Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  Nicole doubted his heart was in the question, but she welcomed the diversion. “It was. She’s just the same. We still get along really well. We’re both even reading the same book.”

  “Did you cook dinner for her?”

  “I was going to, then Dorey met us at the ferry and started talking about chowder, and we couldn’t resist. We brought it home and ate in front of the fire. Did you eat out?”

  “No. I picked up chicken at Whole Foods. Is the weather still cool?”

  “For sure. There?”

  “Warm and humid.”

  “I wish you’d come up,” Nicole said. In the old days, he would have eaten at restaurants with colleagues when she was gone, missing her enough to not want to eat home alone. Now he was hiding—not that she dared say that.

  “I have to get ready for North Carolina.”

  “You could do that on Quinnipeague, then fly straight to North Carolina from here. Charlotte would love to see you.”

  “Nah. There’s too much to wrap up here. Let me see if this numbness recurs.”

  “Will you let me know?”

  “You won’t be calling to check?”

  She sensed he was teasing her, but she saw nothing funny in the question. “If I call, you’ll jump on me for it, so I don’t dare, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking about you all the time.”

  “I thought the point of having Charlotte there was to think about something else.”

  “It is. But you’re my husband, and everything in me is saying I should be in Philadelphia and not Quinnipeague, only you won’t allow it, so will you do this for me, at least?”

  “What if Charlotte’s right there?”

  “I’ll say I can’t talk.”

  He waited a beat. Finally, “Okay, baby. I’ll call.”

  * * *

  Nicole hung up the phone and cried. She did this a lot when Julian wasn’t around, just lots of quiet, helpless, frightened tears. They always slowed in time, as they did now. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Then she spotted the lavender on the pillow. Lifting the sprigs, she held them to her nose. She breathed in once, then again.

  Two sniffs wouldn’t do it, of course, and the more she consciously tried to relax, the more she worried. Coming off the bed, she put on a robe and fluffy slippers, then, opening the door with care so that its creak wouldn’t wake Charlotte, she crept down the stairs. In the kitchen, she made passionflower tea, turning the jar of loose leaves in her hand while a teaspoon’s worth steeped in her mug. The tea was local, made from an herb that rarely grew in New England but did on Quinnipeague. A natural sedative, passionflower was another of Cecily Cole’s gems.

  The tea was still steeping when she decided she was hungry. On impulse, she took a jar of strawberry jam from the cupboard. It, too, was local, put up the fall before by one of the island women. Unscrewing the lid, she pried a layer of wax from the top and, taking a spoon, sampled it straight from the jar. She closed her eyes, isolating the sense of taste for the greatest enjoyment. Strawberries … and vanilla? Eyes popping open, she peered into the glass until she spotted the bean among the berries. A single bean. No surprise there. Vanilla beans came from a variety of orchid that had no business growing on Quinnipeague, but did. Not only was the flower a more vivid yellow than elsewhere, but the bean was potent.

  After scooping out a glob of jam and adding crackers, she set the plate on the large oak table, but she didn’t immediately sit. Distracted, she ran a hand over the pickled wood. She loved this table. If she and Julian had a bigger place, and she could take one piece of furniture, it would be this. Happy memories filled the chairs here, crowded in with hopes for three babies, maybe even four. As a lonely only, she had always wanted a big family, and Julian had been on board with that. But Nicole was only twenty-four when they married, and Kaylin and John, who lived with them part-time, were preteens. There was plenty to do before her own babies came, and when they finally started trying, instead of a pregnancy came Julian’s diagnosis.

  Her father was aching for grandkids. In his last years especially, he used to ask. So, toots, any good news coming? Your mother and I would love to babysit.

  Bob hadn’t known about Julian, either.

  Her throat tightened. Determined not to cry again, she sank into the chair, opened her laptop, and logged on to Nickitotable.com. Blogging was her escape. It had struck her more than once that if Julian had not been diagnosed, she wouldn’t have this site, this following, this book contract—and she would have been perfectly happy. Now, it was a godsend. What else would she do when she woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t sleep? Talking about what she did know was ten times better than imagining what she didn’t, and she did know restaurants and farmers’ markets, flower arrangements and menu planning. These were safe things. They were happy things.

