by Nancy Thayer
Just to be certain, to put herself at ease, she spent a morning with her charge card and the telephone, subscribing to the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences newsletter and magazine, to the International Journal of Satellite Communications, and to TV Executive Daily, as well as a few other trade newspapers and periodicals. That simple task demonstrated to her with startling clarity how much of the tedious paperwork Gloria had done for her. She would miss her even more, Joanna realized, when all those publications started arriving at her house. Gloria had always scanned and excerpted them for her, clipping out and highlighting anything significant. Now she’d have to plow through it all herself.
What she missed even more was the inside network gossip. She made a note to ask Jake to have the network newsletter mailed to her on Nantucket; but what she really needed was a spy to pass along the early-warning rumors. Many times during the month of May Joanna reached for a phone, intending to call Dhon; but always she withdrew her hand. Dr. Adams’ careful voice admonished her: if she wanted to carry these babies to term, she had to watch her blood pressure. Dhon existed in a state of permanent frenzy. She had to rest, to relax. That meant forgetting about the network and her show for the next few months.
Once she made up her mind, she discovered it was easier to do than she’d anticipated. She was finishing the fourth month of her pregnancy and the nausea had dissipated. In its place her wise hormones generated a kind of soothing honey in her blood, a delicious languor. She didn’t feel her usual drive to accomplish things, to get on with it all. She wasn’t anxious or hurried or pressured or worried—she was lazy. Her stomach was quite swollen now. Because she carried twins, she looked much further along than she was. One day she bought an entire new wardrobe of maternity clothes. And comfortable shoes—ah, the exquisite pleasure of comfortable shoes! She’d always worn very high heels at the network, wanting to appear sexy and powerful at any and every moment, but now she dropped her standards and her arches and wore Rockports and Reeboks and moccasins.
The last purchases she made before she flew back to Nantucket were twelve enormous photograph albums, a red leather diary, and a compact, very clever video camera. She’d come up with a brilliant idea: she’d keep a record, a diary, of the renovation of her house, complete with videos of each stage of the work. Perhaps when she returned to the network, she would do a segment, or several segments, on Joanna Jones’ own fabulous home.
On the first day of June, Joanna moved into her house. It was a brilliant spring day, sunny and not yet humid or hot. As ungainly delivery trucks rumbled into her driveway, the local cable company installed a satellite dish. The cost was high—around thirty-five hundred dollars—but she couldn’t imagine life without television; she would have paid anything. The dish, small, black, and fairly unobtrusive amid the tangle of brush, was brought in and a trench dug in the ground to the house to hide the cables. When the work was completed, she had around one hundred and fifty channels available on her new forty-five-inch RCA stereo projection television. Just in case she couldn’t find anything she liked, she added a VCR. All that was tax deductible.
After the movers and their trucks had rumbled away, leaving her alone at last, Joanna went through her house, putting snowy sheets on her bed, hanging thick soft towels in her bathroom, plugging in her telephones and television and toaster.
The spring evening filled the house with a pastel light; she didn’t realize how late it was until an ache in her back caused her to check her watch. Almost nine o’clock. No wonder she was exhausted!
She made herself a drink of cranberry juice mixed with sparkling water and went out the French doors at the back of the house. The moment she sat down, the dew on the steps soaked through her jeans. It was a misty spring evening, the far horizon and the near edges of her property blurred with drifting fog. She thought of moving to a drier spot, but now that she’d relaxed, she was too tired to move, and it was so warm that even damp she wasn’t cold.
The absolute silence was bliss. There was no wind, and the house was far enough away from the ocean so that when the water was calm like this, she couldn’t hear its rhythmic lapping. Even the birds had settled down for the night. A rabbit ventured forth from the wild moor side, froze at the sight of Joanna, then hurried off down under the Rosa rugosa that ran to the sea.
She had never known such silence, such peace.
