Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  For the first time, she drove right past the Cole curve and down the dirt drive between all those well-tended rows of flowers and herbs. Leo was a dark shadow on the front steps. Dropping his knife and wood as she approached, he rose and gestured her to the side of the house. Once she had parked beside his truck, he opened the door, helped her out, then pressed her against the car for a slow, tongue-dance of a kiss. She was beginning to think he had changed his mind about sailing, when he took her hand, led her out back, and picked up a duffel.

  “Jackets and a blanket,” he explained. “In case you’re cold.”

  She wouldn’t be for a while after that kiss, and, anyway, she had her fisherman’s sweater along. But his consideration was endearing, as was his care when he lifted Bear onto the boat after the dog followed them down the dock.

  In no time, he had stowed the bag, pulled in bumpers that hung between the boat and the dock, and released the lines. When he turned a key, navigating lights came on. With the press of a button came a healthy thrum.

  “Motor?” she asked, surprised, since there was a good wind.

  “Just ’til we clear the rocks,” he said as they moved away from the dock. “They come on with no warning.”

  One did just then, seeming barely a foot from Charlotte’s side, though she wouldn’t have seen it if Leo hadn’t pointed. A chiseled mound of wet granite, it rose only enough to break the waves. But he steered comfortably around it and between several others before he finally cut the engine and hoisted the sails. There were two, one fore and one aft; both winched up in no time.

  Though the air was mild, the wind held steady as they tacked away from Quinnipeague. When they were far enough out so that the crash of the waves against the shore was barely a beat, he steered into the wind until the sails flapped, then lowered them and secured the lines. Pulling a thermos of cocoa from the duffel, he produced mugs and filled each.

  “Warm enough?” he asked, settling beside her on the padded bench.

  “With Bear on my feet, cocoa in my hands, and a hot guy beside me?” She gave a satisfied sigh, then, looking up at the star-filled sky, said, “Tell me what I see.”

  He began to point. “Saturn’s too low this late, but there’s Jupiter. See it? And way over there’s the horse, Pegasus.” His finger shifted, drawing. “Big Dipper. Little Dipper.”

  Charlotte had to focus hard to see each. Then she saw something else. “A shooting star.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  When she opened them, Leo was watching her. “Wha’dya wish for?”

  “I’m not telling. That’ll jinx it.”

  “Tell me.”

  But she wouldn’t. Instead, she nestled closer—which, if he had known her a little better, would have told him what her wish was—and said, “It’s nice being out here, just floating.” She listened. There was the lap of the water against the hull, the soft clink of the rigging as the boat swayed, Bear’s low snoring, and Leo’s steady heart. “It’s quiet.”

  “Are things loud at the house?”

  “Tense. Nicki still won’t tell Julian about the stem cells.”

  “Can you?”

  “I’m trying to respect her wishes. But she can’t hold out forever. Those cells are a valuable tool.”

  “She’s using them as one.”

  Charlotte was about to say that she wasn’t using them at all—when she realized what he meant. “A tool against Julian.”

  “Punishment for the affair.”

  She tipped her head back on his shoulder so that she could see his eyes. “How did you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Just a guess.”

  “It’s the kind of thing the hero of Salt knew. Natural intuition. Have you worked more on Next Book?”

  “Some. I got distracted by hate mail.”

  “What kind of hate mail?”

  “One guy says I stole his story and wants a cut of my royalties or he’s taking me to court. Another says my research sucked, because if anyone built a boat the way I described, it’d sink.”

  “People like finding fault. It’s the culture.”

  “You don’t get hate mail.”

  “Only because I’m small-time. Ninety-nine point nine percent of your mail must be positive.”

  “It’s the point one percent that haunts me. Like the lady who says I’m irresponsible not addressing birth control with so much sex going on.” He stopped talking, watching her intently.

  “I told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I’m not an impressionable young girl.” Pregnancy was not a worry. She made sure of that.

  “Once burned?”

