Balancing Act

by Fern Michaels

  By five thirty the lamb stew was simmering, the peach pie was baking, and Dory was patting two loaves of bread into baking pans. She was smeared from head to toe with flour. This cooking was a bit much, in her opinion. She didn’t see how women did it every day, three times a day.

  While the dishes and pots and pans soaked she would change her clothes and put on her lounging robe. The worst part of the work was over now. She looked in dismay at her smudged and wrinkled shirt and flour-smeared jeans. Even her tattered sneakers from college wore a light dusting of flour. Her hair was tied back with a piece of string, and she looked a mess.

  Novice that she was in the kitchen, Dory checked everything and set all the timers twice before she felt safe enough to fill the tub for a long, leisurely bath. Lord, she was tired. She should sleep like a log tonight. For more reasons than one, she smiled to herself as she made her way upstairs. She was halfway up when she heard a key in the lock. Wide-eyed, unable to move, she stood frozen on the steps and waited to see who it was that dared invade her new home.

  “Griff!” It couldn’t be Griff. It was Griff. He couldn’t see her looking like this. But he was seeing her like this—and what was that strange look in his eye? Disbelief. By God, it was disbelief.

  “Dory?” It was a question and a statement all in one.

  Wild thoughts careered around in Dory’s head. “Hi, darling. I was just going up to take a bath. Now that you’re here, why don’t you join me in a nice hot shower?”

  “What I need is a drink, not a shower. Something smells good.”

  “Lamb stew, peach pie and homemade bread. I think it’s the bread that smells so good.”

  “I bet you even churned the butter,” Griff said lazily as he smiled at Dory’s flour-smudged face.

  “That’s next week, “ she grinned, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “I didn’t expect you till later.” She realized suddenly how stiff the words had sounded. Almost like an accusation. Was she always going to hear about Griff’s schedule and plans first from Sylvia or Lily? Was it only an afterthought on Griff’s part to call her and tell her himself? “I’m such a mess,” Dory blurted, hoping the edge had left her voice. “Oh, Griff, I wanted everything to be so special for your first night at home. You’ve caught me at my worst.”

  “I thought we were having baloney sandwiches,” he grinned, gathering her into his arms. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed the recrimination in her tone.

  “You said pastrami and corned beef. I thought this would be better.” Dory snuggled closer into his embrace. “If you’re going to work all kinds of crazy hours, you need good, substantial food. Also, you better enjoy it now because when I start school you will be eating baloney sandwiches. Kiss me like you haven’t seen me for ten days.”

  “On second thought,” Griff told her, rubbing his mustache on the tip of her nose, making her wrinkle it against the tickling, “maybe a nice warm shower would be a good idea.” He picked her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs. “This is in lieu of carrying you over the threshhold last night.”

  Contented, Dory cuddled in his arms, already anticipating the warm sting of the shower spray and Griff’s warmer hands on her body.

  Wrapped in her cozy, lemon-yellow terry robe, Dory sipped her wine while she watched Griff wolf down his dinner. His appetite would have to serve her as proof of his approval, for the words were not forthcoming. Even little promptings like, “I hope the stew is seasoned to your taste,” and “don’t you think the bread is a bit overdone?” only brought incoherent grunts that neither agreed nor disagreed.

  This certainly wasn’t the romantic evening Dory had envisioned. Their gymnastic lovemaking in the shower was rushed and somehow unsatisfying. The wine and candlelight, which should have been conducive to quiet conversation and romance, served instead as background for the TV news program Griff wanted to watch. Dory glanced longingly at the stereo and the carefully chosen stack of mood-music records she had planned to play.

  Competing with the television for Griff’s attention, Dory tried conversation. “You never told me what kept you at the senator’s farm,” she said softly, compelling him with her green eyes to turn his attention away from the television. The plight of welfare mothers did not seem to fit in with the sumptuous meal she had prepared.

  “Hmmm? Oh, well, our little colt was extremely shy about making his debut into this world. I think I told you the mare should have delivered before noon today. She didn’t make her presentation until almost three in the afternoon. Then we had to fight the traffic back into the city. Fine little colt. The senator raises quarter horses, as well as thoroughbreds, and he has lots of friends with the same interests. His recommendations should be a boon to the clinic.”

  “How did your clinic get involved, Griff? Wasn’t the senator happy with the veterinarians he’d been using?”

  “Actually, it was Sylvia and some of her connections that pulled it through for us. I don’t have to tell you, honey, breaking into any business in the D.C. area can be tough. There’s so much competition. We have Sylvia to be grateful to for this little venture. Fortunately, everything worked out well for the mare and her foal. John and I were quite concerned that inducing labor at the wrong stage of pregnancy could invite a breech birth. Tough on the mother and the baby.”

  An unreasoning chord of jealousy struck Dory. Griff was so damn grateful to Sylvia. She was almost tempted to shatter his regard for the woman by revealing what she suspected between Sylvia and Duke. What’s happening to me? Dory thought, aghast. I’ve never been greedy for petty gossip! I never make judgments and betray other people, especially with the intention of destroying their reputations. Dory was terribly disappointed in herself and was only glad she’d stopped herself in time to keep her suspicions to herself.

