Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  “You look like you lost your best friend,” the woman said, uncharacteristically subdued.

  “Actually, there’s good news.” Smiling, Charlotte told her about Julian.

  “Good news but not surprising,” Dorey decided. “The heart of Quinnipeague was with them.” She paused. “It’ll be with you, too.”

  Charlotte struggled not to cry. “A favor?” she managed to ask and held out the package. She didn’t have to say who it was for or what to do with it. Dorey nodded and took it. Then her crinkled eyes grew pleading.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

  “Yes. I have to work.”

  “Will you be back?”

  “I don’t know.” Choking up, she turned to leave. When she felt a stocky arm around her shoulders, she paused, eyes on the old wood floor.

  Dorey’s voice was filled with compassion. “And I was worried about him,” she remarked with a tsk. “Take care of yourself, Missy. I’ll keep the chowdah hot for you.”

  Chowdah. So Maine, so Quinnie, the word echoed in her head until the ferry horn blasted it out. Once she’d driven the Wrangler aboard and the ramp was raised, she took a seat in the stern. How not to look for him then? How not to hope he had changed his mind? How not to envision a happily-ever-after in this place that was a fantasy in so many ways?

  All she saw, though, was the island growing smaller as the ferry plowed through the waves toward the mainland.

  * * *

  She did fine all the way to Rockland, did fine all the way to New York. She even did fine when she got to Brooklyn and found her third-floor walkup sweltering, the AC on the blink, and no air to be had outside. She called her landlord, stopped at her coolest favorite sushi place for dinner and, after, at her coolest favorite café for a tall, iced raspberry tea to go. Back in her apartment, she was fine going through her closet for clothes to take to France.

  It was when she was taking Quinnie things from her duffel, reaching in a final time, that she touched something hard. Puzzled, she pulled it out. It was a piece of pine, six inches of increasing detail from tail to nose, its head a near-perfect replica of Bear whittled by the man who knew him best.

  Charlotte’s heart began to pound. For all the nothings Leo had started that summer, all the while claiming that he wasn’t good at it and that, like her knitting, it was all about the process, this was exquisite.

  Holding the tiny dog, with its small, widespread ears, its muscular flanks and lean legs, and, in her mind’s eye, seeing the real thing with its master close behind, she burst into tears.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  PARIS WAS AS MUCH FUN as Paris could be without a beating heart, or so Charlotte felt. In the two days she was there, she robotically followed her friends, smiling and nodding even when their French babble went over her head. She didn’t tell them about Leo, didn’t want to talk about him, and they were excited enough just seeing her and taking her from market to market, café to café, club to club.

  Did she think about Leo? Of course, she did. She had deliberately packed different clothes from ones that would remind her of Quinnipeague, but she had tucked the little whittled Bear in their midst—couldn’t leave it home alone, much less sleep without it—and she thought of Leo each time her hands warmed the wood. He had taken great pains, particularly with the detail of the head, and with pine being knotty and soft, she wondered how many times he’d had to restart with a fresh piece when one didn’t work. While she slept? While she was at Nicole’s or in town? Was it a ’til-September gift or a final good-bye? She just didn’t know.

  She also thought of him each time Nicole sent an update, which was often. Julian had been removed from intensive care on Thursday night, and when Charlotte landed in Paris early Saturday morning, a waiting e-mail said he was up and walking around. Charlotte was pleased for them both, though here, too, it was a knee-jerk response.

  By the time he was discharged from the hospital, it was Monday, and she was en route to Bordeaux. Here, amid imposing châteaux and lush vineyards, she was more engaged. This was her baby; she had to be on. Her assignment was to profile an American family who had recently bought a small vineyard here. It was a remarkable clan—three generations’ worth, including two grandparents, two sons and their wives, and seven children under the age of ten—facing a remarkable challenge. Having owned a smaller vineyard in California, they were following a dream, and though the former owners were there to guide them, it wasn’t going quite the way they had planned. Between a weakened economy, a foreign infusion that was driving prices too high, and the sheer veneration of the competition, they had been forced to rethink their goals. Marketability was their new byword. Their wines had to be affordable, which meant cutting margins of profitability, which meant retooling the dream even more—all of which meant stress. And yet they were happy. During the ten days Charlotte spent in their aging château, she saw optimism at every turn.

