for them to look at.
When she returned to the table, she perched on her chair
saying, “Lance dear, the salesman at Sloane’s that I work with
is only there until 3 today. I think I’ll go directly over there
to see what they have for the staff rooms, since we are going
with what Emma wants. Why don’t you take Emma with you
to the gallery, that might be exciting for her. You don’t really
need my input. Who knows, Emma might have an opinion
on art as well.” Sheila dabbed her mouth with her napkin and
rose from the table.
Lance got up to help her with her chair. “You take the car,”
he said, “Emma and I can walk to the gallery. It’s just across
Fifth, then Charles can come back and pick us up at the gal ery.”
“Whatever you say, Lance, dear. I think I have an idea
of what you’re looking for and I’ll be ready when you and
Emma arrive.”
“Thank you, Sheila,” Emma said.
“Miss Vaast,” Sheila was quick to correct her. Emma
watched Sheila undulate out of the restaurant clinging to Lance.
Shee-la Vaast, sounds like a stripper, she thought, and then started to laugh. When Lance returned to the table, Emma was still
chuckling.
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“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing, Mr. Withers,” she tried but couldn’t
stop laughing.
“Okay, are you going to let me in on the joke or not?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just her name, I didn’t know Sheila’s last
name until just now. It just struck me as funny, that’s all.”
“I know,” Lance said, “She’s one of New York’s top deco-
rators, but I swear her name sounds like she’s a Times Square
stripper.”
(III)
Emma lay in bed trying to recall every detail of the day.
Their lunch at 21 where he defended her from Sheila. Their
walk to the gallery. Exploring the art with Mr. Withers as he
told her about the artists and asked which paintings she liked.
“They are paintings, not pictures,” he told her, and encour-
aged her to express her opinion and invited her to use his library
to learn more about art and artists. He even purchased one of
the paintings she admired, The Flower Stand by Childe Hassan.
“Let’s hang it in your room so you can enjoy it every day,”
he suggested. “American impressionists are regaining favor
these days. You have a good eye; this painting might be quite
valuable in a few years. Good choice, Emma.”
Emma buried her face in her pillow; how could I have
embraced him? But he put his arms around me and pul ed me
closer, or did I just imagine that? Emma sat up and turned on the light to look at the Hassan hanging on her wall. “I love
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it,” she said aloud. “I love him too.” She put her hands over
her ears trying to drown out her mother’s words ringing in
her ears. There are rules Emma, when you are in service there are strict rules about relationships. There is the front of the house and the back of the house, and nothing in between.
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• 20 •
Omaha, Nebraska to
Montego Bay, Jamaica to New York
November 1965
(I)
A newly minted millionaire from Omaha,
Nebraska, of all places, out-maneuvered Lance Henry
Withers. He had underestimated the man; having his
bid rejected in favor of a rookie investor was something people
would notice. Lance had always been the youngest and the
sharpest of his contemporaries. They used to call him the Whiz
Kid of Wall Street, but at fifty-two, he was no longer a kid—was he also losing his edge? Lance could feel the hot breath of the
next generation on his neck. The children and protégés of his
peers were now anxious to put their Ivy League MBAs up
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against his street smarts. Lance had no heir to pass the baton
to, and even if he did, he was not ready to relinquish his title.
Once the textile manufacturing company accepted the
Omaha kid’s final bid, Lance’s acquisition team wasted no time
getting out of the Nebraska winter. After months of flying back
and forth to try to revive this deal, they were eager to return to
the comfort of spouses and children. Lance decided to spend
another night in the hotel in Omaha to avoid the two women
he lived with. Charlotte was as demanding and possessive as
ever, and Emma would never be his to possess. He’d stayed
in Omaha during the months of business negotiations to help
suppress his attraction to Emma. Hard work and a little distance
had always quelled a romance he wished to avoid; however, his
self-imposed exile had not had the effect he’d hoped for. He
missed Emma.
He ate his room service steak and looked out of the window
at the flat, bleak landscape of winter in Omaha, knowing that
the same grey of the season waited for him in New York. He
clicked on the television and flipped channels until he landed
on an old James Bond movie filmed in Jamaica. As he watched
Ursula Andress emerge from the Caribbean Sea in a skimpy
white bikini, he asked himself, why should 007 have all the fun?
The island was just the tonic he needed. I’ll go to the vil a in Round Hill, Lance thought. Some sun, Appleton rum and a beach full of bikini-clad women, that’s what I need.
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(II)
Lance bought the Round Hill villa in Jamaica so
that Charlotte could spend the winters away from him. If
Charlotte hadn’t decided to take a cruise with her friend Mrs.
