Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I can’t.”

  “Accept and move on,” Angie finished.

  “Is that what you’re doing, just giving up on everything you had that was good?”

  Charlotte appeared at the door and stopped. At the sight of her, Nicole took a deep breath, held up her hands, and started to back off.

  But Angie cried, “Oh, no no no, don’t run away. We need to discuss this right now. You are stuck in the past, Nicole. Your father is dead. Nothing can bring him back.”

  “I refuse to forget him.”

  “Then remember this,” Angie said in a rising voice. “He wasn’t perfect. He never made the bed or did the laundry, not even when I was sick. We would eat in five-star restaurants, with him using their fine linen napkin to blow his nose, though I can’t tell you how many times I asked him not to.” Her voice kept rising. “He never wanted to hear complaints about my day, because my problems were petty compared to the ones he saw. He could be judgmental, and he was impatient. It was fine for us to wait for him, but he didn’t like waiting for us. And he died on me, Nicole,” she charged as her voice hit a high note. “He left me alone just as we were reaching what should have been the easy years of our lives. There are times when I’m furious at him for that.” Winded, she sagged. “Does that mean I didn’t love him? No. I loved him faults and all.”

  Nicole wasn’t so angry that she didn’t hear what Angie was saying. She just wasn’t sure where it was headed. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Do you love Julian?”

  “Of course I love Julian.”

  “Then make it work.” The words hung in the air along with all that Nicole hadn’t said about the state of her marriage. Nicole was trying to decide whether to deny problems or admit to them, when Angie said, “And while we’re talking about your father, here’s one more thing. I lived through dozens of court trials with him, and the one thing he always said was that you had to look at the hand you’re dealt and be creative. That’s how he won cases. Look at the hand you’re dealt, Nicole, and be creative. Make your own reality!”

  * * *

  Nicole couldn’t be creative with so much else going on in her mind. One step at a time. That was all she could handle, which was why she did laundry, made lunch, made marginal peace with Kaylin as the girl packed, and, at the appointed time Saturday afternoon, drove the trio to the ferry. She was pleasant enough saying good-bye to Tom, and felt true emotion saying good-bye to Kaylin.

  How to deal with her mother? She had wanted to tell Angie about Julian’s illness for so long, yet now that she had, she was as bottled up as before.

  Seeming to sense it, Angie let the others board first, then took Nicole’s hands. Her voice was gentle, her neatly made-up eyes sad. “I can’t know everything that’s going on with you,” she said. “I shouldn’t. You’re a grown woman. But you always used to be tolerant. I don’t see that now. Honey, life isn’t black or white. There isn’t only one picture that’s perfect. It’s about piecing together shades of gray to make something quite stunning. And the picture shifts. That’s another Dad-ism. Remember his sea shadows? Each time the shadow moves, there’s a new image. Only sometimes those clouds are stuck up there, so we’re the ones who have to move to see it.”

  * * *

  At some point during the night, Nicole moved. Come dawn, she saw a different picture. Angie was right; she was a grown woman. She would never act on the say-so of her mother, though the phrase that stuck in her mind came from her. Make your own reality.

  And with that came the conviction that she had to go home.

  * * *

  Charlotte drove her to the ferry. “Are you sure I can’t come?” she asked as she lifted the Rollaboard from the back.

  That scenario was actually one of many Nicole had considered during the night. But what had happened before her marriage was something that she and her husband had to work out. Same with their future. “I need to do this myself.”

  “If you want me to talk with him, I’ll be here.”

  “What I really want,” Nicole said, “is for you to keep at the book. I’m freaking out about that. The timing of all this couldn’t be worse. I’ve done the menu planning, and if I’m not back right away, you have my notes on the rest.” She had added more during breakfast. “Will you keep things going?”

  “Absolutely,” Charlotte said, looking her most earnest. “I’ll do anything, Nicki. Name it, and it’s yours. I’ll even blog for you.”

  Feeling sad, Nicole smiled. “And take away the one thing I do well?” She gave Charlotte a spontaneous hug, only afterward realizing that she probably shouldn’t have. But it was done, certainly the tolerant thing to do. Her mother would have been pleased. Forgiveness? She wasn’t quite there yet. She had to hear Julian’s side of the story. For now, though, that hug had filled a void.

  “Don’t underestimate yourself!” Charlotte called when Nicole was at the top of the platform. Moments later, with the rumble of its engine, the ferry cast off, and she was on her way.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  HAVING MADE THE DECISION TO return to Philadelphia, Nicole was impatient. Unable to find a taxi in Rockland, though, she had to wait for the shuttle bus, then wait again at the Portland Jetport for her flight. She didn’t land in Philly until early evening, but even in all that time, she didn’t change her mind. The only qualm she had as her cab neared the condo was whether Julian would be alone. She hadn’t called to say she was coming. There was nothing she wanted to say on the phone.

  She felt a headache coming on, but willed it away and produced a smile for the doorman, who took her bag from the trunk and wheeled it inside.

  “Good to see you, Mrs. Carlysle. Would you like help taking this up?”

