Stopping at a restaurant for lunch, Rita delayed and lingered over coffee so she would arrive at the stadium just before game time. There was no point in arriving early and bearing up under the strain of spending all her time with Brett and his new wife.
Walking outside into the chill after the warmth of the restaurant, she was glad she had worn her mink jacket and high, fleece-lined boots. She wished Twigg was with her so the two of them could cheer for Charles. Twigg would like her son, and Charles would like Twigg. Perhaps, at first, there would be some resentment, but later they would learn to appreciate one another. She laughed uneasily. Whatever gave her the idea there would ever be a “later”? Now, and only now, was all that was important.
It was like old home week when Rita took her seat in the crowded college stadium. Surprisingly, Camilla and Tom were there. Brett hadn’t yet made his appearance. Camilla wrapped her arms around her mother. “Tom said we had to come and root for Charles. We had a devil of a time getting tickets though. We’re two rows ahead of you.”
“I’m so glad you came, honey. Charles will be so happy to have all of us here. He has a girl,” Rita whispered. “He’s bringing her up to the cottage next weekend.”
“We had our dinner with Tom’s folks. I’m glad I came, Mom. Family is, and should be, very important.” Rita steeled herself for Camilla’s diatribe on family closeness, complete with charged and veiled statements concerning one’s duty to family solidarity. Instead, she heard her oldest daughter say, “The kids miss you, Mom. Let’s not be angry with one another. Maybe one of these days I’ll understand and I’ll handle it better. Just hang in there with me, okay?”
“Okay,” Rita said softly, hardly daring to believe her ears. “You’d better take your seat. I’ll see you later. They’re tuning up for the ‘National Anthem.’ ”
Tom put his arm around Camilla and looked at her approvingly. He leaned over from his tall, rangy height to plant a kiss on Rita’s cheek. “Do you know how wonderful you look?” he asked.
She laughed; the sound was carefree and almost girlish to her own ears. “I feel wonderful, Tom.”
“Daddy isn’t here?” Camilla complained.
“He will be, don’t worry. He probably had trouble getting a parking space. Are you warm enough? I brought a blanket.”
“We did too. Keep it, it must be all of ten degrees.”
There were three minutes to play in the first quarter when Brett arrived with his wife. Rita’s eyes widened in surprise as he ushered Melissa past pairs of knees. “Rita,” he said pleasantly, “this is Melissa.”
“Hello.” Rita smiled at the young, dark-haired woman. How young, was her first thought. How pretty and wholesome, was her second. How very, very pregnant, was her third! It was a shock, but not unpleasant. Funny, Camilla had never mentioned Melissa’s pregnancy. Did she think her mother would be devastated by the news? Truthfully, Rita knew that only months ago it would have sent her into a panic and a depression. Now, since Twigg, she had gained a different perspective.
Brett looked happy. Happier than she had seen him in years. Contented. A contentment and excitement that she had once been responsible for, when she was young and hugely pregnant. And Brett looks younger too, she thought, softer and somehow more mellow. He’s not fighting for his identity; his ego is intact. How awful it must have been for him when he was so insecure and uncertain of his place as her husband, of his masculinity and position as head of the household. Her career and its rewards had stripped him of that, she knew. Money was freedom and, according to Brett, possessed a masculine gender. Freedom was for men, just like power. She was glad to see he wasn’t shattered by the changes she had wrought in his life. He had been and still was very important to both her and their children.
Melissa glanced up at Brett when he tucked a thick blanket around her knees. She adores him, Rita saw. Did I look up at him that way? Of course I did, when all I wanted from him was love and security. As soon as I wanted more, like support and understanding and respect, that’s when he began to balk. Men like Brett revered women, they didn’t respect them—there was a difference. Like gallant, white knights their image of themselves only shines through a woman’s adoring eyes.
A sudden thought stunned Rita. Brett hadn’t deserted her after all! He hadn’t divorced her because he had found her lacking. No, to the contrary, he had found Rita, the young, adoring, dependent Rita all over again in Melissa! His new wife was probably the same person Rita had been at the same tender age!