  For the first five of those days, Nicole and Julian stayed in Chicago to return to the hospital for daily checks. By the time Charlotte left Bordeaux, they were back in Philadelphia, and Charlotte was welcoming Nicole’s texts as ties to her past. She knew the minute they settled back into their condo with new hope, the minute Nicole hit her favorite farmers’ markets, the minute she realized—again—that nothing was as fresh as Quinnie-fresh.

  Fresh described Tuscany, though in totally different ways from Bordeaux. Rather than verdant rows of manicured vines rolling up and down hillsides, in the small Italian village where she stayed, the olive groves were more drab, their trees rangy and staggered. Rather than the moist scent of Bordeaux, the smells here were drier and more piquant, often of focacce or fish or meat stew, all cooked with olive oil straight from the press.

  The challenge here wasn’t optimism, but evolution. The subjects of her story were an olive farm and the Italian family that had run it for generations, and their constant reinvention had more to do with the personal interest of the members than the economy. Money meant little to this family. To them, life was about trying different things, most notably—and the reason Charlotte was there—establishing a cooking school to showcase the glory of the olive.

  She spent hours with growers, pruners, pickers, and pressers. She interviewed local chefs and sat in on a session with current students. Much like what she’d done those last days on Quinnipeague, she was in the process of choosing recipes for her piece, when Nicole and Julian returned to the island.

  His tests are all good, Nicole wrote, so Hammon says the risk of further rejection is remote. He’s still weak, but it’ll be a while before we know whether it’s from the transplant or the disease.

  Is he discouraged?

  Hard to say. I don’t think he’s thought about work yet. He’s focused on getting out and walking. He’s determined to be running in another week. That’s his litmus test for recovery.

  Picturing them on the road, the patio, the beach, Charlotte felt a wave of homesickness. What’s it like there?

  Gorgeous. The nights are cooler and start earlier, but the crowd’s gone. I’ve been taking my laptop to the Café and working there. Am almost done. I mean, there are no changes—NO changes—to what you did. How do I thank you—for that work, for the stem cells?

  He’d have made it through. It was meant to be.

  But so much more meaningful this way.

  More painful? Charlotte had to ask, because nothing could ever erase the betrayal behind those cells.

  Maybe a little, Nicole typed. But being back here, I miss you. Are you okay?

  I’m good, Charlotte replied. Back in my old routine, she added. Only she wasn’t really. Try as she might to recapture the excitement of traveling freely without ties to home, she failed. She was with people all day long, but she was lonely. And then there was the whittled dog.

  What’s the word from Leo? Nicole asked.

  Charlotte felt a deep, dark pang. Zip. We aren’t in touch.

  Why not?

  Taking a break.
That was the gentlest way to put it.

  You BROKE UP?

  No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Having typed the words on impulse, she positioned her thumb to delete. But this perfectly expressed what she felt, which was total confusion. She loved Leo but didn’t know what to do with it. She had hoped he would text, or call, or get on a friggin’ jet in a burst of courage, and surprise her with a declaration of undying love on the banks of the Seine, in a vineyard in Bordeaux, or under a Tuscan olive tree.

  Such romantic notions. This wasn’t who she was. It might be what she liked to read. But in real life?

  Leaving the first words as is, she typed, It’s like Julian, I guess. Time will tell.

  Then you’re not coming here after Italy?

  To Quinnipeague? No. I take the train back to Paris Wednesday and fly to New York Friday. I’ll work there for a while.

  I’m sending you flowers. When do you land?

  You are not sending me flowers. Flowers were unnecessary. Thanks were unnecessary. She would never quite feel she deserved either, where Nicole was concerned.

  When do you land? Nicole repeated.