  “No, thanks, John,” she said, reaching for the handle as she entered the elevator. “It’s light enough.” The only things she had brought were ones she didn’t have doubles of, like makeup and a favorite outfit or two, though generally she wore different clothes here. She didn’t know how long she’d be staying. That depended on what she found.

  John pressed the button for the eighteenth floor and, seeming unaware of Julian’s illness, gave her his usual smile as the door closed. By the time it reopened, she had her keys in her hand.

  Quietly, she let herself into their place. Julian’s wallet and keys were on the nearby credenza, but there were no signs that anyone was with him—no handbag, no shoes or discarded clothing. Part of the reason she had come without warning was to check, and though she hated herself for the suspicion, it was one of the things they had to deal with.

  He wasn’t in the living room. Nor was there sound from elsewhere—no television, no music, no shuffle of feet in the kitchen. Guessing that he was working, she set her shoulder bag on the carpet by the suitcase and went down the hall, but the study was empty.

  When she turned from there, though, she saw him. He stood at the bedroom door, wearing khakis and loafers, but that was where normalcy ended. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair messy and his skin sallow. Most uncharacteristic, though, was the fear in his eyes.

  Because he wasn’t alone in the bedroom?

  No. She knew in the instant that he was profoundly alone, his eyes tearing up now—her husband, whom she loved with the kind of irrationality that kept love alive even when anger should kill it.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, that quickly becoming the deferential Nicole who had been told not to come. “I can’t leave you alone. I have to be here.”

  She approached, but he was reaching for her even before she arrived, pulling her close and holding her to him with a strength she wouldn’t have imagined he had from the looks of the rest of him.

  “You came,” he murmured, his voice shaky in her hair. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “You didn’t ask me to come,” she said in surprise, pulling back. The fear remained in his eyes.

  “You sounded so distant. I thought you wanted out.”

  “I thought you did.”<
br />
  “I’m not good at talking about some things,” he said, but before she could tell him that had to change, he ducked his head and caught her lips in a kiss that, yes, held fear and relief, but also the warmth of the good times. When it was done, he held her close for a while, right there in the doorway, and she didn’t complain. When he kissed her again and she felt his arousal for the first time in months, her own excitement grew.

  Nothing mattered then—not Charlotte, not the stem cells, not even a tremor in the hand that searched and uncovered. She gave him what he wanted, but the hunger was mutual—and if there was a subconscious anger in her greed, it became desire. She was forward in ways she had never been, reacquainting herself with his skin and his scent, taking the lead when his arms tired, refusing to let him rest until they were both sated.

  Mine. The word echoed in her mind when finally she lay against him on the bed, listening as his heartbeat grew steady, as her own did the same. Tired or not, he kept an arm around her, holding her close, and when he dozed off, she followed.

  * * *

  She woke up to see city lights glowing under a purpling sky. Pushing up in alarm, she found him awake, head on the pillow, eyes watching her. “How long did we sleep?”

  “A couple of hours,” he said, then quietly added, “This is the best I’ve felt in days.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out, and, when he gave a tug, returned to his side. No way was she raising the issue of Charlotte and spoiling the moment. Yes, she wanted what she’d had in the past. She wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock to the days before Julian got sick. And yes, she knew she couldn’t. But if, for whatever reason, this intimacy had survived, she needed it.

  Apparently, so did he, because he didn’t speak, simply continued to hold her, letting her go only to get food, which she did in the form of grilled cheese and arugula sandwiches, but once those were gone, he wanted her with him again.

  She was tired enough, relieved enough to sleep in his arms through the night. When morning came, though, she couldn’t put it off. They were lying together in bed, his fingers moving lightly on her shoulder.

  She spoke against his chest. “Tell me what happened with Charlotte.”

  His fingers stilled. When she didn’t try to modify the question and let him off the hook, he let out a defeated breath. “I was afraid it was that. There had to be a reason you were different.”

  “I want to hear your side,” she said, sitting up now, with the sheet under her arms and determination in her eyes. In fact, she didn’t want to hear anything. But knowing Charlotte’s side, she had to know his.

  He began with the obvious—exhaustion from juggling work and wedding plans, too much to drink, little remembered the next day except that what had happened was wrong. But he had looked deeper, too. “At some level,” he confessed awkwardly, “I was worried about getting married again. It was easy to blame Monica for what happened the first time, but a marriage takes two. You were younger and more vulnerable. I felt a greater responsibility for you.” His voice fell. “I wasn’t sure I was up to the task. But there we were with the wedding coming closer and closer, and the arrangements growing more and more elaborate. I panicked and drank too much. I was trying to forget the fear.”

  “Were you hoping to call off the wedding by having sex with someone else?” Nicole asked. It was a logical follow-up to what he was saying. She had to ask or would forever wonder.

  “Lord no,” he said with force and, reaching for her hand, hung on. “It was an insane thing—an animal thing that had nothing to do with what I wanted.”

  “Was the wedding too over-the-top?” she asked, still trying to understand.

