Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

“Christ,” he breathed, “I thought you’d never ask. It’s hot as hell out here.”

  “That’s because you’re wearing a heavy old handmade sweater. Why in this heat?”

  “It was the only thing holding me together.”

  * * *

  They were barely able to put the roses in water, before the sweater came off, then shirts and pants and the rest—all this with perfect air-conditioning, but the need to be together was overwhelming. They made love a dozen ways, from floor to bed to shower and back. Charlotte had never been as insatiable, but then, she had been without Leo for a month, and she was in love.

  Not that Leo flagged. He was, in a word, awesome. Actually, he was also wordy, telling her that he loved her over and over again. She didn’t think she would ever tire of that.

  As afternoon morphed into evening, though, there were practical matters to consider, like stashing the truck and buying food for dinner, but both were easily handled. The truck went behind the Jeep in the alley of a friend several streets over, and they brought in Thai, which Leo had requested, and since he’d never had it before, Charlotte ordered a selection. He liked some dishes better than others, but long before the food was gone, he was starting to drag. Having made the crossing from Quinnipeague to Rockland with the truck the afternoon before, he had left there at three this morning to allow for traffic and terror and getting lost.

  So Leo, her man of the night on Quinnipeague, dragged her back to bed in Brooklyn and made sweet, sweet love to her one more time before falling asleep. Not her. She wasn’t tired in the least. She was too pumped up to sleep, too enthralled by the sight of Leo in her bed to want to close her eyes at all.

  Besides, moments before dropping off, he had reached into his backpack and pulled out a manuscript.

  “Next Book?” Charlotte asked excitedly.

  He shook his head and nudged the wad of papers into her hand. Then, lying on his side facing her, he pushed the pillow to fit his neck, and closed his eyes.

  Charlotte stared at him. When it became clear that he wouldn’t explain—that he was actually that quickly asleep—she turned to the cover page. Roots and All That Other Dirty Stuff, it read. She turned to the next page. For Charlotte.

  Swallowing, she started to read.

  * * *

  It would never be published, of course, though not because it wasn’t beautifully written. He was a natural; that was clear from the start. He had put several hundred pages together in three weeks, and the prose was as lyrical as in Salt, though Charlotte knew he couldn’t have had time for much editing. Here was catharsis in its most raw form—a spilling out of thirty-eight years of brief victories overshadowed by anger, resentment, and fear.

  This was Leo’s own, very personal story, written perhaps for Charlotte but surely finished for himself. He had told her the basics before, but now he elaborated on the feelings he’d had for his mother and the island. He wrote of his dreams of having a father. He wrote of defiance and sadness, of confusion and floundering. He wrote of island girls and sex and his lover from Phoenix, none of which Charlotte found offensive, what with the wrongness of those relationships so clear in light of the man she knew. He wrote about seeing Charlotte in the dark of his drive that first night, of what their summer together had meant to him and how, when she left, he was paralyzed at first, then disgusted enough with himself and his fear to know what he had to do.

  And what he had to do, for starters, was to see his father. It wasn’t an easy visit for either of them, what with no history of communication, no guidelines for father-son relationships, no filters to soften hair-trigger emotions. Leo had been brutally honest, largely angry and accusatory, surely arrogant when he told the man about Salt. He hadn’t planned on doing that. He knew the risk of exposure, and he didn’t trust this stranger.

  But Salt had seemed a vital connection to make. With its ties to the sea, to longing and dreams, it was a big piece of who he was.

  His father was older than he remembered, newly retired from the police department, outwardly defensive at times, but listening. Would there be a détente? Leo didn’t know. But hours of blunt talk—this act of tearing up negative roots and leaving the ground tilled and waiting, as Leo put it—was what he had to do before leaving the State of Maine for the first time in his life.

  And he did have to leave, or, at least, had to be able to do it. Having taken Charlotte’s arguments to heart, he spared himself nothing on that score. Narrow-minded, he called himself. Selfish. Cowardly. As insecure as that little boy sleeping outside with the herbs, he didn’t paint himself in the best of lights, not even with the success of Salt. And yet he came across shining in Charlotte’s eyes.