Pleased with her realization, Rita sat back and watched the playing field. How nice to know that Brett had loved the life he had shared with her enough that he had actively sought to duplicate it. She had not been so much a failure as a wife and mother if he sought the same things in Melissa. Brett was positively beaming, proud as a rooster and just a little pathetic. What would happen, Rita wondered, if Melissa proved to be a “late bloomer” as she was?
“Are Camilla and Tom here?” Brett asked. “Where’s Rachel?”
“Camilla and Tom are two rows ahead of us. Rachel is still up at the lake. She wants to do some skiing.” She saw Brett’s eyes go to his wife and her chattering teeth. Poor thing, her coat barely covered her stomach. She must be freezing. Rita removed the heavy plaid robe from her knees and nudged Brett. “Here. Give this to Melissa. She’s cold.”
Brett rewarded her with a smile. How well she remembered those smiles. They used to light up her life during those early years. When had smiles ceased to be enough?
Melissa seemed a bit wary of taking her husband’s ex-wife’s blanket. “I’ll just go down and squeeze in between Camilla and Tom,” Rita said. “It was nice to see you, Brett. Very nice. Melissa, much happiness with your new baby.” The young girl nodded and tried to smile, pulling the blanket closer around her. “Brett, why don’t you take Melissa home? This is no time for her to get sick. I’ll explain to Charles. He’ll understand.”
“If you think he’ll understand, okay,” Brett said, relieved.
“Before you go, can you spare a minute for Camilla and Tom? They’d like to say hello.”
Brett looked at Rita, thinking how wonderful she looked. Fresher, more confident . . . something he couldn’t put a finger on. There was a style about her, a certain flair . . . a man. It was a man! The thought saddened him. Rita had so much to offer a man, this he knew from experience. Warmth, tenderness, loyalty. Why hadn’t she been able to offer him those things when they were married? Why had she insisted on pursuing that silly career? Melissa was holding on to his arm to keep her balance. No matter, Brett thought with certainty. He had Melissa now, and this time he was going to be certain this wife didn’t get crazy ideas!
Camilla was stunned when she looked up at her father and stepmother. Her father hadn’t said a word about the baby. Clearly, talking on the phone every day and seeing were two different things.
Melissa and Camilla hugged and Brett and Tom shook hands. It was obvious to Rita that they all shared warm feelings for one another and she realized she was glad. Brett had divorced her, not the children, and it would be unfair to expect them to take sides against their father. Brett lovingly assisted Melissa up the stairs to the exit, a protective arm about her. Camilla approached Rita excitedly. “My God, Mother, my kids will be that baby’s nieces and nephews. Tom, say something!” Her husband grinned at Rita and went back to watching the game.
“Mother, say something.”
Rita laughed. “Camilla, your father is deliriously happy. Let him enjoy it. You may feel uncomfortable for a while, but eventually you’ll get used to the idea. Now watch your brother; he has the ball.”
After the game in the Knife and Fork, the campus coffee shop, Rita waited along with Camilla and Tom for Charles and his girl, Nancy.
“I wonder what she’s like,” Camilla speculated.
“I’m kind of curious myself.” Rita smiled.
“If I know Charles, she’s probably centerfold material. He always goes for the flash.” To
m grinned.
Charles walked in, his hair damp and slicked back. A young girl in a heavy jacket with a hood was beside him. How big he looked. How tiny she looked. There was an air of protectiveness about Charles when he gently pushed the girl forward. “Mom, Camilla, Tom, this is Nancy Ames. Nancy, this is my family. Where’s Dad?”
Rita quickly explained. She dreaded the look on her son’s face. Instead, she saw it split in an ear-to-ear grin. “You’re kidding! That’s great. Maybe it’ll be a boy and I can take him under my wing.”
Nancy slid into the booth. “I’ve read all your books, Mrs. Bellamy. I think they’re super. All the girls in the dorm read them. We don’t pass them around either; we each buy our own.”
“That’s so nice to hear.” Rita smiled. Charles preened. His girl read his mom’s books and liked them. Hell, what more could a guy ask for?