  “You could say. For the record, there haven’t been many men.”

  “I wasn’t asking that.”

  “But I want you to know. I’m particular about who I’m with.”

  The night sky was bright, accentuating his eyes. “If you wanted to have my baby, I wouldn’t walk away.”

  Charlotte’s heart stopped for a split second before resuming its beat. The remark might have been innocent but for the intensity in those eyes.

  “Be careful what you say,” she warned softly.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “But you won’t stay here, will you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Would you come with me to Paris in September?” she asked. It wasn’t a question, either, though, so she simply slipped back into fantasy by nestling closer.

  They drained the thermos and drifted for a time until Leo raised the sails again and returned to the dock. “Come in for a few,” he whispered when they reached the beach.

  And how could she not? She wasn’t able to put into words what she felt for Leo Cole, but making love came in a close second.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ANGIE STAYED THROUGH THE WEEK. Nicole certainly couldn’t ask her to leave, since it was her house, but increasingly they were at odds—and not about the small things they bickered about when Nicole was growing up, like music, makeup, and clothes. Their disagreements now had to do with the role of a wife, and it was two-sided. Nicole felt Angie was disloyal; Angie felt Nicole was negligent. Bob had always been the great diffuser, which gave Nicole double reason to miss him now. Add to that her turmoil about all the things her mother still didn’t know—things about which Nicole was so torn—and she was touchy whenever her mother appeared.

  On Tuesday, when Angie again raised the issue of her joining Julian in Durham, Nicole snapped, “He can come here, too, y’know,” which led to a remark about Tom being there, which led to another argument about that.

  On Wednesday, when Angie asked how Julian was feeling, Nicole said, “I haven’t talked with him today,” and when she asked why not, Nicole said, “Mother, it’s barely eight. He needs sleep. I am not waking him up.” When Angie argued that Julian was always up early, Nicole said, “Well, he isn’t now,” and left the room in a huff.

  On Thursday, Angie waited awhile longer to launch in, but that only made the words more pointed when they came. “Do you ever call Julian?” she asked, and when Nicole said that they talked every night, Angie said she seemed angry and that if the anger was toward Julian, it was disappointing. “He didn’t ask to be sick, Nicole, and if your anger isn’t at him, it’s at me. Where did this selfishness come from?”

  Stung, Nicole held up her hands in surrender and turned away.

  * * *

  “She’s worried about you,” Charlotte tried to reason later, but when Charlotte, too, asked how Julian was feeling, Nicole was more defensive than ever.

  “I could call him ten times a day, and there wouldn’t be anything new. He’s tired. He’s always tired. End of conversation.”

  And then there was Kaylin, who announced she was returning to New York.

  Nicole was bewildered. “But you have no job.”

  “I can get a job waitressing.”

  “What about working with Charlotte?”

  “She doesn’t need me, Nicki. I mean, like, it was sweet of her to offer,
but she always does her own stuff herself, and you guys are totally on top of the cookbook.” Her ponytail swished as she turned away, then quickly back. “And don’t ask what Dad will say, because waitressing is a totally responsible job. And besides, Mom says it’s okay.”

  * * *

  Feeling shut out and separate, Nicole didn’t share the text she received from Julian a short time later. He was returning to Philly. Having had done most of what he wanted to do in Durham, he was tired.

  He was tired. He was always tired.

  But something felt different this time. Tired how? she texted back.

  Just tired.

  Is it the drugs?

  I think I just want to be home.

  End of conversation.

  * * *

  Nicole worried.

  She worried that his MS was getting worse.

  She worried that everyone knowing about it now had demoralized him.

  She worried that there was another woman in Philly, and that he missed her.

  And yet, she couldn’t get herself to call him. It’ll upset him, she rationalized. It’ll make him angry. It’ll cause a greater rift. She knew she should offer to meet him at home, but there was no way she could see him and not confront him about Charlotte, and she just wasn’t ready for that.