  Knowing that she was determined enough to figure it out, which meant that arguing now was absurd, and that, anyway, flowers would be pretty and bright in her lonely walkup, she typed, 1:25 P.M. Friday.

  * * *

  In fact, she arrived a day early. Once in Paris, she felt a yearning for American soil, and when a can’t-hurt-to-try phone call offered a flight change, she booked it. The flight was smooth and, despite headwinds, landed early. Her duffel was one of the first to emerge; she sailed through customs, and was still early enough to be in a cab en route to Brooklyn before the Friday afternoon rush. The AC worked perfectly, quickly cooling her apartment. In no time, she had unpacked, putting clean in the closet and dirty in a basket. Her laptop, camera, and a folder of pamphlets and notes went on the breakfast bar in her galley kitchen.

  What to do then?

  Craving to reconnect with her roots, she began calling friends, some of whom she hadn’t talked with since spring. She left three messages before, desperate for a human voice, she called her friend-the-editor, took the subway into Manhattan, and met her for drinks. Whether being jostled on the subway, crowded in pedestrian traffic, or ignoring pick-up looks in the bar, she was comfortable. This was her old stomping ground, loud and busy and familiar. She was glad to be back.

  Since she was on Paris time, she was asleep by eight, and the next morning she met one friend for breakfast, another for coffee. Keeping busy seemed the way to go, so when she returned to her apartment she did laundry, dusted, vacuumed. After checking for e-mail, she went down the street for lunch. The café was a favorite of hers, another familiar spot. The yarn shop, though, was new. She went in, introduced herself, and browsed, but left empty-handed when nothing there was as beautiful as what Isabel Skane sold.

  Home again, she kicked off her shoes, put on shorts, and, after tacking her unruly hair into a tortoise-shell claw, opened her Bordeaux folder and shifted papers around. And shifted papers around. And did it a little more.

  Lacking incentive, she looked around for something else to do, but nothing appealed. Feeling hollow, she went to the window, folded her arms over her middle, and stared out through the thin blinds at nothing at all.

  It was a minute before she saw the man. Leaning against the stoop of the town house across the street, he wore a ball cap, dark glasses, jeans and sneakers. A backpack lay by his feet. He was looking up at her window, his body alert. She might have thought he was casing the joint if it hadn’t been for the bunch of yellow flowers he held. From Nicole? Not quite. Something about the way he stood—the way his jeans fit his hips, not quite loose, not quite tight—the way his legs were braced like he was on a boat—was very familiar. And then there was his sweater.

  Her heart nearly stopped when the last registered. She had dreamed, but hadn’t dared hope. Romantic wasn’t reality. And this wasn’t Quinnipeague on a cool, thick o’ fog, wood-smoke summer morning, but Brooklyn on a warm and hazy September afternoon.

  In a split second, heart pounding now, she realized what it had taken for him to come here, and still she stood for disbelieving seconds after that, feet rooted to the faded carpet.

  She blinked, and he remained.

  Real.

  Suddenly not rooted there at all, she flew from the apartment and raced down two flights in her bare feet. Flinging open the front door, she darted out, but stopped on the top step. With the glasses and cap, with the jeans, sneaks, even the flowers, he might have been any man. But no other one would be wearing an Irish knit sweater in 78-degree heat, much less a sweater with a lopsided cable on the left front and bunchy shoulders.

  Holding the wrought-iron rail, she went slowly down the stairs, never once taking her eyes from him lest he disappear. She didn’t stop at the bottom, but crossed the sidewalk and stepped off the curb without a glance either way.

  His face was bronzed after a Quinnie summer, but his cheeks were flushed beyond that, and though she could see little of his brow beneath the big Q on the visor of his ball cap, his jaw, throat, and what little neck showed above the sweater looked damp.

  “Do I know you?” she asked with her heart in her throat.

  “I hope so,” he replied in a low and shaky voice. “I sure as hell don’t.”

  “Feeling strange?”

  “Very.”

  “Because of the city?”

