Belonging (17 page)

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.

“All right.” She spoke aloud. “Calm down. I’m going to get you some food.” Where was her purse? Not on the screened-in porch. She went up the stairs. It wasn’t in her bedroom. It was in her dressing room. Living in a big house could be complicated, she could tell already. She hurried back down and out the front door.

The Snows’ red pickup was parked next to her Jeep. Doug was sitting with his back against the side of the truck, one leg stretched out onto the tailgate and the other angled up so that his arm hung lazily over it, elbow resting on knee. Sunlight flecked his blond hair and beard and mustache with gold lights.

“I’m going into town,” she told the men. “Groceries.”

“Give us a yell when you get back. We’ll carry them in for you,” Doug said, and he smiled a lazy smile.

“All right. Thanks.” Joanna returned his smile, feeling slightly flushed as she did, and with a rush of completely unanticipated pleasure she remembered a day years ago when she was a freshman at a new high school and a cute boy wearing a letter jacket told her he’d meet her after school and carry her books home. Mystified by the power of this memory—for the boy had walked her home only once, and never talked to her again—she climbed into her Jeep, started her engine, and headed down the driveway for town.

She went to Finast, where she filled the back of the Jeep with groceries, including an array of microwavable food. As she drove home, she gobbled her makeshift lunch—a hunk of cheddar, some breadsticks, an apple. Now she’d be able to get right back to work. You could waste a lot of time on this island if you weren’t carefully organized. She was glad she was finding this out early. She had a lot to learn.

When she returned to her house, the Snowmen thumped back and forth across the wooden floors, carrying in the groceries, and Joanna unpacked them and put them away in her cupboards. As she worked in their company, she felt blithely domestic. Doug whistled a sweet, clear, slightly melancholy tune, and the sound played over Joanna’s senses like a spring breeze, alluring, tempting. Something within her lifted its head. It would be very easy, she realized, to indulge in a fantasy about Doug Snow.

The day grew more and more overcast, and she was grateful, because it didn’t coax her out to the beach, away from her piles of paper. She worked steadily, organizing her materials, stopping occasionally to take phone calls and schedule interviews with prospective housekeepers.

At five o’clock, she went up the wide staircase to the two large rooms on the right, where the Snows were breaking through a wall that separated two bedrooms. All afternoon the house had resounded with blows from sledgehammers and screams from saws, and now most of the wall was down. The air of the room was still gritty with plaster dust and a few floor studs stood, but Joanna could see how the room would look. A middle bedroom caught between front and back, with only two windows on one side, had now been opened up to the bedroom that looked out over the ocean. She was pleased. She would eventually have a spacious study.

Leaning against the doorway, she gazed around the room, surreptitiously studying
her workers as well. Todd was sweeping up nails and plaster dust and bits of wood. Around his forehead he’d tied a batik bandanna, which served to hold his shoulder-length blond hair in place. He was taller than his father, and larger, bulkier, but his father looked the more powerful of the two. There was an air of restraint in each of the older man’s movements, a sense of suppressed strength. As if he felt her eyes upon him, Doug looked up, smiling his slow smile.

“You got a lot accomplished!” Joanna said.

Todd only nodded in reply, but Doug, pulling an orange extension cord into a tidy loop in his rough, tanned hands as he talked, said, “Yeah, we got further than I thought. We had to do it carefully. You never know with these old walls. This one wasn’t load-bearing.”