Belonging

by Nancy Thayer

  As she listened, his heart slowed and steadied. Childlike, she wrapped her arms around him, clinging. Eyes shut tightly, she tried to absorb into her being just one more moment to take with her into the coming month. Since they’d become lovers, they had not been separated for such a length of time and now, against all reason, she ached at the thought of his coming absence.

  “What’s our next shoot?” he asked, and Joanna heard his voice rumbling in his chest.

  Smiling against him—like Joanna, Carter was obsessed with his work, and perhaps that was assurance enough—she answered, “Santa Fe. That assistant of mine, the flawless Gloria, has everything in control. Next, the Chicago penthouse.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” The sofa rose and sank beneath them as he changed positions, nudging more closely against her. “Why not do it all at night?”

  Joanna visualized the starkly stylized, phantasmagorically lit, Art Deco grottoes and chambers of the smart young married couple whose avant-garde apartment she and Carter had examined last month. The owners of a successful new restaurant and nightclub in Chicago’s Wrigleyville district, Joel and Jolen Braski spent their days sleeping and worked at night. A striking, even startling couple, of exactly the same height and ballerina slightness, the Braskis both had buzz cuts dyed Dracula-black, and identical obscure signs tattooed high on their left cheeks, and nipple rings which showed through their matte-black clothing. Originally from Peoria, they had decorated and streamlined their bodies and their dwelling to reflect their carefully invented radical images. At night their rooms would glow eerily from their neon tube and fluorescent lamps, cutting the sharp, slightly off-kilter furniture out from the blank walls and floors with a hallucinatory clarity.

  “You’re right.” This was why she loved him. He could be brilliant. “Of course. That’s just divine, Carter. I’ll have Bill Shorter fly out there with me to check it out at night.”

  “Let’s do a shot of their club, too. It’s in the same genre of ‘nouveau psychotic’ the young wealthy seem to go for these days.”

  Joanna mused a moment. “Their club … I don’t know … all those decapitated, amputated torsos … what about the censors?”

  “Hey, those statues are art. Besides, they’ll be in the background, and CVN has an adult audience. No problem.” Carter stretched and edged up into a sitting position. “That cold green light at the bistro is the same at their apartment. Very dramatic.”

  Joanna sat up, too. “The Braskis will be delighted to have the publicity.”

  Throwing his shirt over his shoulder, Carter rose and went into the private bathroom.

  “Another thought,” he called through the half-opened door. “Check out the possibilities of beginning this program with a telephoto shot from outside—from another apartment window, or even a helicopter if we have to—zooming in toward the building … a sort of voyeuristic approach.”

  “Mmm,” Joanna responded. “I’ll have to think about that. May be a little too sinister … but it might work …” She was surprised to find she could only halfheartedly consider the show just now.

  Quickly she pulled on her clothes—she would bathe later, at her apartment—and smoothed her hair. Hurriedly checking in her compact mirror for mascara smudges beneath her eyes, she noticed how her face had the bee-stung, blurry, compliant look of sensual contentment. She clicked the compact shut, as if to enclose that look and that moment of emotional peace as a keepsake to take with her into the next few days. Now, she thought, here come the brief words, the preoccupied kiss, the goodbye.

  Carter emerged from the bathroom, his shirt buttoned and tucked into his trousers, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. Joanna saw him clearly: a handsome, tense, ambitious man. At forty-two, he was balding, but he wore it well. It made his already long face look longer, his forehead higher; he looked even more intellectual than he was. Tennis, riding, skiing, sailing, all the sports he loved and did so well, kept him trim and lean. He wore elegant, expensive clothing; today a pinstripe suit of a blue as inky-dark and soap-smooth as carbon paper. His eyes were an electric, frosty, computer-screen blue, a judicious consequence of his laserlike intelligence and his carefully chosen contact lenses.

