Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  Meanwhile, Charlotte interviewed Susan Murray, who was on Quinnipeague through the Fourth and was a good example of a part-timer drawn here for food and fun. She was flattered to hand over her recipe for s’mores cookies, which Nicole baked, and which they sampled along with the Indian Pudding that night.

  * * *

  Waking up Thursday morning to another dreary day and the sense of being physically stuffed, they focused on FISH. While Charlotte interviewed the postmaster about the origin, techniques, and ingredients for his best-in-Maine lobster bakes, Nicole set off to gather recipes for glazed salmon, baked pesto haddock, and cod crusted with marjoram, a minted savory unique to Quinnipeague, and sage.

  She baked the crusted cod for dinner using fresh herbs from the island store and cod filleted that morning at the pier. Other than adjusting the amount of savory to compensate for a lack of mintiness off-island, Nicole thought the recipe was perfect and blogged as much before going to bed.

  She also told Julian that. Since arriving in North Carolina, he had begun calling her each night before he went to bed, which she took to mean that her short texts were working, and though he sounded tired, they talked about work, not MS. He was pleased with what he was accomplishing. So was she. The month apart would be productive at least.

  * * *

  Work was a distraction for Charlotte as well. Even when Friday morning brought sun, she wasn’t tempted to play. Totally aside from Leo, or from Julian and Nicole and umbilical cord stem cells, the amount of work to be done was daunting. The more she and Nicole talked, the larger the project loomed, and collecting raw material was only the start. Every profile had to be written, edited, and polished, with accompanying photos cropped and enhanced. Nicole would be the menu-planner, as Charlotte knew nothing about that, but since she was the professional writer, she would tie everything together. It was a lot to do in a brief period of time that might be made all the more brief if Nicole had to leave on a moment’s notice to be with Julian again.

  Today being the start of a long weekend, they addressed BRUNCH. Holiday weekenders would start arriving by noon, but islanders generally rose with the sun, which made seven in the morning doable. At least, that was the plan the evening before, altered when Nicole slept late after working long into the night.

  Still, they were on their way to town by eight. While Nicole drove off in search of recipes for fish hash, clam fritters, and salmon quiche, Charlotte settled in at the Chowder House with Dorey Jewett, who, well beyond the assortment of chowders she always brought to Bailey’s Brunch, would be as important a figure in the book as any.

  They sat in the kitchen, though Dorey did little actual sitting. Looking her chef-self in T-shirt, shorts, and apron, if she wasn’t dicing veggies, she was clarifying butter or supervising a young boy who was shucking clams dug from the flats hours before. Even this early, the kitchen smelled of chowder bubbling in huge steel pots.

  Much as Anna Cabot had done for the island in general, Dorey gave a history of restaurants on Quinnipeague, from the first fish stand at the pier, to a primitive burger hut on the bluff, to a short-lived diner on Main Street, to the current Grill and Café. Naturally, she spoke at greatest length about the evolution of the Chowder House, whose success she credited to her father, though the man had been dead for nearly twenty years. Everyone knew Dorey was the one who had brought the place into the twenty-first century, but her family loyalty was endearing. It was particularly evident when Charlotte asked about Cecily’s role in her cooking.

  Pausing with her chop knife midair, Dorey was suddenly puffed up. “Jewetts have been cooking here since before Cecily was born. We did fine with our own herbs, thank you.” The knife came down with a thwunk.

  Charlotte modified the question. “Then, island cooking in general. You can’t deny that her herbs play a role.”

  “No, I can’t deny it,” Dorey conceded, though the speed with which she proceeded to chop onions spoke of annoyance. “Some of your so-called cooks aren’t what I’d call cooks. Their heirloom recipes would be downright awful if it weren’t for those herbs.”

  “You do use Cecily’s herbs, though?”

