Belonging

by Nancy Thayer

  At the booth behind her, three women in jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers had settled in, spreading their belongings around them in a temporary nest: purses, shopping bags, coffee, doughnuts, paper napkins, magazines. Now a fourth woman, casually dressed, approached them.

  “Did you have to spend the night, too?” she asked, and Joanna couldn’t help overhearing their conversation; the back of the booth was so low she could have rested her head on the shoulder of the woman seated behind her. She took out her notebook and studied her list, but the conversation next to her was lively and loud. All four women, she came to understand, were islanders who had flown off from Nantucket to go outlet shopping for a day. Their trip had been inspired by a special one-day round-trip airfare, but the plane they were scheduled on, the last plane at night, was grounded by fog and they’d had to spend the night at the local Hyannis Regency. They weren’t too upset, because they got to eat at McDonald’s—a rare treat—and see a movie on a big screen. They began to describe their shopping finds, and Joanna filtered out their conversation and let her eyes roam the room for more exotic entertainment.

  She found it in the sight of a young man leaning against a wall. He’d obviously just bought himself a cup of coffee and was on his way back to his seat but had been waylaid by three young women who pressed against him, flirting, smiling, chattering, nearly giddy in his presence. Joanna stared; he didn’t notice. Probably he was used to it. He was exceptionally handsome in a bronzed, muscular, dense, teen idol way. His shaggy hair was blond, his eyes a dreamy blue, and his nose had that broken-while-scoring-a-touchdown look that accentuated the symmetry of his other features. A gold earring glittered from one ear. Beneath his white T-shirt his shoulders were wide and powerful, and long sturdy thigh muscles bulged beneath the worn, straining denim of his jeans. As he talked to his admirers, he seemed kind, or at least impartial, smiling at them all, laughing in an easy way. Maybe he was stupid, Joanna thought, or shallow, but he seemed completely fortunate, a radiant and healthy young man.

  She amused herself by imagining his life. He was a golden boy, she decided, like all the golden boys who had never dated her in the various high schools she’d attended. They’d always looked her over, checked her out, but couldn’t figure her out, and after all, neither could she. She didn’t know how long she’d stay in any one school or even how long she’d live in any one place, and so she’d kept to herself mostly, finding friends in books and her daydreams. While these young men, athletic, popular, humorous, and smart enough to hold down a good B-minus average when they tried—and they did try, because they hated to disappoint people—these young men strode through the halls of the high schools like the young gods they were. It hadn’t changed since she was in high school. It would never change. There would always be these lucky ones, envied and liked by the guys, lusted after, dreamed of by the girls.

  His eyes met hers. She looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. The boat was really rolling now. Looking around the room, Joanna noticed that quite a few of her fellow travelers had stretched out on the long blue benches, purses tucked beneath their heads as pillows, paperback books tented over their eyes to block out the light. It seemed such an intimate thing to do, to sleep out in public, and yet—Joanna put her purse on the bench against the wall and lay down, tugging her blue duster over her like a blanket. The boat rocked like a cradle. She fell at once into a blissful sleep.

  She awoke feeling refreshed and oddly alert.

  “… Farthingale house …”

  The words floated past her, above her, almost visible. The women in the booth next to hers were talking.

  “Who?”

  “Won’t say. Hoover can be like that.”

  “It will be in the paper when they print deed transfers.”

  “I wonder if she’s rich.”

  “Of course she’s rich! She’d have to be to buy the Farthingale house!” This woman’s voice was high and shrill and Joanna envisioned a shrew in human clothes, tiny hands with long tiny pointed fingers resting on tiny hips.

  “Yeah, and what do you bet she’ll be the one to find the treasure. Not an islander who could really use it, but one more rich tourist.”

  “I can’t believe you still get riled up about the treasure. I don’t think there’s any such thing!” This woman’s voice was rough and cracked, perhaps with age or smoke or whiskey—Joanna couldn’t see. She lay on her side on the blue bench, eyes closed, feeling trapped yet excited by the conversation.

  “Of course there is!” Shrew Woman insisted. “Read your history books! Those old whaling captains brought back things we can only dream of. Think of the silver on the nameplates and door handles of the Three Bricks. Or the china in the Hadwen House.”

  “The Farthingales searched. The Baxters searched. My father knew old Mr. Baxter and they talked about it. Old Mr. Baxter spoke to Bertram Farthingale, who had been a baby when Captain Farthingale was still alive, and he said the old captain was determined that no one should find it. He didn’t think anyone deserved it.”

  “What a nasty old man.”

  “True, but he built a beautiful house on a beautiful spot. I wouldn’t mind living in the Farthingale house.”

  “Too cold for me out there. She’ll have her hands full keeping the place heated.”

  “You keep saying she. Where’s the he?”

  “Isn’t one from what I’ve heard.”

  “A woman all alone in that big old house? Surely not.”

  “That’s what Corinne said, and her daughter is Ronnette’s best friend, and Ronnette is Bob Hoover’s secretary.”

  “Well, I think that’s queer,” Shrew Woman proclaimed. “A woman wanting to live all alone out there.”