  Carter stared at Joanna, drinking her in with his eyes, then reached out and brought her close to him. Hiding his face against her hair, he confessed, “I don’t know how I’m going to get through this next month. Christ, Joanna, I’m going to miss you.”

  This was almost worse than anything, Joanna thought, this sensation of love which made her heart swell with joy and hope and confusion. She held her breath, trying to stem the welling tide of tears which threatened to embarrass her.

  Only when she’d regained her composure did she allow herself to say calmly, “I’ll miss you, too.”

  Carter pulled away, and suddenly he was smiling, his relaxed, almost piercingly beautiful smile that made him seem years younger. “I’ve got a present for you. Wait.”

  In a few strides he crossed the room, exited Joanna’s office, and returned, bearing in his arms a large, heavy box of brown cardboard. A red bow had been fastened to the top.

  “Good Lord!” Joanna laughed with pleasure and surprise. “What is it?”

  As he bent down to set it on the floor before her, his face flushed with exertion and his own delight, Carter answered, “Open it and find out.” He handed her a paper knife from the desk.

  She ripped off the bow and tossed it aside, slit through the cellophane tape, and, pulling back the sections of the lid, discovered the gleaming sumptuous cover of Houses along the Hudson staring up at her.

  “Carter!”

  When she picked up the top book, she found a book on castles on the Loire, and beneath that a book on manor houses and country estates in England. Then a book on southern plantation homes. She lifted the books out and stacked them on the coffee table. A book devoted to conservatories and sunrooms in houses throughout the United States. Two books filled with elaborate architectural drawings and watercolors of the rooms and furnishings from famous novels, from the House of Seven Gables to Tara. All were filled with fascinating text.

  “Oh, Carter,” Joanna cried. “These are just delicious! I could just … eat them!”

  “Better not,” Carter replied gruffly, pleased by her pleasure.

  Joanna ran her hands over the pile of books, which glowed like jewels with their rich, vibrant colors. She was deeply moved by Carter’s gesture and, wanting to do something equally generous for him, she cocked her head and said lightly, “I can’t wait to curl up with these. Now I won’t even know you’re gone.”

  Looking up, she met his eyes. She managed to keep the smile on her face. Carter’s gaze was dense with love and pain.

  “I’ve got to go.” Taking up his briefcase, he gave the office a quick last look.

  They kissed quickly, solemnly.

  “I’ll see you in a month,” Carter told her. Then he left.

  Joanna stood in her darkening office without moving for a while, then crossed behind her desk to sink into the familiar confines of her desk chair. It was growing late. Time for an evening meal, she supposed, but she had no food at her apartment, she never did, and really she wasn’t very hungry, although a void was opening up within her that felt very much like hunger.

  She fancied she could actually feel the silence of the offices in the building tonight. If she wanted, she could summon up the presence of any number of colleagues, even Carter, by slipping on an unedited working video- or audiocassette. But she needn’t indulge herself now; she’d have all the time in the world to be maudlin as the month progressed.

  Behind her, outside her window, the city blossomed into night like a time-lapse photograph of a marvelous glittering electronic rose. She was encapsulated from the street sounds by the hushed humming of the building’s air-conditioning system. If she began to feel too lonely, she could call a friend, or she could simply remain here, where she felt most at home. She could sleep on the sofa, where
she and Carter had made love, where she and Jake and Carter had earlier watched the Tennessee senator’s show.

  She would be all right. She was fine. This imposed solitude could actually be good for her, she decided. It had been a long time since she had had the time to sit peacefully, alone. Kicking off her pumps, she put her feet up on a fat pile of folders on her desk, leaned back into the padded leather chair, and considered her life.