It was not a thrilling sunset. The silver light slowly drained from all the air, like water sinking through sand, taking the shine with it, leaving the surface gritty and dull. It was wonderfully tranquil, and enveloping. She felt not apart from nature, a human speck goggling at a spectacle, but part of nature, part of everything, as if she were a figure in a pointillist painting, the dots of her body blurring into those of the landscape.
Oh, she was getting very kharmic in her old age, she thought, and smiled at herself. She raised her long blue cotton sweater and placed her hands gently against her belly. She could relax at last.
Did Carter wonder where she was? Did he miss her? Was he sad?
She forced Carter from her thoughts.
Joanna sat on the wide steps of her home, leaning back on her elbows on the step behind her, looking into the darkness. This was the first time in all her life she’d ever been alone, outdoors, in such an isolated spot at night. She was not afraid. All color had drained from the landscape. Sky and sea, all the outside, was dark. Joanna felt her lighted house rise behind her, sound and safe, like a ship carrying her into the deep unknown.
Nine
Joanna was just sipping her first cup of boring herbal tea when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel and then a knock. The carpenters were here.
“Good morning,” she said, opening the door.
“Morning,” Doug Snow replied. Today he wore jeans and a worn khaki work shirt washed to an appealing softness; the sleeves were rolled up over his strong, muscular forearms. “Ms. Jones, this is my son, Todd. He’ll work with me.”
“Hello, Todd.” Joanna smiled, remembering at once where she’d seen this gorgeous blond male before—on the ferry ride over, surrounded by girls. Of course. Like father, like son. She shook his hand.
“I thought we’d start to work on those rooms upstairs you want made into a study,” Doug told her.
“Perfect,” Joanna said. “If you’d like coffee first—”
“No, thanks. We’ve had breakfast. We’ll just bring our stuff in.”
“I’m planning to go through the house with a video camera,” Joanna told them. “Take a series of before and after shots. I hope you won’t mind if I come in with the camera while you’re working. I’ll keep out of your way.”
“No problem,” Doug replied, and turned and went out the door. Todd followed.
For a while Joanna just leaned against the living room door, watching as the Snows carried their sledgehammers and power tools and sawhorses through the wide central hall and up the stairs. They were careful not to scrape the walls as they went, and they moved calmly, but the sight of the muscles and sinews bunched and swollen under their shirts as they labored and the sound of their breathing as it quickened and deepened had a brute carnality that stirred Joanna. Even their footsteps as they moved in the room above her head fell hard and explosively on her ears, like hammer blows. She was surprised and slightly dismayed at the strength of her reactions but also excited and apprehensive. She was causing real and concrete changes to take place in this old, dignified home. The sense of responsibility was rather daunting.
Deciding to use her nervous tension to fuel her own work, she dug the new camcorder out of its box, stuck in a fresh cassette, and hurried back upstairs. Quickly she panned around the walls of the two boxy bedrooms the Snows would change into one. Then she went through the house, shooting everywhere except the boring basement.
Finished with the first round of taping, she labeled the cassette and went through the dining room and out onto the screened porch, where she’d set up a temporary study. She’d put
an ad for a cook/housekeeper in the local newspapers, which came out once a week. Today was the first day her ad would run and she brought out her cordless phone so she could wait for calls about the ad while she began sorting through her papers. Sinking onto the fresh blue-and-white striped cushions of a new white wicker chair, she opened the first box, lifted out a sheaf of folders, then suddenly stopped. She looked around. She was wearing sneakers, baggy white cotton pants with an elastic waist, and an oversized blue denim work shirt that fell nearly to her knees. The air was perfumed from the flowers curling on the screens, and she could hear birds singing. What a way to work!
Forcing herself to stop gloating, she reminded herself that she needed to concentrate if she was to have both books done before the babies arrived. She had contracts and advances for both: a chatty, informal book compiled from questions about houses from her viewers and her detailed, illustrated replies, and a glossy coffee-table picture book entitled Joanna Jones’ Favorite Fabulous Homes. She had to choose the photos and elaborate with anecdotes and accompanying remarks. The books would come out in conjunction with the return of her new, streamlined, improved show a year from this fall.
