Sweet Salt Air (37 page)

“Which was totally my fault,” Charlotte stated, “and which I seriously regret and had hoped to move past by coming here this summer. Nicole’s the only friend I have who knew me when we were kids. There’s something to be said for that.”

Leo righted his chair. “I wouldn’t know,” he said quietly, his dark eyes penetrating. “But you weren’t close to your parents, either.”

Livid, she said, “Excuse me, is the pot calling the kettle black? My parents are as dead as your mom, but your dad is not. What does he do, by the way? When Nicki and I were in Rockland, I kept thinking I’d see someone who looked like you.”

“Not likely. He’d have been the one strutting around in khakis with a bill cap, dark glasses, a patch on his arm, and a gun at his hip.”

“He’s a
cop
?”

“Chief of.”

“Seriously?”
But he wouldn’t kid about something like that. His father, the chief of police? Whoa. “When was the last time you talked with him?” Leo was silent. “Don’t you think you should? Don’t you think he should know what you’re doing with your life? He isn’t a nobody, Leo. Don’t you think he would be
proud
?”

He stared at her. “No. He would not be proud.”

“Why not?”

“Because he said I’d never make anything of my life if I stayed here, so he’d have to eat crow, and that’s not his favorite meal.”

Leo rarely spoke of his father. The fact that she rarely spoke of her parents was a thread they had shared. But his father was alive, and clearly a sore point. Speaking of him now brought the vulnerability to his stare that got to her every time. Parts of his past were as dark as his eyes.

Remorseful, she reached for his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push.”

“You did,” he said flatly. “It’s been in the back of your mind.”

“Maybe, but it isn’t my business.”

He didn’t answer, simply continued to stare at her in a way that said it was her business, because whatever they had was growing deeper by the day, so they had to know each other better if they had a prayer in hell of understanding why he wouldn’t leave Quinnipeague and she couldn’t stay.

So much unspoken. Charlotte knew it, too. A cop? Amazing. “What do you hate most about him?”

He finally blinked, took a breath, lowered his eyes to their linked hands, seeming to take comfort in them. “That he never came here. Like it wasn’t worth his time.” He studied their fingers, woven so well it was hard to tell whose was whose.

“He must have been here when you were conceived.”

“It happened there.”

“How do you know?”

He met her gaze. “When I realized I didn’t just sprout like her plants, I asked Cecily.”

“At which point, she explained the facts of life?”

“Oh no. I got those from other kids. Took a lot of crap for not knowing. Not that they knew much. They knew nothing about the beauty.” Lifting their hands, he separated out fingers enough to kiss hers.

And again, her heart clenched. He could do this as no other man ever had—could turn distance into something utterly sweet. Or maybe it was his way of expressing love, because she sensed that he felt that, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I can be a bitch.”

“Not all the time.” He smiled his tough-guy, poignant smile.

She lingered on it a minute before sliding a discouraged glance at the phone. “I tell myself that I’m just the messenger. They tell me they want the cells, I make a call, that’s it. Only it isn’t. Each step of the way, I care what happens.” She thought about the moment. “And then there’s the cookbook. I expected Nicole to be gone a week. You’re right. I haven’t written much.”

“But you knitted.” The yarn bag lay on the floor. Having gotten the knack of the cables, she was nearly done with the second sleeve. “Who’s it for?”

She sighed. “Me. I guess. At least, the process is. I feel better when I knit. Like you do when you whittle.” Totally the process for him. Though he never seemed to finish anything, he wasn’t bad at it. She could always tell what he was trying to make.

His expression turned wry. “My alternative isn’t wandering around aimlessly.”

“Do I do that?”

“Sometimes.” He gave her hand a little shake. “Why don’t you call her? Be honest. Tell her the wait’s killing you.”

She considered doing that. “But if Julian is there, she wouldn’t be able to talk and, besides, my impatience is petty compared to what she’s living through.”

Leo tipped back again, though nowhere near as nonchalantly this time. He looked like he wanted to help but didn’t know how. “You’re a good friend,” he finally said, which did help, as did a reprise of that poignant smile, not to mention the rest of him. His hair was tousled, his eyes intimate and direct. He wore his black gym shorts and a tank top that showed a little chest hair and a lot of shoulder. He was barefooted, which seemed to be his preference, though she was barefooted now herself. The day was warm. The French doors were open; the ocean rolled in on the shore less than fifty feet away, directing the sweetest of salt scents their way.