  * * *

  Burying herself in work, she spent the afternoon reviewing her to-do list for the book and seeing far more there than on the all-done list. Actually, she realized in a frightened moment, there was precious little on the all-done list. Yes, they had addressed BRUNCH, CHOWDER, FISH, and SWEETS, but not all of the recipes had come in—and those were only four of ten chapters. They hadn’t even started the other six, and her deadline was barely a month off.

  “Can we do all this?” she asked, offering the lists when Charlotte found her on the patio in a particularly discouraged moment.

  Charlotte studied them briefly and looked up. “Absolutely.”

  But Nicole’s stomach was churning, as it used to when she was eight or nine or ten, facing something new and different. She hadn’t felt panic like this in a while.

  Charlotte must have known that. Taking her friend’s arms, she looked her in the eye and said a quiet, “It’s been a rough week for you with everyone here. I love your mom, but she brought new issues with her, and she raises all your old insecurities. For what it’s worth, I’m disappointed in Kaylin, too, but you can’t control her. They’re leaving Saturday. Once things settle, we’ll work through these lists. I’ve had deadlines before, and I promise you, this one’s doable.”

  Doable. Doable. Doable. Nicole chanted the words, and it helped.

  What helped most, though, was Nickitotable.com. This was her escape. Community farms, pure food, spreading the locavore word—this was her mission. Whether describing the fresh-from-the-sea haddock they grilled for dinner and served with corn salsa, pushing handwoven place mats that Bev carried at the island store, or promoting the return of roadside food stands, she was in a world she could manage. She took to using her laptop in a far corner of the patio, where she immersed herself and, with the sea providing white noise, refused to look up.

  * * *

  Charlotte had taken to using her laptop at Leo’s, though she wasn’t as productive as she might have been on the patio with Nicole. After moving his computer over to make room on the desk for hers, he produced a second chair, which was totally sweet. But seated so close, she was distracted—first, by the glasses that he put on when he was at his computer for a stretch and which startled her each time he put them on; then by his surprisingly speedy forefinger pecking; then by the way he would sit back after a sentence or two, mouth the words, come forward and type more, lost in the world he created for however brief a time.

  And brief it was. Though he never discussed specifics, and continued to refuse to let her read what he had written, he always grew frustrated. Inevitably, Charlotte would hear him swear, tap the keyboard to bring up new screens, and settle in to do marketing. This he shared with her—posting responses to Facebook fans, responding to questions posted on his Web site, tracking down blogsite reviews of Salt to thank a reviewer, or weighing in elsewhere on a discussion of his characters or plot. When she asked why he made the effort, he said he did it for Salt, and when she asked why it mattered, given the book’s jaw-dropping success, he said it was a fair substitute for the touring his publisher would rather he do.

  At one point toward the end of the week, he set down a thick folder. She hesitated before opening it. “More hate mail?” she asked warily.

  He shook his head and hitched his chin at the folder, urging her on.

  She opened it to find letter after letter from publishing houses and production companies, all addressed to his post office box in Portland. In some instances, there were multiple letters from the same source, sent when he hadn’t responded to a first or second one. With each, the money increased. The amounts were staggering.

  “This is every writer’s dream,” Charlotte breathed in awe.

  He looked terrified. “Y’think?”

  “I do.” She singled out a glitzy header. “This one’s for a feature film. So’s this,” she said, pushing at another. “And these?” She fanned out several more. “These are the best publishing houses in New York.” She looked at him. “Have you called any of them back?”

  “No. That’s my lawyer’s job. But he knows I’m not ready to sign another contract, not with my current publisher or any other. I like being in the driver’s seat and working at my own speed. I don’t want to have to finish the next book if I don’t want to. And if they get fed up and lose interest, I can do another e-book myself.”

  “What about a movie? You can’t do that yourself.”

  “Do I need a movie?”

  “No.” Neatening the letters, she closed the folder.

