Page 39 of The Space Between

But look at her now: she’s Jo Booker of Florida. Jo, who has more bathing suits than she has shoes. Jo, who meets up with her best girl friend not to walk in the woods, but to stroll around a modern-looking neighborhood and share a cigarette. Jo, who hasn’t canned a single thing since moving to Stardust Beach because she’s been so busy volunteering at the hospital and writing the stories that she’s gotten published inTrue Romancemagazine.

There is a long, drawn-out moment where Jo just stands there. This transformation has occurred right under her own nose. Has she become someone she doesn’t even know? A woman more worried about writing her stories, and about the fact that the ugly urn in her living room is watching her do her housework than she is about making strawberry preserves and collecting wood for the winter? Have her priorities shifted wildly and eroded her solid Minnesota substance? Has she turned into a mere shell of her former self, more concerned with glitter and jazz and sunshine than she is with being a good mother, a solid wife, and a true friend?

No, Jo thinks.I haven’t changed that much. I’ve changed some, but I’m still me. I’m me, but in a new setting.

She glances at the kitchen, where Nancy is slowly nibbling a cookie and turning the pages of her book. Suddenly, without warning, Nancy looks up and her eyes land right on Jo.

“Mommy?” she says. “I think you’re the best.”

Jo’s heart melts instantly, and she snaps out of her own thoughts. This unsolicited gift from her daughter is just the reminder she needed that her real work is raising her kids, and that she’s doing the very best she can—just like every other mother she knows.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she says to Nancy. “I think you’re the best, too.”

“Josephine.” A woman named Irene, with frosty lipstick and a fair amount of sun damage on her still-young face, smiles at Jo as she extends a hand. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”

Jo shakes her hand. “And you as well, Irene.”

“Come in. Sit, sit,” Irene says, sweeping a hand grandly at the office inside of Cape Kennedy. Jo chooses a squishy chair covered in red vinyl and sits, still clutching the handle of her purse with both hands. She can feel her knuckles clenching, and she takes a deep breath, letting it go with intention. “We’re so happy that you’re here.”

Jo looks around; so far it’s only her and Irene in the office, but she assumes that the woman means her whole department, perhaps. “Thank you.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

“No, thank you.” Jo can feel that her posture is making her come across as uncomfortable and expectant, so she tries to relax her arms and shoulders as she exhales with a smile.

She’s been called in for a meeting at NASA, and Bill had seemed curious about it, but also distracted when she'd told him about the phone call from Irene in the public relations department.

"Maybe they want to do another photo shoot with you and the kids?" Bill had offered, shoving the last corner of his buttered toast into his mouth and washing it down with coffee that morning. "Or possibly something about the hospital. Didn't you say that they're opening a new wing there or something?"

"A garden," Jo said. "And that really has nothing to do with me, Bill. I didn't design it or plant any of the palm trees." Her tone was exasperated enough to get his attention, and he stopped sipping his coffee long enough to look up at her.

"It's today at ten?" he'd asked. "In the public relations office?"

"Yes." She chewed on the inside of her cheek nervously, one hand on her hip and one slippered foot resting on top of the other as she stood in the middle of the kitchen, leaning against the counter. "I guess I'll just have to show up and see."

And now here she is, sitting across from Irene and wearing a brown-and-white striped silk dress that's making her feel far sweatier than she'd imagined it would. To go along with the new, less Minnesota-like Jo, she's slowly been obtaining a whole new wardrobe, starting with trendier cuts and colors, and now she can choose from any number of sleeveless pastel dresses that hit about two inches above the knee.

"Let me get right to the point, Josephine," Irene says, sitting down on her side of the desk and leaning one elbow on it as she strikes what looks to Jo like a dramatic pose. Irene looks out the window of the fourth floor office, and the blue sky is reflected in her blue eyes. "You've been writing a monthly column for a magazine calledTrue Romance, correct?"

Of all the things Jo had been expecting, this had been last on her list. In fact, it hadn't even made the list.

"Yes?" It comes out sounding like a question.

Irene spins in her chair and looks right into Jo's eyes. "It's garnering some attention."

Jo remembers the letter she'd received from Mrs. Ingrid Nelson of Wichita, Kansas, and she wonders how on earth Irene might have found out about her fan letter when not even Bill knows about that. Instead of asking, Jo says nothing, waiting to hear what else Irene might say.

"Some of the women on staff have read it, and, like any other office, gossip spreads here, Josephine. It spreads rather quickly. I read the story myself, and I have to say that I'm intrigued." Irene picks up a sharpened pencil and taps the eraser against her desk as she gazes off into space again. “I like the angle of the astronauts, I like the position and point of view of the wife. And the fact that Winston has been toying with the notion of a work-place romance is definitely keeping us on the edge of our seats as readers.”

Jo almost wants to laugh; this is so bizarre, listening to a woman she has just met talk to her about the characters in her stories as if they’re real. But as much as she wants to laugh, she also wants to be defensive, because her characters are not her, and they’re not real.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that Winston is thinking of engaging with this woman, exactly,” she says, trying to hold her emotions at bay. “I think he might find her attractive, but he’s a busy man with a lot on his plate.”

“Exactly!” Irene says, giving the desk a good, hard tap with the pencil. “He’s got a lot on his plate. He’s distracted. His attention is elsewhere, and now Maxine is seeking validation from anywhere she can find it.”

“Oh.” Jo shakes her head. “No. I mean—not exactly. I think Maxine is trying to get Winston’s attention back. I think that he’s the man she wants, and that she’s trying to understand why a man who has such a demanding and potentially rewarding and fulfilling career would also consider embarking upon a flirtation with some other woman. It just doesn’t make sense.” Jo’s face heats up as she starts talking. She’s nearly emphatic as she speaks, and all of a sudden, she realizes that she’s gotten far more emotionally involved in this description of her characters and their love lives than she’d ever intended to.

“That’s good,” Irene says, eyes narrowed. “She’s working to win him back. A woman who has to put her whole heart into re-winning the affections of her own husband…” Irene presses her lips together and shakes her blonde head back and forth slowly. “So relatable, Josephine. So relatable to so many women.”

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