Sweet Salt Air (42 page)

Nicole was the thorn. She clearly hated Leo and kept her distance the few times their paths crossed. Charlotte told herself she didn’t care. But she did. She wanted Nicole’s blessing. Wasn’t Nicole one step removed from Angie and Bob? Wasn’t she as good as a sister in Charlotte’s lonely-only family of one? She was going out on a limb with Leo and wanted someone to say she was doing the right thing.

Knowing Nicole wouldn’t say it, though, she didn’t ask. When they were together, she focused on work, but the silence regarding Leo would have been comical if it hadn’t been so sad. After all, Charlotte was with him whenever she wasn’t either with Nicole or working on her behalf. She was with him most evenings and some overnights. She was brushing her hair more, using mascara more, buying a sweater, scarf, or necklace at the island store—all because she cared more about how she looked. Nicole had to notice, but she said nothing.

“She’s preoccupied,” Charlotte told Leo when he came to pick her up for dinner Wednesday night and Nicole turned away. “She’s worried about what’s coming for Julian. She isn’t herself.”

“Hey,” he said, opening the door for her to climb into the truck, “if you’re afraid my feelings are hurt, don’t be. I’m fine.”

If he was fine, she decided, she was done making excuses. “Well, I’m not. This hurts me. What is her problem with you?”

“Maybe her problem’s still with you.”

She waited until he rounded the truck and slid in behind the wheel before saying in an indignant tone, “
Why?
I could have blamed
her
for what happened with Julian. I mean, why wasn’t she with us on the beach that night? Was she afraid of getting sand in her pretty little open-toed shoes?”

“She’s angry about that night, about the baby she wanted but you had, about the fact that you’ve come through with stem cells that could save his life.” He cupped her face, fingers skimming her ears. “Don’t agonize over this, Charlotte. She’s afraid. She can’t take it out on Julian so she’s taking it out on you.”

“On you,” Charlotte insisted. He was right about everything else.

“Okay, on me, but I have a hard skin.” He started the truck. “I’m hungry.”

*   *   *

The Island Grill was packed. As luck had it, a window table opened minutes after they arrived, adding an ocean backdrop to blue linen, a vase of balsam, and the scent of sizzling steak. Having had steak the day before, Leo ordered swordfish, Charlotte ordered scallops, and they shared—and during the time they ate, no less than three people approached to quietly ask if Julian had gotten his call. All three were longtime family friends, which explained why Nicole kept them in the loop.

None of the three were year-round Quinnies, and still
they
weren’t bothered by Leo, Charlotte observed. He was well dressed, well groomed, and ten times better looking than any other man in the place, which made her wonder if Nicole was plain old envious. There was nothing rakish about Julian. Distinguished, yes. But not exciting.

Leo was exciting. At least, Charlotte thought so, but then, she knew how he could be in private. Here at The Grill he was comfortably reserved. Though he was polite when people approached, he didn’t seem to care if they did. He didn’t look around for familiar faces, didn’t need to see people he knew. He didn’t order the most expensive wine on the list, though he could easily afford it. And while he looked the part of someone comfortably disposed, no outsider would have taken him for a number-one
New York Times
bestselling author, which served him well this night.

Their strawberry-rhubarb crostini was brought to them with two spoons by no less than the owner of the restaurant. Michaela Bray never failed to startle Charlotte. While the food here was unfailingly straightforward, the fifty-something woman had pink streaks in her short, silver hair, exquisitely made-up blue eyes, and a tattoo that crept up the side of her neck. She had only last week returned to Quinnipeague after tending to a sick mother in Sacramento, so Charlotte hadn’t interviewed her yet. They had set a time; she assumed Michaela was delivering their dessert herself to confirm it.

But she pulled up a chair, leaned in close, and murmured, “Don’t both of you look at the same time, but there’s a woman in a red blouse at the back corner table. She’s media.”

Charlotte looked only at Leo, who barely glanced around. Though he showed no outward change, she felt a new tension in the leg that touched hers.

“Why’s she here?” he asked, eyes on Michaela.

“Her parents are renting for a couple of weeks.”

“So she’s not working,” Charlotte said, wanting to define the threat.

