Belonging (2 page)

“I’m off, then,” Jake declared, rising.

Joanna’s heart stirred with pity. The Jake Corcoran she’d grown to admire and even to worship during her tenure at CVN had always been a vigorous, dynamic man, an industry giant, capable of flashing lightning bolts when angry or engendering joy with his great, heart-lifting smile.

But now the blaze in his dark eyes was nearly extinguished, and premature silver swirled among his black curls, and his hand-tailored suits hung loosely over what had once been a robust, even burly, torso. Emily, his wife of twenty-five years, had recently died, a wretched death, of liver cancer. Joanna, like some of the others in the network family, was not certain Jake would survive the loss, but Joanna believed firmly that if anything would save him, work would, and for that reason alone she’d asked him to sit in on this viewing before the three went their separate ways during August. She wanted him to remember how much she valued his opinion and needed his counsel. She wished there were more she could do to ease his burden of grief.

“Where are you spending your vacation, Jake?” Joanna asked.

“Adirondacks. My son’s fiancée’s family has a house up there. Mark and I will do some trout fishing, some sailing, some hiking.” He smiled at Joanna with affection. “I’ll be fine.”

In response, Joanna stepped forward and embraced Jake, wrapping him in a tight hug in an instinctive, irresistible act of affection and consolation.

She’d never been this bold before, although Jake was a natural toucher. He crunched his staff in his great bear hugs during celebrations and ruffled hair and patted backs. Joanna considered Jake patriarchal, or avuncular, but suddenly as she stood holding her great, heart-bruised boss, she realized that he had never fit into any tidy category—nor did her emotions, which stunned her now with their inappropriateness.

She and Jake were almost of equal height; he was five feet nine inches of muscular male; she was five eight, and large-boned though slender. As her body pressed Jake’s, Joanna experienced a rush of pleasure at the feel and smell and warmth of this powerful, emotional man. She didn’t want to let him go, and she was at once so startled and so ashamed that she nearly shoved him away.

She stepped back. “Take care of yourself, boss.”

Jake’s eyes were kind. He didn’t notice her confusion. “You, too, kid.”

She never minded Jake calling her “kid.” He was ten years older than she, but eons more experienced at the cable television game, and he had always given her excellent advice; he had always been on her side. Her ally. Her mentor. Her trusted and esteemed
friend
, a rare thing in this competitive business.

Looking past her, Jake said, “Carter, I hope you and your family have a great time in Europe.” He held out his hand.

For a split second Carter hesitated, and his icy blue eyes sparked. Then he stepped forward and shook Jake’s hand. Jake was after all his superior at the network, and Carter was, above all else, self-protective. What a force field those two created, Joanna thought, looking at them. Jake was massive and dark and emotionally open; Carter was nearly beautiful in a cold, blond, aristocratic way, and tense and guarded. It was possible that Jake guessed that Carter and Joanna were lovers; if he did, he was bound to disapprove.

“Thanks. We will,” Carter replied. “We’re flying to France tonight. Blair and I honeymooned in Paris. We’re sending Chip to his grandmother’s after the tour and spending a week in Paris, just the two of us, a sort of second honeymoon. Walking by the Seine at midnight, sipping champagne on the balcony of our hotel suite, strolling down the Champs-Elysées. All that mushy stuff. I’ll come home a new man.”

“That should be interesting,” Jake remarked dryly. Nodding to them both, he said, “Good night,” and went out the door.

Joanna looked at Carter. “Ouch.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it wasn’t very kind—either to Jake or to me—to make it quite so crystal-clear that you have a loving wife with whom to share your vacation.”

Carter looked crestfallen. “God, Joanna, I see what you mean.” With the heel of his hand, he struck his forehead. “I’m sorry. I was just trying— Look, Joanna, I’m sure he suspects us. And neither one of us needs the network hassle for that. I thought that if I romanticized my wife in front of the woman who might very well be my lover, I’d deflect suspicion.”

For a long moment Joanna stared at Carter, relishing as always the sight of his exceedingly handsome face and the sheer blissful lean height of the man. The tantalizing glitter of his arctic-blue eyes. The iceberg planes of his cheekbones and shoulder blades and chin. The cutting white sail of his smile.

