Sweet Salt Air (34 page)

“This is every writer’s dream,” Charlotte breathed in awe.

He looked terrified. “Y’think?”

“I do.” She singled out a glitzy header. “This one’s for a feature film. So’s this,” she said, pushing at another. “And these?” She fanned out several more. “These are the best publishing houses in New York.” She looked at him. “Have you called any of them back?”

“No. That’s my lawyer’s job. But he knows I’m not ready to sign another contract, not with my current publisher or any other. I like being in the driver’s seat and working at my own speed. I don’t want to have to finish the next book if I don’t want to. And if they get fed up and lose interest, I can do another e-book myself.”

“What about a movie? You can’t do that yourself.”

“Do I need a movie?”

“No.” Neatening the letters, she closed the folder.

“You think I’m crazy,” he said. With his hair slanting in short, dark spikes, his jaw hard and his lips thin, he looked tough, but the toughness didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes always betrayed his vulnerability, which was what Charlotte saw now. But there was more. She sensed he wasn’t only thinking of his future as a writer. He was thinking of his future with her.

“You’re not crazy,” she said, addressing the first, easier to do than addressing the second. “Anyone who offers this kind of money isn’t going to let you stay anonymous. If you were to take any of these, your life would change.”

He seemed to relax a little.

“And I know what you mean about being in the driver’s seat,” she reasoned. “That’s how my work is, and I love it. I couldn’t have come here this summer without that freedom. I just wish … just wish…”

“What?”

She wished he would give a little, wished he would agree to go to Paris with her or at least visit her in New York. As for the rest, she didn’t care about it any more than he did. Sure, the money was good, but if it wasn’t what he wanted, it wasn’t worth a dime. She loved him the way he was—honest and pure, naïve in his way, certainly vulnerable, all of which might be lost if the world found out who he was, and then where would her haven be?

Leaving the desk, she wrapped her arms around his waist and put her head on his chest. “This is nice,” was all she said, and he seemed content to leave it at that.

*   *   *

Driving home a short time later, she thought of just how nice it was. She liked working with Leo. Distractions and all, she had done some good work. Whether it was the man, his beautiful office, or poor old Bear—who had taken to finding her leg wherever it was and sleeping against it—she was inspired.

*   *   *

Nicole knew it, too, because the interviews Charlotte gave her were top-notch. They captured the spirit of the island in ways Nicole couldn’t have done herself, which—totally aside from Charlotte being her sole cheerleader—justified Nicole having insisted she stay. The rawness of her anger had passed, leaving a nagging hurt, but even that paled in the face of Angie’s needling.

She did her best to regroup after each argument, determined to be more mature and restrained. But with Angie’s departure near, and few mentions made about how sad the house was without Bob, how strong his presence remained, or what to do with his clothes, Nicole was growing suspicious.

Saturday morning, when they were in the kitchen alone and Angie remarked that being here wasn’t so bad, that they should put a hold on packing, that maybe selling the house was a rash idea, Nicole lost it.

“Rash?” she cried. “Mom, you’ve been talking about selling since Dad died. You haven’t had a single doubt, not once. The only thing that’s changed here is Tom.”

Angie drew back. “Was he unpleasant to be around? Did he get in your way? I know you avoided the west wing, but if you’d gone there even once, you’d have seen that Tom and I did not share a room—and if we had, would that be so bad? Would it be so bad if I kept the house and spent time here with someone other than your father? Bob loved having people come.”

“Tom is not people,” Nicole argued.

“Right you are. Tom is special. He’s the one person your father would have trusted with me. Tom knows me. He respects what I had with Bob and lets me talk about him. He would never ask me to give up those memories, any more than I’d ask him to give up his memories of Susan, rest her soul. But this week has been really good. So no, I’m not selling.”

Nicole swallowed hard. If this was Angie’s call, it was done. “It’s your house. You can do what you want.” But there was another side. “I don’t have to be here.”

That caught Angie, who looked suddenly stricken. “You wouldn’t want your children to experience Quinnipeague?”

“I don’t
have
any children!” Nicole shouted, wondering how her own mother could be so insensitive.

“But you will.”

“
When?
My husband is sick. He might die.”

Angie straightened. “So you’ll sit around and wait for that?”

“Mother!”

“I’m serious. Are you counting on his death?”

Nicole took a short breath. “Please don’t say that word.”

“So what’s planned for the fall?” Angie asked with a calm that took nothing from her momentum. “Julian says he has a week of work in California and then something in China in the spring. Are you going, too? There’s great sightseeing in China. Or are you afraid to make plans?” Her face was suddenly harder, the lines over her lip more pronounced. “Life doesn’t follow our orders, Nicole. Things haven’t worked out the way you want, but you have to accept them—”

“I can’t.”

“Accept and move on,” Angie finished.

“Is that what you’re doing, just giving up on everything you had that was good?”

Charlotte appeared at the door and stopped. At the sight of her, Nicole took a deep breath, held up her hands, and started to back off.

But Angie cried, “Oh, no no no, don’t run away. We need to discuss this right now. You are stuck in the past, Nicole. Your father is dead. Nothing can bring him back.”

“I refuse to forget him.”

“Then remember this,” Angie said in a rising voice. “He wasn’t perfect. He never made the bed or did the laundry, not even when I was sick. We would eat in five-star restaurants, with him using their fine linen napkin to blow his nose, though I can’t tell you how many times I asked him not to.” Her voice kept rising. “He never wanted to hear complaints about my day, because my problems were petty compared to the ones he saw. He could be judgmental, and he was impatient. It was fine for
us
to wait for him, but he didn’t like waiting for us. And he
died
on me, Nicole,” she charged as her voice hit a high note. “He left me alone just as we were reaching what should have been the easy years of our lives. There are times when I’m
furious
at him for that.” Winded, she sagged. “Does that mean I didn’t love him? No. I loved him faults and all.”