  “Just because you’re such a busybody doesn’t mean everyone else is,” Whiskey Voice replied.

  “Shove over. We’re almost there. I need to use the ladies’.”

  The conversation ended with a great rustling as the four women packed up their gear and headed off to the restroom. Joanna sat up, stretched, then went out on deck to watch the boat enter the harbor. The ferry, rounding Brant Point, sounded its horn. As the island and its village came into view, it seemed to wrap around the ferry, to welcome it with open arms.

  When she’d ascertained that her traveling companions had returned to their booth, she went to the restroom herself. As she washed her hands and combed her hair, she studied herself in the mirror. Her hair was covered by the damned black wig. She’d determined to do whatever she could for the next few weeks to keep her identity unknown so that word of her presence on the island wouldn’t get back to Carter. Over the past six weeks as she’d negotiated and organized the move, she had avoided talking to him. Or perhaps he had avoided talking to her. She knew from Jake that Carter was pent up in the hospital, immobilized by necessary traction for the multiple fractures in his leg, but he’d had his staff set up a working office for him in his hospital room. He had access to more than one phone from his bed. And he hadn’t called Joanna. He might be waiting for her to get the number from his staff and call him; certainly she should call him about the show. It was the longest time in five years they’d gone without talking to each other, and Joanna felt this terribly. But her longing for him was balanced out by the urgency she felt to keep her pregnancy secret, safe.

  It was reassuring to know that Bob Hoover wasn’t gossiping about her. She’d had to send every legal document but her birth certificate to the Nantucket Bank to apply for the mortgage, and she’d opened an account there. It was good to know she could count on the bank as well. Of course they had patrons far wealthier than she, so they must have a policy on discretion, but she could understand the temptations of gossip in any small community.

  Today she didn’t think she looked like the Joanna Jones of television. Her New York clothes were always tailored, but now her garments flowed, not simply as a change in attitude but also as camouflage over her increasingly large belly. She was amazed at how fast she was growing.
Now she slipped on dark glasses, tucking the stems under the dark curls of the wig. Sliding the long strap of her leather briefcase over her shoulder, she blew a kiss at herself in the mirror and went back out on deck to watch the ferry draw into its berth.

  All the windows now were beaded with drops from the fog which still hung over the island. The air was white, and where the sun managed to break through, it glistened with silver. It was chillier here than on the mainland, and she turned up the collar of her duster and held it closed at the neck. Down below on the wharf people wearing a variety of raincoats and sweaters awaited the boat, waving and calling. A straggling line of people waited behind a rope onshore to board the outgoing boat. Leaning on the railing, she watched the crew swinging the gangplank up and fastening it with chains and ropes. Other arriving passengers came out of the closed cabin, passed behind her and down the stairs to the deck. She could hear the group of women chattering away, but she didn’t turn to look at them, not wanting to draw their eyes to hers. And she didn’t want to think of anyone else. She wanted to savor this moment. When the line of people moved, she joined it at the end, going down the stairs, across the deck, down the slanted ramp which trembled beneath her feet. She had arrived.

  Bob Hoover was waiting for her. He drove her to the bank, where she sat at a long table with two lawyers and the bank’s vice-president, signing a multitude of papers, sliding them smoothly back and forth across the shining top of the mahogany table. She said very little and held her normally expressive face blank. The entire procedure took less than an hour.

  It didn’t take as long to buy her new Jeep. Bob drove her out to meet the salesman with whom she’d already spoken on the phone, and he had waiting for her the vehicle she’d ordered: a Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited, Quadratrac, with leather seats and a compact disc player. It was a dark navy-blue color with a caramel and navy interior.

  “This is about as big as some apartments I’ve lived in—and better equipped!” she told Bob as she sat behind the steering wheel.

  He was standing outside, looking at her, and now he remarked: “You look good in it. It suits you.”

  “It does?” Such an opinion amazed her. She’d never thought about how she looked in a car—she’d never been much interested in them. During her college days she’d been forced to buy and maintain a malevolent old Chevy, but once she moved to New York, she hadn’t owned a car, hadn’t felt the need for one. So many things in her life were changing.

  As she wrote out the check for thirty thousand dollars, she silently congratulated herself once more for having lived so frugally. Bob escorted her to and through the maze of buying automobile insurance and getting plates from the motor vehicles registry at the town hall. When those legalities were taken care of, and she had the keys of her Jeep in her hand and even more papers in her briefcase, the realtor asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to do today? Anything I can help you with?”

  “Thanks, I don’t think so. I’m eager to get out to the house. My house.”

  They were standing in the parking lot of Rainbow Motors, which was at the same end of the island as the airport, and as they spoke, a plane flew low over them toward the runway. Now the fog had lifted; the late afternoon was sunny.

  Looking up at the plane, Joanna remarked, “Perhaps my luggage has arrived. I’ll drive over to the airport and see. Then I’m on my way home!”

  “Would you like me to come help you with your luggage or out to open up the house—your house?”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather be alone.” She smiled, wanting not to seem rude.

  “Doug Snow plans to meet you there about five.”

  “Good.”

  “And you’re set for dinner and a place to spend the night?”

  “I’ll be at the Latherns’.”