  Two

  All in all, she was glad to be where she was, a successful career woman, a “media personality” at the age of thirty-eight, with her own New York apartment and a substantial bank account. A few good friends. A rich, rewarding life. She’d never married, but then she’d never expected to. Because her parents had divorced, had never found “true love,” she’d calmly, if ruefully, assumed she wouldn’t, either. It had been the most wonderful surprise of her life, the miracle of adulthood, a completely unexpected bolt from out of the blue, that she loved her work, that she and her work fit so well together it had become a sort of marriage for her. Her deepest personal satisfaction, her sense of identity, even the most enduring visceral pleasures and deep abiding joys, came from planning and producing her television show.

  It was an odd talent, she supposed, that she could immediately, instinctively, detect the core and strengths of other people’s homes when she had grown up without a home of her own. When she was younger, she had envied others their memories of home: a split-level ranch house or a backyard with a swing set or a bedroom filigreed by sunlight through a maple tree’s leaves or a kitchen table or the worn corner of a favorite chair. She hadn’t had any of that, not her own room with stuffed animals and curtains matching the bedspread, or a cat or a dog or a hamster, or even an apartment steeped with familiar, welcoming smells.

  She was the only child of Erica and Vincent Jones, a handsome, charming, ill-matched, and finally irresponsible couple. When adorable Erica was a young woman at Vanderbilt, everyone told her she was gorgeous enough to work as a model; after she’d heard that enough and found herself bored with her studies, she moved to New York, visited the agencies, and actually worked on the runways in fashion shows for three months. During that time, at a nightclub, she met Vincent, who was just finishing his residency in plastic surgery. They fell in love, married, had Joanna, moved to Palm Beach, had affairs, got divorced.

  Joanna’s father quickly became a popular, socially visible plastic surgeon, with offices in Palm Beach and New York. Her mother smoothly evolved into a professional optimist, always trusting that her ex-husband would come back to her or that one of the many debonair men she loved would marry her. She was very pleased to live her life in transit, meandering around the country, staying with lovers, or in bed-and-breakfasts, or in the homes of friends, and, occasionally, briefly, in rented furnished apartments.

  Erica—for her mother had insisted that Joanna call her by her “real” name—had been lighthearted, good-natured, frivolous, great fun. She always had so many friends that finding a place to stay for a week or a month or the holidays or the summer was never a problem, even with her little girl around. Erica had been loved by many people, people who worked hard and worried late into the night, who enjoyed coming home to Erica with her perfume and laughter, gin and tonics and nail polish, and her well-mannered, beautiful daughter.

  Joanna’s father became a shape passing by, a check in the mail, a distracted voice on the telephone. Joanna was never able to separate who he truly was from the complicated Romeo dissected for her by his girlfriends. Whenever Joanna visited her father, he was living with a new woman who grudgingly designated some small space in her home for Joanna and her suitcase. As she grew older, many of the women confided in Joanna, hoping that she’d have the key to her father. But she had no key. And no female was permanent in her father’s life. He was always changing apartments and women, and along the way Joanna learned things about men in general that made her realize she should never depend on one financially or emotionally.

  Both her parents had died within the past decade; her father from a heart attack, her mother from cirrhosis of the liver. They hadn’t lived to see Joanna’s success, and certainly they would have been puzzled, if they’d had any reaction at all, by her chosen profession.

  Joanna had begun her career with accidental good luck when she was a senior at the University of Missouri at Kansas City. Needing money, she took a job on the Kansas City Star, assisting the social editor, who hired her as a favor to her mother. She was assigned to cover retirement parties, wedding showers, costume balls, but time after time her accounts contained brief mention of the guests and lavish descriptions of the homes where the parties were held. The social editor yelled, cut, rewrote, and complained to the features editor, and suddenly Joanna found herself writing a weekly column for the Home section. That eventually led to her move to New York to write for small magazines, then for a big magazine, and finally the leap to television, to the newly formed CVN cable network.