  By the time she finished reading, it was three in the morning, and his words had brought her to tears a dozen times. Leo slept through it all. She didn’t know how. Hadn’t he wanted to see her reactions? But no, she realized. He was using sleep so that he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t worry or fear. Through it all, though, he kept a physical link, be it the touch of a toe, a hand, a leg.

  Seeming to sense when she finished, he stretched, opened one eye, then the other as he regained awareness, and quickly grew wary. He waited for her to speak, but what could she say? He had lived through the kind of angst that, for all her own loneliness, she couldn’t imagine. And his father? The man claimed Cecily had threatened mayhem if he interfered with Leo’s life, and he had felt just bewitched enough by her to believe it. Cecily hadn’t known that he was the one directing the lawyer who got Leo off with five years in prison rather than ten, or that he was instrumental in having charges dropped the second time around, when Leo was falsely charged.

  Reaching up, he touched the tears on her face, but she didn’t want that. Nor did she want sex. Sliding down, she squirreled one arm under, stretched one arm over, and held him tightly enough so he’d know she wasn’t ever letting go. In time, he switched it up, holding her while she slept with her ear to his heart.

  When she finally awoke, a midday sun was heating the carpet, and he announced that he wanted to go into the city. Charlotte was startled. “Manhattan?” She would have thought he’d have wanted to take it slow, fanning out from her neighborhood in baby steps. Manhattan was a shock for people from other cities, let alone those from tiny islands.

  But he nodded. “Fifth Avenue.” He was sure.

  That said, when they left open air to go underground for the subway, he held her hand as though his life depended on it. Stop to stop, he was guarded, and when they emerged in Midtown, his eyes held a mix of terror and awe. But he was cool—oh, he was cool. Betrayed only by the bob of his Adam’s apple, he studied the street signs. He had clearly done his homework; he knew how the grid worked. After several blocks, he began checking numbers. When he found the one he wanted, he opened the large door and stood aside.

  Charlotte, to whom the number meant nothing, but the store name etched over the stone portal did, shot him a questioning look. He simply hitched his head, indicating that she should precede him. Once inside, he went to the nearest salesperson and, in a quiet, confident voice, asked for Victoria Harper, who, it turned out, was the assistant manager with whom he had talked earlier that week. If Charlotte hadn’t already been stunned by his savoir-faire, she would have been moments later when the woman guided them to a display case filled with diamond rings. The elegant Ms. Harper proceeded to pull out several that, apparently, she and Leo had agreed to on the phone.

  Charlotte pressed shaky fingers to her mouth, though she couldn’t have talked if she’d wanted to. All she could do was to stare at the rings, then at Leo, who smiled with equal parts shyness, excitement, and pride. “What did you expect?” he asked.

  Blindly, she groped for his hand, which seemed the only real thing in the place. “I, uh … I didn’t … I-I hadn’t planned—”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a yes yes yes, but … Tiffany’s?” she cried and added in an astonished whisper, “It’s too much.”

  �
�Not for me,” he said, “not if you love one of these.”

  She loved Leo. She didn’t need a ring. But he had planned it all out, and he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. If he had learned sophistication from fictional characters, they had taught him well. As suave as he was in as fabled a store as this, his eyes were earnest. He wanted her happy.

  She studied the rings. Each was stunning. Most women didn’t have a choice; she could see the advantage of that. With a hand pressed to her chest, she went back and forth, but it was overwhelming.

  “If you don’t like these, there are others,” he said, nervous now. “Or we can have one designed.”

  “Omigod, no, Leo,” she said, clutching his hand to her throat. “These are exquisite.”

  “He knew what he wanted,” said Victoria with a hint of something British in her voice. “He has very good taste.”

  Charlotte doubted that her own taste was as good, but her eye kept returning to one of the rings. It was a pear-shaped diamond flanked by tapering baguettes. She liked the simplicity of it, liked the spark the diamond emitted.

  Within minutes, it was on her finger. She could hardly breathe.

