Dory felt as though she had just closed her eyes when the phone jangled. Thinking it was Griff, she crawled groggily across the room. “Hello,” she said sleepily.
“Dory, it’s Lily. I just got home and I’m calling like I promised, to give you the muffin recipe. Do you have a pencil?”
“Of course,” Dory lied. Why me, she said silently, her eyes raised upward. She listened patiently while Lily read off ingredients and measurements. “Thank you, Lily,” she mumbled between clenched teeth.
Sleep was out of the question now. She might as well get up, change her clothes and get to work. Maybe Griff would change his mind and make it home tonight after all. If she could entice the movers to set up the bed and place the furniture, she could get on with the unpacking.
It was late afternoon when she realized she was hungry. Dory looked around to survey her handiwork. She felt pleased with herself. She had definitely made inroads. Tomorrow, the drapery people would hang the curtains and the surprise chair she had purchased for Griff would arrive. Covered in a deep plum velour, it would give his study just the touch of color needed to make the room restful and yet attractive. He was going to be so surprised. She smiled to herself as she envisioned the way he would pick her up and twirl her around, his eyes laughing merrily. Then he would say, “How did you know this was exactly what I wanted?” And then she would say, “Because I think like you do and can read your mind.” They would kiss, a long, searing, burning, mind-reeling kiss, and then they would go to bed and make the universe tilt the way it always did. If I don’t get some food, Dory thought, I won’t have the strength to kiss him, much less tilt universes.
She backed the SUV out of the parking spot and headed back toward Jefferson Davis Parkway. She drove till she came to Fern Terrace and Ollie’s Trolley. It was a real trolley car, converted into a diner, and Ollie had the best chili dogs on the eastern seaboard. At least that’s what his sign proclaimed. Dory tested his advertisement and agreed. Two chili dogs, one giant root beer and one envelope of greasy French fries made her burp with pleasure. “Ollie,” Dory said as she paid her check, “you are indeed a prince among men. You deliver what you promise. I think these were the best hot dogs I’ve ever eaten.”
The man named Ollie threw back his head and laughed. He had baby-fine hair that barely covered his scalp and an infectious laugh, and Dory found herself joining in. “I get people from all over. Secret is in just serving what you advertise. When you add to your menu, that’s when you get into trouble. As you noticed, the French fries leave a lot to be desired, but I have to serve them. Kids demand French fries. You were lucky, I was just getting ready to close up. Good day today. I had two senators and the secretary of the navy sent his aide for a batch of my dogs. The Pentagon is my best customer. You take that Senator Collins. He comes here three times a week. He says he’s never getting married as long as I stay in business.”
Dory’s ears perked up. “He’s the young good-looking one from somewhere in New England, isn’t he? A bachelor and the youngest man in the Senate, right?”
“That’s the one,” Ollie said, packing up his stained wrap-around apron in a plastic bag for his wife to wash. “Three days a week, huh?”
“Yep. Why, a person could just stop by, say around one-ish and you’ll find him leaning against the trolley eating three dogs. Always has two root beers. Never touches the French fries. Says the grease gives him zits. He’s always gettin’ his picture took and he don’t want no . . . blemishes marking up that good-lookin’ face of his. You new around here?” he asked, shoving his money bag into his plastic carryall.
“Just moved in today. I live over in the town houses on Jeff Davis Parkway. My name’s Dory Faraday,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Nick Papopolous, a.k.a. Ollie,” Nick said, offering her a hand and arm as large as a railroad tie. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car. Lots of loonies around here.” To prove his point, he withdrew a heavy-looking black gun and shoved it into his belt. He didn’t bother to pull his shirt down over the weapon, preferring to let it show. “I got a permit for this,” he said, pulling the door closed behind him.
Dory watched in awe as he tossed his plastic bag full of money and his dirty apron into the back of a Mercedes 380SL. The hot dog business must be good, Dory thought as she guided the SUV out of the parking lot. Drake Collins, the newest, the youngest, the sexiest senator on Capitol Hill. Soiree would love him. Unattached, brilliant, going far, eye on the governor’s chair. What more could a girl want, especially an unemployed girl. Woman. Career person. Soiree reader. Soiree was aimed at the successful woman and was rated second only to Time. Collins was perfect for her first Soiree profile. She would definitely make it her business to lunch at Ollie’s Trolley every chance she got. But first things first. She had to finish the house and start school.
