Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

Charlotte wanted to be good. That meant trying her best to be attentive to Nicole, perhaps out of guilt for still feeling annoyed, more likely because the cookbook was her project, too.

  That said, the time issue loomed. Be there at nine, she e-mailed.

  Late dinner?

  I’d like that.

  * * *

  Leo knew how to cook. His offerings were simple, like the strip steak he grilled that night, but he had a wicked way with herbs. Not that she was surprised, given his background. Still, the sight of his lean, long fingers expertly wielding a chopping knife in his new, relatively sleek, definitely state-of-the-art kitchen was such a contrast from dirt-crusted ones wielding a hammer, callused ones hauling up sails, and literary ones typing a book, that she found herself watching him in awe. Barefoot, he wore jeans and an open-neck shirt. When she found herself imagining how well he would fit into her Brooklyn neighborhood, she determinedly dragged herself back to the reality of the moment—which was tarragon butter, freshly drawn and dribbled over the steak, served with a salad that contained chives, basil, and a slew of other herbs she couldn’t name.

  “You know parsley,” he said and pointed in turn at dill, marjoram, and arugula.

  “Arugula? Huh. With these others, it looks like an herb.”

  “It is an herb.”

  “I thought it was a lettuce?”

  Midnight-blue eyes were indulgent as he shook his head.

  “Do you grow it in your garden?”

  Amused, he nodded.

  She took another taste of the salad. The dressing was a simple blend of olive oil and lemon juice that she had watched him squeeze. He had added fresh-ground pepper, but no salt. The salad didn’t miss it. “Can I have this recipe for our book?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Even if I keep it anonymous?”

  Another headshake. “You’ll get other recipes like it. Herbs are a Quinnie thing.”

  * * *

  You were right about that, too, Charlotte texted from town the next morning. I just interviewed Carrie Samuels, and she gave me three different herb salad recipes.

  Three? he typed back.

  Parsley, mixed herbs, and fennel.

  Fennel. Good one. Why were you interviewing Carrie?

  Age. And family. She’s younger than me but with six siblings and four times that in aunts, uncles, and cousins, she has very deep roots. I envy that.

  You envy roots?

  Yeah. I don’t have any.

  Roots can be shackles.

  Her thumbs hovered. Shackles were a negative, right? Was he complaining? If he wanted to cut roots and wander afield, she could help.

  But he typed before she could reply, I have plenty to share. Want some?

  She sighed. You’re the root guy, I’m the wanderlust girl. Is there a way to graft the two? She sent the question, then, fearing a discussion that texting couldn’t handle or, worse, an argument, quickly typed, What’s with fennel? Carrie gave me a quart of fennel soup for Julian. She says it’s medicinal.

  It is, he replied, but not for MS. Ask about her mother’s pregnancies.

  Carrie’s mother’s pregnancies. That had not come up during the interview, but she figured if he had mentioned it, it was something to add. Climbing from the Wrangler, she ran back to the small cottage where Carrie lived with her husband and three kids, knocked on the door, and smiled apologetically. “One last question?”

  * * *

  Back in the Jeep a short time later, she typed, Constant morning sickness, for which only fennel helped, and with seven babies in twelve years, she lived and breathed the stuff. Carrie wanted to know how I knew to ask, and while I was trying to think up an answer, she said she knew it was you. Is there something I don’t know, Leo Cole?

  I used to deliver fennel to her mom. Carrie followed me around.

  Puppy love?

  (Snort.)

  Well, Charlotte wrote, I didn’t confirm or deny that you were my source, so your virtue is safe.

  Thank you, Charlotte.

  Thank you for the tip, Leo.

  * * *

  That afternoon Charlotte was pro-active. I’m off to interview Mary Ellen Holloway, she e-mailed before closing her laptop. Anything special I should ask?

  The zucchini lady? I thought you were doing salads today.

  Nicole says we have too much to do to limit ourselves.

  What about the schedule?

  She revised it again. So while she does a blanket sweep for recipes, I’m interviewing whoever commits to a time. She set up matching files on our computers for sorting. Zucchini is both a side and a snack. I’ve never had zucchini chips like Quinnie ones. (Sigh.) Why aren’t you working????