Taken as always by both it and him, she wheeled her chair around so that she faced him, slipped her hands up his thighs, and sighed.

“What?” he asked in amusement—because he could read her thoughts, which were lewd. What with the splayed way he sat, the shadow on his jaw and the engaged look in his eyes, he was good enough to eat.

But she had already done that earlier.

Sex with Leo continued to amaze. And the amazement wasn’t hers alone. A lot of what they did was new to him, too. They were well suited to each other in this regard.

But sex couldn’t sustain a relationship. And it didn’t work long distance. Having been on Quinnipeague for four weeks, she had another four to go. Then Paris. Which she loved. Then Tuscany. Which she loved.

She sighed again. “Can we do something?”

He smirked. “That?”

“No. Like sail.”

He thought for a minute. “How about Jet Ski?”

She eyed him askance. “I do not see a Jet Ski at your dock.”

Hauling her up by the armpits, he kissed her firmly on the mouth and said, “Being a best-selling novelist has its advantages. People are eager to please. I know one we can borrow. Interested?”

In a distraction? “You bet.”

*   *   *

Zooming around the island on a Jet Ski was a fine distraction.

Same with having dinner at the Chowder House, which meant confirming what most Quinnies already knew about their being involved. Even Dorey Jewett’s arched brow, less warning than intrigued, gave Charlotte a warm feeling.

And making love on the sand that night? Lying naked under the stars afterward? Washing the salt off in his Jacuzzi, then making love all over again in his bed?

Distractions all, but finite. Wednesday came soon enough, and Charlotte woke up worried. That was when Leo led her through the garden and into the forest. He spent a few minutes searching before Bear sniffed it out, at which point Leo knelt and pulled back a mass of fern fronds to reveal low clusters of what appeared to be red four-leaf clovers. They looked oddly mystical.

“What
are
they?” she asked, squatting beside him.

“I don’t know. But they make wishes come true.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s what Cecily said. She hid them around the forest.”

More than happy to set reality aside a bit longer, Charlotte was charmed. “Make wishes come true, huh?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Like regular green four-leaf clovers?”

He shrugged.

“Then you don’t know for sure?”

“If they work? Cecily claimed they did. She only gave them to very special, very loyal friends, and they don’t talk.” Picking one, he held the bud by its tiny stem. “Close your eyes and make a wish.”

Charlotte closed her eyes and wished for Leo. Then she looked at the bed of petals. Regular four-leaf clovers were one in ten thousand, but when it came to red, there had to be hundreds in the clump. “Can I make more than one wish?”

Tucking the first clover into her tank top, under the lace of her bra, right by her heart, he picked another. “Close your eyes.”

She closed her eyes and wished for a cure for MS. “One more?” This time, she wished for Nicole and Julian to live happily every after.

She now had three petals tucked in her bra, but when she went to remove them, Leo covered her hand.

“They have to stay with you for three days.”

“On me?”

“Or in a pocket.”

“What happens after three days?”

“They dry up and die. By that time the wish is either rooted or not.”

Charlotte eyed him skeptically. “Are you kidding me?”

“Would I risk Cecily’s wrath by lying?” he asked, fully serious.

No. She guessed he wouldn’t. Still, red clover that made wishes come true? “Could I take a little clump and plant it in Nicole’s garden?”

Leo looked like he was about to refuse. Then he paused, frowned. “I guess you could. The valerian is still alive.” He held up a hand,
stay,
and loped off for a trowel and pail.

*   *   *

Charlotte planted the clover with care, encircling the small patch with wire mesh so that one of the Mayes men didn’t mistake the clover for weeds and pull it out. She tamped the soil a final time, watered it, then went inside to clean up. Taking the petals from her bra, she showered, dressed in a clean tank and shorts, and slipped them into her pocket. They were wilting, much as ordinary clover would do. She wasn’t sure they were magic at all, but could she risk it and throw them away?

