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 eveningaround 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,
“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 eveningaround 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,
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