  “Did Rick join you and John out at the farm?” Her inquiry was made in a shaking voice. Dory was having doubts about herself and her motives. The whole center of her values seemed to have suddenly shifted. Why? Before she could answer herself, Griff was speaking.

  “No, Rick didn’t come out to the farm. You see the way he is with little Rick and Lily. John and I thought it would be an unnecessary imposition on their family.”

  “Lily is certainly wrapped up in her ‘two men’ as she calls Rick and the baby. Do you think it’s good? I mean, certainly a woman should have something else in her life besides mothering and blueberry muffins.”

  Griff dug heartily into another slice of bread, lathering it thickly with butter. He seemed distracted both by the bread and the news commentary, and he didn’t answer Dory’s question until he’d taken another sip of wine. “I’m not so sure, Dory. Lily is of that special breed who seems most a woman when she’s making a home for her man. Rick certainly adores her, as you can tell.”

  “I’m not asking what’s good for Rick, darling. I’m asking what’s good for Lily.”

  Griff smiled, his eyes lighting, a silly smile spreading beneath his sexy mustache. “I am talking about what’s good for Lily. That girl positively blooms. And didn’t I already tell you how John and I relieved Rick of responsibility out at the farm so he could be home with Lily and the baby? If that’s not good for Lily, I don’t know what is.”

  Dory returned his smile somewhat sheepishly. She didn’t want to spoil this night with a contest of opinions, but she couldn’t help thinking that Rick and Lily had already had so much time together. They were already a family. But last night had been Dory’s first night in her new home, and that didn’t seem to cut any ice with either John or Griff. What was it about Lily that made the partners want to protect her and make her happy? Was it simply that she was the typical “little woman”? What was it about herself that seemed to make it unnecessary for Griff to take special consideration of her, that left him guiltless about spending what should have been a special night for them by nursing a pregnant horse? Did she give the appearance of being totally self-sufficient and understanding about career and responsibility coming first?
Dory stood abruptly and began clearing the table. She didn’t like herself very much this evening and she wasn’t quite certain what to do about it. Why should Sylvia be praised for being cosmopolitan and social climbing and Lily be idolized for being the perfect wife and mother? What about her, Dory? And when, if ever, was Griff going to comment on her efforts to make a home for them?

  The dishes clattered into the sink. Taking a deep breath, Dory tried to rationalize. She was an intelligent woman, but right now she needed some focus to her life that was separate from her activities of setting up a home. Focus. That was what she was used to. Focus on her job, on the people she worked with, on Griff. She simply had to get these things back into perspective. Tomorrow, she promised herself. School, new people, new things to learn and study. Tomorrow, it would be all right.

  Chapter Five

  Griff left for the clinic early in the morning, kissing Dory good-bye as she put their coffee cups into the dishwasher. “Here’s for luck your first day of school. Nervous?”

  “You bet. It’s been some while since I’ve sat in a classroom, don’t forget. But I think there’s still some life in the old gray matter,” she laughed, tapping her head.

  Dory was nervous, more than she cared to admit. After Griff left the house she found herself compulsively straightening cushions and smoothing the bed and giving another swipe of the dishcloth to an already clean white Formica counter. She walked through the house, trying to see the results of her efforts through objective eyes. The soft gray carpeting in the living room picked up the gentle pinks and buffered whites in the Italian marble fireplace. Most of the furnishings from her apartment in New York were already in place; only a few decorator items and knickknacks were still left to be unpacked. The chrome and glass étagère and end tables from Griff’s loft added a striking note of contrast against her more formal traditional pieces of white velvet and damask. She could run into town today and see if she could pick up some toss pillows, a few in the same shade as the carpeting and others in that deep plum color she liked so well, Perhaps she could order several huge stack cushions in plum velvet to serve as extra seating. Her collection of crystal paperweights would look terrific on the glass table banked against the sofa.

  Dory shook her head. What was she doing standing here decorating the living room when she should be upstairs this minute getting dressed?

  Up the carpeted stairs and down the short hallway, Dory entered the bedroom, which, along with its accompanying dressing room and bath, comprised the entire second floor of the town house. There was still much work to be done here. New drapes to be hung, deciding on the accent colors, finding a love seat and easy chair to place before the fireplace. She must see about finding a wax or a finishing compound to bring out the best in the ornately designed andirons. Set with white fieldstone, the fireplace was built into a stuccoed wall and centered on the far side of the room. A really striking tapestry or rug would be just the thing to hang over the hearth.

  Dory’s eye caught the movement of the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. If she didn’t hurry, she would be late for school. The city map she had bought made finding the university easy, but she still didn’t know about parking or even how to find the buildings where her classes were to be held.

  Rifling through her drawers to find underwear and stockings, Dory chewed her bottom lip with worry. She had had every intention of driving out to Georgetown yesterday to get the lay of the land, but somehow she hadn’t done it. Why had she allowed herself to become distracted by household chores and preparing that extravagant dinner? Griff had told her he would be more than satisfied with sandwiches. She could have put her time to better use.

