Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  Leo’s eyes were level. “Go to her.”

  She shook her head no, leveled a gaze right back at him as she swallowed. “I choose you.” It was one step removed from I love you, which she didn’t say other than in moments of passion, when she had no control over what came out. Those words were too threatening for other times. And that was fine. He knew how she felt.

  The oars clinked loudly against their locks. Leaning forward, he pulled them into the boat, then reached into the baggie and doled out seconds.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” he finally said. “There are too many problems.”

  “Tell me something new.” He didn’t travel. That wasn’t new.

  “Kids,” he said.

  Whoa. That was new. He hadn’t mentioned kids before. Salt hadn’t gone that far, and she hadn’t dared ask. “You want them?”

  “Yes,” he said, seeming wounded that she wouldn’t have known. “That’s part of the dream, but we can’t have kids if you’re flying all over the world.”

  The fact that he was thinking of these things was something. But a step forward or just an extension of the wall? “So the problem is me.”

  “It’s me. I’m Quinnipeague.”

  “You’re sophisticated, educated, and worldly on paper. You could do it in real life,” she argued.

  But he was stuck on the other. “And even if you went back and forth from here, we’d still be apart for weeks at a time. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

  “Oh, come on, Leo,” she said gently, “that’s what we see on TV and read in books, both of which need trauma to keep the plot moving. But I know lots of couples that have families and jobs and still travel. Everyone gives a little, and it works. If you’re talking babies, though, you’d really have to meet me halfway.”

  “You don’t want more kids?”

  “I do. Absolutely. But I did it alone once, and I won’t do that again. And excuse me,” she frowned, “where would I give birth to these kids? There is no hospital here.” Quinnie babies were customarily born on the mainland in the kind of hospital where Cecily had died after Leo had dragged her there, for which he still felt deep regret.

  He seemed confused, clearly hadn’t considered that. Brows knitting, he leaned forward, then sat back again, elbows on the transom, long legs splayed outside hers. The pose was more defiant than relaxed. “What if someone finds out who I am? That’d be a problem if you were my girlfriend, wife, mother of my kids, whatever.”

  “Wouldn’t be a problem for me. You’re the only one who has a problem with success.”

  “Okay, then the reverse. What if I can’t write another book? What if the money I’ve made on Salt is a one-time thing? What if I can’t support a wife and kids?”

  Charlotte stared at him. “Listen to you, Leo. You’re dreaming up problems, and every one of them is small. Money is not an issue. You have enough to last a lifetime, even before the paperback comes out, and that’s not counting what you could make if you let them turn Salt into a movie. You invest. I’ve seen you do it. You’re making money on top of money.”

  “I worry.”

  “So do I, but not about that. Right now, I worry that Julian Carlysle might die. All the money in the world didn’t keep him from getting MS, and it can’t assure his survival now.” She felt a chill just thinking about it, though perhaps that was a murky cloud crossing the path of the setting sun. They were definitely in a sea shadow. She had to move, but to where?

  * * *

  Nicole would have said sea shadows were for fools because, try as she might to hang in there and be positive and maybe see things differently—as in, these reactions are just part of a larger picture that includes reduction of MS symptoms—come Sunday morning, Julian was no better. As Angie had warned, there were more machines in the ICU. And the staff checked on him so often that it was like having a private nurse. But his temperature remained high, and the wheezing was exhausting him in a way that went well beyond the drowsiness of Benadryl.

  Still, he refused to take steroids.

  By Monday morning, when there was no improvement, she was worried enough, frustrated enough, angry enough to take a page from Charlotte’s book and to make an executive decision of her own. Julian’s parents, being in San Diego, were too far away to come running, but his children were not. They were adults, or close to it. They had a right to be there.

  * * *

  Charlotte was constantly checking her phone for word from Nicole, but other than the occasional Still the same or No change—all sent from outside the ICU, since cell phones were banned inside—there was nothing of substance until Monday afternoon.

