Sweet Salt Air (47 page)

Charlotte had said the same. But Nicole couldn’t take credit for anything when Julian was en route to the ICU. “How does one prepare for something like this?”

“One doesn’t. It’s all about how you react when it happens.”

“This isn’t what I wanted.”

“No.” Her mother smiled. “But look at it this way. If you’d died at twenty-five, you wouldn’t have had to deal with it.”

“What an awful thing to say!”

But Angie didn’t take it back. She simply straightened the straw in her diet Coke and sipped—and of course, in the silence, Nicole realized she was right. This was what always happened. Mother-daughter disagreements were, in hindsight, basically mother stating the truth and daughter taking her own sweet time coming around. That had been the case with boys and sports. It was certainly the case with Tom.

“I was not nice to you when you were on Quinnipeague,” Nicole said softly.

“No, you weren’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

Nicole paused. “Just like that? No discussion.”

“No. Not now, at least. I understand what you’re feeling, sweetheart. Trust me, I’ve felt a lot of it myself. I also know how frightened you are right now. You’re thinking that you can’t lose Julian, that your life would be totally empty without him, that there has to be something you can do; only you don’t know what it is. Your mind is filled with coulda shoulda wouldas.”

Nicole was amazed. Hadn’t she thought those same words five minutes before? “How did you know?”

“Because I loved your father like you love Julian. He was in the ICU, too—the difference being that he was basically gone when he got there. Julian is not. You will have your life with him, sweetheart. I have to believe that. You will.”

Nicole breathed more deeply. Angie couldn’t know for sure that Julian would survive. Plus, there were different levels of survival, any one of which might be worse than what they’d had before now and, in so being, impact their lives forever more.

But she did trust her mother. And she did want to believe.

Reaching for Angie’s hand, she linked their fingers as she used to do when she was little and whispered, “How long can you stay?”

“As long as you want, honey. I’m here for you.”

*   *   *

Moments later, when Angie went to dump the uneaten food and buy cheese to nibble on upstairs, Nicole pulled out her phone.

Thank you,
she typed very simply and pressed
SEND
.

Chapter Twenty-eight

C
HARLOTTE WAS ROWING.
T
HE BOAT
was an old wooden thing that she had spotted in Leo’s shed, but since, unlike the sailboat, it was something she could drive herself, she had made him take it out. Leo, being Leo and a handyman, had sanded, painted, and sealed it before he would launch it, and then, though he let her row, he insisted on going along.

The sun hadn’t set, but it was heading that way, spattering gold across the waves under a brooding sky. As mild as the waves were, the boat bobbed more than it actually moved. Pulling on the oars with her back to the bow, Charlotte was fully absorbed for the first time that day.

When her phone vibrated against her hip, though, Chicago came back in a rush. Dropping the oars in their oarlocks, she pulled it out, saw Nicole’s text, and smiled in relief.

“Her mother got there,” Leo guessed. Facing her in the stern with his bare feet braced wide, he was uncorking a bottle of wine and, with remarkable steadiness given the rock of the boat, half-filled two plastic cups.

An OK exec decision?
she typed.

Very OK,
Nicole replied.

Satisfied, Charlotte took the cup he offered. After tapping it to his—they always did this—she sipped.

“How is he?” Leo asked.

Charlotte glanced at the phone again before sliding it into her pocket. “Must be the same, if she didn’t say.”

“She should have called her mother herself.” As sympathetic as Leo was for the situation, he hadn’t warmed much to Nicole.

“Uh-huh,” she said, sipping the wine. “We know all about that.” He still refused to call his father.

With a you-know-what-I-mean look, he reached into a plastic baggie, pairing cheese with pear slices for her and with crackers for himself.

She took a bite, then said, “If it were me, I’d call Kaylin and John, too. They ought to be there. She needs all the support she can get.” She pushed the rest of the snack in her mouth.

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.