Balancing Act

by Fern Michaels

  Lunch was enjoyable. They sat in Rita’s copper and brick kitchen with the new hanging fern in complete contentment. There was none of the awkwardness that Rita had feared, no gaps in the conversation. Instead, there had been smiling eye contact, shared laughter, and hearty appetites. It was Rita who glanced at her watch and signaled that lunch was over. Twigg obliged by getting up, kissing her soundly on the mouth. “I have to know something, Rita,” he said seriously. “Was there any time last night when you thought about those twelve years? The truth now.”

  Rita grinned. “Not one minute. If you find yourself at loose ends tonight and want to take a break, why don’t you come by and meet Ian? I’m sure he’ll enjoy meeting you and you’ll have lots in common. Maybe he can even find a market for your articles. Don’t feel you have to come; it’s an invitation, pure and simple.”

  Twigg loped back to his cottage, his steps springy and buoyant. Damn, he felt good. Rita made him feel good. At lunch she had been so helpful when he discussed his work with her, suggesting he might approach the article from a different point of view.

  Perhaps he would walk over to meet Ian Martin, if only to see what he was like. In his gut he knew the friend-agent had more than a professional interest in Rita. It was obvious the way she talked about him. Yes, he would like to meet the man. Ian Martin would have to be a blind fool not to see Rita for the woman she was: talented, interesting, beautiful.

  Leaning against the porch rail, his tall, lean frame striking an angular pose, Twigg tamped and lit his pipe. She had the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. And she loved the sea, she had told him. And talking to her, discussing things with her, was enlightening, challenging. That was one lady who had an opinion, but unlike others he had known, she was also willing to see the other side.

  Drawing on the pipe, the pungent smoke filling his mouth, his thoughts went back to the night before, as they had through most of the day. Rita Bellamy, woman, writer, beautiful lover. She had a way of making a man feel cherished. He laughed. It even sounded silly to him that a man would need cherishing; that was something women said they wanted from a man. But a man needed it too, needed to feel important and worthy. He could still almost feel the tenderness of her soft arms as they surrounded him, bringing him to her, welcoming him. There was an honesty about her, sharp and clear, with none of the calculating withholding he had experienced so many times before. She was exciting and stimulating and downright sexy. And yet, she was vulnerable too, and he supposed that was what made her seem so young to him, with a special brand of innocence that was lost to most women before they hit twenty.

  Twigg frowned. He was thirty-two years old, and to all intents and purposes, completely alone in the world. He had friends, certainly, but no family of which to speak. It had occurred to him that a wife and children would ease this particular sense of aloneness, and yet he knew it was not the answer. Not for him, at any rate. He had never met a woman he wanted to marry, and he never considered his bloodline so superior that he wanted to propagate it. His work, his friends, and now Rita. That was all he needed. Good, better, best.

  Ian Martin arrived shortly before seven o’clock. Rita heard his car in the drive and quickly switched off her computer. He would have no complaints with the work she was to deliver to her editor. She had caught up, for the most part, and if she started early in the morning, she would definitely meet her deadline.

  Ian Martin was a tall and distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. A widower with married children. He carried a bottle of wine, a briefcase, and a bedraggled bouquet of daisies.

  “They were fresh when I left the city.” He laughed as he kissed Rita lightly on the mouth. He stood back to survey his client and felt a frown pucker his face. She was lovely, vibrant, with a new and curious glow about her. She wore her beige silk blouse open at the neck, all the way down to the shadowy cleavage between her breasts. The taupe skirt was cut slimly with a daring slash halfway up her thigh. Heeled shoes, sheer hose, and jewelry! He smiled at her a trifle nervously, wondering what she had done to herself. Where were her blue denim jeans and sweatshirt and run-down sneakers? The uniform she had adopted these last two years. He hadn’t seen her looking this smart since before her divorce.

  “It’s good to see you, Ian. How are things back in the big city?” she asked warmly as she embraced him.