For some reason she felt annoyed and out of sorts when she got back to the house. The boxes of books made her frown. She had to find a place for them until she could have some shelves installed. One more day to herself before she hit the classroom. Even though she was late, she would catch up. She would have to!
Dory made up the bed, showered and washed her hair. Wrapped in a cheerful lemon-colored robe, she gazed down at the bold geometries of slate grays and umber browns on the crisp sheets and pillowcases. Griff loved this particular set of sheets, saying they made him want to do wild, impetuous things to her. She was propping the pillows up so she could read when the phone suddenly rang. It had to be Griff saying good night. She smiled as she picked up the phone. Her voice was a low, sensuous purr. “I miss you, darling,” she said, leaning back into her nest of pillows.
“You’d be in big trouble if it wasn’t me on the phone,” Griff laughed.
“Who else would be calling me after dark? I really don’t want to complain but this bed is so big and I’m not taking up much room. I wish you were here.”
“I do too, honey. But I’ve got my work carved out for me here. This was a golden opportunity that was too good to refuse. It just came at a bad time. I’m sorry. There’s eleven thoroughbred horses in the senator’s stables, and this afternoon I began inducing labor in one of his prize mares. By noon tomorrow she should drop a fine colt.”
Dory bristled. Normally, she loved to hear Griff talk about his work. She loved animals too, but this . . . this was too much. She had just propositioned him over the phone, and he was telling her about a prize mare and eleven thoroughbreds. Even as she thought it, Dory felt ashamed. Just because her needs weren’t being met was no reason to get her back up. Griff had needs too.
“Dory?” his voice questioned. “Are you there?”
“I’m here, Griff.”
“You’re not angry, are you? Tell me you understand, Dory.”
“I do, Griff. It’s just that this would have been our first night together in our own house. I thought you would carry me over the threshhold and we could have some wine. You’d light the fireplace in the bedroom and we’d make long, lazy love. But it’s all right. I understand.”
Griff’s groan was clearly audible. Dory felt smug. At least now he knew what he was missing. “We’ll do that tomorrow night and that’s a promise. Now that you’ve churned me all up, I’m going to have to take a cold shower. By the way, did Sylvia give you a hand today? She offered to help.”
Dory thought of Sylvia and then of Duke and the smitten looks on both their faces. “Yes, Sylvia helped,” Dory said grudgingly. Helped herself is what she did, the nasty thought concluded.
“She’s something. I think she’s one of those people you can always count on in a pinch,” Griff was saying. “Look how she hunted apartments for us.”
“Hmmmm. I suppose.” And look what the wonderful Sylvia came up with, Dory grimaced, thinking of that last especially unattractive apartment house complete with Sylvia’s own brand of grime.
“Remember now, we have a date for tomorrow night. I’ll give you a call sometime during the day if I get a chance. I love y
ou, Dory.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to give her usual response of “I love you, darling” but she didn’t. Instead she said, “Me too.”
Dory lay for a long time staring at the ominous jacket of Dean Koontz’s latest book. Tomorrow wouldn’t be the same. Tomorrow was tomorrow and this was now. Today. The first night. How could tomorrow possibly be the same? She felt cheated. Angry and cheated. And she didn’t like it.
She opened the book with a dramatic flourish. And just what did one do for a horse in labor that took the entire night? Priorities. Order of preference. She came after a horse. And induced labor? The thought just struck her. If Griff had had to induce the labor, couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow? He was setting the timetable, not Mother Nature!
Her eyes snapped and chewed at the words written by Koontz, not comprehending, not caring. Angrily, Dory leapt from the bed, the new book skidding to the floor. She ripped the geometric sheets from the bed and carried them to a white wicker hamper in the dressing room. She replaced them with a frilly set of lacy ruffled sheets and pulled them up haphazardly. These sheets were designed with a single woman in mind. Extravagantly feminine, too lush, too Victorian to make a man feel comfortable.
