Sweet Salt Air (11 page)

But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.

When the pavement at the sides of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work at all had been done said the son was the same.

Turn back,
a tiny part of her begged. Nicole was right; they could get plenty on Cecily without coming here. But to see the gardens again, this time with purpose? How to resist?

She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were down for the night, hence no screeching there, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.

There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.

The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.

The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.

Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive. Or so said the lore.

But what was lore, other than imaginative efforts to entertain? Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.

Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, irreverent person that she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.

Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house rose up at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, spraying unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.

Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to gardens left and right where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or flowers or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Unruly curls blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she held them back.

Cecily’s garden. There was power here. She could feel it. But a man on a ladder in the nighttime? That was risky.

Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When he paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.

Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.

Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.

But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.

“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.

His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”

“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”

He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly, given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.

He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.

Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed blows. Then he tried the shutter again.

Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

Her last summers on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it. The islanders always denied that, of course. They didn’t want the feds threatening their cures.

Leo had been nabbed for selling it on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.

Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.

“Want some help?” she called up. Wasn’t this was about risk?

He snorted.

“Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.

“Two hands’ll do.”

Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.

He was staring at her.

“I’ve done this before,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“I have. I’ve built houses.”

“That so.” He didn’t believe her.

“Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados hit in Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”

He continued to stare.

“All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that blew loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”

“Really. I didn’t know that.”

“Okay. So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.

“I’m a man.”

She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Men run hot.”

“Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”

Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he grunted. “Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.

“I’m not lugging that thing up,” she warned.

“No, but if you climb the fuckin’ ladder, I can hold the shutter while you to do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”

“Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.

So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was making sure she didn’t fall.

But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.

She didn’t like being toyed with—and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.

Nearly as quickly, he backed down the ladder. By the time she reached the ground, he was stowing the hammer in a toolbox. The instant she was off the last rung, he reached for the ladder.

“You’re welcome,” Charlotte said.

He shot her a scornful glance.

“I’m Charlotte Evans.”

“I know.” He looked up to reel in the top half of the ladder, which clicked and clanged as it doubled on itself. “You’re doing a cookbook, and you want my mother’s stuff. Forget it.”

He didn’t look like Cecily, she decided. He was too tall, too dark. According to what islanders said, Cecily’s hair had been pure silver from the first day she set foot on Quinnipeague. Charlotte recalled it being long and flowing, the woman herself petite, almost spritelike. “I’m sorry about her death.”

“Her gardens aren’t public.”

“How’d she die?”

When the ladder was fully compressed, he secured the extension and carried the whole thing around the corner. The clink faded into the rolling surf, or into a garage or a shed, though she didn’t hear a door. He was empty-handed when he returned, walking past her to collect an assortment of tools from the ground near where the ladder had been.

Charlotte was thinking he had tuned her out, when he knelt by the toolbox not far from her feet and said, “She got sick.”

Cecily. “With what?” When he didn’t answer, Charlotte said, “She was a healer. Getting sick shouldn’t have been a problem.”

Angling away, he dug into a pocket.

“Did she die at home? Is she buried here?”

After dumping a handful of nails in the toolbox, he stood again, went to the pole that held the floodlight, and turned it off.

The darkness was a shock. But the moon was out now. As her eyes adjusted, she could see the gardens. Oh yes, something grew there, and it wasn’t last year’s crop. This was new growth, full-bodied and fresh. Several of the taller plants had even been staked.

With a rustle, a small, fat creature appeared from a row on the left, crossed the dirt drive, and waddled off down a row on the right. Charlotte might have asked about it if she hadn’t suddenly spotted a deer. It was watching them from the edge of the trees, its pelt a tawny glow in the moonlight.

She took a breath. “How beautiful.”

“You should see her fawn.”

“Where?”

He hitched his chin toward the staked plants. “She leaves it while she goes looking for food.”

“Why go anywhere, when she has a feast right here?”

“Oh, she won’t eat any of this. She knows it’s mine.”

Charlotte looked at him, but if there was humor in his eyes, the night hid it. “Seriously?”

He didn’t smile. “You need to leave. I have work to do.”

“I’ll say,” she dared. “Your window’s cracked, your drainpipes sag, and the shingles on your roof are lifting. Storm shutters are all well and good, but they won’t keep rain from coming in the roof.”

He straightened an arm, pointing back toward the road.

“But this was just getting fun,” she protested.

He stared.

“Tell you what,” she tried.
Aim high, hit high
. “Just say I can come back one day to see the gardens. One day. That’s it. Then I’ll disappear, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Sneakin’ pictures with your iPhone, so the world knows what’s here? No way.” He hitched his chin toward the road. “You’re gratin’ on my nerves. Bear doesn’t like that.”

“Bear?”

“My dog.”

“If you had a dog,” she countered, “it’d have gone after the deer and her fawn and whatever that little fat thing was.”

He snapped his fingers. From behind a bush by the house, a creature emerged that was large, black, and hulking. It plodded forward on huge paws, stopping several yards from Charlotte, and stared at her with what she could only call feral eyes.

She wasn’t afraid of dogs. But she didn’t like them. And this one? Not friendly. “O-kay,” she said lightly and backed away. “I was just being neighborly.”

The dog continued to stare. Its ears were alert, its jowls wet enough to reflect a sliver of moon.

After retreating a few more steps, making her intent clear as she put just that little distance between herself and Bear, she faced forward, chin up, and strode down the drive. She listened closely for the thud of paws or the jingle of a collar, but if the dog followed, it was silent.

She didn’t look back until she was on the safe side of the Cole curve, and then it was only for a quick glance over her shoulder. She wasn’t surprised to see the road deserted. Leo Cole didn’t want her around, but she hadn’t sensed untamed anger. Nor, in spite of the dog, had she sensed danger. Leo just wanted to be left alone.