  “Not much different from the last time I saw you. Life does go on in publishing. My firm has taken on several new clients, and we have great hopes for a movie deal for one of them. I also brought your last royalty statement with me. It’s a good one and I banked the money for you.”

  Following her through the living room into the kitchen where he struggled with the cork in the bottle of wine, he was surprised when Rita turned to him, touched him on the arm and said softly, “Ian, you’ve been an excellent friend and business manager, but it’s time for me to begin handling my own affairs.”

  He looked shocked, his hazel eyes narrowing as though trying to see through to her reason. Gently, she calmed him. “Ian, dear, please don’t misunderstand. It is simply that I believe it’s time for me to involve myself in my own finances and certainly time I involved myself in life again. I want to try my own wings.” She laughed, quickly softening the statement. “Of course, I would always hope you were waiting to catch me should I begin to fall. I’ve become too dependent on you, and in many ways I’ve taken advantage of you. I don’t want the time to come when you begin to resent me as a burden.”

  “Rita, darling,” he murmured, pulling her into his embrace. “As if I could ever resent you. Surely, you know how much you mean to me. I love doing for you.”

  She was aware of the scent of his expensive cologne, the smoothness of his cheek as he pressed it against her brow. He must have used his battery-powered electric shaver on the drive up. Dear, fastidious Ian. So concerned with outward appearances. “Have I told you how lovely you look this evening,” he said in a deep, intimate tone. “It’s time you came out of that shell you built around yourself and remembered the woman you are.”

  Deftly, Rita extracted herself from his embrace, making a great fuss of selecting glasses for the wine. “You’re right, Ian, it is time I crept out of my shell. That’s one of the reasons I feel I must take over my own affairs.” She meant her words to be strong, but she heard the softness in her tone, the vaguest hint of a whine and cajoling. She hated herself for it. Damn, wasn’t she entitled to make her own decisions concerning the money she earned? She would like to try her hand at a little high finance, as Brett called it. Why did she always need someone to do it for her?

  “Remember that tax-free fund I told you about several months back?” Ian poured the wine as he spoke; she watched the bold onyx ring on his pinky finger reflect the light. Hadn’t he heard what she had said? Was he going to ignore her?

  “I remember,” she lied. Several months back she was hardly interested in tax-free funds or anything else, for that matter

  “The time seemed right to buy and I did. Several more opportunities like that and you’ll make a handsome living just from the interest you earn.”

  Rita was puzzled. “How . . . I mean, wasn’t I supposed to sign something?”

  Ian laughed, amused, as though she were a little, precocious child. “You don’t have to bother your head about things like that. Remember, that’s why you signed a power of attorney over to me. That tax-free fund was quite a coup, I can tell you that.... What’s the problem, Rita? Am I mistaken or did you not tell me you had no interest in financial matters?”

  “No, you’re right, Ian. I did tell you that.” Soberly, she sipped the wine, finding it tasted acid on her tongue. She had told him she wanted nothing to do with the financial end. Suddenly, she realized why. It wasn’t that she didn’t consider herself capable; after all, throughout her marriage she had been the one to manage the checking account, pay the bills, sock away a little fund for vacations. No, it wasn’t that she felt inadequate. After all, Ian’s prestigious firm had
not always been her agent. She hadn’t signed with the Ian Martin Agency until she was a fully established author. In the beginning she had been the only one to decide upon contracts, payments, royalty rates, always keeping her eye on the market and delivering books that were salable and in keeping with the readers’ wants and likes. She had decided whether or not she could devote periods of time, her life, actually, to fulfill a contract. And if it happened to be the wrong choice for her, she had lived with it anyway and learned from it.

  Rather, her sudden dislike for finances coincided with the trouble in her marriage. In a roundabout way she blamed her income for the distance between Brett and herself. It was almost as though she were ashamed of it. Brett had certainly made her feel that along with her increased income she had also taken to wearing the pants in the family. His words, not hers. At the end it had been such a bone of contention that she had simply turned away from such things and cheerfully deposited the responsibility with Ian.

