Belonging

by Nancy Thayer

  She hadn’t planned to say those words. She couldn’t imagine why she said them. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she turned her car around and headed back out toward Squam Road. In the rearview she saw the house standing: sturdy, solitary, and proud.

  A few hundred feet on, she found the Latherns’ residence. Its drive was packed with cars, but Joanna was able to pull her little convertible into a space between a Range Rover and a gorgeous old classic woody station wagon. Sliding out, she took her time approaching the house, studying its unusual architecture, which was gray-shingled, according to the dictates of the Historic District Commission, but otherwise was purely modern, utilizing sharp angles and extreme slopes and lots of shining glass.

  She could hear the noise of the party out here. When she was younger, just this moment made her heart beat faster: standing on the threshold, wearing a sexy frock, anticipating any variety of significant encounters with the crowd who gathered inside. Now, more often than not, she found herself girding her figurative loins, as if for some kind of onslaught.

  She had met her hosts, Morris and June Lathern, last fall when she featured June’s sister and brother-in-law’s house in Austin, and now as she entered the house she was glad to find June just inside, standing next to an enormous bronze sculpture of summer flowers. All the rooms and even the hall were packed with people.

  “I’m so glad you came!” June shouted. She and Morris were lawyers, with their own firm here on Nantucket, and as professional women, June and Joanna had sensed a camaraderie. Joanna also liked June for her height: Joanna at five eight, and as broad-shouldered as she was, often seemed to dwarf other women, and too often caught herself slumping or stooping in a crowd. But Morris and June were tall; Morris was six six and June an even six feet; Joanna felt comfortable with them.

  “I turned off on the wrong drive,” Joanna informed her hostess. “Coming from ’Sconset. There’s the most wonderful storybook house—”

  “You must mean the Farthingale house. I think it’s on the market. It’s got some marvelous old legend connected with it—a treasure, I think. I’ll find Bob Hoover, he’s in real estate, he can tell you about it. First, let’s get you a drink.”

  There was no hope of hearing each other, so they didn’t attempt conversation as they passed through the crowd to the drinks bar that had been set up on the deck of the ocean side of the house. This was an older group, in general, undoubtedly a more conservative one; the men wore Nantucket red slacks and blue blazers, the women, sinfully expensive shapeless silk dresses printed in geometric blocks in primary colors, making them look like flags of antagonistic nations. As she walked through the room, Joanna could hear the sudden lull in conversation, and then the whispers, as she passed through. And sure enough, by the time she’d been handed a vodka and tonic, here came the first assailants, a short blond husband-and-wife pair who seemed to have been molded from the same plastic as Barbie dolls.

  “You’re Joanna Jones of Fabulous Homes, aren’t you?” the wife asked, and not waiting for Joanna to reply, plunged ahead, “I just knew you were. I’m Mindy Whippet and this is my husband, Mark. We own Couturier on Main Street, you must know it, it’s the best women’s clothing shop on the island.”

  “I believe I—” Joanna began, but Mindy whipped ahead: “I really do think you should consider doing a segment on our shop. It’s terribly clever. The dressing rooms are nothing like ordinary dressing rooms, and the showroom is posh and clever. Perhaps—”

  “We don’t do shops on our show,” Joanna replied, smiling as she interrupted the other woman. “We do homes. That’s why it’s called Fabulous Homes.”

  “Well, then,” Mindy responded, unfazed, “you should do our house. I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a Christian house, you see. Mark and I have an altar in our bedroom and every night before we go to bed we give thanks to God for our good fortune. It would be such a valuable addition to your show. Not to be critical, but you do seem to emphasize the decor of the house and underplay the spiritual ambience of the home—”

  Joanna stared at Mindy over her tilted glass as she took a long drink of vodka and tonic. How am I going to get away from this creature? she wondered, but almost before she’d completed her thought, a very tall, extremely handsome man decked out in a buttery linen suit appeared in front of Joanna, and as if by magic, the Whippets melted away.

