Sweet Salt Air (40 page)

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

C
HARLOTTE 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.”

“And you think I can?” he argued flatly. “This isn’t easy for me, either.”

“Why not?”
Say it,
she thought and held her breath.
Say it.

But he was quiet. Finally, “Can I come over?”

Releasing a breath, she lowered her head. “No. Not now. I need to work and you need to think.”

*   *   *

How’s it going?
he texted later that afternoon.

It’s going,
she wrote back.

Can I see you tonight?

No. I need to think, too.

*   *   *

She knitted for much of the night—knitted frenetically—first propped up in bed, then curled in a chair, later standing by the floor lamp when she got up for a drink of water and couldn’t quite get herself to return to bed. Her fingers weren’t kind to the sweater; working on the front now, she made constant mistakes. Leo was a thread worked right into the popcorns, cables, and twists, but no matter how long or hard she pondered their relationship, no new insight popped up. She loved him. How many ways could you parse that? It wasn’t rocket science.

By Friday morning, she was in a snit. It must have been written all over her face when, after a whopping two hours of sleep at dawn, she awoke to the smell of coffee.

Julian was reading the paper, while Nicole made bacon and many more pancakes than the two of them would eat. “Blueberry,” she told Charlotte, gesturing toward the pile. “Help yourself.” Then, “You don’t look great.”

Charlotte poured coffee into the largest mug she could find. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Did you go out?”

“No.”

“Problems with Leo?”

The woman didn’t have a mega-following for nothing, Charlotte thought dryly, wondering at what sounded like satisfaction in her voice. But of course, Nicole would like the relationship to implode. She had been against it from the start.

Not wanting to discuss it now, Charlotte asked, “What’s on for today?”—which was a ridiculous diversion, what with printed schedules everywhere. But if Leo was off-limits, what else did she have?

Work would save her. It always had. After all, what was wanderlust if not having nowhere better to stay?

*   *   *

Hey,
he texted at ten.

That was it.
Hey
.

At eleven, he wrote,
Are you there?

Yes.

Ignoring me?

Trying to. I have work to do.

I’m wounded.

He had been kidding. She was not.
That makes two of us.

Can I take you to lunch?

In town? She couldn’t bear it. Or at his house? With dreams scattered everywhere and Bear—she hated dogs but loved Bear—plopped against her leg? Worse.

I have to work, Leo. Really.