She would start with the question-and-answer book. Over the years, Joanna had collected bags and boxes of letters from viewers, and with the idea of these books in mind, she’d diligently separated and coordinated each viewer letter, her response, and related notes and clippings in variously colored file folders. Now she geared up her computer and began to type in a list of topics derived from the letters to see if she could arrange her book in topical categories. There had to be some clever way to organize this mass of information.
She felt a presence near her and looked up. A young woman was standing in the shadowy doorway between the dining room and the screened porch.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry if I startled you. The front door was open. I knocked … I’ve come about the ad for cook/housekeeper.”
“But I put only the phone number in!” Joanna said, surprised.
The young woman half turned away. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be the first to apply.”
“No, wait. It’s all right. Just tell me: how did you know where I live?”
The young woman peeked up at her from under long, thick lashes. “On this island … you know where the new people are.”
“Of course. Well, come in. Sit down.” Joanna studied the newcomer as she stepped down into the light.
Her hair was jet-black, almost iridescent in the sunlight, pulled back in a thick long braid. Her skin was a smooth café au lait, and her eyes were black. She was of medium height, terribly composed, and oddly dressed in a simple blue cotton frock several sizes too large for her, probably worn in an attempt to hide her large rounded bosom and swelling hips. While not fat, the girl was voluptuous; even her arms curved dramatically from thin wrists to plump elbows. Perching on the edge of a chair, she folded her hands neatly in her lap and waited for Joanna to speak.
Joanna smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Madaket Brown.”
“Madaket. That’s an unusual name.”
The young woman nodded. “I know. My mother was named Cisco. My family loves Nantucket, so we’re named after beaches.” She drew in a deep breath. “I should tell you right off that they call me Mad Kate.”
“Why?”
“Because my parents were wild, and they died young. I lived with my grandmother, and I dropped out of school at sixteen. I like to walk in the rain. I like to walk on the beach in storms.”
“And that’s all?”
The girl dropped her eyes to her hands, then looked up at Joanna again. “I don’t hang out with the kids my age. That makes them mad, so they call me names. And I’m part black and part Wampanoag Indian. I’m different.”
“And you’re beautiful.”
Madaket looked shocked, even alarmed. “I don’t date,” she announced.
“Well, no wonder they call you Mad Kate! All men assume you’re crazy if you don’t want to go out with them!” Joanna said, and was pleased to see a smile steal over the other woman’s face. “Do you have any work experience?”
“Yes. I’ve worked all year for two years now for Marge and Harry Coffin, who run the bakery on Orange Street. That’s from four-thirty in the morning till about noon. In the summer I’ve worked as a chambermaid in several hotels. They’ll all give me good references.”
“Have you done any babysitting?”
“Yes. A lot.” She reached into the small backpack she carried over one arm and handed Joanna a sheaf of papers, bringing a light mist of herbal-sweet air as she moved. “I’ve written down the names and phone numbers of all the people I’ve worked for in the past five years.”
Joanna skimmed them: letters of recommendation from the Coffins, from the Jared Coffin House and the Harbor House and the Four Chimneys, and from five families she’d babysat for.
“These look good. Why would you want to change jobs?”
“I’ve been at the bakery for a long time. It just seems like the right time to move on.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Are you planning to go to college?”
“No.”
“That’s good. I mean, for me. I want someone who will work into the fall, who can stay on for a year. I’m going to have babies. Twins. I’m going to need help.”
“I like children.”
“So when they call you Mad Kate, it’s not because you’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy.” The young woman smiled. “I’m not even mad.”
“Well, Madaket,” Joanna said, leaning back in her chair and sighing, “you can see the size of this house. I’m having work done on it, and gradually I’ll get it furnished. I’m working on some books, which will take up all my time, and as I said in the ad, I need a housekeeper and a cook. Do you think you could handle the job?”