“Oh, it’s all right, Carter. I guess I’m just overreacting.” But she couldn’t keep the emotion from her voice.

Coming close to her, but not yet touching her, Carter said, “Joanna, you know I have to do this. It has nothing to do with honeymooning with Blair. I was determined not to be an absent father, and I don’t think I’ve lived up to my goal. The least I can do is give Chip a family vacation.”

“I know.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, steadying herself.

“But God. I’m going to miss you.” Approaching her, Carter put his hands on her shoulders, and with great deliberation moved them down along the curve of her arms, so that his thumbs lightly brushed the swelling arch of her breasts. His warm breath stirred her hair. His body loomed against hers like a dark shadow. “Joanna. You know I need you.”

Torn by pride and desire, Joanna did not reply. Carter gently kissed her hair. Her temple. Her throat.

“It’s so late,” Joanna protested. “You’ll miss your plane.”

“It’s not until nine. We’ve got plenty of time.” Already his hand had found its way beneath the lapels of her jacket and was slipping under the lace of her bra.

“Yes, but, Carter—” she protested, attempting to pull away from him.

“I love you, Joanna. You know I love you.”

“I love you, too, Carter,” she murmured, and that was true. Lifting her arms around his neck, she swayed against him.

“I need you. I need you now.”

“Yes,” she agreed, surrendering, for she needed him, too, and together they sank down onto her office sofa.

Because it was the last time they’d be together until Carter returned from Europe, he took his time making love to Joanna, holding himself back so that her pleasure could mount and expansively unfold, and when finally they had collapsed together, Joanna was pleasurably mussed and crushed and breathless. Twisting languidly onto her side and out from under the mass of his body, she maneuvered herself so that she faced his chest. She listened to his powerful heart pounding beneath the white arc of ribs, the tough warp of muscles, the taut stretch of white skin, and she imagined that his heart was like a hot, determined engine booming steadily in the depths of an ultramodern vessel—an icebreaker, cold, clean, gleaming, Olympian.

As she listened, his heart slowed and steadied. Childlike, she wrapped her arms around him, clinging. Eyes shut tightly, she tried to absorb into her being just one more moment to take with her into the coming month. Since they’d become lovers, they had not been separated for such a length of time and now, against all reason, she ached at the thought of his coming absence.

“What’s our next shoot?” he asked, and Joanna heard his voice rumbling in his chest.

Smiling against him—like Joanna, Carter was obsessed with his work, and perhaps that was assurance enough—she answered, “Santa Fe. That assistant of mine, the flawless Gloria, has everything in control. Next, the Chicago penthouse.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” The sofa rose and sank beneath them as he changed positions, nudging more closely against her. “Why not do it all at night?”

Joanna visualized the starkly stylized, phantasmagorically lit, Art Deco grottoes and chambers of the smart young married couple whose avant-garde apartment she and Carter had examined last month. The owners of a successful new restaurant and nightclub in Chicago’s Wrigleyville district, Joel and Jolen Braski spent their days sleeping and worked at night. A striking, even startling couple, of exactly the same height and ballerina slightness, the Braskis both had buzz cuts dyed Dracula-black, and identical obscure signs tattooed high on their left cheeks, and nipple rings which showed through their matte-black clothing. Originally from Peoria, they had decorated and streamlined their bodies and their dwelling to reflect their carefully invented radical images. At night
their rooms would glow eerily from their neon tube and fluorescent lamps, cutting the sharp, slightly off-kilter furniture out from the blank walls and floors with a hallucinatory clarity.

“You’re right.” This was why she loved him. He could be brilliant. “Of course. That’s just divine, Carter. I’ll have Bill Shorter fly out there with me to check it out at night.”

“Let’s do a shot of their club, too. It’s in the same genre of ‘nouveau psychotic’ the young wealthy seem to go for these days.”

Joanna mused a moment. “Their club … I don’t know … all those decapitated, amputated torsos … what about the censors?”

“Hey, those statues are art. Besides, they’ll be in the background, and CVN has an adult audience. No problem.” Carter stretched and edged up into a sitting position. “That cold green light at the bistro is the same at their apartment. Very dramatic.”

Joanna sat up, too. “The Braskis will be delighted to have the publicity.”

