Sweet Salt Air (48 page)

“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.

“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

P
ARIS 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.