"Listen, if you're worried about stability, let me handle that part. I've never let you down before, right? So, you settle the finances, I'll mark the area, and the islanders will be better off with an incline. God knows I'm tired of having to drag my ladder over every time I want to go hunting for windflowers to breed."
Jonesy has baby hair sticking in just about every direction, despite a classic sun hat smashed down over her head. She's also soaking wet from the rain, and Tom finds himself wondering why on Earth she didn't just bring an umbrella. Now there's a trail of water in the Resident Services building, and she's splashing more of it against the counter every time she taps her fingers along the wood. He's lucky it's nothing particularly extravagant .
"It's not that I don't trust you," he starts, a little unsure of how to proceed — the last time Jonesy had picked a location for an incline, they'd only just finished the grueling construction when she'd suddenly changed her mind, and decided to demolish it and build another on the complete opposite side of the island. When it came to bringing up the island's so-called "curb appeal," they both had the passion, Jonesy was just a little more… sporadic, to put it politely. Tom liked to think things through with a nice blueprint all planned out, and Jonesy lay plots down within half a heartbeat. It was enough to make his heart skip beats just to try and keep up.
Or maybe that was just the coffee making him so jittery. Isabelle has told him to stop drinking so much.
Jonesy pops her wad of gum and grins confidently. There's a familiar devious sparkle in her eyes, one she gets when she knows she's won. He's going to let her have her way; he always does. And most of the time, he's not disappointed.
"Okay, so hand over the setup already, Mr. Nook. I've got brick to lay and fish to catch, and rain is the perfect time to try and catch some of those tuna I've been eyeing out by the docks. What's the holdup?"
"I just don't want you to overwork yourself because you made a rash decision, that's all," Tom replies, trying to sound stern but failing. It's very difficult to rein someone down when they're about as flighty as an Agrias. Which, if there was a competition in that department, Tom is sure Jonesy would win by a landslide. "Try to at least think about it before you finalize construction permission this time."
Jonesy finger-guns him, which isn't exactly encouraging.
He sighs and rummages underneath his side of the counter, fishing up ground markers and a post to put together the kit. He lays it onto the counter, and Jonesy loads it into her cart, already brimming with excitement for something that has only just been conceived.
"You're a peach! And that's a real compliment, considering I wore down way too many Nook Miles just to hunt those things down to plant here," Jonesy says smoothly, flipping through her toolbox. Tom rolls his eyes, and Isabelle, just across his desk, snorts into her plants. Jonesy doesn't seem to notice. "A real sweet rarity."
"Alright, alright, stop trying to butter me up. I'm not knocking down your debt no matter how many compliments you shower me with," Tom interjects, despite blushing furiously. He's never done well with compliments. Makes him feel all kinds of soft inside, and he never knows the appropriate way to respond. He'd think that by now he'd be used to it, especially with the R.R. being who she is, but he's never quite lost the sweet tooth for sweet talk. Or anything else sweet, really. He's craving a good chocolate pudding right about now.
"Asshole," Jonesy responds, and now Isabelle laughs out loud, unable to stop herself. Jonesy flips him off, grinning widely and trailing her cart behind her. "I'll see you both later. Isabelle, if you catch Eunice, please lovingly tell her I said I will personally superglue her purse to her if she keeps losing it up in the bamboo maze."
"I'm on it!" Isabelle replies, still stifling a giggle. Tom eyes her with a less than serious frown on his face. The door to the Resident Service slams in front of them.
"She's not that funny."
"She is, and you know it. Don't think I didn't catch you grinning over there, melting like an ice cream bar left out on the agora - which she built, by the way."
Tom huffs at this, knowing she's right.
"You're a big softie," Isabelle continues, spraying her plants with water. "That's what I like about you. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know."
"Now I know you don't owe me any bells, so you definitely don't need to give me all of that," Tom grumbles, burying himself in his paperwork. He's had several phone calls requesting visitation on the island, and he's got to settle on a schedule soon so he can finalize everything with the Dodo brothers at the airport. Then the itinerary needs to be sent to the potential visitors, and there is usually some haggling with what days they can come and what activities they will be most interested in during their visit.
Isabelle doesn't respond, but he sees her give him a look over before dedicating herself to her own agenda, the first being to gently place what he assumes is Eunice's purse in her lost and found crate. If she had any thoughts on his defensiveness, she doesn't speak on it.