Was she mistaken or was there a new note of respect in Camilla’s eyes? “Are we all set for this weekend, Mom?” Charles asked.
“All set. I even went out and bought two snowmobiles. His and hers, so to speak. That snow is going to be around for a long time. I’m glad you’re coming up, Charles. I have a friend I want you to meet. His name is Twigg Peterson. I think you’re going to like him.” The statement bubbled out of her and she realized how good it felt to say those words. Charles and Twigg would like one another, and the thought pleased her. She wanted her children to know the man in her life. Seeing Brett again with her new confidence and this sense of herself had relieved her of the burden of the past. She could be free of old memories and ancient hurts and could look to the future. She could believe in herself and could trust in love. Twigg’s love.
“I’d like to spend more time with you, but I have a long drive ahead of me. Camilla, call me next week. Remember, any time you want to come up, the door is open. Tom, take care of her for me. Nancy, it was nice meeting you. When you come up, I’ll have a copy of the bound galleys for my new book. Perhaps you’d like to see what a book looks like before it gets to the bookstore.”
“Charles, do you need anything?” she whispered in his ear as she hugged him.
“I’m okay, Mom. Dulcie sent the brownies. In fact, she sends a batch regularly now. I’ll see you on the weekend. This Twigg guy, is he the one Rachel bent my ear about?”
“One and the same.” Rita laughed.
“She struck out, huh?” Charles whispered in her ear. Rita shrugged. “You always were a class act, Mom.” He kissed her soundly on both cheeks and then walked her to the door. “Drive carefully. It’s supposed to snow again this evening.”
“I’ll be careful and, Charles, I like your girl.”
“I knew you would. See you, Mom.”
“See you, son.”
Chapter Ten
Rita swung the car onto the interstate, hoping she could reach the lake before it began snowing again. It had been an enlightening afternoon, and she was glad she had gone to Charles’s game. Seeing Brett and Melissa had relieved her of those last vestiges of guilt, and she felt lighter now, as if she had shrugged off a heavy cloak. Oh, she knew it wouldn’t always be that simple; one just didn’t wipe away over twenty years of marriage. But she was making a good start. The guilt she had carried for not being the wife Brett wanted and the mother her children expected was unfair and unjust. She would have nothing more to do with it. She hadn’t traded her family and those she loved for the glory of a career or pursuing her own selfish interests. She was neither wife, nor mother, nor best-selling author. “Those are the things I do,” she said aloud as though to reaffirm her decision, “those are things I do and not who I am.”
Who am I? The answer came easily. I’m a woman who loves a man. I love Twigg. I’ll fight for him if I must, even if my adversary is my own daughter. Twigg understood. She loved him and, more, she trusted him. Even with her innermost and tenderest of feelings.
Perhaps Connie had known what she was asking of Rita. “Do you expect to be hurt?” At the time, Rita had missed the point. The truth was that she did. Always had.
She’d expected to be hurt by her children just because they were all growing as people, no longer babies to be cuddled and burped. That was a rough one, letting go. If the fact escaped her before this, she now faced the truth. She had sold them short, each one of them, Camilla, Rachel, and Charles. She had sent out unspoken but clear signals that cried, Need me! I’m your mother! I’ll always be here for you! Only Rachel had struck out on her own, becoming independent. And because Rita feared losing her altogether, she had catered to Rachel, refusing to censor, even silently, the girl’s most selfish and promiscuous behavior.
Making loans she never expected to be repaid, buying expensive gifts, becoming an easily available babysitter . . . it all amounted to the same thing. She had demanded her children prove their love by remaining dependent upon her. And when she had had enough and withdrew, they naturally resented it. The whole pattern was destructive, both to them and herself. Thank heavens she had seen it before it was too late! She might have destroyed her children, sacrificed them to her own needs. And in the end when they turned on her, and they would have, she would have seen herself as their victim! Just the way her own mother felt victimized when Rita turned away from her.
Victim. It had an ugly, unpleasant sound. Was that what Connie had meant? Did she realize Rita expected to be a victim? Did she expect to be hurt?