  “May I introduce myself?” He inclined his head in a mock bow. “Claude Clifford, year-round resident and artist. But I often hire myself out as an exorcist for people trapped by the Whippets.”

  Joanna laughed. “Joanna Jones,” she told him, shaking his hand. “They really are terrifying.”

  “Oh, enough about them, let’s talk about you. How do you like my suit?”

  Laughing, delighted to be freed from her television role, Joanna walked with her rescuer to a corner of the deck where they could actually hear each other. Claude’s dark brown hair was cut in a dramatically styled high spiky crew, accentuating his long, narrow, bony face. He wore a gold ring in his left ear. They discussed his suit, and her dress, and fashion in general, and their hosts and the guests. Claude gossiped with an air of drama and subterfuge that made Joanna lean closer to him, and he gave off an air, almost an incense, of intense sexuality. He was so very handsome he made the evening around him appear more vivid. She felt very comfortable with him, and invigorated.

  “What do you know about the Farthingale house?” she asked.

  “Oh, not very much, I’m afraid. I live in town and don’t get out to the sticks here very much. I know the house has been on the market for years, and there’s some slightly juicy legend about it. Some kind of boodle hidden there.”

  “Really?”

  “Mmm. Farthingale was one of those sea captains, demented, you know. Where’s Bob Hoover? He knows the scoop.” Craning his neck, Claude surveyed the crowd.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Joanna assured him. “I don’t want to buy the house. I’m in New York or traveling, I’d never have time to spend there. It just caught my imagination.”

  And although she met several other people that evening, she never did meet Bob Hoover. When she left the party and drove back down the Squam Road toward Tory’s house, she was tempted to turn into the drive of the Farthingale place for one last look, but she refrained. She couldn’t possibly buy a house; she wouldn’t know what to do with one.

  Back at the Randalls’, the family was gathered outside on the covered porch, seated around a long table, playing Trivial Pursuit by the light of oil lamps. Joanna was invited to join them, and she did, crunching over fallen chips and nuts as she pulled a bamboo chair up to the table. She added her expertise to John’s and Tory’s, and they played, the Old Farts against the Young Turks, until almost midnight. As her hosts went off to bed, Joanna’s grumbling stomach reminded her she’d had little to eat that night, and she took a plate of lemon meringue pie and a mug of decaf out to the wraparound porch and snuggled down into the soft cushions of the bamboo sofa, curling her legs up under her. For a long while she ate and stared into the night, which was bright with stars and a sliver of moon, which gave a silver sheen to the expanse of ocean quietly lapping against the beach.

  She’d liked Claude enormously and felt comfortable with him, as she did with the Latherns. What would it be like to live here, on this little island, so isolated from the real world?

  What would it be like to live in a house with Carter?

  That question was taboo. Not to be asked. Not to be even considered. Or dreamed about. Or longed for.

  Well, then: what would it be like to have a house of her own? A house would wait for her. Would belong to her. A house would be something permanent in her life.

  She sat for a long time on the porch, dreaming, but the next day she flew back to New York, and the rush of work, and before she knew it, September had arrived, and Carter was back, and she returned to her city routines.

  Four

  When Carter return
ed from Europe, he demonstrated clearly to Joanna how much he’d missed her, and quickly they resumed their passionate collaboration of love and work.

  The next twelve months rippled past Joanna like rich, densely textured tapestries. She had little time for solitary contemplation, and yet oddly enough, not a day went by when she didn’t think of the storybook house on the edge of the sea. Its pure lines and forthright air remained with her no matter how many other homes she toured and taped for her television show.

  Even the idea of the house grew precious to her, like a private treasure she hoarded away from the sight and judgment of others. On nights when she was lonely, she banished her melancholy with visions of how the house might look inside, how she could live in it—and with whom.

  When August rolled around once more, she eagerly accepted Tory’s invitation to come to Nantucket. As soon as she rented a car at the airport, she drove directly to Squam. It was late afternoon, a perfect golden day. The house was still there. Still empty. That was a sign, wasn’t it? A message?