He's forgotten to ask Jonesy about the state of the visitor's tent. No matter. There is a one hundred percent chance she'll be back to crow about where she's placed the incline plans and to redeem Nook Miles. She's never entirely consistent with the latter, but the former is a guarantee. He'll bring it up then. He sighs and settles himself in on the rest of the paperwork for the next hour or so, occasionally chatting or taking a stretch break with Isabelle.
"It's about lunch time isn't it?" he asks after a while, peering at the clock just to make sure time really has passed. Isabelle looks up from her book, a sort of shocked look on her face.
"You're right, it is," she agrees, standing up from her chair and straightening her corduroy vest. There's a stroke of thunder, and the rain sounds heavier than ever outside. Tom can see fog forming in the window panes. Today would have been a wonderful day for a nice warm potato soup, with chives and a creamy sauce, but the forecast hadn't called for rain earlier. He opens the small fridge to dig out his and Isabelle's lunch, already feeling his stomach peel in hunger despite having had a snack not too long ago.
"Here," he says, reaching over to Isabelle, who leans forward and grabs her lunch appreciatively.
Isabelle, who is always extremely polite and positive. He can't have asked for a better assistant. She truly goes above and beyond her station, which is much more than he'd ever hoped for. When he initially invited her to help run the Human Resources department, he hadn't expected her to catch on so quickly, or to be quite so loving. Not that he'd doubted she'd do a good job. He wouldn't have picked her if he'd thought she wasn't cut out for it. But she had surpassed his expectations. He can't imagine working without her.
The same can be said for Jonesy, despite her sometimes stressing the ever loving hell out of him. They have, without a doubt, the strangest employee/employer relationship he has ever experienced in business, and he's been in the business of business for quite some time now. He somehow thinks of her as a sister and a daughter at the same time, and he's had neither his entire life.
He certainly hadn't expected her energy either, when he'd first offered this idea of creating the perfect getaway venture. She'd been much quieter when they'd first met. Now she was consistently barging in and hanging over his counter to talk as if neither of them had work to do.
Not that he's complaining. Especially now that the twins are older and at that age where they find him too embarrassing to be around him as much, it gets lonely. And the other residents don't visit much unless they have a complaint. Besides Isabelle, Jonesy is the only social interaction he really has. He knows this is probably partially his fault. He never meant to become a desk monkey. But there's a particular comfort in the routine of knowing what comes next. He knows how to deal with chaos he can control. And the paper chaos on his desk is a very controllable chaos, if he puts his mind to it.
He unwraps his tuna salad sandwich and sniffs at it contentedly before taking a bite into it, humming in relief. Isabelle is scrolling through her phone, laughing to herself every once in a while. He clicks through his computer and reads the recent news articles, looking for something to catch his eye and inspire him.
He's halfway through a bite on the second half of his sandwich when the door slams open, and he's surprised to see it isn't Jonesy back to proclaim her victory.
"Eunice! You poor dear, you're shivering," Isabelle exclaims immediately, snatching up a towel and rushing over to dab at said Eunice with it. "Where is your umbrella?"
Eunice, sad and forlorn, appears even more so than usual, drenched and dripping. Her knit navy sweater clings to her frame and she digs in her pocket for a handkerchief, sneezing into it abruptly.
"It's - excuse me - it's just outside. Doesn't seem to help much with this rain, however," she murmurs, taking the towel gratefully and wrapping it around her shoulders. "Thank you."
"Of course!" Isabelle chimes in sweetly, making her way back to her desk. "Tea? Coffee? I also have some cider packets if you'd like that."
"Tea sounds lovely, thank you," Eunice replies, shivering into the towel. She brings it closer around her and settles down in one of the waiting chairs. Tom can hear her heels clicking against the floor just before she sits, legs crossed daintily. Her voice is small and meek. "Normally I really wouldn't be out in this rain to begin with, but I've lost my purse and I was wondering if anyone has seen it or turned it in?"
"As a matter of fact, your lovely R.R. came across it this morning. She told me to pass along the message that she will, and I quote, personally superglue it to you."
Eunice blushes sheepishly, stammering. "I owe her so much," she sighs, shaking her head. "It's a pity I really don't have much to give. I think this is about the third time just this week I've dropped the silly thing."
"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Isabelle says, smiling widely. She pulls out the purse and lays it in the chair next to Eunice. "She only has the nicest things to say about you every time she comes by. Isn't that right, Mr. Nook?"