  Because I’m e-mailing you.

  That won’t pay the bills.

  Neither will Next Book. I told you. It sucks.

  When can I read it?

  When it starts getting better. (Sigh.) Ask Mary Ellen about blossoms.

  Blossoms?

  Zucchini blossoms. She fries them.

  * * *

  OMG, Charlotte texted when, after two hours with Mary Ellen, she returned to the Wrangler. ZBs are AMAZING. She just fried up a batch. Why didn’t I know about them?

  Because she doesn’t make them for island events. Didn’t Nicole know?

  She must not have, since she didn’t have them on our list. Mary Ellen sent me home with what we didn’t eat just now, plus zucchini bread for Julian. She knew all about him, BTW.

  Quinnies talk. Are you coming over tonight?

  Nicole wants to work. But I told her I’d be gone for the night tomorrow. Are you free?

  * * *

  They spent Saturday night grilling fat hot dogs on sticks over a fire on the beach, and, undressing only enough, made love on the sand in the embers’ warmth. Taking refuge in his bed from the cool of the night, she fell asleep in his arms while he read Grisham’s latest. His body heat held her close until the arrival of Sunday’s sun, and when she awoke to his hands on her body, she was ready again.

  “How do you do that?” she breathed after an orgasm that was stronger, deeper, more mind-blowing than any other.

  His heart was thudding under her cheek. “Do what?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Make me feel so much.”

  He didn’t answer at first, simply stretched a hair-spattered leg between hers. Gradually, his pulse steadied. “Do I?”

  She tipped her head back. Her fingers had left his damp hair a mess of dark spikes. The lines of his face were softer, but the midnight blue of his eyes was dark, and not with passion, she realized. She saw worry.

  “What?” she asked softly. She wanted him to say it—say that he loved her and that she should stay. They weren’t texting. They were together and naked. They could discuss this now.

  But he simply drew her closer, kissed the top of her head, and held her until it was time to bring her breakfast in bed.

  * * *

  Charlotte spent Monday with Eleanor Bailey, owner of a must-have recipe for mini crab cakes as well as the biggest Quinnie heart. If there had been a formal hospitality committee on Quinnipeague, Eleanor would have chaired it. Since this was the crux of Charlotte’s profile, they drove the island roads together, stopping to visit shut-ins, deliver groceries to others unable to get to the store, even prepare lunch for the four young children of a woman whose preemie baby was taking huge chunks of her time.

  Eleanor was storing the leftovers from lunch in the fridge, when Charlotte’s phone pinged.

  S’up? he wrote.

  I’m at the Blodgetts’ with Eleanor. Too noisy to think. I’ll get back to you. An hour later, she typed, What a zoo.

  Lotsa little creatures?

  Oh, yeah. S’up with you?

  Down. Weekend sales. Just got word.

  Why? When he named a new release, she wrote, Ahh. That author’s a biggie. Give him a week or two, and Salt’ll be up again. Are you writing?

  No. Counting my direct deposits. Is it OK
to text that? Which is safer—e-mail or text?

  Text. It’s through phone lines and doesn’t go anywhere but your phone. E-mail sits on a server.

  Why don’t we talk on the phone?

  Because Eleanor is two feet away.

  I hope you’re not driving and texting.

  She’s driving.

  She’s hell on wheels.

  Now you tell me.

  Can you come over later?

  We’re testing recipes.

  Later later, then.

  Absolutely.

  Ten tonight? I’ll be waiting between thyme and turmeric.

  Turmeric. Sounds phallic.

  TURMERIC, not tumescent. You have a dirty mind.

  Takes one to know one. I’ve never seen turmeric.

  It’s related to ginger. The rhizome treats arthritis.

  Rhizome?

  Root.

  That won’t help me find you, she typed. “Work,” she told Eleanor. “I’ll be done in a sec.” Describe the above-ground part.

  It’s phallic.

  She snickered. Ha ha.

  I’m serious.

  So it’ll look like you?

