Sweet Salt Air (28 page)

“No. I told them I didn’t know who the father was.”

“Did you keep anything of hers—a hat or blanket?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Only the stem cells. You have to tell Julian about them, Nicole. That’s the whole point of this hell.”

But Nicole had risen. “I need to shower. I feel dirty. Try to interview Rose Mayes. Her cole slaw can fit in a couple of different places. Get the recipe while you’re there. And check out the ingredients. Let’s see what your precious Leo Cole does this time.”

“Leo didn’t—”

“Meet me here at six. We’ll get to the barbecue when it’s in full swing.”

Chapter Seventeen

C
HARLOTTE DROVE TO THE
M
AYES
house, but there were so many children and grandchildren underfoot that Rose, who was a strikingly energetic seventy-five and totally apologetic, couldn’t talk. She was, however, in the process of making her slaw, so Charlotte was able to copy the recipe while it lay on the kitchen table. She watched closely as Rose mixed the dressing—all the while wondering whether she was one of those who might have feared Cecily enough to be secretive. If so, someone had assured her that sharing was fine, because she specifically said that the mustard seed she used was a descendent of Cecily’s plants, and the rest of her ingredients were organic and fresh.

Wanting to validate Leo, Charlotte returned to the house, only to find it empty. Nicole’s laptop was gone as well, likely taken to a place where she could work without seeing Charlotte. And though Charlotte felt the sting of that, a small part of her was relieved. They would go together to the barbecue. That would be bad enough.

Making herself a ham sandwich, she unearthed her copy of
Salt
from under the sofa cushion and took it out to deck. This time around, reading the book was a different experience. For one thing, since she knew the ending, the worry was gone. For another, knowing the author, she read it thinking about the prose, the vocabulary, and the plot in terms of Leo’s life. Several times, she stopped to reconcile a remark or event with what she knew of him. More often than not, though, it raised more questions.

Even forewarned, she cried at the end. The characters were so well drawn that she felt what they felt, and their parting hurt. No doubt, given the turn her own life had taken in the last twenty-four hours, she was hypersensitive. But
Salt
had become personal.

She cried herself to sleep right there on the lounge chair, awoke late in the afternoon to find that the wind was blowing in, that she had no Leo to warm her, and that either the glass slider had blown shut—an unlikely prospect—or Nicole had returned. Fearing she was locked out again, she quickly tried the door, but it opened easily.

Nicole had her laptop open on the kitchen table. Charlotte might have asked how she was, if she hadn’t been typing steadily, clearly ignoring her. Nor did she want to talk during the drive to town. When Charlotte complimented her on her blouse, which was red and sleeveless with touches of lace, she simply nodded. Same when Charlotte asked if she’d written another blog.

The silence was so uncharacteristic—so telling and sad—that Charlotte might have cried again. And once they parked and walked together to join the crowds on the field beside the church, Nicole spotted friends and, with a superficial smile for Charlotte, smoothly moved off.

Wisely, Charlotte had her camera. On the chance that Nicole would want to include pictures of island events in the book, she photographed everything in sight. Huge grills lined the sides of the field, serving up hot dogs, hamburgers, and grilled chicken. Long tables, covered with the requisite red-and-white oilskins, held platters of buns, baskets of chips, and condiments of every kind. More interesting, Charlotte thought, was the lineup of sides for which recipes would be printed. There were pasta salads and vegetable salads. Mayes slaw was only one of several slaws. And there were bean casseroles, with meat and without.

Charlotte photographed them all. She photographed groups sitting on quilts that were strewn across the field, and others getting refills of soda and beer. She photographed squealing children playing tag.

In time, the light got too low for pictures. She was debating getting something to eat herself, looking back over the crowd to see which group she might join, when she spotted Leo. Wearing a muted plaid shirt and jeans, he sat alone on a split-rail fence at the far end of the field. Overhanging trees might have hidden him in the lengthening shadows if he hadn’t already been in the back of her mind. His feet were on the bottom rail, his legs splayed, elbows on knees.