Throwing his shirt over his shoulder, Carter rose and went into the private bathroom.

“Another thought,” he called through the half-opened door. “Check out the possibilities of beginning this program with a telephoto shot from outside—from another apartment window, or even a helicopter if we have to—zooming in toward the building … a sort of voyeuristic approach.”

“Mmm,” Joanna responded. “I’ll have to think about that. May be a little too sinister … but it might work …” She was surprised to find she could only halfheartedly consider the show just now.

Quickly she pulled on her clothes—she would bathe later, at her apartment—and smoothed her hair. Hurriedly checking in her compact mirror for mascara smudges beneath her eyes, she noticed how her face had the bee-stung, blurry, compliant look of sensual contentment. She clicked the compact shut, as if to enclose that look and that moment of emotional peace as a keepsake to take with her into the next few days. Now, she thought, here come the brief words, the preoccupied kiss, the goodbye.

Carter emerged from the bathroom, his shirt buttoned and tucked into his trousers, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. Joanna saw him clearly: a handsome, tense, ambitious man. At forty-two, he was balding, but he wore it well. It made his already long face look longer, his forehead higher; he looked even more intellectual than he was.
Tennis, riding, skiing, sailing, all the sports he loved and did so well, kept him trim and lean. He wore elegant, expensive clothing; today a pinstripe suit of a blue as inky-dark and soap-smooth as carbon paper. His eyes were an electric, frosty, computer-screen blue, a judicious consequence of his laserlike intelligence and his carefully chosen contact lenses.

Carter stared at Joanna, drinking her in with his eyes, then reached out and brought her close to him. Hiding his face against her hair, he confessed, “I don’t know how I’m going to get through this next month. Christ, Joanna, I’m going to miss you.”

This was almost worse than anything, Joanna thought, this sensation of love which made her heart swell with joy and hope and confusion. She held her breath, trying to stem the welling tide of tears which threatened to embarrass her.

Only when she’d regained her composure did she allow herself to say calmly, “I’ll miss you, too.”

Carter pulled away, and suddenly he was smiling, his relaxed, almost piercingly beautiful smile that made him seem years younger. “I’ve got a present for you. Wait.”

In a few strides he crossed the room, exited Joanna’s office, and returned, bearing in his arms a large, heavy box of brown cardboard. A red bow had been fastened to the top.

“Good Lord!” Joanna laughed with pleasure and surprise. “What is it?”

As he bent down to set it on the floor before her, his face flushed with exertion and his own delight, Carter answered, “Open it and find out.” He handed her a paper knife from the desk.

She ripped off the bow and tossed it aside, slit through the cellophane tape, and, pulling back the sections of the lid, discovered the gleaming sumptuous cover of
Houses along the Hudson
staring up at her.

“Carter!”

When she picked up the top book, she found a book on castles on the Loire, and beneath that a book on manor houses and country estates in England. Then a book on southern plantation homes. She lifted the books out and stacked them on the coffee table. A book devoted to conservatories and sunrooms in houses throughout the United States. Two books filled with elaborate architectural drawings and watercolors of the rooms and furnishings from famous novels, from the House of Seven Gables to Tara. All were filled with fascinating text.

“Oh, Carter,” Joanna cried. “These are just delicious! I could just … 
eat
them!”

“Better not,” Carter replied gruffly, pleased by her pleasure.

Joanna ran her hands over the pile of books, which glowed like jewels with their rich, vibrant colors. She was deeply moved by Carter’s gesture and, wanting to do something equally generous for him, she cocked her head and said lightly, “I can’t wait to curl up with these. Now I won’t even know you’re gone.”

Looking up, she met his eyes. She managed to keep the smile on her face. Carter’s gaze was dense with love and pain.

“I’ve got to go.” Taking up his briefcase, he gave the office a quick last look.

They kissed quickly, solemnly.

“I’ll see you in a month,” Carter told her. Then he left.

Joanna stood in her darkening office without moving for a while, then crossed behind her desk to sink into the familiar confines of her desk chair. It was growing late. Time for an evening meal, she supposed, but she had no food at her apartment, she never did, and really she wasn’t very hungry, although a void was opening up within her that felt very much like hunger.