Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Excuse me?” Nicole burst out. “Mr. Law and Order? He was a pushover with you and Johnny, because you never tested him on big things, but this is a biggie, which is what he’d tell you if he was here. He believed that if you made a commitment, you had to stand by it.”

  “It’s called paying your dues,” Charlotte added.

  Smiling, Nicole fitted the plant in the hole. “I already used that one on her.”

  “It bears repeating,” Charlotte stated, focused on Kaylin. “I worked for no-name publications, writing pieces no one read, before I finally sold to a magazine big enough so that the byline got me better assignments. All that early time, I kept remembering what Bob said.”

  Kaylin knew how successful Charlotte was. Nicole had told her back in the spring, had even looked over Kaylin’s shoulder while the girl read several of Charlotte’s articles. Nicole might criticize Charlotte, like Julian, on moral grounds now, but that didn’t take away from the quality of her work.

  Kaylin was properly subdued.

  “So you’ll go back?” Nicole ventured, tamping soil around the plant.

  “I can’t,” the girl said meekly.

  “Why not?”

  “I called my boss this morning.” When Nicole eyed her in alarm, she hurriedly said, “There was only a month left anyway. They let you go after the first week in August so you have time before school.”

  She had quit. Stunned, Nicole sat back on her heels. “What did your father say?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “So you just did it. Can you call your boss back?”

  Kaylin looked sheepish. “It wasn’t a good ending. I told him there was a family emergency. He actually asked me what. I couldn’t tell him about Dad, and I think I stammered a little and then finally said it wasn’t really his business—and he and I hadn’t been on good terms anyway, so the discussion went downhill.” Her voice went now.

  It was done then, Nicole realized in dismay as she pounded the last of the loose soil with her palms. She wondered if Kaylin had picked her timing, thinking that Nicole would be more understanding than either of her parents. As flattering as it was, it put her in the position of having to call one of the others.

  But no. Kaylin was of age. The decision had been hers.

  “You can’t stay here,” she warned, gathering up the garden tools. Kaylin couldn’t ever know about Charlotte and Julian.

  “Why not?”

  There were plenty of innocent reasons. “We’re getting ready to put the place on the market, which means weeding out and cleaning up. Besides, the summer’s just starting. You can’t do nothing for the next six weeks,” she said as Julian would have, though she did agree with him on this. Having Kaylin hanging around, watching, listening, already worried that her father was heading toward his second divorce—it would be beyond dismal for Nicole.

  “I could hostess at the Island Grill like I used to,” Kaylin offered.

  Nicole stood. “The season’s underway. They’ve already hired their staff.”

  “I could help with your book.”

  “I have Charlotte for that.” She grabbed the watering can with her free hand.

  “I could help pack up the house,” the girl tried, adding a timid, “or babysit Angie.”

  “Angie won’t stay long,” Nicole said, though it suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea how long her mother would stay. It suddenly occurred to her that she might have two more houseguests for however long, watching her every move through what had to be the darkest period of her life.

  For the first time since Kaylin stepped off the ferry, she felt a moment of panic.

  “I can work with Kaylin,” Charlotte offered quietly, beside her now. “We’ll make it a journalism internship. There are personal stories here that have nothing to do with the cookbook—like Oliver Weeks and Isabel Skane. Kaylin can hang around with them on my behalf. She can even do online research for my fall assignments.”

  Nicole was uneasy, but she was in a bind. As wounded as she was herself, she did love Kaylin. None of this was her fault. She had deserved better from Julian, too.

  Besides, much as she didn’t want it to be so, Charlotte’s plan made sense.

  * * *

  Nicole was no pushover. But as soon as it was decided that Kaylin would stay, she knew she had to call Julian. Sure, Kaylin could do it. But Nicole owed him a call, and here was something relatively neutral to discuss.

  Not wanting to be overheard, she took her phone to the beach and, facing the house to make sure no one came, punched in his cell number. With each digit, she grew more tense, but that was a good thing. Anger kept her spine straight, her hand steady, and her resolve intact.

  He picked up after a single ring. “Hey. I was starting to worry. You okay?”

  She had been abrupt the evening before and hadn’t called him back. Hearing his voice now, it all rushed back. She wanted to tell him what a bastard he was, wanted to scream and carry on about betrayal—and maybe she would have done that once. But the ocean was at her back, grounding her to a world she had been safe in long before Julian had entered it, and as for the anger, rather than pushing her into hysteria, it gave her control.

  She refused to apologize for not calling sooner. Nor could she get herself to ask how he was. “Kaylin’s here,” was all she said.

  He was silent for a beat, then resigned. “I figured she’d try that. She wants to quit the internship. She wasn’t happy with me when I said she couldn’t.”

  “She’s twenty-one.”

  “And thinks she knows everything. I assume you told her she had to go back.”

  “Actually, she’s staying here.”

  “For the rest of the summer? Who made that decision?” he asked, marginally indignant, the father whose child hadn’t behaved.

  Nicole refused to cower. She wasn’t his child. “Kaylin did. She’s twenty-one.” It bore repeating. “She called her boss and quit before she ever got here. Charlotte offered her an internship. She’ll help with interviews.”