Cumberbatch and encouraged Emma to use the villa for the
three weeks she would be away, it might never have happened.
Emma went to Round Hill to make her final decision about
leaving 580 Park. She had been dating Ed McKenna steadily
the last few months; she knew it was time to either commit
to him or end it.
Emma often accompanied Charlotte on her winter vacations
to the vil a and over the years, she and Winsom, Withers’ long-
time Jamaican housekeeper, had become friends and confidants.
In her youth, Winsom had survived a crush on the dashing Mr.
Withers. Now happily married and immune to his charm, she
was the perfect person to counsel Emma.
Away from Lance Withers’ world, and with Winsom’s
wise counsel, Emma could clearly see that to have a chance at
a life of her own, she needed to leave her existence at the edges
of Lance Withers’ life. She’d spent enough time longing for a
man she could never have. At thirty-three years old, she was
running out of time.
Feminism and the Women’s Liberation Movement were
gaining traction, women were considering their options beyond
the roles of wife and mother. Emma had been liberated since
she was sixteen years old. She was used to making her own
living and structuring her life on her terms. What she had not
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experience
d was the intimate constraint of loving someone and
having them love you back. She had lost her mother, father and
brother, Philmore, in World War II. If she wanted a family she
would have to create it, starting with a man to love her and give
her the children she wanted. If she stayed at 580 Park Avenue
that love and that life would never happen.
(III)
Lance had never seen Emma wear anything other than
her work uniform. She stood with her back to him, wearing
white shorts and a bikini top the colors of the hibiscus and
ginger flowers that she was arranging in a vase. She was bronze,
down to her barefoot toes, from the week she had already spent
in the Jamaican sun. Her hair, tied back by a colorful scarf,
cascaded down her back. She’s even more beautiful, he thought, standing just outside the kitchen door listening to Emma and
Winsom chatting.
Winsom turned, surprised to see him. “Good Lord Mon,
you give Winsom such a fright! Why you be lurkin’ like some
such lizard,” she chastised him. “Mr. Lance, this be your house,
when you come, you make yourself known. We were not told
to expect you!”
“Sorry, Winsom, I flew down this morning. I didn’t know
anyone was here. You’re supposed to be on vacation aren’t you?
And Miss George, when did you…?”
“Mr. Withers, I had no idea that you—Miss Charlotte
told me to use the villa since there wouldn’t be guests while
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Winsom was on vacation,” Emma said. “I’m sorry, if I had
known you were coming . . .”
Lance interrupted her. “I could really use a cup of coffee,”
he said, animating both women into action and keeping Emma
from saying anything that might ruin this moment for him.
“Right away, Mr. Lance,” Winsom said, pushing Emma
aside to make coffee in the small kitchen. “Winsom make you
lunch as well.”
“Just the coffee is fine, Winsom, I can go down to the
restaurant for something to eat,” Lance said, never taking his
eyes off Emma while she smoothed her hair and folded her
arms across her chest in an effort to cover herself.
“No, Mr. Lance. I fix your lunch. Rest yourself down by
the pool and I bring you what you like. Go now, I say. No talk
of restaurants while Winsom is still here!” With Winsom, one
did as one was told. Who works for whom? Lance thought as
she ushered him out of the kitchen and planted him in a chair
on the patio.
Lance sat by the pool, looking up at the kitchen window
and wondering what to say to Emma, other than the inappro-
priate, “Please stay.”
With her trademark efficiency, Winsom reappeared in a
few minutes, “I bring the coffee as soon as it brew. Lunch be
right on its heels,” she said.
“Is Miss George still with you in the kitchen?” Lance asked.
“No sir, as soon as you leave she make herself scarce. Shall
I call her?”
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“No, no. I’ll find her,” Lance said. Winsom returned to the
kitchen and Lance sipped his coffee, trying to convince himself
to do what he should, not what he wanted.
(IV)
Emma was almost finished packing when she heard a
knock on the bedroom door. “Come on in,” she said, calling
from the bathroom as she threw the last few things in her bag.
“Is he still eating lunch? Before he finishes, I need to be
gone from here. I cannot believe this! I finally get everything
straight in my mind and he shows up and confuses me. We
had it all worked out, didn’t we Winsom? I knew what I had
to do—what did my Mum used to say, there are rules, there’s the front of the house, the back of the house, and nothing in between.
Clear boundaries, the way it has to be. When I saw him—damn
it, he never comes here. Made me start wanting the impossible
again. You’re right, Winsom, there’s no future there. I just
wanted these three weeks to get used to the idea, then I could
go back to New York, resign, and start my new life. I never
should have accepted Miss Charlotte’s offer. I’ll find a hotel
in Montego Bay . . .”