  “Hey, I’m not stupid. If you need fresh basil or thyme on this island, there’s only one source, and I’m not talking about her garden. I have Cole herbs in my own greenhouse. You won’t find better anywhere else. I wasn’t saying you could.” She scraped the onions into a bowl with the broad of her knife, then ran a wide forearm across her watering eyes. “I’m just saying the Jewett recipes are more than herbs.”

  Charlotte was thinking that competitiveness was a side of Dorey she hadn’t seen, when she saw another. Out of the blue, the woman asked, “What’s Leo Cole to you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were with him Tuesday night on Hayden Perry’s boat.”

  Charlotte should have known Dorey would keep tabs on the harbor even at night. But there was a perfectly good explanation for what Dorey had seen. “I asked him to take me to Rockland. Nicole is my friend. We were picking her up.”

  Dorey studied her. Her tone softened, though her eyes remained serious. “Leo hasn’t had it easy in life. Cecily wasn’t the best mother. He’s finally at a good place. I’m worried you’ll mess it up.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Me?”

  “He was different coming in here that night. He likes you.”

  “I like him, too.”

  “Why?”

  Charlotte opened her mouth, then closed it and considered what she understood about her feelings. Finally, puzzled, she said, “I have no idea.”

  “You need to,” Dorey warned. “He isn’t one to play with.”

  “Because he’s dangerous? That’s what everyone says, but I don’t feel it in him. Who is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is he a handyman? A carpenter? A gardener?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. We don’t talk much about personal things. It’s the silence that kind of works—for both of us, I guess.”

  With a sigh, Dorey lightened up. “Well, I wouldn’t know about silence. My life is filled with noise. If I didn’t like it, I’d be doin’ somethin’ else besides running this zoo.” She reached for another onion. “Gotta get back to work. Any more questions?”

  “Actually, yes. Was there ever a father in the picture?”

  “I meant, questions about the restaurant. Anything about Leo, you have to ask Leo. I know you’ve been asking other people, but I’ll tell you one thing, Missy,” she added, prodding the air with the tip of her knife. “For whatever else he is, Leo’s a born and bred Quinnie, and we protect our own.”

  Hands up, Charlotte backed off. “Got it.”

  “That’s good. No one here wants him hurt.”

  * * *

  Charlotte did get it. She was summer; Leo was forever. He could be the worst of the worst, but Quinnipeague was his home. Islanders related to that. Black sheep or not, they would side with him.

  Thinking how nice that was, she emerged from the Chowder House into the sun. It was ten thirty. Pickups filled the spaces outside the Café, suggesting that locals were taking advantage of the last hours of quiet before weekenders began to arrive. She looked through the lineup, but didn’t see Nicole’s SUV. Wondering if it was parked elsewhere, she looked down the street, then up. That was when she saw Leo. He was leaning against a dark blue pickup, parked nose-in at the head of a narrow driveway beside the library.

  Her pulse skipped. With his hands in the pockets of his jeans and his booted feet crossed, he looked for all the world like he was just passing the time—except for his dark eyes, always his dark eyes. There was nothing nonchalant about those, and they were focused on her.

  She started toward him, walking casually to avoid attention, though there was no one about. He had parked in a discreet spot. Their relationship—whatever it was—was secret.

  She smiled, said a soft, “Hey,” when she was close. He didn’t answer, simply drew her in
against the truck, and, with his hands flat on the window by her head, caught her mouth with his. It was the first time since Monday night, but as quickly as that she was back on the beach, naked in the moonlight, and turned on as that lean mouth moved hungrily over hers. Her arms were around his neck before it was done, holding on lest she fall, though his body would have prevented that. It held her against the truck, shielding her from the world. She was breathless when, after a final long kiss, he raised his head.

  His eyes were wide and midnight blue. She couldn’t look away. “What was that for?” she whispered.

  “Wanted to see if I was imagining,” he said in a low, rutted voice.

  Imagining the fire. He didn’t have to finish for her to know. Nor did she have to ask if the fire was real. She could hear it in the roughness of his breathing, could feel it in the lower body that wasn’t lifting from hers so fast.