  Am I phallic?

  Part of you is.

  Is this sexting?

  No. We’re not sending pics.

  Want to?

  Funny boy.

  Is that a no?

  Absolutely. You may be Mr. Anonymous, but I am not. She sent the note with a touch of resentment but quickly sent another. Back at Eleanor’s. Gotta finish up here. See you at ten.

  * * *

  Nicole and Julian were upstairs when Charlotte left the house that night. She hadn’t said she was going out. She didn’t owe this to Nicole, especially after the ton of work she’d done for her that day, and when she crept back in early Tuesday, the kitchen was empty.

  Feeling guilty for negative thoughts, she put on a pot of coffee. It had just finished brewing when Nicole appeared in her fluffy robe and slippers. Her face was bare and pale, her eyes tired. She reached for a mug. “You went out last night.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I heard the door.”

  She seemed about to say something more, but simply closed her mouth and reached for the cream—which was wise, in Charlotte’s humble opinion. She had no intention of discussing Leo. She didn’t want to be explaining herself, much less invite criticism.

  But Nicole’s worry lay elsewhere. Holding back a swath of blond hair, she said, “I know you’re pissed at me, Charlotte, and I’m not sure why, but here’s the thing. I jump every time the phone rings, because, if it’s Hammon, we may have to leave. He needs time to culture the cells, but if he wants to run tests on Julian before the nineteen days are up, and if I’m in Chicago and not here, the cookbook is in trouble. The cookbook may be totally silly compared to MS, but it’s like”—her green eyes went foggy as she tried to explain—“it’s like something of me is in it, and I need that to make it through all this.” Scowling, she pulled a handful of red petals from her pocket. Some were faded, others more fresh. “Do these actually work?” she asked in despair.

  “Do we know that they don’t?” Charlotte countered, closing Nicole’s fist with the clover inside. “We’re making good headway on the cookbook—”

  “But mostly on collecting raw material. There’s still so much left to write.” She scooped her hair back again, baring frantic eyes. “Five chapters are done now, but another five are not, and that’s not including the long, detailed, witty foreword and afterword that my editor wants.”

  “Write them now,” Charlotte suggested calmly.

  “I am so not in the mood for witty.”

  “You’ll add wit later.”

  “What if I can’t?” Her eyes foreshadowed the horror of paralysis, coma, death.

  “Nicki. You have to think positive. Give me the chapter intros you’ve already finished,” she suggested, coming up with Plan B there and then. “If you have to leave, I’ll use those as a model and write the rest myself.”

  Nicole studied her, then sighed. “What a mess. I should never have signed that contract. I knew Julian was sick.”

  “Which is why you signed it, and it’s good,” Charlotte argued, taking her arms. “Don’t do this to yourself. You made a commitment. It’s done.”

  “But you’re with Leo all the time.”

  Silence.

  Astonished, Charlotte dropped her arms. “Much of the time I’m with Leo, I’m writing for you, and the rest, you’re with Julian. Why do I need to hang around here? You have the cells. I paid my dues. Don’t bring Leo into it.”

  “But I’m losing you anyway.”

  The silence this time was sadder. Charlotte felt it and let out a tiny breath. “No, Nicki. You’re not. I’m just having a hard time accepting that the stem cells are gone, but I’m telling me the same thing I’m telling you. It’s over and done. Get. A. Grip.”

  “This is a nightmare.”

  “Given everything, that is probably an understatement,” Charlotte acknowledged, folding her future with Leo into the mix, “but we’ll get through. Trust me on this. I’ve done it before.”

  * * *

  When Wednesday dawned cloudy and cool, they headed for the island store, where the potbelly stove filled the sitting corner with the scent of glowing pine logs and warmth. Though they knew that this was the place to see and be seen, their real target was Bev Simone, who, as owner of the store and the Café, was second only to the postmaster in the daily number of Quinnies she met. Indeed, through the hours Nicole and Charlotte were there, Bev rarely sat, but talked about the evolution of the store while standing at the ready, elbows on the back of a fat armchair. When the door jangled, she was off, but she always returned with something that helped—either a recipe card, a release form, or a foil-covered package for Julian.

