curling her legs up under her. For a long while she ate and stared into the night, which was bright with stars and a sliver of moon, which gave a silver sheen to the expanse of ocean quietly lapping against the beach.
She’d liked Claude enormously and felt comfortable with him, as she did with the Latherns. What would it be like to live here, on this little island, so isolated from the real world?
What would it be like to live in a house with Carter?
That question was taboo. Not to be asked. Not to be even considered. Or dreamed about. Or longed for.
Well, then: what would it be like to have a house of her own? A house would wait for her. Would belong to her. A house would be something permanent in her life.
She sat for a long time on the porch, dreaming, but the next day she flew back to New York, and the rush of work, and before she knew it, September had arrived, and Carter was back, and she returned to her city routines.
Four
When Carter returned from Europe, he demonstrated clearly to Joanna how much he’d missed her, and quickly they resumed their passionate collaboration of love and work.
The next twelve months rippled past Joanna like rich, densely textured tapestries. She had little time for solitary contemplation, and yet oddly enough, not a day went by when she didn’t think of the storybook house on the edge of the sea. Its pure lines and forthright air remained with her no matter how many other homes she toured and taped for her television show.
Even the idea of the house grew precious to her, like a private treasure she hoarded away from the sight and judgment of others. On nights when she was lonely, she banished her melancholy with visions of how the house might look inside, how she could live in it—and with whom.
When August rolled around once more, she eagerly accepted Tory’s invitation to come to Nantucket. As soon as she rented a car at the airport, she drove directly to Squam. It was late afternoon, a perfect golden day. The house was still there. Still empty. That was a sign, wasn’t it? A message?
She knew the house couldn’t wait for her forever.
She didn’t share her obsession with Tory or Carter, perhaps because it was simply too frail to bear the scrutiny of others. Tory would probably laugh at her. “What would you do with a house, Joanna? Good grief, you haven’t even furnished your apartment!”
And Carter? She couldn’t predict how he’d react. Fabulous Homes was still high in the ratings, but a new show he’d coproduced, a comedy series about two divorced couples, had flopped miserably, and the network was not amused. Pressured by the network, over the past few months Carter had become short-tempered and irritable. Now he was desperately trying to get a new pilot together and the executive producer he was working with had the personality of a wounded shark.
So there hadn’t been an opportune moment over the past few months to mention something as frivolous as her infatuation with the house.
Now it was the third month of a new year and something wonderful had happened. Like a lightning bolt, like good luck, Joanna had been struck with a quite realistic dream. On this cold Friday evening as she hurried down the hall and put her key in the lock of her apartment door, she was nearly breathless with hope.
Slamming her door behind her, she flicked on the lights. She raced through her apartment, pulling at her clothes as she went. Outside on West Seventy-fifth, the Friday evening traffic paraded past toward Riverside Drive. Lights flashed, horns honked, brakes screeched, men yelled, and even though the windows were shut against the bitter March cold, the noises and lights penetrated her rooms in a kind of carnival ruckus. Crossing the room in a few impatient strides, she yanked shut the blinds. Curtains would have helped, nice thickly lined curtains; but in the five years she’d lived here she hadn’t yet gotten around to having any made.
She had to hurry. Carter
She’d liked Claude enormously and felt comfortable with him, as she did with the Latherns. What would it be like to live here, on this little island, so isolated from the real world?
What would it be like to live in a house with Carter?
That question was taboo. Not to be asked. Not to be even considered. Or dreamed about. Or longed for.
Well, then: what would it be like to have a house of her own? A house would wait for her. Would belong to her. A house would be something permanent in her life.
She sat for a long time on the porch, dreaming, but the next day she flew back to New York, and the rush of work, and before she knew it, September had arrived, and Carter was back, and she returned to her city routines.
Four
When Carter returned from Europe, he demonstrated clearly to Joanna how much he’d missed her, and quickly they resumed their passionate collaboration of love and work.
The next twelve months rippled past Joanna like rich, densely textured tapestries. She had little time for solitary contemplation, and yet oddly enough, not a day went by when she didn’t think of the storybook house on the edge of the sea. Its pure lines and forthright air remained with her no matter how many other homes she toured and taped for her television show.
Even the idea of the house grew precious to her, like a private treasure she hoarded away from the sight and judgment of others. On nights when she was lonely, she banished her melancholy with visions of how the house might look inside, how she could live in it—and with whom.
When August rolled around once more, she eagerly accepted Tory’s invitation to come to Nantucket. As soon as she rented a car at the airport, she drove directly to Squam. It was late afternoon, a perfect golden day. The house was still there. Still empty. That was a sign, wasn’t it? A message?
She knew the house couldn’t wait for her forever.
She didn’t share her obsession with Tory or Carter, perhaps because it was simply too frail to bear the scrutiny of others. Tory would probably laugh at her. “What would you do with a house, Joanna? Good grief, you haven’t even furnished your apartment!”
And Carter? She couldn’t predict how he’d react. Fabulous Homes was still high in the ratings, but a new show he’d coproduced, a comedy series about two divorced couples, had flopped miserably, and the network was not amused. Pressured by the network, over the past few months Carter had become short-tempered and irritable. Now he was desperately trying to get a new pilot together and the executive producer he was working with had the personality of a wounded shark.
So there hadn’t been an opportune moment over the past few months to mention something as frivolous as her infatuation with the house.
Now it was the third month of a new year and something wonderful had happened. Like a lightning bolt, like good luck, Joanna had been struck with a quite realistic dream. On this cold Friday evening as she hurried down the hall and put her key in the lock of her apartment door, she was nearly breathless with hope.
Slamming her door behind her, she flicked on the lights. She raced through her apartment, pulling at her clothes as she went. Outside on West Seventy-fifth, the Friday evening traffic paraded past toward Riverside Drive. Lights flashed, horns honked, brakes screeched, men yelled, and even though the windows were shut against the bitter March cold, the noises and lights penetrated her rooms in a kind of carnival ruckus. Crossing the room in a few impatient strides, she yanked shut the blinds. Curtains would have helped, nice thickly lined curtains; but in the five years she’d lived here she hadn’t yet gotten around to having any made.
She had to hurry. Carter
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