Taking her first deep breath since leaving his house that morning, she decided that he hadn’t eaten, either. Loading a plate with enough goodies for two, she crossed the field. After setting the plate on the flat of a post, she went between his legs and looped her arms over his shoulders.

His smile was small, but so sweet that it took her breath. He kissed her softly. When he drew back, she mirrored the smile. “You came,” she said.

“I don’t usually.”

She had figured that. Even here, he was solitary. “Why now?”

“I wanted to see you.”

A warmth spread inside, clogging her throat so that she couldn’t reply.

His smile faded. “How’d it go?”

Her confrontation with Nicole. For those few seconds, she’d actually forgotten. Finding her voice now, she said, “It went.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“Very.”

“If she doesn’t want you under her roof, you can stay with me.”

Charlotte might have loved that, but she had vowed not to run away. “Her mother is coming. I want to be there to help.”

“Is her mother trouble?”

“Could be. She doesn’t know about Julian and me, but she will. There’s no way Nicole will be able to hold it in.” Retrieving the plate, she settled beside him on the fence and shot him a wry look. “Keep that invitation open, though. I may need it.”

He took the hamburger she offered. After several big bites, he asked, “Have you thought about the other?”

“What other?” Charlotte asked back.

He was self-conscious. “My writing the book.”

She chewed and swallowed, then said, “I finished it this afternoon. It’s brilliant.”

“Not the book. Have you thought about me as the writer.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Because it’s too complicated?”

She nodded. “I need simplicity right now. And friendship.”

And sex,
his dark eyes said.
A given,
hers replied. She could feel it even then, as they sat thigh to thigh on the fence. His hair looked like it had been combed before the wind had fingered through, and the lines of his nose, cheeks, and jaw were marked. He wasn’t attractive in the classical sense, though something about him screamed
man
. At least, it did to her.

He glanced at the crowds on the field as he finished off his burger. “People are looking, y’know.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t mobbing you.”

“They know I’d leave if they did.” He took a handful of chips. “Being with me could ruin your reputation.”

She laughed. “Sorry, but my reputation is long gone.”

They didn’t talk again until every chip, every bean, every bit of salad on the plate was devoured. He handed her his beer to wash it down, then said, “She’s headin’ our way.”

Charlotte choked on a gulp and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nicole?” she whispered. He nodded. “Does she look angry?” When he shook his head, she looked around.

To the unknowing eye, Nicole looked on top of the world. Her blond hair swung comfortably at her jaw, the red blouse was chic, her white slacks snug. Even in the hovering dusk, she glowed. No one but Charlotte would see the faint smudges under her eyes as anything other than the style. Nor would anyone but Charlotte see past the stunning green of those eyes to their bite.

They were on Leo. “Charlotte tells me you’re Chris Mauldin,” she said civilly enough.

Leo gave a faint shrug.

“
Salt,
huh?” she went on. “Where’d you get the name?”

“Sea salt. Sailor. Tears.” Nothing was new here. He had given similar answers in numerous online forums.

“No,” Nicole said. “Where’d you get the name Chris Mauldin?”

“The phone book.”

“You said it was real in one of the posts.”

“It is. Just not mine.”

“Was it the Quinnipeague phone book?”

She would check it out, Charlotte knew.

But Leo muddied the waters of that plan. “The library has phone books from all over Maine. It was a random choice. I don’t remember what town.”

Nicole gave the kind of soft
hmph
that could have shown either admiration or frustration, if her follow-up hadn’t been telling. “I hear it’s being made into a movie.”

Charlotte hadn’t heard that.

Nor, apparently, had Leo. “Not that I know of,” he said.

“It should be,” she stated. “I mean, how can you resist a love story like that? Arizona and Maine—they come from such different places.”

“Actually,” Leo corrected politely, “she’s from Texas.”

Charlotte knew that Nicole knew exactly where the heroine was from. She was testing Leo, and none too subtly.

“And her mother?” she asked, pushing further. “That’s a tough one. There’s no way she could disregard the feelings of
that
woman.”

“Nicole,” Charlotte chided softly.