  Quinnies were curious, but tactful. They could easily pass an hour chatting up the weather, the radish harvest, or a bad stretch of planks on the pier, but to make small talk with Nicole at this time would have been considered gauche. Likewise making a big deal about bringing a plate of brownies, a bowl of fresh-picked strawberries, or a pan of lasagna. As for their curiosity, Bev was able to satisfy that with the bits of information Nicole purposely gave.

  Did you ask Bev about her arthritis? Leo e-mailed midday, to which Charlotte replied, I didn’t have to ask. She knows I’m with you and mentioned it right off. Devil’s Claw. She says it’s indigenous to South Africa, but, if so, how did Cecily grow it?

  Under lights inside. When I tore the greenhouse down, I stuck the roots in the ground and it keeps coming up. It’s ugly as hell, but it just won’t die. ARE you with me?

  She wasn’t thrown by the change of subject, since it was never far from her mind. I am if you’ll come to Paris.

  I don’t speak French.

  I do.

  I don’t own a suitcase.

  I do.

  I don’t have a passport.

  Apply now, and you’ll have one in time.

  He didn’t respond to that, and Charlotte didn’t see him that evening. She and Nicole worked late, and by the time they were done, she was too tired to do more than fall into bed. She woke up Thursday morning thinking about him and wanting to tell him as much. But he had to write back first. It was his turn.

  * * *

  You’re very quiet, he finally texted after Charlotte had suffered through a long morning.

  Waiting for word on your passport, she wrote. She had been able to distract herself with work, but seeing his text brought a rush of emotion. She was feeling relieved, impatient, and needy, all of it unsettling.

  Why Paris?

  Because it’s where I’m going after here.

  Why do I need to see Paris?

  You don’t. Her need to type kept her from throwing her hands up in frustration. It could be Tuscany. Or Montreal, or Boston, or Brooklyn. The point is that it isn’t Quinnipeague. If he didn’t see that, then she had overrated his brain.
/>   What’s wrong with Quinnipeague?

  NOTHING! I just can’t live here full time. Some of the time, yes. But if you can’t spend some of your life elsewhere, we have no future.

  There was a brief pause then. She wondered if she had gone too far. It wasn’t an ultimatum, exactly.

  Yes, it was.

  Why are you raising this now?

  Because it’s been weighing on me. I love you.

  The instant she clicked SEND, she would have pulled it back. Texting wasn’t the right place to say this. But it was done. Too late. Gone.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  CHARLOTTE HAD TYPED THE WORDS in exasperation, and no, texting wasn’t the right place for a first declaration, but wasn’t she stating the obvious? The man had written Salt. He was sensitive and insightful. He had to have felt what was going on here.

  But the flow of notes abruptly stopped, leaving her suspended, wondering if she had misjudged him, fallen for an irreparably damaged soul or, worse, an empty shell. At the very least, it looked like she had scared him off.

  But she refused to take back the words. Aim high, hit high, Bob Lilly had always said, and, emotionally speaking, Charlotte was finally doing it. She had never fallen in love—as in, aching at the sight of someone, wanting to live with him and have kids with him and to grow old with him, and being willing to modify her life to make it happen. But she felt all that now, and it couldn’t be all one-sided. The recluse, who had once accused her of trespassing and told her to leave, had opened up. Totally aside from physical attraction, he seemed drawn to her thoughts, willing to listen, wanting to share with her what he did for fun. He had taken her into his own private space—had let her fall in love. He wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t felt even just a teeny little bit of the same, yet with each minute that crept by, she grew more distressed.

  After a full hour of silence he wrote, I’ve heard that before, at which point she gave up all pretense of working, went outside, and phoned.

  He had barely picked up when she said, “I know you’ve heard it before, but she was not honest. I am trying to be, and it isn’t only for your sake. It’s for mine, too. I stand to be hurt really, really badly if this falls apart, because I feel things for you that I’ve never felt before. I don’t want to be hurt, Leo. I can’t afford to lose everything again.”