“Not officially,” Michaela warned, “but she let everyone know she just finished a piece on Clooney for
People
. When you get ones like that who are full of themselves, you know that if they get whiff of a scoop, vacation or not they’ll grab the nearest camera. No Quinnie will let on who you are,” she told Leo, “and you’re not loud, so she won’t hear it by accident.” She stood, leaning back in for a last, “Just wanted you to know,” before straightening again and saying to Charlotte in a fuller voice, “Friday at ten?”

Charlotte nodded. “I’ll be here.”

The crostini was the restaurant’s signature dessert, but neither of them could appreciate it fully—Leo, because he was working too hard to be nonchalant, and Charlotte, because she was wondering how to help him.

When they were back in the truck, she asked, “Does that happen much—you know, outsiders?”

He backed out of the space, shrugged, and, shifting gear, set off for home.

“Would it be so awful if the outside world knew?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He drove down the neck before leveling off and asking, “Do you?”

“No.”

They continued on past the clam flats. “But if I go public, and readers come here in droves, I’m not the only one who suffers. Tourism is great, but not when it decimates the feel of the place. That’s why Quinnies keep my secret. They’re scared, too.”

Charlotte had a thought. “So you’re deliberately letting it die?” When he shot her a quick look but said nothing, she added, “Not really wanting
Next Book
to happen?” Still he was quiet. “What about the offers you’ve had? You got a privacy clause once. You could do it again.”

“Don’t put money on that,” he warned. “My lawyer says they’re hounding him. He says they want the publicity of a public appearance when the paperback comes out.”

“If they want a second book enough, they’ll agree to whatever you want, and if they don’t, another publisher will.”

“Like I have a second book to sell?” he murmured. “I do want it to happen, Charlotte. I’m just not inspired.”

“What inspired you with
Salt
? That book was so rich. All from Our Lady of Phoenix?”

The epithet made him snicker. “No.”

“Then what?”

“My dreams.” He kept his eyes on the road.

“You didn’t have it with her?” she asked in surprise.

“I thought I did. Looking back now—” He shook his head no. “It was all a dream. With her, with
Salt
. I wouldn’t have chosen that ending, but the rest of it was what I’d always wanted to happen.”

The fact that he didn’t look at her, that he seemed self-conscious, touched her deeply. She thought of the opening line of
Salt
:
Every man wants love, if he can get past the fear of exposure
. Here was exposure.
Salt
might be fiction, but the man behind it was sensitive and complex. And then there was that
looking back now
. If he was saying that Charlotte was the one who had shown him what true love really was, this was huge.

He parked behind the house and helped her out of the truck, but then, seeming lost in thought, wandered off. She followed him into the garden, where the scent of lavender rose above the rest.

Sitting beside him on the dirt, she tucked his hand in the crook of her arm. “You don’t have to hide, Leo. You have so much to be proud of.”

“One thing.”

“More than one. You have depth.”

He studied their fingers, rubbing a long thumb against hers. “I’ve let you in more than anyone else.”

“More than her?” Charlotte asked, needing confirmation of that at least.

“Our Lady of Phoenix?” A wry smile in the dark. “No comparison. I was young. If I’d been a little smarter, I’d have known she wouldn’t stay. The signs were there. She didn’t like Quinnies. She hated Bear. She was allergic to fish.” He smiled sadly. “I never talked to her like this.”

“The conversations in
Salt
were imagined.”

“They were what I wanted a relationship to be.”

We have it,
Charlotte thought, but she knew that he knew.

“I’ve gotten better, haven’t I?” he asked.

“From the uniword guy on the roof?”

His smile was as beautiful a thing in the dark as the crescent moon. “Uniword?”

“Grumpy.
Guarded
. But yeah, you’re better.” She paused, thinking back to those first days, and swept her chin toward the herbs. “So when are you going to let me photograph all this?”

“How about tomorrow?”

She gasped. She had been fully expecting a refusal. “Seriously?”

“The herbs need to be thinned. I’ll have to get supplies at the hardware store so I can pot and deliver.”

“Deliver?”

“To Quinnies who’ll grow them. Now’s the time to divide the plants.”