Leo was more blunt. “You and I both know her mother was dead.” His voice held an edge. “You don’t have to believe me. I’m fine with that.”

“You have to admit, it’s a pretty preposterous story.”

“So’s yours,” he said.

Here was the unpolished Leo, Charlotte realized, charging when charged, and it didn’t bother her. She rather liked that he said what he felt, and that she could choke on her beer and not be ridiculed.

But Nicole was startled and that quickly brought her back to being the woman whose life had suffered a series of shocks. “I couldn’t dream mine up.”

“Nor me mine.” When she had no comeback, he said, “Let’s call it a draw.”

She didn’t answer. Seeming wounded, she turned to Charlotte. “Can he drop you home? The Matthews invited me over for coffee after the fireworks.”

“I can do that,” Leo said before Charlotte could ask.

“Great,” Nicole said to no one in particular and, turning, walked away.

Charlotte slid off the fence and ran after her. “Are you okay?” she asked, catching her arm.

Nicole stopped and stared at her. “He’s despicable. My story preposterous? Like I could have made it up? Like I was responsible for
any
of it?”

“You attacked him. He lashed back. His skin isn’t very hard.”

“And that’s the kind of guy you like?” Pulling her arm free, she set off again.

Charlotte watched her for a minute, hurting for her but unable to help. She could help Leo, though. Returning, she settled in between his knees. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Don’t be. It could have been worse.”

“She’s feeling humiliated.”

“Because her husband was with you before they were married?”

“Because she didn’t know, and because now
you
know.”

“Did I mention it?” he asked with a last bit of defensiveness.

She slid her arms around his waist. “No. She just feels exposed.”

He snorted. “I know
that
feeling.”

Charlotte studied his face. The light had faded enough to make its lines more stark, reminding her of those first nights at his house. Recalling how little she had known of him then, she realized how much there still was to learn.

“Who was she?” she asked gently. When Leo seemed reluctant to answer, she said, “
Salt
had to be partly autobiographical.”

His eyes fell to the place where their bodies met, middle to middle, though there was nothing sexual in it.

“Was she from Texas?” Charlotte asked to get him started.

“Arizona,” he said. “Ironic?” That was how Nicole had tried to trip him up. “She was here for the summer.”

“A regular?”

His head moved no. “She came with her family. First and last time.”

“When was this?” Charlotte asked, and, moments later, felt his surrender.

He met her eyes. “I was back here two years. I was living in town, doing construction or renovation or handiwork—whatever. Her father was a real estate developer. He was successful—y’know, headed an empire. He bought the house that April and wanted to do it over. I was doing a lot of the work.”

In
Salt,
the father was an investment banker and his daughter a partner in the firm, but the house in that version needed work, too.

“We met. We clicked. We had an affair.”

“What was she like?”

“Physically? Like Nicole. Fragile-looking. She was sweet. She wasn’t the kind of person you’d picture in finance. She wasn’t tough.” He paused. “Her daddy was tough enough for two.”

“What about her mom? She wasn’t dead, was she?” He would have changed that kind of detail.

“She might as well have been. She was a ditz. That’s probably the only way she could avoid her husband’s iron hand—y’know, zone out. She didn’t know what to do with herself up here other than sit in the sun and burn to a crisp. Two brothers came and went, but when push came to shove, it was just the dad and his little girl.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“She wasn’t a little girl.”

Leo seemed puzzled. “Her father accepted that on some level. He didn’t freak out when she met me at night. He didn’t even freak out when she told him she loved me. Marrying me, having my kids, that was different.”

“Did she say she would?”

“To me? Many times. She hated her life. She hated the pressure and the expectations. She hated the fact that her father favored her over her brothers. She said she could set up a little office in town and still work for the firm. She thought it’d be easier if she wasn’t under his thumb. I was her escape.”

“So she said?”

“Oh, she meant it.” His eyes held hers. “But Quinnipeague isn’t the real world. Leave here, and the best of intentions fall apart.” Slipping a hand under her hair, he cupped her nape. He might as well have flashed his message in neon lights.