. Not only did she have to remind them, she also had to make the appointments, often telephoning several times to fit their schedules.
Ian often offered to find her a secretary to see to the tedious arrangements of life, but Rita wouldn’t hear of it. She did not want anyone to know what a slave she had become to her family. Ian only suspected half of her commitment to her grown children, and he doled out advice in choking amounts as to how she should deal with it. A widower with grown children of his own, he often pointed out how independent his offspring were. He would not accept that children always became independent of their fathers long before they were willing to separate from their mothers. It was an entirely different situation, she knew, but somehow could not convince Ian.
Dear, sweet Ian. Always looking out for her, protecting her, willing to take on the burden of any and all decisions if she so desired. Dependable Ian in his double-breasted suits and sparkling white shirts. A decent man, her mother would have called him. And good-looking in his middle years. Rita’s eyes flew open. She was middle-aged. Ian was middle-aged. She knew there had been a smirk in the thought. She also knew if she encouraged him he would ask her to marry him. He wanted to take care of her as though she were a homeless waif needing his counseling, his protection from the big, bad world. Good, kind, safe Ian.
Perhaps she had needed protection in the beginning, just after the divorce when her emotions were like raw sores. But now she suspected she needed adventure. The sores had scabbed over and only a few of them were still terribly tender. She was just learning to enjoy this new freedom. She could eat when she wanted, do the dishes when and if she felt like it, go to bed, get up when she wanted, shop and buy whatever pleased her. She was beginning to learn to deal with mechanics and repairmen. She had even engaged a gardener in Ridgewood so Charles would be free for tennis and all the sports he loved. She wasn’t even lonely anymore, except at night, and then a good book could ease even that. She was coping after two long years. Twigg was too thin.
Rita snuggled deeper into the sleeping bag. How warm and comfortable the thick down was. It was going to be a brisk day, she could feel it in her bones. A day for a sweatshirt and warm slacks. The weather in the Poconos was always temperamental. His hair needed trimming.
Her thoughts hopscotched to her ex-husband. He had always been an early riser; like herself, and had liked sex in the morning. She felt no shame when she wondered how he made love to his new wife. Probably with all the ardor he had shown on their own honeymoon twenty odd years ago. In many respects Brett had nesting instincts, something usually reserved for women. He liked a comfortable, cheery home. Good, home-cooked meals that took hours to prepare, shirts that had to be ironed, all fourteen of them, every week. He liked his slippers and pipe and his Business Week and Wall Street Journal. He liked the fireplace and his old sweater. Sometimes she wondered how he had managed to become as successful as he was. He had no imagination, no interest in anything outside his home and business. He had been a moderately good father, she supposed, going to the dancing recitals and the Little League games. For God’s sake! Twigg was only thirty-two years old, ten years her junior!
She wished she had a cigarette. She should get up and make some coffee. Decaffeinated of course. Fry some bacon and eggs. Maybe pancakes. Or French toast with cinnamon and powdered sugar. Did she buy syrup? She rolled over on her stomach and reached for a cigarette and drew the ashtray closer. She counted the cigarette butts. Twenty-two. Two more than a pack. The kids were always on her back about her smoking. Even Camilla had gotten little Jody to make comments. She was an adult, capable of reading and understanding the Surgeon General’s medical warning. The bottom line was she liked to smoke and she had no intention of stopping. Certainly not for someone else. When she was out in mixed company she never lit up without asking if anyone minded. The cigarettes were her pacifier, her security blanket. If and when the day ever came when she didn’t need them, it would be because she had made the decision. The tobacco Twigg smoked was aromatic. Her cigarettes didn’t seem to bother him.
Rita slid back down in the sleeping bag just as the first early bird chirped. Was he sleeping or was he awake too? Would he amble by today or would he ignore her after last night? She knew he would be back, if not today then tomorrow.
She laced her hands behind her head and felt her stomach go taut. You couldn’t see the excess flesh when you stretched out. A pity she couldn’t remain in a supine position so that she would look trim and fit. Maybe she should diet and start some moderate form of exercise. Was middle age too late to take it off? Three healthy eight-pound deliveries had added unsightly stretch marks. She had read somewhere that one could never get rid of those unless one had cosmetic surgery. That was out; she wouldn’t go under the knife for stretch marks. Or would she? She liked him. She liked his up-front attitude and the way he was in touch with his own feelings, his confidence, his gentleness. She wished she was half the person he was. She had so much to learn, so far to go till she could be like that. Each step was new, alien, and she had to think twice before she moved in any one direction.