Sitting alone on her girlish bed didn’t make her feel a hell of a lot better. Griff could have talked to her longer. He could have said more. Been more romantic. Groans didn’t count. He could have asked her how her day went, how she had made the trip down from New York. How the house was coming. He could even have asked about his SUV! For all he knew, she could have had an accident. Sylvia. Horses. He was only allowing himself a precious few minutes to talk to the woman he said he loved, and yet he talked about a horse she didn’t even know and a woman she wasn’t certain she even liked.
She wouldn’t cry. What was the point? To feel better? Would tears really make the hurt go away? Too bad she didn’t have a Band-Aid big enough to ease the pain she was feeling. Was she expecting too much? Would she be feeling the same way if they were married and this happened? Griff had priorities, but so did she, damn it. If she could put him first, why couldn’t he put her first?
What really hurt was the fact that she was disappointed in Griff. Not in the circumstances, but in Griff himself. Was it unrealistic to expect the man you love to come home on the first night and make love to you? No, and tomorrow wouldn’t be the same. How could Griff think it would be? For God’s sake, she wasn’t sitting here waiting to be seduced. Their relationship was beyond that stage.
She felt as if she had been put through a mill and had come out mangled and smashed. It was so damn easy to pick up the phone and make a call, sure in the knowledge that the other person would understand and forgive. Forgive, yes; forget, no. When you hurt you don’t forget, she told herself. And when you’re taken for granted, you don’t forget that either.
Despite her resolution not to cry, the tears trickled down her cheeks. She wanted him to want to come home to her. She didn’t care about priorities, she didn’t want to think about them. All she wanted was Griff here beside her. She wanted him here telling her he loved her and it was right, this move to D.C. Goddamn it, she needed reassurance. Second fiddle to a horse. Wait till Pixie heard about this one.
Sleep would never come now. She should get up and watch television till she worked off her hostility. Or better yet, have a few snorts from the bottle of brandy Pixie had given her. Now, if she could just remember where she had put it, she could get pleasantly sloshed. Snookered, maybe. On second thought, three aspirins would be better, she decided. Besides, she had promised herself to save the brandy to toast Pixie’s story.
Dory punched the pillow with a vengeance. She was angry, frustrated, out of control. The thought made her rigid. Eventually, she slept, her dreams panicked by a wild-eyed stallion carrying Sylvia on his back as he raced up and down Jefferson Davis Parkway. She woke exhausted.
Chapter Four
The draperies were hung and pinned by noon; the new chair for Griff’s den was delivered. Both Lily and Sylvia called to invite her to lunch. She begged off, saying she had to do some grocery shopping and pick up a map so she could find her way to Georgetown University the next day. “I want to make Griff’s favorite dinner, so I don’t have all that much time,” she told Sylvia.
“Are you going to freeze it?” Sylvia asked indifferently.
“No, why?”
“I just spoke to John and he said they wouldn’t be home till late this evening. We were invited out for drinks and dinner, and now I either have to go alone or cancel. I don’t suppose you’d like to go with me, would you? Griff suggested I ask you.”
Out of control, out of control, her mind screamed as Sylvia rattled on about how she had told Griff Dory wasn’t ready yet for the social scene and to give her time.
Dory floundered. “Well then, I’ll just have a snack and get my things ready for tomorrow. First day of school. Thanks for calling, Sylvia. I appreciate the invitation, but some other time.” She broke the connection, not waiting for Sylvia’s reply.
Lily’s phone call was an invitation also. She wanted Dory to come over and watch her make quince jelly, Rick’s favorite. “I thought we could have tea and I’d make some fresh crumpets or scones. Little Ricky is so good in the afternoon, he just plays in his crib. We could have a nice long talk and really get to know one another.”
Dory rattled off a list of real and imaginary things she had to do. When she hung up the phone she felt as though she had done ten laps in a whirlpool. Upstream!
She was on her way out the door when the phone rang a third time. Dory debated for four rings before she picked up the receiver. Her voice was controlled. It was Griff, a cheerful Griff, asking how she was and what she was doing.