"The nicest," Tom concurs, and Eunice visibly relaxed, a bright smile beaming across her face. It's the happiest he's ever seen her, including the day her home was finally completely built and furnished. Why she had wanted what seemed like an unreasonable amount of washers, he didn't know. It wasn't his business as to why she wanted to feel as if she lived in a laundromat, so he hadn't asked.
"That is so good to hear," Eunice chirps, as Isabelle hands her the now ready tea. Eunice clasps it in both hands, blowing on the steam gently. "I do so adore that girl - although I can't for the life of me keep up with half of what she says. It is nice to listen though, and be listened to. I never feel as if I'm boring her."
Tom can relate. He thinks to himself that Eunice might have just put into words exactly how he feels about Jonesy. It certainly resonates with him.
"Speaking of Jonesy," he starts, "I feel as if she should have been here by now. It's been hours since she came in about the incline."
"Maybe she took your advice about thinking more seriously about where she puts it," Isabelle suggests, pouring herself the remaining Chamomile.
Tom snorts against his will. "Highly unlikely," he says. If anything, she's found a nice spot to fish and simply gotten distracted. He wouldn't put that past her. It's a much more logical conclusion than the idea of her ever settling down to think something through.
"She mentioned something about a secret beach?" Eunice offers helpfully, sipping at her tea. "She's been banging around up the Northside of the island, digging out some kind of path behind the gardens. I really didn't know what she was going on about, but I figured we'd all find out soon enough."
"Makes sense," Tom agrees, finishing up his lunch and settling back into his work. Jonesy is never quite predictable, except in being unpredictable. He can always count on her for that. That, and an unprecedented determination and surefire work ethic that truly blossomed their island. Eunice and Isabelle prattle to each other softly while they finish their tea, and he blissfully zones into the number work of bookkeeping and financing various loans and offers. The rain has mostly settled, and he falls easily into a rhythm of work, his head propped up against his hand while he studies the files in front of him.
His nephews have paid out way too many bells for lawn work. He sighs, crossing through numbers and adjusting his accounts. He'll have to talk with them when they close up tonight. They mean well, and most of the time do an excellent job, but at times they're a bit overzealous - and a little too generous. It doesn't take much to impress them, and it shows up in their transaction statements.
At the same time, a simple wax candle shouldn't be over 500 bells. He scans the receipt and scoffs in amusement. Jonesy has bought six of them. Six. He wonders why she hadn't even tried to haggle for a more reasonable price. More than likely, she hadn't given it a second thought. He continues to study the statements, and finds that several of the islanders have paid more than their fair share of bells on several items. Which means that now he's going to have to do the math to find out whether they're owed money or in the hole.
He can work with numbers, though. Numbers are the same no matter what. You always have a predictable outcome, and you know what you need to get the desired outcome. As mind-wearying as it can be, to trudge through equation after equation, the outcome can be controlled. There is no room for surprise mistakes. Except perhaps the twins haphazardly running the store to the ground with their little to no knowledge on basic economics. He twists in his chair, trying to release the tension that's been building up in his neck for the past half hour.
Eunice leaves at last, when it seems the rain has slowed down just a tad enough for her liking. He watches her slowly wobble her way out of the door, her purse left on the seat. He coughs to catch her attention, but Isabelle jumps to action before he can stand out of his chair, rushing after her. He can hear their subdued conversation and blurred voices just on the other side of the door, the rain just a bit louder than they are. The door shuts behind Isabelle with a heavy slam.
"She is an interesting character herself, isn't she?"
Isabelle shivers, which is in positively the most dainty way anyone could. If Tom wasn't looking, he'd easily believe no one was there. She grins at him, shoes spattering across the floor, and Tom thinks to himself that they definitely need to invest in a nice rug before the wood is ruined completely. It's been all cloudy skies for the past few days.
"I have to say, I am really surprised that she even applied to live on a remote island. She doesn't seem like the type to adapt well to change, or inconveniences," she cocks her head at him. "Kind of like you."
Tom raises a brow at her gentle jab. "Jonesy is rubbing off on you, and I don't like it," he grunts, mouth already crooking into a smile.
"I do. Give her a raise."
"I can't do that. Then she'll get too confident and she'll be insufferable."
