Belonging

by Nancy Thayer

  The gallery was crushed with people, the air rich with laughter and perfume. At the bar Tory took a glass of champagne, Joanna one of Perrier, and they slowly made their way around the room, looking at the newest, vast, lush, Wallace Stark paintings.

  “I could eat them,” Joanna sighed.

  “You could eat anything,” Tory told her.

  “I think he’s bordering on the decadent,” whined a voice in the crowd.

  The paintings were classical, pictures of nudes reclining in various poses on tapestry-covered beds, among hanging brocades, silver chalices, sly furry pets, enormous bowls overflowing with ripe fruit.

  “I have to sit down,” Joanna told Tory after about fifteen minutes. “I’m sorry, but my ankles—”

  “Fine. I’ll cruise.”

  Joanna found a chair and sank into it with gratitude. The pictures were overwhelmingly sensual. She craved Carter. No, she craved anyone at all who would cover her mouth in a kiss. Stark’s art brought back to her powerfully the sensuality she’d almost forgotten.

  She saw Madaket enter. With Todd.

  Joanna stared, hypnotized. Madaket wore a full, ankle-length, flowing, Gypsyish skirt of red, embroidered with gold and purple and green, and a green velvet vest which swelled and clung over her remarkable bodice, the top cut just low enough to show the deep cleft of her heavy breasts, the buttons tight enough to display her small waist and flat stomach. She’d let her hair free of its restraining braid and it curled and spiraled around her head while against it her gold hoop earrings glittered. On her feet were sandals, the laces crisscrossing around her ankles. She wore no makeup, but her face was radiant with pride and pleasure and she looked like a priestess or goddess, some magnificent female force representing all nationalities; she could be Indian or African or South American or Mediterranean or Mexican.

  Beside her, Todd shone, too. He was her match, her complement, with his golden hair and dazzling blue eyes and tanned skin. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black blazer; the gold earring was no more bright than his young skin and eyes and white strong teeth.

  Madaket moved through the room like a princess, her expression haughty. But when she looked up at Todd, her face softened with such sexual yearning that Todd always swayed toward her, and sometimes even bent to whisper in her ear, touching her shoulder slowly with his hand.

  “Oh, dear,” Joanna said under her breath.

  She didn’t want Madaket to find her sitting there staring, so she pushed herself up off her chair and made her way around the room, pausing to study Stark’s paintings. Soon Madaket and Todd approached her.

  “These paintings are wonderful, aren’t they?” Madaket said. She glowed with happiness; she could have been looking at Mickey Mouse cartoons and found them wonderful.

  “You are what’s wonderful,” Joanna said. “Madaket. You look absolutely amazing.” Seeing that she’d embarrassed the young woman, she said to Todd, “And you don’t look too shabby yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Todd said easily, and continued earnestly, “And thanks for giving Madaket the invitation. Carpenters don’t often get invited to this sort of thing.”

  “My pleasure,” Joanna replied.

  “Hello, everyone,” Tory said, joining them. “Hi, Todd. Madaket, you’re looking fabulous.”

  “Thank you.” Madaket was very dignified as she looked back at Tory.

  “My dear young woman, how I would like to paint you.”

  They all turned to look at a short, round, old dumpling of a man who had suddenly approached them and stood next to Madaket, staring up at her.

  “Hello, everyone,” Pat said smoothly, quickly easing herself next to the stubby little gnome. “I’d like you all to meet Wallace Stark.”

  As Pat introduced them one by one, the painter extended his short arm with its strong, plump, cool hand, and looked at their faces, his little piggy brown eyes alight with interest. There he was, the great master, America’s artistic pride, as rotund and likable as Humpty-Dumpty.

  “Mr. Stark,” Tory said, “I own one of your paintings. I bought it several years ago. I love it.”

  “Thank you,” Stark said, nodding his head in such a long and courteous bow Joanna thought he might topple forward. Instead, he raised his head and looked at Madaket. “I’m doing a commission now. But if I get back to this island anytime soon, I would like to paint you. You are an avatar.”