The word “affair” bounced around in her head. She didn’t like the word. “Relationship” sounded better. Brett had had an affair. She wondered if an affair ever turned into a relationship. She didn’t think so. Brett wouldn’t have given it time. An affair and then marriage. What was her name? Sometimes she couldn’t remember. Oh yes, Melissa. The children pretended they didn’t like her but they did. She could tell. Charles walked around with a smirk on his face after seeing his father and stepmother. Camilla was forever talking about Melissa’s apple pies and lamb stew. Even Rachel said she had to respect Melissa and her “go-for-it” attitude. The fact
that she “went” for her father didn’t seem to bother Rachel at all. They all accepted Melissa and the new marriage and then took out their hostility on Rita in small, picayune ways. Hurtful ways, degrading ways. They blamed her and were still blaming her that the family wasn’t intact.
She knew in her gut that they, all three of them, resented her career. Resented that she spent time on something that was not only creative but lucrative. They made cutting remarks about her television appearances and her magazine interviews.
Rita rolled over and lit another cigarette. Of course, when Camilla needed a ten-thousand-dollar loan, interest free, to build a swimming pool, Rita’s money was more than welcome. And Charles had no compunction about accepting nine thousand for a new muscle car. Rachel gladly took the “loan” for her new apartment security and three rooms of furniture. Rita didn’t expect to get the money back, didn’t want it. But it hurt that they hadn’t asked their father, that they had assumed she would be more than glad to help out. There hadn’t been one word about repayment. She would have demurred but it would have been nice to hear.
“All I wanted was a little respect, a little recognition for what I was doing. Goddamn it, why did it have to come from strangers’? Why can’t my own family see that I’m a person? I was a wife, a mother, and a writer. They had no right to force me to make a choice,” she said bitterly to the empty room. Actually, the choice had been forced on her by Brett. Thirty-two years young.
Rita crawled from the sleeping bag and padded to the curtainless window. A low-lying mist crept across the ground like the swirly hem of a chiffon gown. In the lavender dawn she could see the diamond dew sparkle on the grass beneath the bedroom window. Was he up yet?
Rita turned the heat up and then made coffee. While it perked she showered and dressed. Another casual outfit of jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt. She stood in front of the mirror and then turned sideways. She sucked in her stomach and then released it. She winced. It had been a long time since she stared at herself so clinically. She had put on weight. Her new jeans with lycra were deceiving. As long as the zipper went up, she had ignored the pounds. She wondered how far the zipper would go if they were one hundred percent cotton. She made an ugly face at herself in the mirror. Then she laughed. “Who are you fooling, Rita Bellamy?” she asked her reflection.
“No one, not even myself,” came the reply. “I’m almost to the top of the mountain now, and I don’t intend to slide back. I worked too hard.” Satisfied with her comment, she tugged the sweatshirt into place around her less-than-firm derrière and headed for the kitchen. She was who she was; it was as simple as that.
Two scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, two slices of toast, three cups of coffee, and several cigarettes later, Rita felt ready to start her day at the computer. It was six fifteen. She could work till the furniture people arrived and then she would take a break. Once everything was settled in, she would start dinner simmering on the stove and work for the rest of the afternoon. She allowed no time for visitors, for phone calls or meandering thoughts. She had to work, wanted to work. And there was the letter to write to Charles and the phone call she intended for Rachel. She could do both things while the delivery men carried in the furniture. Rachel was always on the run.
Before she sat down to start the day’s work she walked to the door and flung it open. She made a pretense of staring down at the lake and the surrounding grove of pines. The sandy beach and pier were deserted as they should be at this hour of the morning. She let her eyes go to the bend in the lake and on to the Johnson cottage. There was no telltale stream of smoke wafting upward. He was probably sleeping or working. She wondered if he had anything in the house for breakfast. She stood a moment longer, delaying the time she had to start to work. She didn’t realize how intense her gaze was till her eyes started to water. She was forty-three years old and would be forty-four in another month.
Rita wrote industriously, lost in her work for the next four hours. The knock, when it came, startled her. “Come,” she called as she finished typing a sentence.
“Your furniture, ma’am,” a man called through the door.
An hour later all the furniture was in place. For an extra twenty dollars the men assembled the bed and hung the ready-made drapes on the windows. Rita offered coffee and beer. The men accepted and they talked about the weather for a few minutes. When they left, Rita hastily made up the bed with the new sheets and bedspread. She stood back to admire her handiwork. Very colorful. She had chosen a king-size bed; she didn’t know why. The old bed had been a double four-poster. The sheets she had picked from the linen department had brown and orange butterflies flitting here and there. Very fitting, just like me—free, free, free. The bedspread picked up the deep autumn colors and lent character to the knotty pine walls. The thirsty, designer sheet towels were hung in the bathroom adding still more of her own personal tastes, her preferences, her own identity.