  “Partly.”

  The thought crossed her mind that he had come to say good-bye, which would surely account for unease. But all this way? “Did you fly?”

  “I don’t fly.”

  “You don’t leave Quinnipeague, either,” she reminded him gently, inching closer as hope gained strength. “So you drove.”

  He shot a nervous glance down the street, where his dark blue pickup was parked. In that split second, she remembered making love against its side and felt a stab of want deep in her belly.

  Inching closer still, desperate to touch but afraid to assume, she said, “You’ll get a ticket parking there.”

  “I can pay a ticket. Will they tow?”

  “Depends how long you’re here.” But she didn’t want to go there yet. “How’s Bear?”

  “Nosin’ around looking for you.”

  Her throat closed up. Bear always did that to her. But why Bear and not Leo? Perhaps because Bear’s love was unconditional. And because loving a dog was allowed.

  But Bear wasn’t here, and Leo was—and she ached to be allowed to love him, too. Eyes filling, she pressed her lips together to stop their trembling, but it wasn’t enough. On tiptoe, she snaked her arms around his neck and buried her face in his throat. He smelled of sweat and soap—and balsam and pine, lavender, valerian, sage, thyme, and mint, and fried clams and chowdah, and the beach, and the ocean. He smelled of Quinnipeague, because he was Quinnipeague.

  Unable to contain the sheer fullness of it all, she began to weep—Charlotte, who never wept except with Leo. With a guttural sound, he wrapped one arm around her, anchoring her tightly to him, while the other smoothed tendrils of hair from her face before pressing the back of her head to his throat. He kissed her hair and was inching closer to her temple when she drew back.

  “What took you so long?” she charged in a nasal voice.

  He might have argued that she had been away and only now returned, and that she was the one who had left in the first place—and she would have thrown back words like cell phone, e-mail, and text.

  Instead, succinct and wry, he said, “I’m a slow learner.”

  Just like that, her anger was gone, and her heart was melting in puddles. She could live with this kind of honesty—speaking of which, as she tried to blot her tears, she said, “I look awful.”

  “You look beautiful.” He held her gaze.

  But his eyes were only shallow shapes on the far side of dark. Needing to see the whole of them, she lifted his Ray-Bans—and then barely breathed.
Here was a stunning midnight blue with not a trace of defiance or disdain, nothing of the wall, just deep, deep need and want and fear.

  Then his lips moved. Had her eyes not been wet, she might have read his lips. But tears blurred the words. So she asked, “What?”

  He whispered it this time.

  Her heart caught. “Again,” she whispered back.

  “I love you,” he said, not quite full voice, but intimate and exposed and so Leo that she had to believe.

  Her tears threatened again. But his eyes remained so dark, so worried, so fearful, that she could only blink and hold her breath.

  “Is it still there?” he asked in that same not-quite-full voice.

  Releasing the breath, she smiled. “It doesn’t go away, Leo. It’s always there. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. When it’s real, it stays.”

  “This is real?”

  She nodded. Her eyes fell to the bunch of flowers that still hung from his hand. And suddenly, with a clumping of little threads of thought, she frowned. “When did you get here?”

  “An hour ago. I was thinking you’d come in a cab. Your flight must’ve been early.”

  “Nicole told you.”

  “Oh yeah,” he drawled, facetious in a way Charlotte totally got. “In no uncertain terms. She hates me.”

  “She does not. I’m sure there’s pride involved, and stubbornness. But if she called to tell you when I was landing and that you had to be here with flowers—”

  “The flowers were my idea,” he said and, as if in proof, a van pulled up just then with the logo of a local flower shop on the side.

  Minutes later, Charlotte was holding the bushiest arrangement of wildflowers she had ever seen. It was actually pretty ugly, but of course, Nicole was making a statement about how much prettier wildflowers were in a Quinnipeague fall, and that Charlotte needed to come see for herself.

  “These’ll be dead in no time,” she decided as her eyes moved to the yellow roses, “but not those. They need water. Want to come up?”