Rita had expected to be hurt when she saw Brett again. Instead, the meeting had given her new insights about who she had been and who she was now. Was it her image of herself as a victim that kept her from admitting her love to Twigg? Was that the real barrier and not the difference in their ages?
The snow was falling steadily, thick, heavy flakes freezing to the windshield.
Rita kept her eyes glued to the road. She was a fool to start out in such weather conditions. God, where were the plows, the snow trucks with their ashes and salt? Home, eating leftover turkey, she answered herself. Annoyed with the radio, she switched it off. She didn’t need to be reminded that driving conditions were hazardous. If there was anything to be glad about, it was that her car had front-wheel drive.
An hour to drive under normal conditions, two with this weather, possibly even three before she would make the Whitehaven turnoff.
She blessed the tiny red lights in front of her. They were like a beacon for her and helped her stay on the road. God, how her eyes ached. Her shoulders were hunched over as she strained to see through the driving, swirling snow. Fearfully, she noticed the sluggishness of the windshield wipers. Not ice, please God, not ice. If the wipers froze, she was in real trouble.
A low rumble behind her made her look into the rearview mirror. A snowplow. She inched over as far as she dared to let him pass her. Once the ash was spread, she could follow him, providing he was going past Whitehaven. Surely, he was just ashing the interstate and not the turnoffs or side roads.
The wipers were freezing badly now and needed to be scraped. Visibility, however, was better as the glow from the truck’s taillights provided her with a small beacon to follow. At least she was staying on the road with the ash for traction.
It had been a long time since she prayed. Far too long. To do so now seemed like cheating. Instead, she blessed herself and said her children’s names over and over. For the life of her she couldn’t remember the names of her grandchildren. For sure she would never make “Mother of the Year.” Mother of the Year would remember her grandchildren’s names.
She couldn’t see, the red lights in front of her were now barely visible. Her back window was full of snow and the side mirror frozen stiff with ice and sleet. She had to stop and pray that if there were anyone behind her, he would stop in time.
Her fingers were numb in their thin leather casing as she tried to chip and pry at the frozen wipers. Tears gathered in her soft blue eyes and instantly froze on her eyelashes. There was no point in trying the passenger side. She did the best she could and climbed back into the car. The twin r
ed lights were specks in the distance. She accelerated slowly and caught up to the snowplow. Her grip in the sodden leather gloves was fierce, and her shoulders felt as though she was carrying a twenty-pound load.
She drove steadily for what seemed like hours. The huge road signs were covered with snow. God, how was she to know when she reached the Whitehaven turnoff? There was something there, but what was it? A marker, an identifying mark of some kind. If only she could remember. A campground sign, that’s what it was. She had to watch for a turnoff with a double sign. She switched on the radio and got nothing but static. She turned it off and felt like crying. How stupid she was. What if she had an accident and died all alone out here on an interstate highway? When would she be found? Who would mourn her? What would Twigg feel? What would he say? If only she knew. Crazy, wretched thoughts filled her mind as she continued to follow the ash truck.
She was so intent on planning her own funeral she almost missed the sign. A sob caught in her throat. She maneuvered the car slowly off the road and up the curving ramp. She turned right and saw the lights for the truck stop. Inching her way down the snowy road, she turned into the well-filled lot where the lights gleamed and sparkled like Christmas lights.
The warmth and steam from inside hit her like a blast furnace. She looked for a vacant seat and sat down. A beefy trucker moved his heavy jacket and looked at her sympathetically. “Bad out there, huh?” She nodded and ordered a cup of black coffee from the waitress. The young, friendly girl looked at her, took in the mink coat and designer boots. “Is your name Rita?”
“Yes, why?” Lord, she didn’t need another fan tonight.
“Some guy’s been in here six, maybe seven, times looking for a woman in a mink coat. You match his description. There’s somebody out there looking for you, lady. He’s like a phantom; he comes and goes on a red snowmobile.”
“He’s been riding up and down the interstate,” the trucker with the heavy jacket volunteered.
Balancing Act Page 14
