It was so Ginny.
"Whose bed are you sleeping in this morning, Ginny?" Jo murmured, and with a little sigh, left the cabin and prepared to scrub public rest rooms.
When she reached the facilities, Jo took keys out of her back pocket and opened the small storage area. Inside, cicaning paraphernalia and bathroom supplies were ruthlessly organized. It was always a surprise to realize how disciplined Ginny could be about her work when the rest of her life appeared to be an unpredictable and often messy lark.
Armed with mop and bucket, commercial cleaners, rags, and rubber gloves, Jo went into the women's shower. A woman of about fifty was busily brushing her teeth at one of the sinks. Jo sent her an absentminded smile and began to fill her bucket.
The woman rinsed, spat. "Where's Ginny this morning?"
"Oh." Jo blinked her eyes against the strong fumes of the cleaner as it bubbled up. "Apparently among the missing."
"Overpartied," the woman said with a friendly laugh. "It was a great bonfire. My husband and I enjoyed it-so much that we're getting a very late start this morning."
"That's what vacations are for. Enjoyment and late starts."
"It's hard to convince him of the second part." The woman took a small tube out of her travel kit and, squirting moisturizing lotion on her fingers, began to slather it on. "Dick's a real bear about time schedules. We're nearly an hour late for our morning hike."
"The island's not going anywhere."
"Tell that to Dick." she laughed again, then greeted a young woman and a girl of about three who came in. "Morning, Meg. And how's pretty Lisa today?"
The little girl raced over and began to chatter.
Jo used the voices for background music as she went about her chores. The older woman was Joan, and it seemed she and Dick had the campsite adjoining the one Meg and her husband, Mick, had claimed. They'd formed that oddly intimate vacationers' friendship over the past two days. They made a date to have a fish fry that night, then Meg slipped into one of the shower stalls with her little girl.
Jo listened to the water drum and the child's voice echo as she mopped up the floor. This was what Ginny liked, she realized, collecting these small pieces of other people's lives. But she was able to join in with them, be a part of them. People remembered her. They took snapshots with her in them and slipped them into their family vacation albums. They called her by name, and repeaters always asked after Ginny.
Because she didn't hide from things, Jo thought, leaning on her mop. she didn't let herself fade into the background. she was just like her brightly colored plastic flowers. Cheerful and bold.
Maybe it was time she herself took a few steps forward, Jo thought. Out of the background. Into the light.
she gathered her supplies and walked out of the ladies' section, rounding the building to the door of the men's facilities. she used the side of her fist to knock, giving the wooden door three hard beats, waited a few seconds and repeated.
Wincing a little, she eased the door open and shouted. "Cleaning crew. Anyone inside?"
Years before when she'd been helping Ginny, Jo had walked in on an elderly man in a skimpy towel who'd left his hearing aid back at his campsite. she didn't want to repeat the experience. she heard nothing from inside-no sound of water running, urinals whooshing, but she made as much noise as possible herself as she clamored in.
As a final precaution, she propped the door open and hung the large plastic KEEPING YOUR REST ROOMS CLEAN sign in plain sight. Satisfied, she hauled her bucket to the sinks and dumped in cleaner. Twenty minutes, thirty tops, and she'd be done, she told herself. To get through it she began to plan the rest of her day.
she thought she might drive up to the north shore. There were ruins there from an old Spanish mission, built in the sixteenth century and abandoned in the seventeenth. The Spaniards hadn't had much luck converting the transient Indians to Christianity, and the settlement that historians suspected had been planned had never come to pass.
It was a nice day for a drive to the north tip, the light would be excellent by midmorning for photographing the ruins and the terraces of shells accumulated and left by the Indians. she wondered if Nathan would like to go along with her. Wouldn't an architect be interested in the ruins of an old Spanish mission? she could ask Brian to put together a picnic lunch, and they could spend a few hours with the ghosts of Spanish monks.
And who was she fooling? Jo demanded. she didn't give a hang about the monks or the ruins. It was the picnic she wanted, the afternoon with no responsibility, no agenda, no deadline. It was Nathan she wanted. she straightened and pressed a hand to her stomach as it fluttered hard and fast. she wanted the time alone with him, perhaps to test them both. To see what would happen if she found the courage to just let herself go. To be with him. To be Jo.