  Today, there were questions to answer from readers as well as ones from a woman named Sparrow, who had created her blogsite and now handled requests for everything from reviewing a new farm collaborative to submitting guest blogs. So sweet little Nicole, who had never aspired to work, had a staff. And businesses actually paid her to post ads. Initially, they’d been local to Philly, but increasingly they had a national reach. She was actually bringing in enough to net a profit. It wasn’t as much as a book would bring in, but it made the blog self-sustaining, like the agro-elements she promoted.

  Tonight, the readers’ questions were easy—what different salad to serve with lasagna, how to store limes, suggestions for an anniversary party placecard. She suggested, in order, a beet salad, the refrigerator, and a Hershey’s kiss with names on strips sticking out of the top. Yes, she wrote to Sparrow, she did want to advertise beef online but said a “no thanks” to the company selling frozen hors d’oeuvres. She knew the brand and didn’t care for it. Money was money, but she did have standards.

  Paying bills is my job, Julian had said. My income may be down, but I’m still the earner here. And if that changed? She shuddered to think. But it was one of the reasons she was doing this book. She wanted to be able to help.

  Thinking of it made her hands tremble even without MS, and the irony of that?

  Pulling up a blank screen, she began to type quickly, though it was a minute before her fingers stopped hitting wrong keys and found their way. “Charlotte arrived today, but we didn’t even mention the cookbook. There’s plenty of time for that. For now, it’s about us. I’ve told you about Charlotte—Charlotte Evans?” She added a link to Charlotte’s most recent piece. “She’s the one who’s collaborating with me on the cookbook. We’ve known each other since we were eight, which makes it so special to be working together. She’s one of those friends you don’t see for a long time and then pick up where you left off. Our lives are radically different—I’m married, she’s not; I’m a homebody, she’s always gone—but once she got here, we didn’t stop talking. We’re even reading the same book—Salt. Have any of you guys read it yet?”

  She described Charlotte’s arrival and talked a little about Dorey, because the beauty of these summer blogs was to seed interest in the book. She had written about Quinnipeague many times in the past, though more out of love than ambition … not that ambition hurt now. “We brought dinner home from the pier, but I couldn’t just plop it down on the coffee table by the fire. You know my mantra. It’s all about the presentation, which is pretty easy if you keep the right materials on hand. Up here we do, because my mother loves pretty things, which is probably where I came by the trait. I used woven place mats that were a heathery blue. The dishes were a deeper blue. So were the napkins—and not paper ones, either. I like cloth. Linen, actually. I know you all hate to iron, but if you buy a whole bunch, and basket the dirty ones until you have enough to wash together, then hauling out the ironing board isn’t so bad.”

  She reread the words, paused, dropped her hands to her lap. Julian loved cloth napkins. He loved lit candles and fresh flowers. His first wife had been a corporate type who was out several
nights a week and, even when not, had no desire to cook. The second time around, he had wanted a homemaker. Old-fashioned? Maybe. But Nicole loved homemaking. She loved playing backup to her husband. This was what her mother had done. It was all Nicole had ever seen, all she’d ever wanted.

  The words on the screen blurred. Her mind jumped ahead to a future in which Julian would be unable to work, unable to travel, unhappy.

  She blinked, took an unsteady breath, dragged her thoughts back to Charlotte, dinner, and presentation.

  “What else?” she typed. “We have low stacks of books on the table, along with a grouping of hurricane lamps and votives. I didn’t light them. It would have been overkill, with the fire going and the sun still up. But they were pretty just sitting there unlit. Take a look.” Leaving the table, she retrieved her camera, connected it to the laptop, and inserted the pictures she’d taken of the table with its books, candles, and place settings. Refusing to be distracted again, she hurried on. “People usually pair white wine with seafood, but this being summer and our meal being mostly shellfish, the rules are loose. I found a fabulous Pinot Noir in the cellar.”