*   *   *

The ferry was due at two and, sure enough, several minutes before that it appeared on the horizon, etching a
V
of foam in the waves. Reaching the pier, it turned and slowly backed in.

Of the half dozen passengers waiting at the top of the ramp, Nicole was the most stunning. She wore white capris, a turquoise silk blouse from her Philly stash, and a multicolored scarf, just taken from her hair, which, with just a touch of the wind, looked as chic as ever. Eyes on Charlotte, she waited until four others debarked before starting down.

That was when Charlotte saw Julian. Startled, she caught her breath.

But of course he would come. He would want to talk with her, which she didn’t particularly want, which was likely why she had blotted out the possibility and why Nicole hadn’t mentioned it. Not that Nicole had mentioned much.

Ten years, four of them ill, had aged him. He still stood straight, and was trim and well dressed. But leaving the ramp, he walked with a deliberateness that wasn’t quite natural, and he looked exhausted. That didn’t keep him from staring at her with a handful of questions and a glint of accusation.

The accusation hit her the wrong way. This was the first time she’d seen him since learning she was pregnant—and he was accusing
her
of something? What about
him
? While he had been enjoying newly married bliss, she had been dealing with loneliness, fear, and pain.
Why hadn’t he worn a condom?
A responsible man would have done that, drunk or not—or so she had reasoned quite unreasonably when life had seemed dark.

Once the baby was gone, she had put the anger behind her and moved on. Now it roared back.

What to do? She touched a cheek to Nicole’s in token greeting. But Julian? What could she bear? A nod? A handshake?

Following his lead, she did nothing. Ignoring him as best she could, she took Nicole’s bag and carried it to the car.

*   *   *

Her anger eased during the drive to the house, but not without great effort and ongoing internal monologue.
It’s over, Charlotte. Let it go. You were the one who chose to freeze cord blood. Focus on that.

Julian rode shotgun for the sake of legroom, but Nicole proceeded to fill what would have otherwise been an uncomfortable silence by leaning up between the seats to talk to him about seasonal changes. Charlotte might have asked her to put on her seat belt, if she hadn’t been so grateful to have a head between Julian’s and hers. Each time she felt his stare, she wanted to shout,
Yes, I had your baby and gave her away, but you were married and I was alone.
Each time, she returned to her mantra.
It’s over, Charlotte. Let it go.

Anger and guilt mixed in waves, building on an awkwardness that neither the ocean air that blew through the open windows nor the bursts of coral and red flowers that lined the route could touch. As soon as they had settled in at the house, with Julian on the patio and Nicole searching the fridge for dinner-makings, Charlotte approached her.

“Would you rather I not be here? I could stay at Leo’s. That way you’d have the house to yourselves.”

“What would you rather?” came a distracted reply.

“I asked first.”

Nicole rifled through the vegetable bin, then the freezer. “He needs red meat,” she murmured, straightening with one hand on the refrigerator door and another pushing up the back of her hair. “I want fresh everything. I’ll go back to town.”

“I’ll go,” Charlotte offered, perhaps a bit too readily, but if she couldn’t get answers, she needed an out.

Letting the fridge close on its own, Nicole went through the kitchen door to the garden. Following her for a shopping list, Charlotte found her bent over the valerian.

“These are doing well,” she said, putting her nose to the petals and inhaling. Still doubled over, she peered up at Charlotte. Her distraction was totally gone. “What did it feel like seeing him? Be honest with me. I need to know.”

Oh, she did. It struck Charlotte this was why Nicole hadn’t given her fair warning that Julian was coming. She also suspected that he hadn’t known she would be at the pier. Nicole had wanted candid reactions.

Like Charlotte could hide hers? “It did not feel good,” she stated.

Nicole studied her with sharp green eyes. “Worse than during the wedding?”

“Way worse. I mean, hell, he was looking at me like I was an ogre, but it wasn’t like I did this on my own. He was careless—”

“I thought he was drunk.”

“Drunk
is
careless,” Charlotte cried, not caring if Julian heard. “He’s a fine one to be accusing me of
anything
. I was the one who took the hit for that night—and since it nearly killed our friendship, you did, too.
He
got off scot-free. I didn’t have to mention those stem cells, Nicole. If he wants to use them, he should be damn grateful I did.”