  She knew the house couldn’t wait for her forever.

  She didn’t share her obsession with Tory or Carter, perhaps because it was simply too frail to bear the scrutiny of others. Tory would probably laugh at her. “What would you do with a house, Joanna? Good grief, you haven’t even furnished your apartment!”

  And Carter? She couldn’t predict how he’d react. Fabulous Homes was still high in the ratings, but a new show he’d coproduced, a comedy series about two divorced couples, had flopped miserably, and the network was not amused. Pressured by the network, over the past few months Carter had become short-tempered and irritable. Now he was desperately trying to get a new pilot together and the executive producer he was working with had the personality of a wounded shark.

  So there hadn’t been an opportune moment over the past few months to mention something as frivolous as her infatuation with the house.

  Now it was the third month of a new year and something wonderful had happened. Like a lightning bolt, like good luck, Joanna had been struck with a quite realistic dream. On this cold Friday evening as she hurried down the hall and put her key in the lock of her apartment door, she was nearly breathless with hope.

  Slamming her door behind her, she flicked on the lights. She raced through her apartment, pulling at her clothes as she went. Outside on West Seventy-fifth, the Friday evening traffic paraded past toward Riverside Drive. Lights flashed, horns honked, brakes screeched, men yelled, and even though the windows were shut against the bitter March cold, the noises and lights penetrated her rooms in a kind of carnival ruckus. Crossing the room in a few impatient strides, she yanked shut the blinds. Curtains would have helped, nice thickly lined curtains; but in the five years she’d lived here she hadn’t yet gotten around to having any made.

  She had to hurry. Carter said he’d pick her up in an hour, and since she was the one who had asked him—implored him—to give her this evening, she didn’t want to keep him waiting.

  She stripped off the sleek silk and wool trouser suit she’d worn to work. Tossing it onto her bed, she hurried into the bathroom for a quick shower. Then, wrapped in a towel, she packed. Setting her overnight case on the bed, she approached the chest of drawers in which she kept the apparel for her alternate personality. She took out a new black negligee tarted up with red ribbons, a pair of orange leggings, and a V-necked oversized magenta thigh-length sweater for the trip home on Saturday. A black satin push-up bra, black satin bikini panties. She folded them into the suitcase. There.

  Back in the bathroom, the steam from her shower had finally disappeared, clearing the mirror, and she took out one of her makeup bags and set to work, painting her face with skillful exaggeration. Not even on her television show in front of all the cameras did she use this much makeup: blue eye shadow, gold shadow with sparkling flakes for the area beneath her brows, rouge, lipstick, navy mascara.

  But it was the wig that made all the difference. Her heavy blond hair slanting down over one eye signaled her identity clearly. When Joanna went out to dinner or to the opera or a play, it was the smooth burnished curtain of hair that caught people’s eye, made them look twice, made them stare, then whisper to one another, “It’s Joanna Jones.” While she rather enjoyed this minor celebrity, she understood how Carter would feel uncomfortable with it. He was afraid a photographer would snap their photo and print a shot of them together at a restaurant or country inn when he’d told Blair he was in the city working. He didn’t want to risk that; he asked Joanna to disguise herself when they went out in public together, and she agreed.

  First she had tried pulling her hair back into a chignon or a low twist at her neck, but her hair was too heavy, too straight, and immediately began sliding out of place. She decided to go with a wig, and after much experimentation, she’d settled on one of black curls bouncing in a party-girl shag, which obscured the strong lines of her face and made her look young and rather cheap. That had led easily to a certain style of dress: flamboyant, alluring, even provocative. Perhaps a bit tacky. Low-cut, high-hemmed, skintight outfits and dangerously high heels. Cheap flashy jewelry.