  “There?”

  “Yes.” With Charlotte. If that made him nervous, so be it.

  He was silent again. Then, “Are you all right? You don’t sound like you.”

  No more childish voice? Funny, how disillusionment made you grow up fast. In many ways, his betrayal was worse than MS. At least, MS hadn’t been his fault.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and the steadiness anger gave her was only the half. The other had to do with stem cells. She knew something that Julian did not. That was empowering.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Does this have to do with Charlotte?” he asked in a way that might have been casual if she hadn’t known what she did.

  She couldn’t resist. “What could Charlotte have to do with anything?”

  Problems with the book, he might have said. Or getting under each other’s skin at the house. He might have even come clean. But he let it pass and simply said, “Nothing. You just sound strange. I worry.”

  Of course, he did. And she said nothing to ease his mind. He didn’t need to know it all now—and if there was some reason he did, he certainly wasn’t telling her. Was she being spiteful? Yes. Did she hate herself for it? Yes. Could she reverse it? No. After feeling powerless for so long, she needed to cling to this just a bit.

  Besides, if he was worried about her for once, maybe that was good. For four years, he had been totally self-absorbed. Four, she caught herself? Try ten. He hadn’t thought about her—hadn’t considered how small she might feel learning he’d had sex with her best friend on the eve of their wedding. Small. Yes. That was it. Small. Insignificant. Worthless.

  But she wasn’t. If her parents’ faith had meant anything, she was substantial and significant and worthy of being respected and loved. He was the small one here—at least, when it came to marriage. He had accused Monica of leaving him out of her life. Wasn’t he doing the same to Nicole, and if so, was he the problem?
Had he never considered that?

  If not, it was time he did.

  Actually, it was long past time he did.

  That thought strengthened her, but her resolve lasted only through the call. The instant it was done, everything rushed back like the incoming tide, dumping at her feet the debris of ill health, a rotting marriage, and a muddy future. When the waters receded again, she was left with the realization that Julian might be the biggest asshole in the world, but he was still her husband, and that though she might hold a winning card in those stem cells, that didn’t make up for the loss of love. Love was all she had ever wanted.

  Turning toward the sea, she burst into tears.

  * * *

  By the time Nicole was composed enough to head for the house, Charlotte was approaching. They met at the patio’s edge. Done being the perfect hostess who had to greet everyone with a smile and kind word, Nicole pulled her sweater tight and waited.

  “Kaylin saw you crying,” Charlotte said quietly. With her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans and her hair pulled starkly back, she looked subdued. “She’s convinced you’re lying about you and Julian.”

  Nicole glanced at the house. Kaylin stood at the glass sliders. “She thinks we’re separating? Maybe we are.”

  “You confronted him then?”

  “About you two? No. If my marriage falls apart, it won’t be because of that. It’ll be because my husband is an uptight jerk who refuses to include his wife in his life.”

  “He’s sick, Nicki. You said it way back—he isn’t himself.”

  Nicole remembered those words. They had totally new meaning now. “Maybe not completely,” she said, “but I’m suddenly wondering about all the things I didn’t see. I wasn’t looking for anything wrong. He dictated and I obeyed. I was too soft.”

  “But we all love you for that.”

  Nicole wanted to say that it hadn’t gotten her far and to ask whether Charlotte thought she should obey now or hold her ground, to rush to Durham or stay here, to give on the issue of stem cells or object. She wanted to pour out her fears, confiding in Charlotte as she’d always done, and not only during summers. During those growing-up years, they talked on the phone during winters, too. Charlotte had known about her first bra, her first kiss, her first serious crush. She had helped Nicole write her college essays and had been the first person Nicole called when she got into Middlebury. During their sophomore year, they had driven hours, meeting halfway between schools to sing their hearts out at a Shania Twain concert.

  Nicole wanted the closeness back. She wanted Charlotte’s help with Julian. Charlotte was smart. She would know what to do.

  But she was still the enemy. Nicole wanted to forgive her, but couldn’t.

  Feeling a pervasive sadness, she said, “I never could understand why we grew apart. I told myself you were giving me space, like you knew you couldn’t be part of my marriage and were stepping back. When it got worse, I blamed it on your work. Then on our having such different lifestyles. But all along it was the other, wasn’t it?”

  Charlotte’s eyes were dull. Yes.

  That quickly, Nicole was stung all over again. “You were my BFF.”

  “I am.”

  “A BFF is supposed to be loyal. She’s supposed to be honest and considerate and generous. She’s supposed to sacrifice something she wants if she knows that getting it will hurt the other.”

  “I did all those things,” Charlotte claimed helplessly.

  “You did not.”

  “Once. I screwed up once—and I was so drunk I didn’t know I was doing it. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

  Oh yes, Nicole thought. She had trusted blindly. But no more. “Don’t tell Julian about the stem cells, Charlotte. He doesn’t need to know yet.”

  “But shouldn’t he at least know they’re an option?”

  “He needs to consider other options first.”

  “You said he was going straight to stem cells.”

  “He will if I tell him what you have. Don’t you see? Even with cells from his own child, he could die.”

  “Do you care?”