  “My wife and I would like to have you over for dinner this week. Give you a list of the best shops, that sort of thing. Tell you about the town.”

  “I’d like that. The phone company is supposed to hook my line up today. Why don’t I call later on?”

  “Great.” Bob shook her hand firmly. “It’s been good doing business with you. I wish you the best of luck in your new home. And if there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just call.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Uh, one more thing.” He looked slightly abashed. Joanna thought she knew what was coming.

  “I don’t want to intrude, but are you the Joanna Jones? Of the Fabulous Homes television show?”

  She smiled. “Yes. But I’d rather no one knew. For a while. Privacy and quiet are necessary to my health.”

  “I understand,” Bob told her. “Mum’s the word.”

  “Mum’s the word indeed,” she agreed, feeling her face flush with an uncontrollable joy.

  Climbing into her Jeep, whose door shut with a satisfying thud, she turned the key in the ignition and began to drive. It took only a few minutes to reach the airport. Her luggage had arrived. She carried her two bags out to the car and tucked them into the back of her Jeep. Driving out to Squam, she noticed how the yards, farms, and the gently rolling moors were laced with the delicate green of spring. The fog had entirely disappeared.

  Turning off onto the narrow Quidnet Road, she wound her way toward the ocean, made another left turn, and slowed to a gentle bounce down the unpaved, rutted Squam Road.

  She was almost there.

  She was almost home.

  At last she came to the winding pebble drive. The bushes scraped the sides of the Jeep; her bushes, she realized. She’d have them cut back. And here was the house, solid and abiding, framed by blue sky and sea.

  Joanna turned off the engine and sat in the sunny silence, breathing deeply of the clean, salt-scented air. She looked and looked. All this was now hers.

  She jumped down from her Jeep, walked up the winding brick walk, and stood at her front door. Painted and weathered to a perfect Nantucket blue, it needed a nice brass knocker, she decided. She would put that at the top of her list of things to buy. Already the trellised roses were leafing out. Birds flew singing across the blue sky. The sun was warm on her shoulders. She wished she had a bottle of champagne to crack against the front stoop in a celebratory gesture.

  Bob had given her a ring of keys: front door, back door, shed, and several old-fashioned heavy F-shaped keys meant for various inner doors. Joanna put one of the keys into the lock, pushed the door open, stepped inside.

  She stood quietly in the front hall, looking around. The air was warm, dusty, still. Joanna walked the length of her house and threw open the French doors to the fresh May air. Taking off her wig, she stuffed it into her briefcase and ran her hands through her hair: ah, that felt better!

  Then she walked through her house. Through the gracious parlors, the outdated kitchen, the elegant dining room. The screened-in porch was still cold; the sun couldn’t get in through the ivy vines. She went up the front stairs and through the bedrooms.

  What matters most in your home? That was one of the questions Joanna asked the people she interviewed. Location, some said, or a sense of style, or a living room with enough space for two grand pianos. The answer was always different. The answer was perhaps inexplicable. Who could say just what combination of wood and glass shaped just so in the neutral air would refresh and comfort the heart? Some people can describe it and have it built; others must find it. Does one love a home because of the way the light comes through the windows or because of the view one has standing at those windows looking out? As she walked through all the rooms of her house, taking her time, running her hand over the burled wood of the newel post, along the fireplace mantels, leaning against windows as she took in the view, she knew that what mattered most to her was a home for her children.

  She knew exactly what kind of home she wanted these babies, her children, to have: this paradise. They could tumble on the lawn and build sand castles on the beach. They could ride their tricycles down the drive without fear of traffic. They would sleep in rooms
as familiar to them as their own bodies, they would find their way through the house on a dark night without stumbling into unfamiliar doors. Perhaps there would be ponies; there was enough land. Certainly there would be dogs and cats, and she and her children would grow their own cherry tomatoes, and berries they could pick. They would have separate, private bedrooms, with shelves of toys and books, and there would be a playroom, too, for the rainy days.

  A red pickup truck rumbled down the drive. Joanna hurried to the front door.

  “Ms. Jones? Doug Snow.”

  “Hello. Come in.”

  Joanna held the door open, and as the carpenter entered, she looked him over. He was just her height and slender in a compact, intense way. He looked a bit like a cowboy in a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, work boots, but he had a beard and a long mustache that gave him more of a folksinger air. When he took off his cap, she saw how his short, shaggy blond hair was mixed with white and gray, like his beard, and as they stood talking, she studied the lines on his face and judged him to be somewhere in his forties. He wasn’t exactly handsome—his dark blue eyes were too small and deeply set, his nose too large and crooked—but he had a definite presence.

  She felt it as she walked through the house with him, describing what she wanted to have done. He listened carefully, asking occasional questions, and she had the sense that he was serious about his work.

  “Why are there glass panes at the top of all these doors?” Joanna asked.

  “Those are called lights, and there are two theories about them: first, that with all the fires burning in the various rooms, it was a way to check on how a fire was doing without opening the door, or to spot a fire that might have broken out of the fireplace and caught on the rug and so on. The other theory is more fun: it was a way to keep courting couples from having too much privacy.”