  She chatted about that for a bit, before posting several more pictures, these of food and wine, and she shared her recipe for sabayon sauce, right down to the Riesling. Then, pulling up a shot of Charlotte, she cropped to the head and sat back. Long, thick, wavy brown curls, a mouth that was too serious but had always been that way—Charlotte looked good. She did look older. But good older. Her skin wasn’t heavily moisturized or made up. She had never been one for that, had never been able to afford it, and though Nicole guessed she could now, she apparently chose not to. And maybe she was right. She didn’t seem to need it.

  Nicole did. Lately, her eyes looked tired and her hair dull. There were times, worrying about Julian, when she felt ancient. So she went a shade lighter, bought new makeup, had a facial or a manicure—anything to give her a lift.

  Charlotte was lucky. She didn’t care if her nose burned in the sun or if the wind chapped her lips. And because she didn’t care, neither ever happened. Nicole envied her the indifference, though it was easy to be indifferent when you had so little to lose. Nicole had a lot to lose—home, husband, lifestyle. Charlotte had never had any of that.

  So is it harder to dream about what you don’t have, than to live in fear of losing what you do?

  She didn’t know the answer. But she heard self-pity. And she had thought Julian had that?

  Remorseful, she refocused on her screen. No, Charlotte didn’t have a husband or kids. She didn’t have time for them, what with chasing stories all over the world. By comparison, Quinnipeague was tame. Nicole was lucky she had agreed to come. She wanted to make it a nice time in spite of MS.

  Which raised the issue of breakfast. French toast? Frittata?

  Definitely frittata.

  Leaving the table again, she transferred a small packet from freezer to fridge. It was salmon, home-smoked on the island and more delicious than any she had ever found elsewhere. Smoked salmon wasn’t Cecily Cole’s doing, but the dried basil and thyme she took from the herb rack were. Taking a vacuum-sealed package of sun-dried tomatoes from the cupboard, she set it on the counter beside the herbs. Frittata, hot biscuits, and fruit salad. With mimosas. And coffee. That sounded right. Eaten out on the deck maybe?

  No, not on the deck, unless the prevailing winds turned suddenly warm.

  They would eat here in the kitchen, with whatever flowers the morning produced. Surely more lavender. A woman could never have enough lavender—or daylilies or astilbe, neither of which should bloom this early, but both of which had looked further along than the lavender, yesterday morning, so you never knew.

  Returning to the computer, she finished her blog post. Finally, entering “It’s all about the setting” as the title, she signed it, dated it, and published it. She surfed for a while after that, checking her usual farm food Web sites for news, but there was little since she’d checked the day before. So, taking her copy of Salt from the counter, she settled in the Great Room with her tea and, in the wee hours, began to read.

  Chapter Four

  CHARLOTTE AWOKE TO THE SOUND of the surf, the smell of sweet biscuits, and a sense of peace. Some of that peace was from the lavender in her pillowcase, its scent a halo around her still, but she was convinced that what she felt went beyond that. Just as her coming here as a child had been crucial, so was this.

  Redemption was part of it now. She could help make this cookbook special.

  But there was more. This summer would be a turning point in her life. How else to explain the sense of rightness she felt?

  True, it could be wishful thinking. She had felt rightness that February in Rio, when she was sent to do a piece on samba and ended up teaching girls in the slums how to write—and again that summer in Sweden with a guy she thought might be the one. Both trips had been great, but she had returned home alone, exactly the same.

  Still, she knew that at this moment in time, she was supposed to be here.

  Slipping from bed, she crossed to the window. The view from her room was of the rougher northeast stretch of beach that they had walked last night. As the morning fog shifted, the breakwater came and went. Likewise a fishing boat farther out. At least she thought it was a fishing boat, though it wasn’t visible long enough to let her know for sure. Staring harder, she caught a glimpse of sails. No fishing boat then. In the next instant, though, the sails, too, were gone.

