Gloria’s voice was eager, smug.
“Listen, Gloria, just take care of things, okay? I have to go. I’m going to throw up.” This was not quite a lie; she had, she might again.
“Poor baby. Shall I call you if—”
“No. I’m taking the phone off the hook. Bye.” Clicking off, Joanna threw the portable phone across the room. It landed in a box of papers. Gloria was the smartest, hardest-working assistant Joanna had ever had. She also had the morals of a barracuda. She’d be the last person Joanna would confide in, ever. Joanna thought about that for a moment, about the network and the people she worked with, and then she shook her head and crossed the room to retrieve the phone. Bending over made her stomach heave again, so she just leaned against the wall. It felt like the entire contents of her body and mind were drifting back down into place with the rocking, lilting motion of snowflakes in a paperweight.
When she could open her eyes, she dressed for her trip. She pulled on thick wool trousers and a cashmere sweater and tied a heavy silk scarf around her neck and was so completely warm and cozy she dozed off in the cab on the way to La Guardia.
The island airlines were stuck off all by themselves in a rather temporary-looking little terminal, but she was too hormonally drugged to be nervous during this trip. She was grateful for her fur; it worked like a blanket against the cold, and she sat on the small plane that couldn’t quite heat its interior, and leaned her head against the window, taking comfort from the gentle reverberations as the plane hummed its way over Long Island and out to the ocean and Nantucket.
It was another cold, windy March day, but blazingly clear. The tip of Long Island disappeared from her vision, replaced by the vast, glittering, dark blue expanse of the sea. Then, finally, she saw the curving green and brown island, rimmed in golden sand. The plane waltzed liltingly down to the runway and sputtered to a stop. The pilot detached himself from his seat and opened the door that turned into a ramp. Joanna followed the other passengers across the tarmac and into the terminal.
She spotted Bob Hoover immediately; he was the only man not dressed like a carpenter or fisherman. A short, stocky man about her age, he wore a red down parka over a navy-blue blazer and a tie sprinkled with small white outlines of the island. He approached her with a broad smile and shook her hand.
“Ms. Jones? Bob Hoover. How was your flight?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Are you hungry? Would you like a little lunch before we drive out to Squam?”
“No, thanks. I’d like to go on out.”
“Of course. My car’s outside.”
He led the way out of the terminal, across the loading zones to the curb where his Mercedes station wagon waited. Joanna noticed as he drove that his face and hands had the weathered, leathery look of a sailor.
“I thought I might tell you the house’s history on the way out,” Bob said. Glancing over at her, he added, “In case you didn’t know, we’re fiends for history here.”
“I’d love to hear about it,” Joanna told him.
“Great. Well. One hundred and fifty years ago a retired sea captain, Abraham Farthingale, built the house out there on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. At that time it was considered daft to build a house so far away from town. Although I might add that over fifty years before, about the time of the Revolution, Kezia Coffin built a so-called country estate out at Quaise, one of the harbor’s eastern coves, and a long way from the center of the town. But that’s another story.
“Anyway, Farthingale was an odd man, proud, secretive, cranky. He didn’t care for people, and when he lost part of a leg in a whaling accident, he determined that even though he couldn’t go out to sea anymore, nevertheless he’d live as close to it as he could get. He had plenty of money to buy the necessities of life and cart them out into the lonely countryside.
“Listen, Gloria, just take care of things, okay? I have to go. I’m going to throw up.” This was not quite a lie; she had, she might again.
“Poor baby. Shall I call you if—”
“No. I’m taking the phone off the hook. Bye.” Clicking off, Joanna threw the portable phone across the room. It landed in a box of papers. Gloria was the smartest, hardest-working assistant Joanna had ever had. She also had the morals of a barracuda. She’d be the last person Joanna would confide in, ever. Joanna thought about that for a moment, about the network and the people she worked with, and then she shook her head and crossed the room to retrieve the phone. Bending over made her stomach heave again, so she just leaned against the wall. It felt like the entire contents of her body and mind were drifting back down into place with the rocking, lilting motion of snowflakes in a paperweight.
When she could open her eyes, she dressed for her trip. She pulled on thick wool trousers and a cashmere sweater and tied a heavy silk scarf around her neck and was so completely warm and cozy she dozed off in the cab on the way to La Guardia.
The island airlines were stuck off all by themselves in a rather temporary-looking little terminal, but she was too hormonally drugged to be nervous during this trip. She was grateful for her fur; it worked like a blanket against the cold, and she sat on the small plane that couldn’t quite heat its interior, and leaned her head against the window, taking comfort from the gentle reverberations as the plane hummed its way over Long Island and out to the ocean and Nantucket.
It was another cold, windy March day, but blazingly clear. The tip of Long Island disappeared from her vision, replaced by the vast, glittering, dark blue expanse of the sea. Then, finally, she saw the curving green and brown island, rimmed in golden sand. The plane waltzed liltingly down to the runway and sputtered to a stop. The pilot detached himself from his seat and opened the door that turned into a ramp. Joanna followed the other passengers across the tarmac and into the terminal.
She spotted Bob Hoover immediately; he was the only man not dressed like a carpenter or fisherman. A short, stocky man about her age, he wore a red down parka over a navy-blue blazer and a tie sprinkled with small white outlines of the island. He approached her with a broad smile and shook her hand.
“Ms. Jones? Bob Hoover. How was your flight?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Are you hungry? Would you like a little lunch before we drive out to Squam?”
“No, thanks. I’d like to go on out.”
“Of course. My car’s outside.”
He led the way out of the terminal, across the loading zones to the curb where his Mercedes station wagon waited. Joanna noticed as he drove that his face and hands had the weathered, leathery look of a sailor.
“I thought I might tell you the house’s history on the way out,” Bob said. Glancing over at her, he added, “In case you didn’t know, we’re fiends for history here.”
“I’d love to hear about it,” Joanna told him.
“Great. Well. One hundred and fifty years ago a retired sea captain, Abraham Farthingale, built the house out there on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. At that time it was considered daft to build a house so far away from town. Although I might add that over fifty years before, about the time of the Revolution, Kezia Coffin built a so-called country estate out at Quaise, one of the harbor’s eastern coves, and a long way from the center of the town. But that’s another story.
“Anyway, Farthingale was an odd man, proud, secretive, cranky. He didn’t care for people, and when he lost part of a leg in a whaling accident, he determined that even though he couldn’t go out to sea anymore, nevertheless he’d live as close to it as he could get. He had plenty of money to buy the necessities of life and cart them out into the lonely countryside.
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