  “Yes!” Nicole exclaimed, then quieted. “I shouldn’t. But I do.”

  They stood for a moment, facing each other in silence while the ocean pounded and the gulls screeched. Finally, Charlotte said, “Are you afraid he’ll want to know the child?”

  Nicole considered the question. She wanted to deny it, but her anger wasn’t that strong. “Maybe.”

  “The adoption papers forbid our contacting her.”

  “You. But not him.”

  “Both of us. The parents know how to reach me, but they’ve never tried.”

  “Why did they let you keep the stem cells?”

  “She can use them if she needs them. That was part of the agreement.”

  “But why did you want them? Was it to keep some little last thing of hers?”

  Charlotte looked vulnerable now. “I thought that if I had other children—”

  Nicole cut her off, feeling a trace of impatience. “Yes, you said that, but wasn’t there even a little bit of wanting something of hers?”

  There was silence, then a reluctant, “Maybe subconsciously. But they’re yours, Nicki. I’m serious about that. I can’t think of a better use.”

  Nicole had wanted the admission. She wanted Charlotte to know she did understand the emotions involved. Now, though, she turned away. “I don’t want them.”

  “He might. Please tell him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “No one would have to know,” Charlotte argued, her voice low and quickly taken by the wind. “You could just say he used donor cells. No one but the three of us would know their source.”

  Nicole knew it wasn’t that simple. Kaylin was here, still watching from the sliders. And Angie was coming. And then there were Johnny, Julian’s parents, and Monica, plus dozens of friends and colleagues, all of whom would ask questions if a stem cell transplant went bad.

  But she couldn’t think that far. One step at a time was all she could manage. “I’d better go talk with Kaylin.” She set off, then stopped and, wary, turned back to Charlotte. “What about Leo? Will your working with Kaylin interfere with that?”

  “No. He has his own work.”

  Nicole still wasn’t sure what Charlotte saw in Leo Cole. She found him abrasive. But she hadn’t been able to trip him up. “He really did write Salt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he sold the rights to a second book?” Charlotte shook her head. “Why not?”

  “He’s keeping his options open.”

  “About writing the next one, or about who to sell it to?”

  “Both.”

  “So if the world already knows Chris Mauldin is male, why’s he’s hiding out on Quinnipeague?”

  “This is his home.”

  “But he never leaves. Is he agoraphobic?”

  “No. He just prefers life here.”

  “Is he not interested in broadening his horizons? In growing as a writer?”

  “He’s not interested in what it would cost him. He figures he can grow just doing more of what he’s done.”

  Nicole thought it a waste. Not in her wildest dreams did she have publishers fighting each other for the rights to her second book. Leo Cole was either very brilliant or very stupid—though she couldn’t say that to Charlotte, who was clearly biased. So she settled for, “Well, anyway, thanks for giving Kaylin a job.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Charlotte insisted. “Use me. Please?”

  * * *

  Nicole knew Charlotte was feeling guilty—but so was she. Yes, she should tell Julian about the stem cells, but she wasn’t ready, just wasn’t ready. So she converted guilt into productivity. On a wave of antisentimentality, she attacked her bedroom closet, bagging up clothes she hadn’t worn in years. That took her into Saturday, when, with Kaylin’s help, she opened the Great Room cabinets and boxed up childhood games, jigsaw puzzles, old cassettes and CDs. After
dinner at the Chowder House with her stepdaughter—Charlotte had gone down the road in the opposite direction, the details of which Nicole didn’t want to know—she blogged about lobster rolls, adding a photo from her stock source, and when the posting was done, she spent several hours reading farm journals.

  The thought did cross her mind that with Kaylin here, Charlotte could leave when the interviews were done. Kaylin could help organize the book, and if not Kaylin, her own editors. Wasn’t that was editors were for?

  She was getting ahead of herself with this, but it was nice to have a choice.

  Feeling marginally in control, she slept soundly and awoke Sunday morning on the same positive note. She lost a little of it during the drive to the pier as she faced the thought of her mother again and wondered just what to say. But it wasn’t until the ferry ramp lowered and her mother came down that her confidence imploded.

  Driving up the coast these last few days, Angie hadn’t been alone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  NICOLE KNEW THE MAN. TALL and robust, Tom Herschel had been one of Bob’s law partners and was an old family friend, a widower who had lost his wife to breast cancer three years before—all of which, including two nights in motels along the coast, might have been totally innocent, if it hadn’t been for the look on Angie’s face. Her eyes were larger than normal, and it wasn’t from makeup, though Angie was an expert at that. She was also an expert dresser, and though she weighed five pounds more this summer than last, she was still stunning in her sweater and slacks. What Nicole saw most, though, in these first instants, was nervousness.

  Perhaps she was uneasy coming here for the first time without Bob? Or she was anxious about Nicole’s mental state?

  “You remember Tom,” Angie said after they’d hugged—and it was such a ridiculous comment, what with Tom having been at the house all the time during the dark days after Bob’s sudden death, that Nicole just knew.

  How to behave? Speechless, she kept her right arm around her mother and extended her left for a genial clasp of Tom’s hand, but she faced Angie again in the next breath.