  Those midnight blues roamed her face. “You haven’t been out to the house.”

  “I’ve been with Nicole. She needs me around.”

  “For her cookbook?”

  “There’s also personal stuff. Plus, it’s been rainy. You couldn’t lay shingles in the rain, and now you have to wait at least a day for the plywood to dry.”

  “So you’re not coming over tonight?”

  “That depends on Nicole. If she’s having dinner with other friends, I can get out.”

  “I’m Plan B.”

  “You’re Plan Z, if you ask Nicole. She’s afraid you’ll sabotage her project.”

  He didn’t respond to that. “What’d you tell her about us?”

  “That I didn’t know what in the hell it was, which I don’t. Do you?”

  “No. All I know is I want more.”

  So did Charlotte. Taking his face in her hands, she initiated the kiss this time. He let her lead it for a breath before taking over, and she didn’t protest. Something happened to her when she was with him, like this was where she was supposed to be. When he raised his head this time, she should have been aching for more. But she felt peaceful, like she was home. With a contented sigh, she closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his chin.

  “What was that for?” he asked in hoarse echo of her earlier words, but it was a minute before she was willing to draw back.

  Then, with an inhalation to steady herself, she said, “Just wanted to make sure.”

  His eyes were inscrutable. Finally, he asked, “What’s your cell number?”

  She gave it to him and, sliding out from under him, backed away with a glance at the truck. “Is that yours?”

  He nodded.

  “Nice.” It was dusty, but late model, which raised more questions, but she was tiring of them. So he had a source of income. What did it matter? If the island was in his corner, it couldn’t be too disreputable.

  Smiling, she faced forward and started walking. Her smile faltered, though, when she saw Nicole at the Chowder House. Apparently having come from the opposite end of the street, she had pulled up to the front door, set her blinkers, and looked to have been ready to go inside if she hadn’t seen Charlotte. Having stopped beside the hood, she was staring at the dark blue pickup.

  Frowning, she waited only until Charlotte was close. “Were you kissing him?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Kissing him,” Nicole repeated, like she wasn’t sure she understood. When Charlotte nodded, she asked, “Is something going on? Like, more than helping with his roof?”

  Good question. She remembered Leo saying, Here you are, just perfect for me. And Dorey saying, He was different coming in here that night, he likes you. Charlotte might have blamed making love on the beach to the moment, but there was the kiss just now. It had taken her out of herself.

  Her escape. Not a mess of the summer as she had first feared. Her own personal escape from stem cell anxiety and deadlines.

  Not that she could tell Nicole that. Needing a minute, she opened the door and climbed into the passenger’s seat. Nicole stared, before rounding the car and sliding in, but she didn’t let it go. As soon as she switched from reverse to drive, she asked, “Is there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a physical attraction.”

  “Is it real? Or for the sake of the cookbook?”

  “It’s real,” Charlotte said. “For what it’s worth, he hasn’t mentioned the book. I think he’s okay with it.”

  “Because he likes you?”

  “Maybe. Or because he’s knows I won’t steal Cecily’s herbs. I still want to take pictures. Those gardens are something.” She was thinking of the white flowers with the incredibly arousing smell. She wondered what they were.

  “Have you slept with him?”

  Admitting it made her feel cheap. So she said, “No.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. There had been no sleeping that night.

  “Do you think you will?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because I worry about you. He’s an ex-con.”

  “Oh, so was my dad,” Charlotte tossed out in a second’s exasperation.

  “He was not.”

  “He was. He was convicted of domestic abuse and spent ten days in jail.”

  “Domestic abuse?”

  “Of wife number two, who, not being a lush, didn’t have alcohol to keep her from talking back. He didn’t like back talk.”

  Nicole seemed horrified. “You never told me this.”

  “I’m not proud of it.”

  “Did he ever hit you?”

  “He threatened to.”

  “Did he hit your mother?”

  “No. She knew enough to steer clear when he was in a snit.”