  Then, I called Kaylin and John. They’ll be here tomorrow. He’s going to be mad, but tough shit. It was the right thing to do.

  Absolutely. They SHOULD be there. You did GOOD, Nicki. Any improvement yet?

  No. Hammon is still agonizing over steroids. If Julian asked him to do it, he would. I’m telling you, my husband’s priorities are fucked up.

  The language was totally uncharacteristic of Nicole, but she was clearly at her wits’ end. Not that Charlotte was about to scold, since every other thought in her mind was that Leo’s priorities were fucked up, too, in those very same words. She knew that Leo loved her at some level. But enough to admit it? Admitting it meant you acknowledged what it meant, which meant you did have to give a little, and he wasn’t ready to do that.

  * * *

  Time was running out. She was up late Monday night working on the cookbook and at it again at dawn on Tuesday, working straight through midafternoon, when she was finally able to call Nicole.

  “How is he?” she asked first, because that remained the priority.

  “The same,” Nicole replied, sounding tense. “Kay and Johnny just landed. They’ll be here any minute. He won’t be happy. I’m gearing up for that. So tell me something good.”

  “I think we’re done.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then a surprised, “You and Leo?”

  “The cookbook,” Charlotte corrected with barely bridled excitement. In spite of everything dark going on, there was still a sense of accomplishment when she finally closed her working file, sat back, and let her hands fall from the computer. As for Leo, he was in her good graces at that moment, having been genuinely excited for her. Knowing she would call Nicole, he had gone into town to pick up groceries for a celebratory dinner.

  Nicole’s voice lifted. “Seriously?”

  “I just e-mailed you the last of the files.”

  “Omigod! You. Are. Amazing!”

  “Don’t say that until you read what I sent. I love the profiles, but you may want to reorder which goes where, and tweak menu plans to coordinate with that, and there’s still all the me-writing-as-you business.”

  “I’m barely halfway through. I’m so far behind!”

  “But that’s the second part of my news.” Charlotte was nearly as pleased about this. “You have more time.”

  Nicole’s laugh was shrill. “Not from what I see.”

  “So I called my favorite editor,” Charlotte went on. “She and I get along really well, like we have lunch together just for fun, and I asked if she knew yours. Turns out that they’re good friends. Do you know about the baby?”

  Nicole was clearly puzzled. “Yes. It’s due at the end of September.”

  “It came last week. She must have e-mailed you.”

  There was a pause, then a gasp. “Omigod. That e-mail?” She switched to speaker phone, apparently checking her inbox while she talked. “I didn’t open it, because I felt so guilty not being done.” She gasped a second time. “A little girl. Five pounds, one ounce. Deadline extension until the end of September, when she’ll start working from home.” She let out a long, soft, clearly relieved sigh. “Omigod. I don’t believe it. This is the best news!”

  * * *

  So, just like Charlotte when she’d called, Nicole had two pieces of good news to share with Julian. She knew he would be pleased about
the cookbook, but she didn’t get to that until much later, because just as she turned off her phone, Kaylin and John arrived. Kaylin looked the New Yorker in skinny jeans, blousy layers, and impossibly high heels, while John, with an untucked shirt, jeans, and an impossibly pale face, just looked scared.

  Nicole had called them for Julian’s sake. Seeing them coming toward her, though, she felt a little of the same relief she had felt seeing Angie. This was her family. With each new arrival, she felt less alone.

  Though Angie was included in the hugs, Nicole was the one to explain what was happening. She had told them on the phone about the treatment and his reaction. Now, without quite saying he might die, she detailed his symptoms. “He sounds worse than he is,” she said, which wasn’t necessarily the truth, but they would be frightened enough.

  Leading them into Julian’s unit, she directed them to the hand sanitizer, and then, leaning over the bed, gently shook his arm. He opened his eyes, but it was a minute before they focused on his children. There was an initial instinctive flare of pleasure, then understanding and a glower at Nicole.

