Balancing Act by Fern Michaels

fifteenth or sixteenth man. “Not much going on here. Rather cool today. The chipmunks are out in full force. I ordered new furniture and it was delivered this morning. It looks nice,” Rita volunteered.
    “Mom, Camilla called me last night after your talk with Tom. She was simply beside herself. Mom, she repeated your conversation word-for-word.”
    There was a ripe giggle in Rachel’s voice. She approved. “Way to go, Mom. I’m proud of you. She would have dumped those kids on you like she always does and go off and have a good time. That’s why I said no. I take the pill. Camilla should take the pill. It was her choice and now that she has those nasty children, let her take care of them. Mom, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
    “Neither did I,” Rita said softly. “What’s the young man’s name, Rachel?”
    “What young man?”
    “The one you’re going to Miami with.”
    “Oh, him. I had to think for a minute. Patrick, I think. Why, is it important?”
    Rita bristled. “Of course it’s important. How can you go away with a man if you don’t even know his name?”
    “Mom, don’t spin your wheels. It’s Patrick. Patrick Ryan. I’d like to talk longer, Mom, but Jake is coming over to work on a new design. We’ll probably work through the night. I gotta go now. I’ll see you Thursday.”
    “Rachel, I thought Jake moved out.”
    “He did, but we’re still friends. This is a working arrangement. If he wants to sack out, that’s okay. Not to worry, Mom. I can handle it. Give my regards to the chipmunks.”
    Rita stared at the receiver in her hand. If she didn’t control herself, she was going to get a headache. If Rachel could handle it, then that let her off the hook. She didn’t have to play mother and worry. Rachel was old enough to take care of herself. She wished she knew if her second daughter had any bouts with VD. Evidently not or she would have confided the fact to her mother. Rachel confided everything. Nothing was secret as far as she was concerned. Rachel was right; she was spinning her wheels for nothing. Nada. There was nothing she could do. Nothing she wanted to do. “Headache, go away,” she muttered as she scanned the papers scattered on her desk. She wondered what the thirty-two-year-old professor would think of her children if he ever met them. Somehow she didn’t think he would be impressed. She wasn’t impressed either. Had she failed them in some way? Was she guilty of untold atrocities that would come out later when they all went through analysis? That was all in the future. This was now. She had to get through the now before she could worry about past and future. She liked curly hair, especially with red and gold mixed. Green eyes went with that particular shade of hair. Usually only women were lucky enough to be green-eyed. Twigg Peterson was probably the first and only man she had ever met who had green eyes. She tried to remember the color of Ian Martin’s eyes. She could barely remember what Ian looked like, much less the color of his eyes.
    Something strange was happening to her. She was thinking. She was feeling. The process was similar to a sleeping hand coming back to life. Pinpricks of awareness were making her alive again. She had to put Rachel from her mind and concentrate on work and dinner. Dinner. She might as well get it ready now so she could continue to work.
    Stew. Stew would be good. The evening was going to be cool, and a good, hot meal always worked wonders. It could simmer for hours, needing no care, no basting, no checking. She refused to admit to herself that she was purposely making stew so there would be something left over to take to her new neighbor. What kind of middle-aged fool would do a thing like that? “My kind,” Rita snapped to the empty kitchen. She switched the satellite radio on and heard Willie Nelson singing the lyrics to some country western tune.
    Her step was light as she moved about the kitchen to the beat of the music.