  A ghost ship. That was an exciting thought. She could weave up a whole slew of imaginative stories around a ghost ship. Pressing her palm to the cool windowpane, she smiled. She was good at dreaming up stories, used to do it all the time. Imagination had been her escape when she was a child.

  Here, reality was the escape. Choosing hot biscuits over a ghost ship, she layered a sweatshirt over her T-shirt and sleep shorts, pulled on a pair of wool socks, and followed the smell.

  * * *

  An hour later, she was stuffed. Frittata, hot biscuits, sliced kiwi and grapes, two mimosas, and endless coffee—Nicole kept plying her with more, refusing to let her move from her seat to either serve food or clean up. She was feeling pampered, but then, she always did when she came here. Nicole was mothering her the same way Angie used to. Back and forth between stove, sink, fridge, and coffeemaker—she didn’t stop moving.

  Nor did she stop talking. She mentioned the blog she’d just posted and the preliminary book cover her editor had sent, but these were only en route to discussing Charlotte’s own work. She seemed to have read it all—humbling for Charlotte, who had spent the same years in ignorance of Nicole’s life and wanted to hear about that, but Nicole wouldn’t allow it.

  Finally, when she was about to make one more trip to the sink, Charlotte caught her hand. “You’re making me dizzy, Nicki. Sit.”

  Nicole was quickly apologetic. “I’m sorry. I love doing this.”

  “The dishes can wait. I want to talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  “Not about what I want.” She softened the words by jiggling her friend’s hand. “I want to know about your life.”

  Nicole looked cornered. “My life? My life is great.”

  “So’s mine. End of discussion.” She stared in challenge.

  Nicole stared back, then laughed. “You haven’t changed. Same blunt Charlotte.” When Charlotte continued to stare, she finally settled back into her chair. “What do you want to know?”

  “Start with Kaylin and John,” Charlotte said. “Are you guys close?”

  Nicole’s smile held affection. “Very. Julian and I share custody with Monica … well, shared, past tense, because they’re both over eighteen now. Come fall, Kaylin will be a senior at Penn and John a sophomore at Haverford, but right up through high school, they were at our house all the time.”

  “House or condo?”

  “Condo,” she acknowledged. “We kept thinking we’d buy a house, but Kaylin loved playing Eloise in a high-rise, and
Johnny loved running up and down the halls—and it was only ten minutes from Monica, who did have a house with a yard, and like I said, there were summers up here. Mom and Dad loved it. And the kids adored them. They’ve taken Dad’s death hard.”

  Charlotte believed it. Bob was one of the warmest people on earth. Right from the start, he had considered Julian’s children his grandchildren. But those two were supposed to have been a prelude to more. There had been lots of talk about that during the wedding summer.

  So—yes, same blunt Charlotte—she asked, “Why haven’t you had more kids?”

  “Because we already had two to raise.”

  “You always talked about having your own.”

  “There’s no rush. I know”—a dismissive wave—“I’m thirty-four, but that doesn’t make any difference. All that talk about the biological clock? Sometimes I think it’s a crock of you-know-what. Women today are having kids in their forties. Lots of women are. I know three doing it right now.”

  Her response was a bit too emphatic for Charlotte. “Is there a problem?”

  “Like fertility? No. We’ll have kids. We’re just taking our time.”

  “If Kaylin and John are both in college, and Julian is forty-six, what are you waiting for?”

  “Charlotte. You’re as bad as my mother!”

  But Charlotte wasn’t being put off. She needed to know that Nicole’s marriage was okay. “He didn’t change his mind about having more, did he?”

  “Oh no,” Nicole insisted. “He wants them as much as I do.” She glanced at the window and brightened. “Sun’s breaking through. Let’s take coffee out to the patio.” Before Charlotte could respond, she was heading for the mudroom. She returned carrying two parkas, and though her step remained light, her eyes had misted. “Mom’s and Dad’s. I was thinking I’d give them to the church. They’ll know who can use them. You take Mom’s.” It was red. She held it out.

  “I’m taller than you. Give me Bob’s—”

  But Nicole’s arm was firmly around the larger blue one. “I need his,” she said in a single fast breath.