  “I didn’t want them to worry,” he croaked between wheezy inhalations.

  “They’re here to cheer you on.” She stood back to give each of the kids time. Kaylin took more, though she talked so steadily about how glad she was that Nicole had called because she wanted to be there, that nothing was demanded of Julian. John was more emotional, as, ironically, was Julian.

  “I’ll be fine,” he managed to tell his son while struggling for air and composure, but he seemed to find new strength when the kids retreated and Nicole took their place. His brown eyes, still dull with fever, were full of censure, his words sharp around the whistling of his breath. “I told you not to.”

  “They love you.”

  He rasped, “What’s love.” It wasn’t a question, more a holier-than-thou dismissal, and that hit Nicole the wrong way.

  “It’s everything,” she said, eyes wide open. “It’s why I’ve been here with you for the last week and a half, even when I would have rather waited longer to do this, and it’s why you need to fight.”

  “But not … the kids.”

  “Yes, the kids,” she shot back with a fire she wouldn’t have dared a day or two ago, but if not now, when? If not now, when? Her father had been big on sayings; this one was hers. It was what reality was about. Growing up—being strong—this was her summer. And it absolutely felt right. “They love you. They want to be part of your life. Well, illness goes with that. They aren’t babies, Jules. They’re young adults with lots of good sense and positive vibes, and they love you.” With Julian staring at her, seeming stunned by her voice, listening with greater awareness than he’d shown since Friday, she felt a surge of strength. “They’re here because I called them, because this is what people do when they love each other, this is what families do—and aren’t you lucky to have this? Some people don’t.” As an inner steam built, she pressed a hand to her chest. “Omigod, I feel so blessed to have them here right now. You should, too, and if you can’t see that, then you don’t deserve us.” Clutching his hand, she leaned in and, more determined than ever, said, “If you can’t fight for yourself, fight for us. Do not throw this away, Julian Carlysle. Do not be a total … total … prick.”

  He stared at her. His forehead was still dewy and his cheeks flushed, but something gave in his eyes, and his lips curved. “Prick?”

  She hedged. It was an ugly word. “I was going to say asshole, but that’s what came out.”

  He made a strangled sound that might have been a chuckle. “Prick, huh?”

  “You can be,” she said softly.

  “But you love me anyway.”

  “I do.”

  Smiling, he closed his eyes. The smile lingered, but he said nothing more. He was quiet. Too quiet.

  Dead.

  The thought stole her breath.

  Terrified, she leaned close again and gave his hand a sharp shake. “Julian.”

  He opened his eyes. “Just resting. Want to ease up on the hand?”

  * * *

  He’s better! Charlotte read a short time later. Wheezing, blood pressure, fever—everything broke. It’ll be a while before he’s totally out of the woods, but Hammon is beside himself. Me, I just can’t believe it. More later. Going back in now.

  Tears in her eyes, throat tight, she showed the text to Leo, who hugged her until the kitchen timer drew him away. Beyond joy for Nicole, she felt extraordinary relief, as though the hell of the summer—memories of the affair, Nicole’s anger, the loss of this only link to her own child—had a purpose.

  The book was done, and Julian had turned a corner. It was a double-celebratory dinner.

  Leo had bought lobster fresh from the sea that afternoon, and cooked it live, which she refused to do herself after hearing the scrabbling of the claws against the pot years before. He also grilled ears of sweet corn and sliced zucchini, both fresh from Quinnipeague fields, while Charlotte heated a round of Melissa Parker’s buttery rosemary bread.

  Silence between them had never been a problem, and it wasn’t now. Charlotte couldn’t help but think of Julian and smile in relief from time to time, but increasingly her thoughts were of Leo. His features were soft now, his midnight eyes warm. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; she wiped butter from his lip with a thumb. Again and again, they raised their wineglasses in wordless toasts, and when the wine was gone and the food eaten, they lingered over coffee, sitting on the dock with Bear. When Charlotte leaned down at one point to rest her head on the dog’s neck, her eyes filled with tears. By the time she straightened, though, the tears were gone. She refused to cry on this special night.