  “You think I’m crazy,” he said. With his hair slanting in short, dark spikes, his jaw hard and his lips thin, he looked tough, but the toughness didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes always betrayed his vulnerability, which was what Charlotte saw now. But there was more. She sensed he wasn’t only thinking of his future as a writer. He was thinking of his future with her.

  “You’re not crazy,” she said, addressing the first, easier to do than addressing the second. “Anyone who offers this kind of money isn’t going to let you stay anonymous. If you were to take any of these, your life would change.”

  He seemed to relax a little.

  “And I know what you mean about being in the driver’s seat,” she reasoned. “That’s how my work is, and I love it. I couldn’t have come here this summer without that freedom. I just wish … just wish…”

  “What?”

  She wished he would give a little, wished he would agree to go to Paris with her or at least visit her in New York. As for the rest, she didn’t care about it any more than he did. Sure, the money was good, but if it wasn’t what he wanted, it wasn’t worth a dime. She loved him the way he was—honest and pure, naïve in his way, certainly vulnerable, all of which might be lost if the world found out who he was, and then where would her haven be?

  Leaving the desk, she wrapped her arms around his waist and put her head on his chest. “This is nice,” was all she said, and he seemed content to leave it at that.

  * * *

  Driving home a short time later, she thought of just how nice it was. She liked working with Leo. Distractions and all, she had done some good work. Whether it was the man, his beautiful office, or poor old Bear—who had taken to finding her leg wherever it was and sleeping against it—she was inspired.

  * * *

  Nicole knew it, too, because the interviews Charlotte gave her were top-notch. They captured the spirit of the island in ways Nicole couldn’t have done herself, which—totally aside from Charlotte being her sole cheerleader—justified Nicole having insisted she stay. The rawness of her anger had passed, leaving a nagging hurt, but even that paled in the face of Angie’s needling.
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br />   She did her best to regroup after each argument, determined to be more mature and restrained. But with Angie’s departure near, and few mentions made about how sad the house was without Bob, how strong his presence remained, or what to do with his clothes, Nicole was growing suspicious.

  Saturday morning, when they were in the kitchen alone and Angie remarked that being here wasn’t so bad, that they should put a hold on packing, that maybe selling the house was a rash idea, Nicole lost it.

  “Rash?” she cried. “Mom, you’ve been talking about selling since Dad died. You haven’t had a single doubt, not once. The only thing that’s changed here is Tom.”

  Angie drew back. “Was he unpleasant to be around? Did he get in your way? I know you avoided the west wing, but if you’d gone there even once, you’d have seen that Tom and I did not share a room—and if we had, would that be so bad? Would it be so bad if I kept the house and spent time here with someone other than your father? Bob loved having people come.”

  “Tom is not people,” Nicole argued.

  “Right you are. Tom is special. He’s the one person your father would have trusted with me. Tom knows me. He respects what I had with Bob and lets me talk about him. He would never ask me to give up those memories, any more than I’d ask him to give up his memories of Susan, rest her soul. But this week has been really good. So no, I’m not selling.”

  Nicole swallowed hard. If this was Angie’s call, it was done. “It’s your house. You can do what you want.” But there was another side. “I don’t have to be here.”

  That caught Angie, who looked suddenly stricken. “You wouldn’t want your children to experience Quinnipeague?”

  “I don’t have any children!” Nicole shouted, wondering how her own mother could be so insensitive.

  “But you will.”

  “When? My husband is sick. He might die.”

  Angie straightened. “So you’ll sit around and wait for that?”

  “Mother!”

  “I’m serious. Are you counting on his death?”

  Nicole took a short breath. “Please don’t say that word.”

  “So what’s planned for the fall?” Angie asked with a calm that took nothing from her momentum. “Julian says he has a week of work in California and then something in China in the spring. Are you going, too? There’s great sightseeing in China. Or are you afraid to make plans?” Her face was suddenly harder, the lines over her lip more pronounced. “Life doesn’t follow our orders, Nicole. Things haven’t worked out the way you want, but you have to accept them—”