They stare at each other for a while, trying very hard not to break into laughter. It doesn't last very long, and Isabelle cracks first, giving into a fit of giggles.
"It really does surprise me though, that you just uproot yourself and two "nephews" to some faraway place where we'd have to - quite literally - build society from the ground up," Isabelle muses aloud, pursing her lips. She gazes at him curiously. "What made you decide to do it?"
He feels the sting before he can stop himself. He hopes she doesn't see it in his eyes. He's worked long and hard on creating a veneer of passive indifference. His eyes drop to the stack of work still left, and wonders how much he can clear before calling it a day.
"I just needed a change," he settles on. It's a politician's answer, and he can tell Isabelle is disappointed by it, but she doesn't pry. Still, the crestfallen look on her brow drives him just guilty enough to feel the need to explain something.
"I made a lot of choices, Isabelle, choices that led me to question who I was. Especially since I have the twins in tow. I didn't want," he pauses and waved his hand around, and Isabelle is looking on, trying her very hardest to accept his roundabout explanation. "I didn't want them to think they had to grow up and be just like me. I wanted to show them that there are… options. That you can choose anything you want for yourself. That you can choose happiness."
Isabelle catches her breath. "Mr. Nook," she starts, and he fears he's said too much. She sinks into her chair, and he can see the glaze of thought come over her eyes. He braces himself for the impact.
"That's a very melodramatic way of showing them that, don't you think?"
He tries not to sigh in relief, and lets out a low chuckle instead. The applicants will just have to wait until tomorrow. If they're truly dedicated to an unpredictable lifestyle, he won't have a slew of complaints in his voicemail in the morning.
"I mean, couldn't you have just moved to a different town?" Isabelle is still wondering. He's not sure she realizes she's thinking out loud. The clock rings out it's default theme, chiming ten-o-clock to everyone in earshot.
The twins should be closing up shop by now. He gathers up their ledger and stands from his chair, stretching.
"That's us, Isabelle," he tells her. She's clicking her pen, no doubt in the midst of signing yet another letter for an approved applicant. The process of being accepted just to visit the island is a monotonous and prolonged process, but it's worth it to ensure that not just anyone can come creeping onto the island shores. The island is made to be paradise; he'll do anything to be sure it remains that way.
"Go on ahead, Mr. Nook, I'm just ten minutes behind you," Isabelle returns. She sounds distracted. He follows her gaze to the window, where he can see the fog and the rain still. The sky is darker now. He wants to ask what's caught her mind, but if he expects her to respect his privacy, he'd better set the tone. He just gives a small approval before exiting his work space, pausing at the door.
"Lock up before you leave, alright?"
"I will, Mr. Nook."
He hesitates, watching her chew her lip over a sheet of stationary in her hands. There's lightning that colors the sky, and he finally leaves the building, letting the door slip shut behind him.
He's forgotten an umbrella. He's about to be soaked and miserable. He groans and tries to channel a spontaneous mindset before dashing out into the rain, trying not to think too much about how it's soaking into his shoes.
He stops by the shop, but the twins are already gone. He can tell as soon as he rounds the corner, and doesn't see the lights. Which means he's run this way for nothing. He's starting to think that maybe having a faster mode of transportation might not be a bad idea. He shakes himself and rushes away from the store and towards home this time, cursing under his breath. He doesn't understand how Jonesy was piddling around all day in this weather without any sort of protection.
He still hadn't seen her again since the afternoon, he's come to realize. It's definitely odd, and he's unsure of what would have kept her away. There wasn't even an evening visit, even if just to give him a hard time. The island is small, and she's capable; surely she isn't in any trouble. But it worries him all the same. If he doesn't hear from her by morning, he'll go looking.
"Uncle Tom- Uncle Tom, why are you all wet? Jesus, didn't you bring an umbrella?"
"...an umbrella, Uncle Tom?"
Timmy and Tommy are at his heels before he can even shut the door to his own home, which means they didn't bother to go through the pantry at all and try to whip up dinner for themselves. Maybe he's asking too much for fourteens. He sighs wearily beneath their chattering and shrugs out of his now soaking loafers, leaning them up against the baseboard to dry. He hopes they'll dry by tomorrow, anyways. They're the only business shoes he has.
"Alright, alright - what do you two want to eat?" he asks, easing himself out from their arms. Scrawny and growing taller everyday, the twins are becoming more and more out of his reach. He's never been a parent before these two, and he wonders if they all feel this way, when their babies reach to teens. That they're slowly losing them. The hugs are more sparse, the conversations die out. He knows that he's not the best at initiating conversation, outside of talking shop.