  It had to be sized, but smart Leo had made that part of the deal. The chosen ring went to the in-store silversmith for an hour, during which time they walked outside and, for the first time, he took in the grandeur of Manhattan in general, and Rockefeller Center and St. Patrick’s Cathedral in particular. Charlotte was the one who clung now—to his arm, his hand, his side—more amazed at the courage of her husband-to-be than anything the city had to offer.

  When they returned to Tiffany’s, the ring was waiting, sparklingly alive in a velvet-lined box. Charlotte inhaled a stunned gasp, again thinking it was way too expensive, way too large, way too flawless for someone as flawed as she. But Leo was removing it from its bed, dropping to one knee, and offering himself to her. He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. She heard the words loud and clear in the sweet, shy, vulnerable look on his face.

  Grinning, she held out a shaky finger. He slid the ring on, then rose and, slipping his hands into her hair, tipped her face up for the simplest, most honest kiss. Only when it was done did she hear the applause of onlookers, at which point, embarrassed in a delighted way, she tucked her face into his neck.

  It couldn’t have been better scripted if he had written the scene himself.

  Epilogue

  JUNE WOULD ALWAYS BE CHARLOTTE’S favorite month on Quinnipeague. She loved the purples and pinks of new flowers and the smell of moist earth. She loved the frothy roil of the sea as it recovered from a day of rain, and in those early mornings, before the fog lifted and sun warmed the island, there was nothing, nothing better than a wood fire, wool socks, and hot chocolate made from scratch.

  She had the hot chocolate this morning, but with Leo back in bed, she didn’t need the fire or the socks. Propped against the headboard, he was typing away, but looked over when he felt her eyes on him.

  “Happy anniversary,” she whispered, cradling the warm mug as she lay on her side.

  He raised a brow. “Not ’til October.”

  “It was one year ago tonight that I first walked here and saw you on your roof.”

  Amused, he considered that. “Only a year?”

  “Weird, isn’t it.”

  He opened an arm for her to scoot closer. Hadn’t they been this way forever? But no. They had come from totally different places, which should have made compatibility a challenge. And yet, as easy as it was for Charlotte to see his side, what gratified her most was how safe he now felt in moving toward hers.

  Not that they had ever disagreed about getting married quickly and on Quinnipeague. Leo wanted a small wedding, and Charlotte would have been happy exchanging vows at the end of the dock or in the herb garden. But Quinnies were vocal about wanting to attend, and she loved this community she was marrying into. “It’s a tribute to you,” she told Leo when he hedged at the thought of a crowd. “They’re saying that they know your childhood was hell, they’re sorry they didn’t do more, and they really like you. They do, Leo.”

  In essence, Quinnies ran the wedding, which was fine with Charlotte, who didn’t know the first thing about running anything beyond a dinner for four … and that, with take-in. Nicole had offered to help and did take her wedding-gown shopping. But Nicole was busy shuttling between Philadelphia and New York, working with her editor to get the cookbook into production, and giving Julian emotional support at a time when his future hadn’t quite taken shape.

  The ceremony was held in the church. Charlotte wore a stunning white gown, which was as close as she came to traditional, what with her hair loose and curling, her fingernails painted blue, and Bear walking her down the aisle. They went slow. Bear’s excuse was arthritis, hers the four-inch heels Nicole had insisted she wear, though the heels came off for the progressive celebration that followed, starting with champagne on the front steps of the church, moving on to appetizers at the Island Grill, dinner at the Chowder House, and dancing under a heated tent on Nicole’s patio.

  Leo’s dad, though a Mainer with a long history of public service, was awkward with Quinnies. He knew many of those there, but if they didn’t resent him for abandoning Cecily, they did for abandoning Leo. They were polite, but there was clearly no love lost on his behalf. Julian, who didn’t know all that many Quinnies, enjoyed discussing law enforcement, so kept an eye on him.

  “What’re you thinking?” Leo whispered now. He had a hand on her belly, which was seriously swollen. She was seven months pregnant. Four more weeks on the island, then they would shift to New York for the duration.

  “Your dad. We should take him to dinner on our way to New York.”