  Rushing for the bathroom and turning on the shower, Dory berated herself for not making her priorities stand. She never should have let herself be sidetracked. She detested being late, and even judged others by how promptly they kept appointments. Stepping under the steaming spray, she pushed back the thought that perhaps her dallying around the house with her various chores might be an indication that she was not as eager to go back to school as she had thought.

  Midway through the first day of school Dory had what Griff later described as an anxiety attack. It hit her when she was walking from one building to the next shortly after the lunch hour. She felt weak and her head reeled. The first thought that ricocheted through her brain was that she was pregnant. Then she realized how ridiculous the thought was and felt worse. She sat down on a bench until the dizziness passed, her heart fluttering wildly. By the time she teetered to her class she had herself diagnosed and was making out a will in her mind. She was to be cremated and . . . God, what would they do with her ashes? Her parents might want them or Aunt Pixie might find some use for them. Griff wanting her ashes never occurred to her. If she was going to die, why was she sitting here in this damn dumb, stupid class trying to convince herself and the instructor that she did indeed want to get her doctorate? As the courtroom voice of the professor droned on, Dory let her mind wander. Some inner sense told her that there was nothing wrong with her, physically. It was nerves, it was all too much, too quick, too fast. She hadn’t adjusted yet. Time. She needed time.

  Time was measured by clocks and calendars, things she had worked with for years. She had always watched the clock, ticked off the days on the calendar, made a schedule and stuck to it. Now, she felt adrift.

  When the class was over Dory hadn’t the faintest idea of what had been said or who sat next to her. The instructor was almost out the door before she got up from her seat. Thank God, she had taped the class. She switched the button on the small Sony recorder and slipped it into her bag. She felt rotten. Not physically rotten. Just rotten. She glanced at her watch and wondered what Katy and the others were doing. If she really wanted to know, she could call up and find out. She didn’t really want to know, she told herself as she walked down the hall looking for a student lounge. A cup of coffee would help. Maybe some crackers or something to settle her churning stomach. She was behaving worse than a child on the first day of school.

  Dory suffered through a two-hour lecture on Chaucer’s boyhood, watching the minute hand on her watch. The instructor walked up and down in front of the class, tapping a pencil against his fat, pink palm. It might have helped her concentration if he was handsome with good teeth. It was no fun to look at a middle-aged, balding man with baggy trousers. There was even a shine to his pants. For shame on his wife, Dory thought. His white shirt was polyester, and gray with repeated washings. Ring around the collar, no doubt. Lily would know how to make the shirt clean again. Little Ricky’s bibs were so blindingly white they hurt the eyes. She wondered what Lily was doing. Where was Sylvia? She wished she was with Griff.

  Her palms were starting to sweat again. By forcing herself to stare at the instructor’s shirtfront she was able to control the attack of dizziness. Think about something pleasant, anything. A meadow of daisies. A clear, sparkling lake filled with jumping fish. Christmas with Pixie and a mound of presents. Damn it to hell, why wasn’t it working? Why was her throat closing? My God, what if she collapsed? She tried clearing her throat and got an annoyed glance from the instructor. Her throat constricted again and she could feel the saliva building up in her mouth. Oh God, don’t let me drool, not here in front of all these people. Was it her imagination or were people staring at her as she dabbed at her wet mouth?

  To get up now and walk out would only call attention to herself. Better to sit still and try to concentrate on the lecture. Why was this instructor so damn long-winded? Didn’t they cut classes short anymore? She wanted to cry when she felt her throat muscles relax. She drew in deep breaths and exhaled slowly. She felt a little better. Thank God.

  Dory looked around at the other students. They all wore rapt expressions. None of them was having an anxiety attack or whatever it was she was having. None of their minds appeared to be wandering the way hers was. They seemed to be accepting the instructor regardless of his looks and clothing. What was wrong
with her? How could she be thinking about such ridiculous things? Or was this one more indication that she wasn’t taking her doctorate seriously? Intentions, good or bad, were one thing; following through was something else entirely. She had to give that theory a lot of thought.

  Dory was the first one out of the room when the professor nodded his head in the general direction of the class. Dismissed. Thank God. If she checked the map, she might have time to stop by the garden nursery she had noticed on her way to school. Autumn blooms and some plants for the house. There would be time to arrange them and place them to the best advantage. Also time for making a pot roast. Griff loved pot roast and so did she. Aunt Pixie always said if you added apple juice to the gravy, you had pure ambrosia.

  She drove with the windows down. She felt wonderful with the crisp fall air whipping at her through the open window. She couldn’t wait to get home and out of the tight, clinging silk slacks and Oscar de la Renta overblouse with matching belt. She kicked the two-hundred-dollar shoes off and wiggled her toes. She had to remember to buy some foot powder for her sneakers. And she needed more than one pair of sneaker socks. Back in New York she had only used the washers and dryers in the basement of the building once every three weeks or so. Everything else went to the cleaners. Now there were Griff’s clothes to launder.