“I know I could.”
“I’ll pay very well, but in return I need to know you will work a full year. I can’t be left with two babies and no help.”
“I’d work for the full year. Or more.”
“Don’t you want to travel, at least to leave the island?”
“Never.”
“How did you get out here, by the way?”
“I rode my bike.”
“Such a long distance!”
“Not for me. I bike everywhere.”
“Well, this would be a problem, you see. I need someone who can drive. To get groceries and the dry cleaning, that sort of thing.”
“I can drive. I just don’t own a car.”
“Um.” Joanna nodded, musing. Madaket was not at all the kind of person she’d summoned up in her imagination. She’d wanted someone sturdy and rather dull, who wouldn’t sap any of Joanna’s energies with the dramas of her own life. She’d had too many of that sort as secretaries. But Madaket was an appealing young woman, and Joanna could envision her easily running up and down the stairs and through the large house while older women might only trudge. Her youth had strength and agility, and yet she also had an odd grandmotherly air about her—her full body made her look comfortable and comforting.
“Wouldn’t you be bored out here, working for only one person?”
“I’m never bored.”
This girl kept surprising Joanna. She was so genuine.
“I want to interview other applicants. But you are the first, and I won’t forget that. What’s your phone number?”
“I don’t have a phone. I’ll put down the Coffin Bakery. You can always leave a message for me there.” Madaket bent to print the number in clear firm numerals.
“I’ll definitely call you, one way or the other,” Joanna said.
“Thank you. Oh, and I brought you something.” Madaket reached into her backpack. “An introduction to our island. I make jams and jellies out of the island berries every fall. My grandmother did it as a cottage industry sort of thing, and I helped her, until she
died.”
She put her gift on the desk: two small glass jars of jam, which gleamed rosily in the sunlight. Beach plum jam and rose hip jelly.
“Rose hips are good for you,” she said solemnly. “When you’re pregnant. They’re full of vitamin C.”
“I’ll remember that,” Joanna told her. “Thank you.”
The girl bit her lip, nodded, and nearly curtsied in a quick little shiver before turning and hurrying away.
Joanna waited until she was gone, then opened the rose hip jelly and stuck a finger in. The taste was delicate, tarter than she would have thought, and unusual.
Joanna worked steadily after that, engrossed in the letters from viewers and their questions. And warmed by the compliments they gave her about her show. It really was a good series. She typed entries into her computer for a category in her book entitled “Creative Solutions,” with pictures and articles about dormers and mood-enhancing colors and patterns and mirrors to reflect light and add a sense of space—all the tips she’d given people on how to improve a room. Her stomach growled fiercely. Stretching, she realized she was stiff, and hungry, so she rose and with her mind still mostly on her work, walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Absentmindedly she opened the refrigerator and studied the contents: skim milk, orange juice, lettuce, a grapefruit and a melon, a bag of carrots. Not much to make a lunch out of, even combined with the food in the cupboards: a box of spaghetti and a loaf of whole wheat bread. She’d never been one for cooking large meals, and now she realized what a luxury it had been to be able to dash out for a pastrami sandwich or a bowl of curried rice or take-out sushi or a luscious Cobb salad. Why hadn’t she bought more food yesterday, for heaven’s sake? Well, she hadn’t had time, more deliverymen had come with her furniture and she’d been overwhelmed with giving directions and unpacking and settling in. She flipped open the phone book. No take-out places listed. Not that anyone would come out this far anyway. Too bad she didn’t already have an assistant, one she could send out for something. She drifted toward the front of her house and looked out the dining room window. Doug and Todd Snow sat on the bed of their truck, eating, open lunch pails and thermoses beside them on the lowered tailgate. Even from here she could see that their sandwiches were thick. She licked her lips. Her stomach rumbled again.