  “Why?”

  Charlotte gave him a chiding pinch. “Because he’s your dad. And because he’s LL’s grandfather.” LL was little Leo, though Leo was adamant about not naming the baby after him. He wanted Ethan, after the hero of Salt. Charlotte loved that name, too, though she felt that, in the absence of in-utero clothing, LL was more boyish than LE.

  Leo didn’t reply. She knew he would come around about his father. He usually did, not that they saw the man often. He certainly wasn’t an active player in their lives. Still, he and Leo did share genes. Charlotte, being Charlotte and incorrigibly curious, had found common ground with him discussing granite quarrying, which was part of the mid-coast Maine history and about which it appeared he knew a great deal.

  It was about roots. Charlotte was finally growing them now and was greedy. Not the least bit ashamed of that, she snuggled in.

  He drew his head back to see her face. “That’s a smug smile. What now?”

  She shrugged, grinned, eyed his computer. “I’m thinking how far you’ve come.”

  “Literally?”

  “That, too.”

  He was on his second book—actually, the second one after Salt—and just starting Chapter 16, if the screen was to be believed. He claimed Charlotte was his muse, but she knew better. Having exorcised a raft of demons, his mind had opened. He would never love traveling as much as he loved Quinnipeague, but his world had begun to grow. After New York had come a honeymoon in New Zealand, then a week in Eastern Europe, where Charlotte was on assignment, then one in Iceland. Though he would only admit it when forced, new places inspired him. Once the baby was big enough to tuck in a carrier, they would be traveling not for her work, but his.

  With the help of his lawyer, Leo had hired an agent who sold the second Chris Mauldin for bigger bucks than he had ever dreamed. He had written it in four brief winter months, and, having proven to himself that he could, had signed another contract. The deal specified that Chris Mauldin would neither tour nor do anything else to reveal his identity, and though his publisher fought him on the issue of confidentiality, Leo wasn’t budging. Moreover, he would only meet with his agent or editor in the office of his attorney. Slightly paranoid? Perhaps. But they were hungry enough for his books to agree.

  With
the advance he received for Salt’s successor, he had bought a brownstone in Brooklyn, where they spent much of their work time at catty-cornered desks. Bear was with them, sleeping through the long drive, too old to care about the change in location or even about having to wear a leash. Leo was probably more aware of the leash than Bear was. Tethered to the dog, he ventured farther afield on his own. And then there was the reality of a hospital. Having accepted that Charlotte absolutely would not give birth at home, he used tours and birthing classes to mitigate his unease. It helped that Nicole and Julian were doing the same in Philadelphia; Nicole was due three weeks after Charlotte.

  And Julian? Eight months after the transplant, he was remarkably well. Though his symptoms had improved, the hospital wouldn’t allow him to operate. He had known that would be so. Still, it was a door that had closed once and for all, and he took it hard. Then alternatives had sprung up. He was on television more than ever, as something of a poster child now for MS, a motivational speaker at events, an advocate for pushing the envelope of medical trials—all of which was great publicity for Nickitotable and her cookbook.

  A vibration sounded on Charlotte’s nightstand. Rolling herself over, she put the mug there in exchange for the phone.

  “Just wanted to hear your voice,” Nicole said. Pregnancy had left her breathless, which ratcheted up her voice to the pitch it used to be. But she didn’t babble as much. She had grown up that last summer. It wasn’t a bad thing.

  Actually, it was a good thing for Charlotte, since they were in touch every day—often multiple times—sharing advice, complaints, fears. And since Charlotte was trying to get ahead on her own assignments, brief calls or texts worked best.

  “Feeling okay?” she asked now.

  “I do not like this extra weight. But there’s good news,” Nicole said, clearly struggling to contain her excitement. “We’re into a third printing.” The cookbook had come out in time for Mother’s Day, with promotions planned for summer sales. Since those had yet to begin, something was working even without. “They are thrilled. And my editor says, by the way, that heartburn is not necessarily a sign that the baby will have hair, since she had heartburn the whole time and her baby turned out bald.”