  Two years ago while Joanna was an assistant writer/researcher for CVN’s morning news and entertainment show, she secretly worked up her idea for Fabulous Homes, and when she was ready, she made an appointment with Jake Corcoran, the all-powerful network programming vice-president. With a reputation for brilliance and always furiously busy, Jake Corcoran still found space for her in his schedule one day. Jake was so enthusiastic about her idea that he took the time to advise her in the preparation of her pitch, counseling her to work up a concise, vivid outline of the show, backed up by a fifty-page document detailing what the weekly half-hour show would encompass over a span of nine months, the proposed skeleton production staff, and a production budget estimate. Jake advised her to research and be prepared to discuss just what segment of the American audience would watch her show and what kinds of advertisers would support it. She did all that, as well as using her vacation time to search out, examine, and compile photographs and specs of the first eight houses she planned to show. She had letters of acceptance from the owners.

  The more she actually dug into the details and shaped the show, the more excited Joanna grew. She could envision every shot, every room, every millisecond. She worked furiously, speeding through her duties for the morning news and entertainment magazine so that she’d have time to devote to her project, not bothering with regular meals or shopping for clothes or for dates with men or friends. Just slaving with a feverish, delicious, nearly maniacal determination. She’d never been happier in her life.

  She’d also never been as frightened—or as proud—as she was the Monday afternoon when she was given fifteen minutes to present her idea to five of the network’s most terrifying executives. Jake Corcoran had called the meeting, and the sheer fact of his presence made it clear to the others that he approved of the show, and gave Joanna courage. Still she knew that her show—and it seemed now, the meaning and texture and zest of her life—hung in the balance.

  At that point she didn’t have an agent to go to bat for her; at that time she didn’t need one and couldn’t have afforded one. But she was thirty-six, slender, a tall, broad-shouldered, honeyed blonde with her heavy hair sweeping down over one side of her face, giving her a sultry look that balanced out her businesslike demeanor. She wore a simple suit of creamy gray wool with a white silk blouse. She looked good in person; she’d look good on camera. She was comfortable with that, and she was confident of the worth of her idea.

  Calmly Joanna made her pitch. She needed to get one of the five executives so excited about the show he’d take on the difficult job of arranging in-house production financing as well as exploring outside marketing and all the other various production tasks.

  Ronnie Dantz, the network’s baby genius, yawned openly and picked at his dirty fingernails; he loved animation, science fiction, computers, and the future.

  Sandra Mattlebury, the old cow who produced the afternoon tabloidesque talk show, watched Joanna suspiciously; obviously she’d come to this meeting only to watch out for competition.


  Meticulous, nervous Phil Curtis with his hyena’s laugh and jerky mannerisms had been in Joanna’s mind the most likely possibility. He produced the network’s cooking and gardening shows and had made it known he was looking for a new challenge. Whatever he’d touched had turned to gold, so Joanna found herself aiming her pitch his way, and was relieved to see him take copious notes as she talked.

  White-haired, red-faced Shamus Reilly, the network’s veteran, gnawed on an unlit cigar and popped Tums like candy into his mouth, nodding and grunting in what Joanna interpreted as positive reinforcements.

  Carter Amberson was there, too. Joanna had heard about Carter and seen him across the room at network parties. At forty, he’d made a name for himself from the shows he’d produced. An almost chillingly handsome man, he was known for his abrupt, no-nonsense demeanor and his ability to work hard. As a coproducer he was, rumors went, fair but tough. But she could get no reading from him as she talked. His face was impassive.

  Joanna talked for exactly fifteen minutes, then smiled and concluded, “That’s it. Thank you for your time.”

  From the other end of the table, Jake nodded his curly black head in approval.

  “What time slots are you thinking of?” Phil Curtis asked suspiciously. “Saturday afternoon is nicely packed already.”

  “I’m thinking of Friday evening, around seven,” Joanna quickly responded, leaning forward eagerly. “The audience this would draw would be professional; they work hard, they make a lot of money, they want to know how to spend their money. They go out on Saturday nights, help the kids with homework on school nights. Friday nights they relax, watch TV, check out how the competition lives, see what they’ve been working for.”