  “Wallace, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Pat said, gently steering the painter toward a pair of summer people with money etched in the impatient set of their clenched jaws, “but I’d like you to meet some collectors—” She led him off.

  Tory leaned toward Madaket. “An avatar is a god appearing on earth in bodily form,” she whispered.

  Madaket smiled. “I know.”

  “You do? Really?” Tory’s tone and look were skeptical.

  “I didn’t finish high school, but I’ve always read a lot,” Madaket told her politely.

  Tory was discomfited. “Well, good for you. And congratulations on getting such a compliment from such an esthete.” She turned slowly toward Joanna. “Excuse me. I’m going to get another drink. Want some more Perrier?”

  “Please.” Joanna handed Tory her glass.

  “I don’t think Tory likes me,” Madaket said.

  “She’s just jealous,” Todd told her. “Every woman in this room is jealous of you.”

  Madaket pressed her lips together in an attempt to hide her smile; it was obvious to Joanna that Todd’s compliment had touched her in a way that no one else’s, not even Wallace Stark’s, could. My God, Joanna realized, Madaket’s in love.

  Why this made her anxious she didn’t know, but just at that moment someone elbowed her in the back; someone else stepped on her foot. The clamor of voices, punctuated with shrieks of laughter, the press and nudge of bodies, the smoky air, reminded her of New York. Reminded her of all the parties she’d attended, going alone, drunk on the thrill of seeing Carter there alone, too; the two of them would stand a good two feet apart, as stiff and formal as business colleagues should be, while their eyes and their skin and their lips and their bodies called and responded to each other on an invisible electric frequency of lust. Oh, Carter. Carter. Flushing, overheated, suddenly struck dead center in her heart with grief, Joanna struggled through the mob to the open doorway and stood there inhaling great drafts of fresh air.

  “Joanna. Are you okay?” Suddenly Madaket was there, forehead wrinkled with concern.

  “I’m fine,” Joanna answered, then reached out to rest on Madaket’s arm, and confessed, “Actually I’m tired. I need some fresh air. I’ll just sit out here on the bench until Tory’s ready to go home.”

  “Would you like me to get Tory?”

  “No, no. She’s having a good time. And you should, too. I need to just sit for a while and be pregnant. Catch my breath.”

  “Let me just help you to the bench,” Madaket insisted, and Joanna gratefully leaned on the young woman as she made her cumbersome way across the sidewalk to the wooden seats ringing the strong old maple tree canopying the wide street.

  “I’ll stay with you awhile.”

  They sat in companionable silence watching the people pass up and down Main Street. There were few children at this hour and many lovers. So many couples holding hands strolled along, pausing to gaze dreamily in at the window displays, leaning together in rapt discussion. A bearded young man stood in front of a jewelry shop, playing an acoustic guitar and singing of love. Through the lighted windows of the gallery, Joanna and Madaket could see as clearly as if onstage the guests drinking champagne and looking at Wallace Stark’s paintings and laughing and talking, and they saw how Todd, as young and handsome and dashing as a movie star, was approached over and over again by women who smiled and gestured at a painting and began a conversation with him.

  Madaket laughed. “Isn’t he handsome!”

  “He really is,” Joanna agreed.

  “There you are!” Tory squeezed hers
elf between the crush of people and out the door to the sidewalk. “I’ve been looking for you. God, it’s a sauna in there. Are you okay, Joanna?”

  “I’m fine. Just tired of standing.”

  “I am, too. Let’s go.” Tory looked at Madaket. “You’d better get back in there before someone steals your beau.”

  “Oh,” Madaket said, shaking her head, “Todd’s not my beau. I just asked him to come along because Joanna gave me two tickets and I thought he’d enjoy it.”

  “He’s enjoying it, all right,” Tory declared, and the three women turned to see Todd engrossed in conversation with a stunning blonde.

  “Um,” Madaket said, obviously discomfited, “maybe I’ll just wait out here.”

