My driveway was only two miles farther up the road. Wind began to howl around us as I drove up the last hill before the house. As always, my heartbeat quickened with delight at the prospect of coming home. I slowed the car as we approached the familiar stand of mailboxes on the side of the road, then drove in through the granite gateposts, startling a doe and her two fawns, who were foraging on the snowy ground for something to eat. They darted off and I drove up next to the door. Upon each arrival, I drank in the beauty of my view. Headlights off, we sat in the car without speaking as I gazed off at the dim lights in the distance, till Jake caressed my neck and again brought my mouth to his.
"C'mon, Mrs. Claus. We've got work to do. Aren't you hungry?"
I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost eight o'clock, as we took our bags from the car and went inside the house. "I've got the whole evening scheduled. You're not allowed to be hungry yet. Dinner is going to be at eleven, so that we can begin our official celebration at midnight."
"Mind if I nibble on an earlobe or a collarbone till then?" Jake was following in my footsteps as I went from room to room, turning on lamps and illuminating the scented candles. "There's got to be something unplanned, every now and then, that I can slip into your demanding schedule."
A small tree, not even two feet high, had been set up beside the stone hearth. There was a giant box, gift-wrapped and ribboned, from the great toy store FAO Schwarz. "I hope none of my wires got crossed. That's probably something that was supposed to be shipped to my niece."
"You're not the only one with a Christmas list, Goldilocks."
I unpacked two red stockings from my tote and laid them across the back of the sofa. My mother had needlepointed them for each of us, our names stitched in white and green on the cuff. "Why don't you put some music on while I clean up?"
I went into the bedroom and undressed. I stared out my window over acres of land ringed by ancient stone walls, secure that the problems against which I protected myself in the city couldn't reach me here. The fishing village of Menemsha was no longer visible across the pond through the haze as the first soft flakes of snow began to blow against the panes of the French doors and melt. This was my sanctuary.
I set the timer for the steam shower at ten minutes and the temperature to ninety-five degrees, stepped inside, and reclined on the wooden bench. The room filled with mist and I began to sweat. Memories of Lola Dakota's videoed faux shooting swirled and mixed with visions of the actual bloodstained elevator shaft. I wanted the toxins to be removed from my body and my mind to be cleared of all thoughts of death and violence. The physical cleansing worked, but the opportunity to do nothing except think made it impossible for me to erase the mental images.
After six or seven minutes, I shut off the steam and turned on the nozzle, holding my face up to the twelve-inch showerhead that cascaded hot water all over me. I washed my body and shampooed my hair. Jake was outside the steam room when I emerged, standing naked and holding a bath sheet to wrap me in. We kissed again, long this time, and tasted each other lovingly, until I rested my head against his shoulder blade. He stroked my wet curls and pressed his lips against the nape of my neck.
I led him over to the bed. "What makes you think this was unscheduled? You never give me credit for anything."
Jake's mouth moved along the lines of my body, kissing my arms first, and then up and down the length of my back. I rolled over to face him, bringing his face up to meet mine and inviting him to be inside me.
"Not so fast," he whispered.
"There's time for slower later. I've missed you so badly this week. I've needed you, Jake."
We both stopped talking and lost ourselves in making love to each other. When we had finished, I nestled against his lean body and rested my head on his outstretched arm. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again I realized that I had actually fallen asleep for almost an hour. "I'm sorry. I must-"
"You must have needed it, darling. Relax." Jake had already showered and dressed for the evening, in jeans and a cashmere crewneck sweater. I showered again and this time when I walked into the bedroom, there was a long red shiny box wrapped with a gauzy silver ribbon on the bed. "I'm such a baby. I'm going to wait till midnight." "No, this one's a gift for me, and I want you to open it now." I pulled at the ribbon and opened the lid. Beneath the tissue paper was a pair of lady's silk lounging pajamas in the most delicate shade of aqua. "It's the color you're wearing when I dream about you. When you have clothes on, that is." He held the top up against my skin. "Would you wear it for me, please, tonight? For dinner?"
I dressed in the pale, smooth outfit, brushed my hair, and dabbed some Caleche behind both ears, on my throat and wrists. Jake was in the living room, where he had started the fire, while Ella Fitzgerald was singing Cole Porter to him. He had poured us each a scotch and was standing by the window, watching the flakes pile up on one another.
"I understand that dinner is part of my holiday surprise, but a hungry guy tends to get nervous when the woman he loves can barely boil water. Do you need help in the kitchen?"
"The ladies who feed you so well all summer have helped me put together this wonderful feast. You'll simply have to trust them, not me. It's all island food." I disappeared into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, where everything had been stored for my arrival, along with explicit instructions. My first task was the hardest-to open a dozen Tisbury Pond oysters.
I had learned after many summers here how to use an oyster knife to pry the lids apart without drawing blood on both my hands. Fifteen minutes of lifting, twisting, and scooping the delicious creatures out of their shells, and I returned to the living room with one of Jake's favorite treats. The fresh, briny oysters tasted as though they had been pulled from the water just hours ago.
"You're off to a winning debut, darling. What's next?"
"You open the wine. I'll set out the first course in the dining room."
There was a smaller fireplace in my dining room, as well. And I started that, after I lighted the six candles in the chandelier above the table. Jake found a bottle of Corton Charlemagne, grand cru, and worked on drawing out the cork.
"The first course, Monsieur Tyler, is compliments of the Homeport." Jake loved the chowder at the lobster house in nearby Menemsha, which-like every other restaurant on our end of the island-closes in the fall. "I actually had the good sense to freeze a quart of it. Cheers!"
When we'd finished the soup and I had cleared the dishes, I sent Jake back into the living room. "The next one is trickier." There was a tiny wooden shack in Menemsha called the Bite. And for years, the Quinn sisters, who owned the business, had been cooking and selling the world's absolutely most delicious fried clams. Jake detoured to the Bite, straight from the airport, on every trip to the house. He had even convinced NBC to have the Today show do a summer feature on the tasty little enterprise.
Before they closed in October, I had urged Karen and Jackie Quinn to sell me a batch of the batter in which they roll the morsels before deep-frying them. I bought clams to store in the freezer, and a Fry Daddy in which to attempt to concoct their magic recipe. When I was done with the effort, I carried a trayful into the living room.