  “No. No, baby. The wedding was perfect. The problem was me. I got overwhelmed and did something I have regretted ever since. I am so, so sorry.” He had always been modest. But humble? Ashamed? Never before. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. I told myself that I hadn’t betrayed a vow, since we hadn’t exchanged them yet. But that was a technical distinction. The whole thing was wrong.” His eyes skittered off, only to return seconds later. “I was hoping it would go away. I thought it had.”

  It might have had it not been for the baby, she knew, but she wasn’t mentioning that yet.

  He had pushed himself up against the pillows, though there was nothing relaxed about the pose. “When did you learn—” He stopped himself. “Ahh. Right before the Fourth. That’s when you pulled back.”

  She didn’t apologize, didn’t say anything at all. In the morning light, his jaundice was unsettling, but she wasn’t ready to deal with that. He still had more explaining to do, and though he was visibly uncomfortable with it, she held her ground.

  He sighed and looked away. “I barely knew her. I had only met her that summer, and I was only on Quinnipeague weekends. It wasn’t something I planned.” He looked back at Nicole, more troubled than ever. “Did she?”

  “No.” Nicole believed that. “She regrets it, too.”

  “Why did she tell you?”

  Because she had to, Nicole might have said. Because I was falling apart thinking that you were desperate enough to sacrifice your life for the sake of experimental medicine, and she wanted to give me hope.

  Still she held back. The argument now wasn’t about stem cells. It was about her marriage.

  So she simply said, “She probably thought I already knew.”

  “Did you ask her to leave?”

  “No. I need her help with the cookbook.”

  “How can you stand looking at her?”

  “How can I stand looking at you?” Nicole replied. “I’m trying to understand, Julian. I tell myself it was a long time ago, but I’m suddenly seeing things differently.”

  “Like what?”

  “The late nights you work. Business trips.”

  He gave a spasmodic shake of his head. “Never.”

  “Not even while I’m on the island for weeks at a time?”

  “Never,” he repeated.

  She started to rock, couldn’t help herself. “But it happened with Charlotte. My best friend.” Her breath shook, with deep, dark fears breaking through. “I know women whose husbands cheat. I never saw myself as one of them. But I am. It happened.”

  He came forward fast. “Not an affair, not willful—”

  “Was it me?” she had to ask. “Was I not strong enough or smart enough or independent enough?”

  He cupped her face with tremorous hands. “It wasn’t you. You’re all I wanted. It was me, feeling inadequate and being stupid enough to try to drown my own insecurities in drink.”

  “You? Inadequate?”

  “You put me on a pedestal, Nicki. But I’d already fucked up one marriage when I met you. Have I fucked up a second?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. The MS issue had to be discussed. But they weren’t done with the other. “I hear the excuses you both give, and she’s doing everything she can to help, but I still feel betrayed and angry.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but mention of anger had stirred it up in her again, so she reached for a robe and went into the kitchen.

  Minutes later, knife in hand, she had emptied the refrigerator of apples, pears, kiwi, and pineapple, and was chopping them to bits. After scooping the tiny cubes into a bowl, she added lime juice and sweetener and put the bowl in the fridge. Ten minutes later, she had turned frozen baguettes into cinnamon French toast enough for two, added a mound of fruit salsa to each plate, and put them on the breakfast bar—not because Julian deserved it, but for the sheer therapy of it.

  Wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, he watched from the door. His hands were tucked under his arms, his feet were bare. “Feel better?” he asked when she was done.

  Had he been smug, she might have lashed out. She still felt threads of anger. But the only thing in his tone was a knowledge borne of familiarity, a reminder that they had been married for ten years and that she wasn’t
ready to end it.

  Yes, she felt better. Not great. But better. Nodding, she pocketed her hands, and met his gaze.

  “So help me God, Nicole, there have been no other women. What happened that night was sobering.”

  “You were with women before me—”

  “But never while I was married to Monica,” he broke in, “and never while I was married to you. For what it’s worth, I haven’t had any contact with Charlotte since the wedding.”

  Nicole knew that. The whole issue of the baby made it so, because there was no way in hell Julian could have known about that and not let it slip now.

  Coffee. She wanted coffee. Turning away, she was in the process of making it when he came from behind, wrapped his arms around her middle, and buried his face in her hair.

  His voice was muffled. “I don’t want to lose you, Nicole. You are the best thing in my life.”

  The words haunted her. She finished setting up the coffee, then turned. “Would you have said that even if I didn’t know about you and Charlotte?”

  “Yes. I would have told you last night if we’d stayed awake.”

  “Why did it have to take my going silent for you to realize it? Because I’m normally so sweet and trusting? Because I was an airhead ten years ago and too naïve to make you worry about it before now?”

  “No,” he insisted, framing her face with his hands, but he was frowning again. “And you aren’t an airhead. You’re an amazingly smart woman who never gave herself credit for that. You never demanded much. I took you for granted. And now with MS? You were the only one I could take my anger out on.”

  “Is the anger gone?”

  “No. But I have to make a decision, and I can’t do it alone.”