  Ian’s hazel eyes blinked and his face ruddied against the stark white of his shirt collar. What had happened to the woman he had sent up here to finish her novel? He had left a trembling, insecure woman and now he found a different woman entirely. Oh, she had the same face, same name, but she wasn’t the Rita Bellamy he knew, and it rankled and displeased him. Not that he ever wanted to feed on her insecurities and indecisions, but he had to admit it was certainly nice being needed and admired by an intelligent woman. Women weren’t the same any longer, not since that ridiculous Women’s Lib, at any rate. They all pretended to be fiercely independent, self-sufficient. What happened to those simple, endearing women who depended upon a man? Even the talented ones, like Rita, who knew their own limitations and admitted them?

  Rita Bellamy was one of those old-fashioned women a man could depend on to boost his ego and see to his comforts. Maternal, loving, quietly deceptive because he knew that within her beat the heart of a very passionate woman. She stirred his blood, flattered his ego, and was so damned pretty. He liked her tremendously and would marry her if she would have him, but Rita always shied away, content to keep things on a professional level. Although there were times when he had thought she was softening to him. Like now, inviting him up to the cottage. He had even packed his silk dressing gown.

  Ian had always been Rita’s confidant and protector, taking care of her when the breakup in her marriage occurred. Hadn’t he been the one to find her the lawyer and consult with him so that ingrate husband of hers wouldn’t rake her over the coals? Now she wanted to handle her own affairs. She had no right to go and change on him, Ian’s temper flared, no right at all! Taking a swallow of wine, he soothed himself. Perhaps it was only this change of life he was always reading about. Rita couldn’t possibly actually mean she intended to take up the reins and make her own decisions.

  “We’re having broiled chicken and salad for dinner, just the way you like it,” Rita called from the kitchen. “The daisies are lovely, thank you, Ian. I’ll keep them near my desk to cheer me up.”

  “You don’t appear to need cheering, darling,” he told her tartly. He had thought he would spend a long evening quietly comforting her and telling her she should come back to the city as soon as her book was finished. He wished someone would comfort him; he had this strange feeling as though the rug was being pulled from under him . . . an inch at a time.

  “So tell me how it’s going?” He had to know what was making her look like this. He had never noticed the lilt in her voice before or the sparkle in her eyes. She had always seemed like a wounded puppy. Oh, she smiled and even laughed, but she had been so defenseless that he wanted to crush her to him and tell her it would be all right, that he would make it all right. That he would share his life with her. After all, their children were grown and neither of them had to account to anyone. He wondered vaguely if the ten-year difference in their ages made a difference. When he was seventy-four she would be only sixty-four.

  As they sipped at the wine and made small talk, he was more than ever aware of the change in her. She was still gentle, she would always be gentle, and the sensitivity still showed, but she was different.

  “When do you think you’ll be coming in to the city?” Ian asked over the rim of his wineglass.

  “I’m not sure,” Rita said vaguely. Maybe never, she thought. Maybe when Twigg left. Maybe before. Maybe she would stay through the winter. She didn’t have to make a decision now. She could drift with the days and make up her mind when she was ready. With Charles in college there was no need to rush back, and she deserved a respite between books.

  “I thought your intention was to stay only till you finished the book.” He tried to keep the snap and churlishness out of his voice but realized he was unsuccessful. Rita didn’t notice.

  “I know, but I like it here. I’m surprised, Ian, that you didn’t notice my new furniture. As you can see, I’m quite comfortable here. I think I write better up here. It’s certainly going well. There’s nothing pressing for me back in town, and we both agreed that I wasn’t going on tour for this book, so really, my time is my own. It won’t cause a problem, will it?” Her voice asked a question, but it clearly stated that she didn’t care if it did make a problem. “What about the children. The grandchildren?” Ian asked sourly.