“That’s not likely, given we’re coming up on a holiday,”
Lance said. Emma ran out of the bathroom to see him standing
near the open door to the bedroom. Her hands flew to her face
and she dropped onto the sofa in the room.
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“Stay,” Lance said, “I’m going back to New York this after-
noon. This is your vacation. Tell her she’s earned it, Winsom,”
he added as Winsom walked into the room.
“You’ve earned it,” Winsom said, realizing that she’d inter-
rupted something.
“Mr. Lance, your lunch be ready.” Lance walked over to
Emma, took her hands from her face and placed them awk-
wardly in her lap.
“You stay. I haven’t even unpacked. No worries,” he said.
“I’ve got a car waiting to take me to the airport. Thank you
for lunch, Winsom. Have wonderful vacations, both of you.”
(V)
Emma sat in the great room of the villa listening to Billie
Holiday sing the blues. She had downed nearly half a bottle of
rum. She had to drink more, she was going for drunk. She’d
made a fool of herself in front of Mr. Withers. All I had to do was turn around for a second and I would have avoided confessing that I was in love with him. Did I say I loved him? She couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter; she had said enough. Emma
laughed at how ridiculous it was to think Mr. Withers would
see her as anything other than staff.
A burst of thunder and a flash of lightening made her jump.
Get up, if I drink any more I’ll be sick, then I’ll have to clean that up too. What the hel , she thought, and poured herself another drink.
The storm intensified and the canvas curtains that pro-
tected the open-air room during severe weather billowed and
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flapped in the wind. Rain, or what the Jamaicans call liquid
sunshine, spattered onto the marble floors. She watched the
growing pool of water, I should clean that up. I’m the help, back of the house, at your service Mr. Withers. Tears filled her eyes, “I’ve wasted so much time,” she sobbed. “Thirty-three years old and
I have nothing to call my own—no family, no home, no life
outside of …” Peals of thunder and flashes of lightening were no competition for Emma’s sobs. Before Mr. Withers showed
up unexpectedly, she’d decided to resign; but she also knew
she could change her mind. Now, she didn’t have a choice, she
had to leave. I could stay in Jamaica, f ind work at one of the hotels on the island. The thought of putting distance between her, Lance Withers, and everything she knew made her cry harder.
A bolt of lightning finally snuffed out the electricity, as it
had been threatening to do all evening. Emma continued to
drink in the silence and the dark, as she waited for the resort’s
generator to start up. Through the bil owing canvas, she caught
a glimpse of headlights on the road outside, and then heard
footsteps running up the walk. Just as she was about to feel
afraid, the generator kicked in, il uminating Lance as he stepped
into the room. Emma held her breath.
“Everything out of Sangster was cancelled. I tried to get
a flight to anywhere, Emma. I didn’t want to come back here.
I knew if I did I might—”
“Might what?” Emma stumbled getting up from the couch.
Lance put his suitcases down. He could see that she’d been
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Provenance: A Novel
he could easily pull them both into something that could be
wonderful or disastrous.
“I’m soaked, I need something to warm me up,” he said.
Emma held up the bottle of rum. “I was thinking coffee. You
could probably use some too,” Lance said, moving toward
the kitchen.
“Mr. Withers, do you know how to make coffee?” Emma
asked. Lance thought for a second, and then realized he had
never made coffee in his life.
“I didn’t think so,” Emma said when he hesitated. “You
change out of your wet clothes and I’ll make us both some
coffee, how about that?”
(VI)
“So you’re resigning?” Lance asked, taking a sip from his
mug of coffee as they stood in the small gal ey kitchen, “When
were you planning to tell me?”
“I’d just decided,” Emma, said looking down at her bare
feet. They stood in silence for a few seconds while the storm
outside provided an ominous soundtrack for their strained
conversation.
“This afternoon, when you said you knew what you had to
do, is that when you decided?” Lance asked.
“I had to figure out whether the next seventeen years of my
life are going to be the same as the last seventeen.”
“Were they so bad?”
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“No, no, Mr. Withers, I didn’t mean to imply they were.
This job has been everything to me. When I showed up on
your doorstep with no place to go, you saved my life. When
you made me major domo, you gave me a profession. I owe
you so much and I’m grateful. It was a hard decision to leave,
but it’s time.”
“Don’t—” he paused to clear his throat, “leave.”
Emma looked up at him. “It’s time,” she repeated. “I’ve spent
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