The dredged beef cubes sizzled in the hot fat along with the sliced onions and celery, making a tantalizing aroma. She loved the smell of frying onions. Quickly, she rinsed off the vegetables and chopped them. She added water and waited for it to boil before she adjusted the heat and covered the pot. She glanced at her watch and then set the timer so she would remember to add the vegetables. A loaf of crusty, French bread was set on the counter to thaw, along with a stick of butter. There was nothing worse than trying to spread hard butter on hot bread. She wished she still had the microwave oven, but that was one of the first things Brett had carried out to the car the day the movers came. She could always get another one. There had been a time when she lived to eat; now she ate to live, she deceived herself. Food was almost secondary at this stage in her life. Binges didn’t count. Everyone went on food binges at one time or another. Unconsciously, Rita tugged at the navy sweatshirt to make sure it rode down over her stomach and buttocks.
From time to time Rita sniffed the aromatic air and then glanced at her watch. She really didn’t expect him to stop by. He hadn’t said anything about seeing her today, had he? She couldn’t remember. Her raw, new emotions kept getting in the way of her remembering.
Chapter Four
I t was ten minutes after seven when Rita’s stomach growled ominously. She turned off the computer and tidied her desk. Useless draft pages were shoved into one of the new desk drawers. She missed using the old door on the sawhorses. There had been miles of room for all her scattered research notes. This way she would have to hunt and fish for everything she needed.
She sat down to her solitary dinner at seven forty. The French bread was browned perfectly. The stew was hearty and yet tangy. It was the tablespoon of horseradish that gave it a special touch. She ate ravenously, topping off the meal with two cups of black coffee. Lighting a cigarette, she decided to walk off the heavy dinner with a stroll down to the pier. She was almost afraid to open the front door, hating the thought of seeing lights in the Johnson cottage. Lights meant Twigg was there and hadn’t wanted to see her. If she took the stew over as was her original intention, he might think she was ready to initiate something. Better to leave it behind and just take her walk down to the pier as planned. The Johnson cottage was dark. The only light came from a street lamp on the other side of the lake and was so faint and yellowish it was barely distinguishable. Maybe something happened to him. Perhaps she should walk around and knock on the door. That’s what she should do, what she would have done a week ago. It was the mothering instinct in her. Rita caught herself up short. Twigg might be younger, but there was nothing motherly about the way she felt last night or right now for that matter. Tomorrow would be time enough to see if he was all right. A grown man of thirty-two could pick up the phone and ask for help if he needed it. She was listed in the phone book. Perhaps he went into town and hadn’t gotten back. Anything was a possibility and she, for one, certainly shouldn’t be worrying.
Rita walked out to the end of the pier and stood staring across the lake. She shivered in her light jacket. She suddenly felt the loneliness for the first time and wished Twigg were here if only to talk about the dolphins and killer whales. She liked the resonant timbre of his voice, the lazy, confident way he moved. She liked to watch his slender hands that he waved about to express a point. How well she remembered the feel of those hands on the back of her neck and the way they stroked her cheeks. He was a gentle man, of that she was sure. He was Twigg Peterson, marine biologist. Why couldn’t she say she was Rita Bellamy, writer? She sat down on the edge of the pier. I’m an ex-wife, a mother, a best-selling writer, she mused to herself. She
From time to time Rita sniffed the aromatic air and then glanced at her watch. She really didn’t expect him to stop by. He hadn’t said anything about seeing her today, had he? She couldn’t remember. Her raw, new emotions kept getting in the way of her remembering.
Chapter Four
I t was ten minutes after seven when Rita’s stomach growled ominously. She turned off the computer and tidied her desk. Useless draft pages were shoved into one of the new desk drawers. She missed using the old door on the sawhorses. There had been miles of room for all her scattered research notes. This way she would have to hunt and fish for everything she needed.
She sat down to her solitary dinner at seven forty. The French bread was browned perfectly. The stew was hearty and yet tangy. It was the tablespoon of horseradish that gave it a special touch. She ate ravenously, topping off the meal with two cups of black coffee. Lighting a cigarette, she decided to walk off the heavy dinner with a stroll down to the pier. She was almost afraid to open the front door, hating the thought of seeing lights in the Johnson cottage. Lights meant Twigg was there and hadn’t wanted to see her. If she took the stew over as was her original intention, he might think she was ready to initiate something. Better to leave it behind and just take her walk down to the pier as planned. The Johnson cottage was dark. The only light came from a street lamp on the other side of the lake and was so faint and yellowish it was barely distinguishable. Maybe something happened to him. Perhaps she should walk around and knock on the door. That’s what she should do, what she would have done a week ago. It was the mothering instinct in her. Rita caught herself up short. Twigg might be younger, but there was nothing motherly about the way she felt last night or right now for that matter. Tomorrow would be time enough to see if he was all right. A grown man of thirty-two could pick up the phone and ask for help if he needed it. She was listed in the phone book. Perhaps he went into town and hadn’t gotten back. Anything was a possibility and she, for one, certainly shouldn’t be worrying.
Rita walked out to the end of the pier and stood staring across the lake. She shivered in her light jacket. She suddenly felt the loneliness for the first time and wished Twigg were here if only to talk about the dolphins and killer whales. She liked the resonant timbre of his voice, the lazy, confident way he moved. She liked to watch his slender hands that he waved about to express a point. How well she remembered the feel of those hands on the back of her neck and the way they stroked her cheeks. He was a gentle man, of that she was sure. He was Twigg Peterson, marine biologist. Why couldn’t she say she was Rita Bellamy, writer? She sat down on the edge of the pier. I’m an ex-wife, a mother, a best-selling writer, she mused to herself. She
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