  Again, Rita failed to notice his tone. “What about them? Ian, they aren’t babies. Camilla is a responsible adult and has a husband to look after her. She’s a wonderful mother and she has her own friends. Even when I’m home I talk to her on the phone, but I don’t see her that often. As for the grandchildren, of course, I’ll miss them but they aren’t my responsibility. Their mother can tend them or get a sitter. I’m sure that you must have noticed that for some reason we’ve grown apart lately.”

  “Yes, of course. It saddens me. You’ve always said that Camilla is closest to you, the one most like you in so many ways.”

  “Perhaps that’s the problem. She was too much like me when we were all a family and growing. Things have changed. I’ve changed and Camilla has changed. She has a stepmother who is a year younger than she is. She doesn’t like my career. Over the past months I’ve sensed that there isn’t a lot Camilla does like about me. I’m sure that in her heart she blames me for the divorce. The word divorcee is not something Camilla has come to terms with. I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything I can do about it. Brett forced me into this position and I intend to grow from it, not backpedal and languish in an empty house. I’m just a late bloomer getting on my feet.”

  “Rita, you’re surprising me. I’ve never seen this side of you. Whatever you want is fine with me. I’m just concerned that you don’t make . . . make . . .”

  “A fool of myself? Say it, Ian. Don’t talk around it and up and down it. If I do make a fool of myself over something, anything, then I’ll have to take the responsibility for it. It will be my decision, my choice. I may do things wrong, make a mess of certain things, but I’ll learn from my mistakes. I can live with that. Everyone else will have to live with that too.”

  “And Rachel and Charles?”

  “Rachel is Rachel. She accepts me as I am. She has never made demands on me, and I sincerely believe she’s the only one who doesn’t secretly blame me for the divorce. She’s been after me for over a year to ‘get with it,’ as she puts it. I think she’ll encourage me in my independence. Charles, I’m not sure about. He still needs me, but in a limited way. He wants to know that Mom is there when he wants her. He may never physically need me, but it’s important for him to know that he can at least count on me. He’s going to start growing on his own now that he’s in college. If we’re very lucky, we can grow together. If not, one of us is going to have to take some lumps.”

  Ian finished the last of his wine and poured some more from the bottle. “Rita, I hardly know you anymore,” he said softly.

  Rita smiled. Now where had she heard those words before? “I think our dinner is ready. You’re a good friend, Ian. I hope you won’t endanger our wonderful relations
hip by censoring me for anything. Let me try my wings. But don’t catch me if they get clipped. Deal?”

  What could he say? “Deal,” he said morosely.

  Rita chattered happily all through dinner. She might see Twigg soon. She hoped she could carry off the visit so that Ian wouldn’t suspect anything. Ian was astute and tuned in. The warm feeling stayed with her when she realized she didn’t really care if Ian knew. It was just that everything was so new that she wanted to keep it to herself for a while. Later, much later, she would decide if the children needed to know, and if so, how she would handle it. Probably not well, she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Rita came out of her cocoon long enough to sense there was something bothering Ian. “Is something bothering you, Ian? Something you want to talk about? I didn’t mean to offend you before. I think it’s time that I started doing and thinking for myself. I could have written you a letter, but I thought it would be better if we discussed it between ourselves.” She didn’t want him to know that she had come to this decision suddenly. As suddenly as she had decided to take Twigg for her lover. Her lover. Just the thought brought pink to her cheeks.

  Ian brushed at his salt-and-pepper hair. He knew he was an attractive man, well groomed and polished. He had never considered women a problem for him, not even during his marriage to Dorothy. When he was younger he had to literally beat them off, and his wife, rest her soul, had never been the wiser. He wasn’t a complete cad, after all. A few indiscretions, an occasional affair, but always he had been considerate of the woman who mothered his children, protecting her from any knowledge of the lapses due to his randier nature.

  No, he had never had to force himself upon a woman, and it annoyed him that Rita seemed impervious to his charms. He didn’t like it. At all. He stared at Rita, knowing she expected an answer of some kind. He wasn’t certain he loved her. Wasn’t even certain he was capable of love at his stage in life. He did know he desired her and was certain that if he could get her into bed he could please her sexually.