“You’ll let me use pictures in the cookbook?” She had to be sure she understood.

He nodded.

“For Nicole?”

“For you. Come at dawn. The light’s best then.”

*   *   *

Charlotte was dying to tell Nicole. Forget bragging rights, though she certainly could claim those. This would make Nicole feel better about the cookbook. More important, it would make her feel better about Leo.

Nicole was in fact waiting for her at the kitchen table, her fingers opening and closing around a handful of tiny red leaves. When she spoke, though, her voice was low and filled with fear.

Mark Hammon had called earlier that evening and wanted Julian in Chicago the next day.

*   *   *

In the frenzy of packing, last-minute instructions, and getting Nicole and Julian to the pier, Charlotte pushed everything else aside. Pictures of herbs were petty. This was life and death.

To Nicole’s credit, where Julian was oddly scattered, she held it together. Only after the mail boat sputtered to the dock and he boarded, did Charlotte pull her into a tight hug.

“You are incredible,” she said quietly. When Nicole’s resistance gave way to trembling, she said, “You’re strong. He’ll do fine; you’ll get him through.” Holding her back, she gave her a stare. “Do not argue with me about this. You are
so
doing the right thing. I will always love you for that.”

Nicole’s eyes were awash with uncertainty. She was the one to do the pulling this time, clinging to Charlotte until the mail boat beeped. “You’re the best,” she finally whispered and, drawing back, took a breath. Putting on a confident face, she turned and climbed aboard to join Julian.

Chapter Twenty-six

A
S SHE WATCHED THE BOAT
disappear that Thursday morning, Charlotte wondered what condition Julian would be in when she saw him again. Given the experimental nature of UCB treatment, he could end up anywhere between cure and death. Add to that the testing, waiting, and worrying that she knew would come in Chicago, and she figured her own days would crawl.

That didn’t happen. Leo had put off thinning the herbs for a day, knowing she wouldn’t have had the heart to leave the house that morning, so she began at the top of her to-do list, interviewing a few last Quinnies, collecting late recipes, cross-checking for releases and going after ones that hadn’t yet come in. She still had most of her profiles to write, but she knew she could do that under pressure at the end.

More important first, since Nicole was stressed about it, was reading the rest. Not that it took much effort. Nicole was a good writer. Her style was warm and personal, much as in her blog, and it set a perfect tone for the book. Charlotte found herself smiling as she read, hearing Nicole’s voice with its enthusiasm and pop, all the more remarkable considering the darkness in her life during the writing. She caught a few typos and removed the occasional “like” or “I mean” that interfered with the flow, though she was careful not to change the flavor.

After e-mailing those files to Chicago, she pored over the notes Nicole had left and, emulating her style, which actually turned out to be a hoot, wrote the last few chapter intros from scratch.

And then, yes, came the photos. Leo had been absolutely right about the time. The light of dawn gave a magical glow to the garden. But then, midmorning light was flattering to the taller plants, while noon light more evenly lit the leafier ones. All told, she took hundreds of pictures, both of the garden and of Leo working there. None of the latter would appear in the book; he had made that clear at the start.

“Trust me,” she said at the time. “These are for me.” And they were. After transferring Leo shots to a separate SD card, she spent hours editing the rest.

Once she had sent Nicole enough material to keep her spirits high, she turned to her own work and the southwest of France. She hadn’t thought about the assignment in weeks, but it was suddenly rushing at her. After two nights in Paris, she would be taking the high-speed train to Bordeaux to profile the owners of a small winery. Her editor called to confirm travel arrangements and to share thoughts on the piece, after which Charlotte spent hours at her computer getting background information. She e-mailed a heads-up to her
amie Parisienne,
Michelle, with whom she would be staying at the start and the end of the trip, and since she was heading to Tuscany after that, she touched base with the editor who was paying her for that piece.

All told, she would be gone for three weeks. For the first time in her life, the thought of being so far for so long was unsettling, and she had Leo to blame. More than once as she studied him, with his dark head bowed to computer or phone, his lean legs splayed, his clever hands holding or poised, she heard the clock ticking so loudly that she considered rescheduling her flights and staying on Quinnipeague until after Labor Day.