  “Nonsense, Madaket, go back in,” Joanna urged. “You know Todd’s bored to death talking to those city creatures.”

  Madaket flashed Joanna a quick smile of gratitude. “Thanks. See you later?”

  “I’ll probably be asleep when you get home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Madaket went back inside, disappearing into a crowd of noise and people, and Tory went off to get her car and pulled up in front of the gallery a few minutes later to pick Joanna up. For a few moments the two friends were quiet, absorbing the soothing sounds of the summer night as they drove back out of town. Then desultorily they discussed the party and Wallace Stark’s paintings.

  “Joanna,” Tory asked, “have you thought about what you’re going to do when they’re sleeping together?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are you going to do when Todd starts sleeping with Madaket? Are you prepared to lie in bed listening to the bedsprings squeak overhead in the attic, and to hear Todd come clomping down the stairs in the morning, ready for work?”

  “I don’t know that that’s going to happen, and Madaket certainly doesn’t.”

  “Oh, please,” Tory scoffed. “Anyone with two eyes—”

  “Tory, look. I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying over some figment of your imagination.”

  “I’m only trying to help you be prepared …”

  Joanna reached over and flicked on the radio. “Let’s have some music. It’s such a nice night.”

  They rode the rest of the way home together peacefully, soothed by a radio concert of Brahms.

  Eighteen

  Toward the end of September, Joanna finished both manuscripts. By this point she was practically immobilized by her girth, and because she couldn’t go to him, her editor, Justin Karnes, offered to fly up from New York to discuss them with her.

  “I wish I could give him a dinner party,” Joanna moaned one night as Madaket was brushing her hair.

  “Why can’t you?” Madaket asked in a sensible tone of voice.

  “Because I can’t do any damned thing except lie here and gestate!” Joanna whined.

  Madaket kept brushing with long, even strokes. “Well, I can do all the work, Joanna. All you have to do is tell me whom you want invited and what you want served.”

  Eyes closed, Joanna mulled it over. Finally she said, “Are you in love with Todd?”

  Madaket laughed in response. “What does that have to do with giving a dinner party?”

  “Nothing. I just thought I might catch you off guard.”

  “There are lots of delicious fresh apples these days. I could make you a fabulous fall meal.”

  “Are you sleeping with Todd?”

  “Joanna!”

  “Ouch!” Joanna’s eyes flew open as Madaket gave the hairbrush a stiff yank through her hair.

  “Well, it’s not your business whether I’m sleeping with Todd or not.”

  “Yes, it is. I need you. I’m going to need you desperately. I don’t want you falling in love and getting pregnant and getting married.”

  Madaket shook her head solemnly. “No fear of that.”

  “Oh, Madaket.” Joanna reached up and covered the young woman’s hand with her own. Holding it firmly, she said, “Seriously, Madaket. If you ever need any advice, or help, about any of that stuff—contraception and all that—please ask. I won’t joke about it. It can be confusing. Love can be terribly confusing.”

  “Thank you. And I will ask,” Madaket replied shyly. Her voice fell to a whisper. “But there’s no need to yet. He hasn’t even tried to kiss me.”

  Seeing the shadow of sadness darken Madaket’s face, Joanna patted her hand briskly and changed the subject. “All right. Back to the dinner party. What’s our menu going to be?”

  Justin arrived from New York, checked into an inn, and drove out every day for a week to work on the manuscripts with Joanna. He was delighted with her work and predicted good sales for both books. He planned to fly back to the city on Saturday morning, after the dinner party Joanna was giving in his honor on Friday night.

  Friday she spent the entire day in bed, resting, luxuriating in the delicious aromas wafting up the stairs from the kitchen. Late in the afternoon Madaket helped her dress in a comfortable tent of white accented by a choker and earrings of diamonds and topazes that Carter had given her one Christmas. Madaket had asked Joanna if she would hire Todd for the evening to help in the kitchen with the heavy work and the cleaning up; Todd would be glad to do it since they couldn’t work on their explorations in the cellar that night. Joanna agreed and that evening Todd drove home with his father after work, returning by himself, smelling fresh and clean and spicy. His blond hair was damp and slick. He wore clean, tight jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt that gave him a dangerous air, but as he helped Joanna down the stairs and into the living room, he could not have been more gentle. With his arm wrapped around her back, just at her waist—or rather, where once her waist had been—he steadily supported her as they walked.