  Later yet, when the moon was up and the surf down, they walked the beach, toes gripping the sand, hands separating only to scramble over large rocks. In time they reached the spot where they had first made love seven weeks before. It might have been their destination all along, but they didn’t speak of it aloud. Leaving their clothes on the beach, they swam, though once they were in over their heads, it was more treading water, with Leo keeping them afloat while Charlotte wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and their mouths fused.

  They made love once there in the water, then again, slower and more savoring, on the beach. When it was done, they stayed until the ocean air chilled them. Then, carrying their clothes in the hands that weren’t linked, they returned to the house, where they lay in bed for the longest time, bodies curled into each other as they listened to the roll of the tide, which was as rhythmic as Leo’s breathing when he finally fell asleep.

  Charlotte didn’t sleep, simply listened to the ocean, his breathing, and that life-sustaining beat of his heart. Minutes passed, then hours. If she dozed, it wasn’t for long. More important, she knew, to feel the soft brush of his chest hair against her cheek and the strength of his thigh under hers. More important to commit his scent to memory.

  Shortly before dawn, leaving Leo prone on the bed with his head turned away, she quietly rose. Bear looked up from the floor, but a simple touch to that silky spot between his eyes had him sleeping again. Her duffel was on a chair; never having formally moved in, she had never fully unpacked, which made the task easier now. Adding the last of her clothes and toiletries, she carried the bag to the kitchen. Wanting to say some last thing to Leo, she took paper and pen from a drawer, but words escaped her. Finally, with a simply XOXOX, she left the note on the pillow, let herself out the front door, walked down the drive with her duffel and on to Nicole’s.

  * * *

  Leo didn’t follow. He didn’t come or even call, but she hadn’t expected either. She wasn’t even sure he had been totally asleep while she was packing. They both knew this had to be done.

  That said, the hole inside her gaped. She tried to fill it by doing laundry and cleaning her room, but both were quickly done. So she knit. After a summer of it, she was totally familiar with the pattern and, miraculously, made no mistakes.
By early afternoon, she had cast off and was driving to Isabel Skane’s for instructions on putting the pieces together. She took detailed notes, thinking it might take her a while to get it done. But the finishing turned out to be the easy part, especially since she had nothing else to do but sew on the patio, seeking comfort from the last of the pergola roses, the salty breeze and the thunder of the surf.

  More than once, she wandered to the garden where lavender, valerian, and red clover thrived. She smiled, pleased that they remained alive, though they had certainly done their job. Word from Chicago was good. Julian was better, steadily recovering from the transplant. Even his MS symptoms were improved, Nicole reported, though only time would tell if that would hold. Likewise, only time would tell whether the stem cells could actually mend damage to the myelin sheath that four years of the disease had caused. But Nicole didn’t care about that. She had her man back. She couldn’t be happier.

  In a moment’s whimsy, thinking that the plants remained alive and fresh just for her, Charlotte picked a single clover, made a wish, and tucked it by her heart. She didn’t know if she believed in all this. Too often in her life, she had dug deep inside and come up with the same calming that the plants had offered, and as for making wishes on red clover, was this truly why Julian was better? Medicine was medicine, science was science, physiology was physiology—and had Leo said he loved her, for all the clover she’d picked and wishes she’d made? No!

  Discouraged, she returned to the sweater, working into the evening, weaving in ends and wrapping it up just before exhaustion hit. Having not slept the night before, she slept soundly—a good sign, she decided Thursday morning as she made a last check of the house, packed up the Wrangler, and set off.

  As planned, she reached the pier before the ferry arrived. Taking the tissue-wrapped package from the passenger’s seat, she went into the Chowder House. The scent of chowder was strong, accompanied by that of fried clams. Dorey was in the kitchen, getting ready for lunch. One look at Charlotte, though, and, wiping her hands on a cloth, she left the stove.