The giddiness stayed with Rita till she sat down to write to her son. First she filled out a check for two hundred dollars. She knew it was too much, knew that Charles would view it as a buy-off and smirk to himself. One of these days she would grab him by the scruff of the neck and slap him silly, regardless of the fact that he was almost nineteen years old. She stared at the check for a long time. Finally, she drew a big X over it and wrote another one, this one for twenty-five dollars. He was Brett’s son too; let him share the expenses.
She could have written an entire chapter in the time it took her to compose a carefully written letter to her only son. Charles picked everything apart. Once he saw the check he would pour over the letter looking for ways to “zap” her. Certainly, he would expect mention of the football game the day after Thanksgiving. How she dreaded it. Brett would be there with his new wife. It would be her first meeting with the new and second Mrs. Bellamy. Charles expected her to be there and she had promised. Still, she dreaded it. Charles would smirk; Brett would be oblivious to everything and anything except his new wife. Melissa would preen beneath his adoring gaze while she tried to look away to hide her anger and hostility.
It took seven sheets of paper before Rita was satisfied with her draft. She copied over the one-paragraph letter and signed it “Love, Mom.”
Instead of feeling strange and unfamiliar among the new furnishings for the cottage, she was exhilarated. Here was the proof of her first decision in too long a time. The contemporary style had been bought on impulse, on the opposite end of the pendulum from the cozy colonial she and Brett had chosen. Or had it been Brett?
Her computer now sat on a burled oak desk, and she sat on a chrome and beige director’s-style chair that rolled easily on shiny ball casters. Tabletops were bronze tinted glass, and the upholstered pieces were modular, accommodating themselves to different arrangements in the rectangular room. Beiges, browns, startling touches of turquoise and cream. The roll-up blinds were perfect, mobile contraptions to control the light and her need for privacy without yards and yards of dust-collecting fabric. Geometric area rugs brought the pieces together in groupings, and she took delight in the oak-veneered three-piece étagère for holding her books and knickknacks. Rita decided she had done the wise thing in purchasing entire rooms right off the display floor. She had no time for selective buying, and she knew that it was more than possible that faced with hundreds of little choices for the cottage she might have made none.
The second bedroom for Rachel was completed, even to the pressed silk flowers framed in brass and hanging over the low double bed. Splashes of orange and deep brown for the spread, rust and beige for the rug near the bed. She realized now that she much preferred it this way: clean, almost stark, color substituting for bulky furniture. Even the small dining table just off the kitchen, with its cane and chrome chairs, was perfect, utilitarian, and yet giving the illusion of space and sleekness because of its glass tabletop. Arc lamps and two or three startling oriental-flavored pieces, such as the vase holding tall pussy willow branches and the mural-sized pict
ure to hang over the hearth, complemented the decor. Satisfied, more than satisfied, Rita took a tour of the cottage, appreciating everything she had bought and applauding her decision to at last make the cottage her own. Already her head was buzzing with items she would purchase when she next went to town. There were those long-stemmed glasses she had admired in Rose’s, and the florist in town would create something wonderful for the dining table. Perhaps next spring she would look into getting new porch furniture. Something really colorful . . . that was next spring. Before long, winter would set in up here at the lake and snow would cover the ground.
Reluctantly, her mind went back to those times when she and Brett had escaped for those long, intimate weekends to the lake, leaving the children in her mother’s care. Those had been wonderful times, much needed times to reacquaint them with each other. Too often the pressures of Brett’s job in advertising would be overwhelming, and the routine chores of children and home would put a distance between them. Those long, lovely weekends. Brett would sleep late, and she would have breakfast ready for him when he awoke. Those were the best times, making love in the morning, going back to bed in the early evening with the gentle snow falling against the window.
Rita frowned. Perhaps she had been too quick to refuse Camilla and Tom. She remembered how important those times alone with Brett had been and how they had restored their love for one another until again the pressures would build and they would run away together like naughty schoolchildren playing hookey. Her eyes swung to the computer and then to the phone.
No. Not this time. And if she really took a good, honest look at it, those runaway weekends hadn’t been all that terrific. Had they freed her from the humdrum chores it took to keep a home? Hadn’t she just traded one kitchen for another? And before leaving, it was she who had stripped the beds, collected the towels and the laundry to take back to New Jersey. She still had the cooking, the shopping, the laundry, and the feeling that the time spent away from home was more for Brett than herself. It was because of his need to get away, the pressures of his job that had to be relieved. Her job had been the same regardless of where they went.
Balancing Act Page 4