  For a while this disguise had been only a great deal of fun, bringing an element of play into their relationship which hadn’t been there before. It made it possible for Joanna and Carter to go out into the city at night, lingering over brandy at a restaurant, or even escaping New York for brief hidden weekends together.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Tory had scolded Joanna. “It’s obviously a power play. Carter’s not afraid you’ll get snapped by a society photographer and Blair will find out. He’s just afraid that if you’re recognized all the time and he’s not, you’ll realize you’re important and he’s not.”

  “I don’t think so, Tory,” Joanna disagreed. “In any case, I’ve promised Carter I’d wear the disguise, especially when we go out of town together for … pleasure, instead of work.”

  Recently Joanna had been surprised and amused and then vaguely disturbed by Carter’s response to her disguise: this particular camouflage really excited him sexually. More and more often these days, when they made love, Carter asked Joanna to leave the wig on.

  Well, if it made him happy, she’d wear the wig, she’d wear two wigs, she’d cut off her hair, she thought now in a frenzy of abandon. What was a wig now? She pulled it on and adjusted it; in an instant she was transformed. This woman would wear the skimpy scarlet satin dress that made swishy sounds whenever she moved. Joanna did a quick pirouette in front of the mirror to be sure everything was in place. The movement caused her to rush into the kitchen, pull a can of tamales from the cupboard, and stand bending over the kitchen sink, eating them cold as fast as she could. Odd how the hot spices settled her stomach.

  If her viewers could see her now, she thought! She knew from her fan mail that the women who watched her show envied her, considering her completely “successful.” This year alone she’d been listed in two magazines’ polls of the top ten most admired women in America. As she walked through the country’s most wonderful houses and interviewed their owners for her weekly television show, she emanated the serene aura of a triumphant woman, content in her life.

  Joanna shook her head ruefully at that thought, and the very act of shaking her head set off a current of dizziness through her body. Holding on to the cold porcelain of the sink, she closed her eyes and waited for the nausea to pass. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead. Bending over, she rested her cheek against the soothing chill of the sink. Outside the window, a few snowflakes swirled down, silver in the light, seeming to disappear into the darkness.

  She and Carter had been lovers for over three years. They’d survived production catastrophes and triumphs together. They’d opened their hearts to one another. At this particular moment in time it was true that Carter was not as close to her as he had been, could even be said to be pulling away, but she was certain that was due to his problems with the network. Carter did not carry failu
re well; it made him cranky.

  Which was too bad, when right now she needed him to be loving.

  Everything had changed. The world was new to her. She had to change—she was changing with each breath she took—and she had to ask Carter to change also, no matter what pain it caused. Joanna knew that Carter felt little passion for Blair, but profoundly loved his son. But Chip was fifteen, no longer an innocent child. He spent most of his life at camps, and next year would go off to boarding school. Was it really necessary for Carter to keep his home together for Chip’s sake? Not any longer. That was what Joanna thought.

  Now all she had to do was convince Carter.

  Her equilibrium had returned. The silky lining of her red dress whispered against her thighs as Joanna hurried into her bathroom and opened the medicine chest above the sink. It held mostly cosmetics. Joanna prided herself on her excellent good health—she possessed endless energy, and worked through flus that set other people back weeks, and was impatient with her body when it showed any signs of weakness. Uncapping a bottle of Scope, she rinsed her mouth and gargled, returned the bottle to the cupboard, redid her lipstick, and blew a kiss to her reflection in the mirror. She rather looked, she thought, like someone who sang piano bar down in the Village. Grabbing up her fur, gloves, and handbag, she locked up her apartment and hurried down to wait for Carter in the ground-level vestibule.

  His dark green convertible Saab slid up the street just a few moments later, and Joanna hurried out, taking care not to slip on the snowy sidewalk. He had to double-park and so she quickly opened the passenger door and got inside, glad for the leathery-smelling heat of the interior. The overhead light showed Carter’s face as he turned to greet her: he smiled briefly, but his eyes were icy, and when he turned back to look out the rear window as he nosed the car back into the traffic, his smile faded and his chin jutted out, causing a little bunching fist of flesh just under his mouth which she secretly thought of as his “boxing glove” and which always clearly signaled his mood.