  “This is so embarrassing,” Joanna said.

  “I know what you mean,” Todd replied, easing her down a step. “I tore a ligament in football one year and had to hop everywhere on crutches.”

  He settled her in a wing chair, and Madaket handed her an icy glass of lemon tea, and Joanna sat in state while Todd played butler, opening the door and showing people into the living room. The Hoovers had been invited and they brought Joanna’s editor from his inn in town. Joanna introduced Justin to the Latherns, and Tory and John and Claude. They arrived full of good cheer and bonhomie, for the summer was over and the best season of all had arrived, when the September days were warm and lush and hushed and golden and the nights clear and full of stars.

  They all came but one. Gardner was the last guest to arrive and he entered alone.

  “Where’s Tiffany?” Joanna asked as Gardner bent to kiss her cheek.

  Gardner looked both embarrassed and relieved. “Right now, a few thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Conversation stopped. Everyone looked at Gardner, and he held out his hands as if to show them all they were empty and announced: “The engagement is off.”

  “Gardner! What happened?” It was Pat asking for everyone.

  He smiled self-deprecatingly and sank onto the sofa and, leaning elbows on knees, clasped his hands in front of him. “It just didn’t work out. It’s all right. It was a mutual decision.”

  “But why?” June pressed.

  Gardner grinned. “Why? Let’s just say I wanted to become the father she’s always wanted to rebel against.”

  “Darling,” Claude exclaimed, “are you shattered?”

  “Not at all. Please, everyone, there’s no need to worry or feel bad. I feel fine.” He blushed. “I probably shouldn’t say it, but actually I feel great.”

  “I never did think she was your type,” Pat confessed.

  “But it’s so hard to know!” June cried. “I mean, they say opposites attract but then you’re supposed to have mutual interests.”

  Morris leaned forward, tamping tobacco into his pipe as he spoke. “So, Gardner, before we try to solve the mysteries of romantic love, tell us, why is Tiffany over the ocean? I’ve heard of being over the moon with joy, bu
t never the ocean. Is there something I’ve missed?”

  Gardner laughed. “Tiffany’s flying to Europe with a friend for a few months.”

  “And you’re staying on the island?” Joanna asked, holding her breath.

  “Yes. Of course.” His joking facade fell away. “I don’t know why it is, because I didn’t grow up here, but I feel as if I belong here. I hope I never have to move off.”

  Madaket had come into the room during the conversation, and as she bent toward Gardner with her platter of caviar on cream cheese and toast, she smiled at his words.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Madaket, don’t you?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. I know.”

  “It is the strangest thing about this island,” Morris observed. “I swear, sometimes it seems to me that people get chosen by the island rather than the other way round.”

  “What a remarkable thought, dear,” June said, turning to him in surprise.

  “Perhaps that explains why there are so many artistic souls here,” Claude interjected. “I’m sure we must have more than the normal share per capita of artists, musicians, magicians, actors. You know, I sometimes fancy that all these visions of beauty, of the fine things accomplished, incorporate themselves into the very air and somehow make the island more beautiful.”

  Justin laughed drily. “Manhattan island’s got its share of artists, and it’s not exactly increasing in beauty.”

  “Sorry, Claude,” John agreed, “your theory’s a little too dreamy for me.”

  “If you were in the real estate business, Claude,” Bob added, “you’d think more realistically. The wealthiest people, who buy the largest and most beautiful plots of land, are hardly artistic. They want nothing more than to divide the land and sell it off for profit. If you think spiritual output affects the atmosphere, then I’d say it’s a wonder that the land stays as beautiful as it does.”

  John nodded. “Every year there are more condoms scattered on the moors and candy bar wrappers scattered on the beach.”