He wonders if it's his fault, that he feels alone at the end of the day. That he sleeps lonely.
"Pizza! Pizza!"
"...Pizza!"
They sound like a chorus, if hungry teen boys were a choir in a chapel. On this island, he thinks, they most likely are. He pushes himself out of his thoughts and into the present moment, shaking his head at them.
"We can't have pizza, we just had fried salmon earlier this week. It's not healthy…"
He watches their faces fall. Wide brown eyes narrow slowly. Timmy begins to scowl, although he doesn't say anything, and Tommy sniffs and shrugs his shoulders. The house is silent suddenly, the life gone as quickly as it had initially ambushed him. He's snuffed it again, without realizing how or why, and he's just so tired.
"...but I guess, since it's a Friday, I'll make an exception."
Tommy squeals. Timmy punches the air in excitement. "Yes! You're the best!" he screeches, shaking one of the kitchen chairs chaotically. Tom tries not to let his anxiety increase with the volume. Tommy squeezes him in the tightest embrace, and he can feel him shaking in delight.
"...the best!" he's echoing.
"Well, let me get to the pizza," Tom chides gently. He gives Tommy a pointed look, holding up the worn yellow book. "And we need to talk about this ledger, young man."
"After pizza," Timmy insists, coming up behind him and shoving him into the kitchen. He nearly trips over Tommy on the way to the fridge, finding himself disassociating just to quiet the chaos in his head for a moment while he tries to focus on how to bake pizza. Pizza. 400 degrees in the oven. Fifteen minutes. Pizza.
Timmy and Tommy are hollering over each other at the kitchen table while he places the pizza in the oven, and he hears a resounding crash and a pile of dominoes spreading out. They don't seem to need him anytime soon. He closes the oven door and leans towards the small window in the kitchen. Although the rain has halted for now, the clouds are thick as ever, and it looks as if it will be storming all night.
He peers into the fog more carefully, where he can see some of the islanders still meandering around. Why anyone would be out in this weather is beyond him. But they certainly look happy. He watches as Cheri and Kody have what appears to be an engaging conversation, their faces lighting up in excitement as they carry on about whatever it is they're engrossed in. He feels intrusive for wishing he knew what it was. The longing is there anyways.
Something catches his eye on the far north side. The clouds look black, almost like smoke. He cranes his neck towards it to get a better look, but then Tommy is calling his name, and the oven is beeping at him. He glances towards it one more time before leaving it be, grabbing the oven mitts. Perhaps Jonesy has found her so called secret beach, and is having a celebratory campfire. He grins softly to himself, pulling the now done pizza out of the oven to cut.
Surely it's nothing to worry about. This island is a haven, he's made sure of it. And if it is any sort of trouble, he'll figure it out soon enough.
"Alright, settle down," he chastises, carefully setting the pizza in the middle of the table. He smacks two pairs of greedy reaching hands away. "Let it cool down first, before you burn your tongues. Can't you see the steam still coming off it?"
When the boys finally tumble off to bed - after a good long argument about exactly what time should be considered bedtime for boys their age - Tom finds himself sitting at the foot of his own bed, watching the record player as it slowly spins out soft crooning music. He cannot find it in himself to peel off his shoes, and rests right where he is for a moment, drifting off with the music, his mind wandering. He has to forcefully shake himself out of it just to stand. He hopes Isabelle left work when she said she would. He can't imagine how tired she is as well.
He doesn't understand how Jonesy is out so late either. She runs around all day and still has the energy to be out and about, undoubtedly livening up whoever's presence she's in. He shakes his head and grins fondly to himself, finally gathering the strength to change into bed clothes so he can settle in for the night.
His bed is comfortable. He'd made sure of this when he'd moved. He doesn't consider himself to be particularly picky or in need of the finer things in life, but he did want a nice bed. Still, his nights are restless most of the time. He often fights to sleep, only to wake a few hours later and have to start the battle all over again.
No matter. He's done it before, and he'll do it again. He'll have coffee in the morning, as usual. Isabelle will just have to forgive him. His eye catches the smoke trail again, just outside his window, and he's pretty sure that's what he drifts off to, the lulling cadence of the music slowly luring him into sleep.