  “I had no idea,” Nicole said meekly and was quiet as they passed the road to Okers Beach. They were passing the clam flats when she returned to the other. “Still, ten days is different from four years.”

  Charlotte didn’t want to discuss this. “Maybe Dad had a better lawyer than Leo. My point, Nicki, is that there are lots of reasons why people get sent away. We shouldn’t pass judgment on Leo until we know what his are.”

  Nicole shot her a look. “You want to find out.”

  “Yeah, I do. He’s interesting. So many things about him don’t fit. I want to know who the real Leo is.”

  “And then what?”

  Charlotte took a biding breath. “Then I get gorgeous pictures of his gardens for your book, after which I go back to New York, and then Paris, and then wherever work takes me. That’s the lesson of Salt, is it not?”

  Nicole’s eyes lit. “You finished it?”

  “I didn’t. I got to the point of caring so much and feeling like things would end up wrong, so I read ahead.”

  “Charlotte!”

  “I couldn’t help it,” Charlotte declared, unrepentant. “I refuse to finish. This is my protest.”

  “But you just said you’d do the same thing!”

  “Right. That’s reality. But fiction is fiction. Chris Mauldin took my heart and twisted it. That’s pure manipulation.”

  “It’s pure brilliance, if you ask me,” Nicole mused and pulled up at the house.

  * * *

  Charlotte didn’t argue. Not only didn’t she want to further the discussion of Salt, which might lead back to her relationship with Leo, but now that they were home, she had other things to do. Having loved her interviews with Anna and Melissa, Nicole wanted her write-up of Dorey ASAP, so that she could impress her editor with their progress.

  At the same time, Nicole began reading through the newest recipes in her pile and found a problem.

  Chapter Thirteen

  CHARLOTTE WAS AT THE KITCHEN table when she heard a soft, “Strange.” She stopped typing and looked up.

  Nicole stood at the counter, frowning as she thumbed back and forth through a handful of recipe cards. “No thyme in Rebecca’s fish hash? There’s always thyme. It’s one of the reasons I like her hash. And salmon quiche without parsley? Without dill? Marie�
�s quiche has both. Goat cheese would be bland without dill, and even aside from taste, parsley adds color.” Studying another card, she seemed baffled. “Mint extract in peppermint blondies? Extract? There’s nothing organic in that. What happened to fresh mint?” She turned anxious eyes on Charlotte. “Quinnipeague is known for its herbs. They’re supposed to be a major part of the cookbook. Remove them, and you lose what’s so unique here. These cards have to be wrong.”

  Feeling a chill, Charlotte left the table. “All of them?” There were several dozen in the pile.

  “Not all. Some are good. But these others? And these?” She singled out several lower cards that were marked with Post-its. “I got these earlier in the week. It’s the same thing, either use of a commercial product or a clear-out omission. Two or three could be innocent mistakes. But eight? Nine? What is going on?”

  Charlotte took the cards and glanced through. Original recipe cards would be dog-eared and stained; these were clean. “They’re fresh copies. It could still be innocent.”

  But Nicole was shaking her head. “I know these people. They’re not careless. This was deliberate.”

  “Sabotaging their own recipes?”

  “Protecting them. Someone told them not to give away island secrets.” Her implication was clear, her green eyes direct.

  “You think it was Leo,” Charlotte said.

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Dorey. Or Anna or Melissa.” She had asked each about Leo. “They protect him.”

  “From what?” Nicole asked, clearly skeptical.

  Charlotte searched for an answer, but her mind was stirring an uncomfortable brew. She had a personal stake in this. How to be objective?

  “Aren’t they protective of me, too?” Nicole asked, hurt now. “I’ve summered here all my life. They love my family—you heard how they gushed last week. Besides, these people aren’t timid. If they didn’t want me doing the cookbook, they’d have said so.” Her eyes darkened. “It has to be Leo scaring them off. He didn’t want us doing this in the first place. Ask him to stop, Charlotte, please? There are times when I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread. The last thing I need is a complication, when we finally have momentum going.”