“Not much. I was just going to the supermarket, if I can find it, that is. I understand you won’t be home for dinner.”
“I hope you don’t mind. I should be home around nine thirty or so. Just fix me a sandwich. Remember now, we have a date.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Dory said lightly. Damn, why did his voice sound so preoccupied? He was saying words but his mind was somewhere else. She could tell. “What kind of sandwich would you like?”
“What? Oh, anything. Pastrami and corned beef on rye would be good. Don’t overdo, darling. Save some of your energy for this evening. I have to run now—the others are waiting for me. Love you.”
Dory replaced the phone and stared at it for a long, mesmerizing minute. Day two and already there was trouble in paradise. No one had said it would be easy. Adjustments all the way. With her doing the adjusting. Lizzie had tried to warn her. Katy had been right on target when she said, “A woman gives ninety percent to every relationship. The man gives five percent and the dog the other five.” Dory wondered what happed to the last five percent if one didn’t have a dog.
All the way to the supermarket she told herself she was just feeling sorry for herself because she was alone with nothing to do. Nothing mental, that is. Physical work always frustrated her. She wasn’t using her mind.
Tonight when she saw Griff things would be different. If they weren’t different, this arrangement wasn’t going to work. She would give fifty percent, maybe sixty percent, but that was her bottom line. She was getting off the track here. It was time to restructure her thinking before something serious happened. So what if Griff had to work late and be away? It was his job and she had said she understood.
She was being selfish. Selfish and childish. It had been a long time since she had answered to anyone, if there ever had been a time. The only person she had to please or defend was herself. Now she was thrust into a new ball game where there was a second player and she was going to have to adjust and realize she couldn’t have everything her own way. No snapping of the fingers and getting whatever she wanted. And what did she want? To be happy with Griff. To be with Griff. To share Griff’s life. That was what she wanted. So what if she didn’t like some of the adjustments? She could live with that. She cou
ld adjust. In her own way.
Dory felt better immediately. She would surprise Griff and make a late dinner. Something that could hold and not be ruined if he was late. She would put the little rosewood table that had been her grandmother’s in front of the living room fireplace. The new place mats and napkins, of course, and she would wear her cashmere lounging robe and dab the new, exotic perfume she hadn’t used yet behind each ear and into the deep V of her breasts. She would seduce him first with her dinner and then with her body. She giggled to herself as she walked up and down the aisles of the supermarket, tossing in items helter-skelter. She bought all the ingredients for a succulent lamb stew and the makings for bread. Now, all she had to do was go home and get out her cookbook. If all else failed, she could always call the obliging Lily.
Dory watched in awe as the totals came to life on the cash register. How could she have spent one hundred sixteen dollars on four bags of groceries? Cooking certainly was expensive. She whipped out her Gucci wallet from her Gucci handbag and paid the bill. She felt momentarily deflated. She could have bought a silk blouse at Bloomingdale’s for one hundred sixteen dollars. She would talk to Griff about groceries when she got a chance. They would have to arrive at some manner of sharing the bills.
On the drive back to the house she let her mind race up and down an invisible column of figures. Drapes, the chair for Griff, the new sheets and towels she had bought at Saks before coming down here, the odds and ends from Macy’s Cellar, the deposits for the utilities, the cost of tuition and registration, not to mention the books she would have to buy, and now this one hundred sixteen dollars. The invisible sum stunned her. A quarter of a new fall wardrobe; a down payment on a mink coat; twenty-eight pairs of shoes. This new life wasn’t a mistake, was it? This was unusual for her, this vacillation. What was wrong with her? No one forced her to come here; it was her own decision. That was it, the word “decision.” Was it the wrong one? She couldn’t think about all that now. Now she had to think about cooking dinner: lamb stew with homemade bread. Peach pie for dessert. Coffee and then a drink in front of the fireplace. The congressional aide had left plenty of logs for her use. It was going to be perfect, and then tomorrow, bright and early, she would start her studies at Georgetown. Pursuing her studies had to take top priority. God, how she was beginning to hate that word. Nothing and no one was going to rain on her parade.
Balancing Act Page 22