Nicole wasn’t so angry that she didn’t hear what Angie was saying. She just wasn’t sure where it was headed. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Do you love Julian?”

“Of course I love Julian.”

“Then make it work.” The words hung in the air along with all that Nicole hadn’t said about the state of her marriage. Nicole was trying to decide whether to deny problems or admit to them, when Angie said, “And while we’re talking about your father, here’s one more thing. I lived through dozens of court trials with him, and the one thing he always said was that you had to look at the hand you’re dealt and be creative. That’s how he won cases. Look at the hand you’re dealt, Nicole, and be creative. Make your own reality!”

*   *   *

Nicole couldn’t be creative with so much else going on in her mind. One step at a time. That was all she could handle, which was why she did laundry, made lunch, made marginal peace with Kaylin as the girl packed, and, at the appointed time Saturday afternoon, drove the trio to the ferry. She was pleasant enough saying good-bye to Tom, and felt true emotion saying good-bye to Kaylin.

How to deal with her mother? She had wanted to tell Angie about Julian’s illness for so long, yet now that she had, she was as bottled up as before.

Seeming to sense it, Angie let the others board first, then took Nicole’s hands. Her voice was gentle, her neatly made-up eyes sad. “I can’t know everything that’s going on with you,” she said. “I shouldn’t. You’re a grown woman. But you always used to be tolerant. I don’t see that now. Honey, life isn’t black or white. There isn’t only one picture that’s perfect. It’s about piecing together shades of gray to make something quite stunning. And the picture shifts. That’s another Dad-ism. Remember his sea shadows? Each time the shadow moves, there’s a new image. Only sometimes those clouds are stuck up there, so we’re the ones who have to move to see it.”

*   *   *

At some point during the night, Nicole moved. Come dawn, she saw a different picture. Angie was right; she was a grown woman. She would never act on the say-so of her mother, though the phrase that stuck in her mind came from her.
Make your own reality.

And with that came the conviction that she had to go home.

*   *   *

Charlotte drove her to the ferry. “Are you sure I can’t come?” she asked as she lifted the Rollaboard from the back.

That scenario was actually one of many Nicole had considered during the night. But what had happened before her marriage was something that she and her husband had to work out. Same with their future. “I need to do this myself.”

“If you want me to talk with him, I’ll be here.”

“What I really want,” Nicole said, “is for you to keep at the book. I’m freaking out about that. The timing of all this couldn’t be worse. I’ve done the menu planning, and if I’m not back right away, you have my notes on the rest.” She had added more during breakfast. “Will you keep things going?”

“Absolutely,” Charlotte said, looking her most earnest. “I’ll do anything, Nicki. Name it, and it’s yours. I’ll even blog for you.”

Feeling sad, Nicole smiled. “And take away the one thing I do well?” She gave Charlotte a spontaneous hug, only afterward realizing that she probably shouldn’t have. But it was done, certainly the tolerant thing to do. Her mother would have been pleased. Forgiveness? She wasn’t quite there yet. She had to hear Julian’s side of the story. For now, though, that hug had filled a void.

“Don’t underestimate yourself!” Charlotte called when Nicole was at the top of the platform. Moments later, with the rumble of its engine, the ferry cast off, and she was on her way.

Chapter Twenty-two

H
AVING MADE THE DECISION TO
return to Philadelphia, Nicole was impatient. Unable to find a taxi in Rockland, though, she had to wait for the shuttle bus, then wait again at the Portland Jetport for her flight. She didn’t land in Philly until early evening, but even in all that time, she didn’t change her mind. The only qualm she had as her cab neared the condo was whether Julian would be alone. She hadn’t called to say she was coming. There was nothing she wanted to say on the phone.

She felt a headache coming on, but willed it away and produced a smile for the doorman, who took her bag from the trunk and wheeled it inside.

“Good to see you, Mrs. Carlysle. Would you like help taking this up?”

“No, thanks, John,” she said, reaching for the handle as she entered the elevator. “It’s light enough.” The only things she had brought were ones she didn’t have doubles of, like makeup and a favorite outfit or two, though generally she wore different clothes here. She didn’t know how long she’d be staying. That depended on what she found.

John pressed the button for the eighteenth floor and, seeming unaware of Julian’s illness, gave her his usual smile as the door closed. By the time it reopened, she had her keys in her hand.

Quietly, she let herself into their place. Julian’s wallet and keys were on the nearby credenza, but there were no signs that anyone was with him—no handbag, no shoes or discarded clothing. Part of the reason she had come without warning was to check, and though she hated herself for the suspicion, it was one of the things they had to deal with.

He wasn’t in the living room. Nor was there sound from elsewhere—no television, no music, no shuffle of feet in the kitchen. Guessing that he was working, she set her shoulder bag on the carpet by the suitcase and went down the hall, but the study was empty.

When she turned from there, though, she saw him. He stood at the bedroom door, wearing khakis and loafers, but that was where normalcy ended. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair messy and his skin sallow. Most uncharacteristic, though, was the fear in his eyes.

Because he wasn’t alone in the bedroom?

No. She knew in the instant that he was
profoundly
alone, his eyes tearing up now—her husband, whom she loved with the kind of irrationality that kept love alive even when anger should kill it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, that quickly becoming the deferential Nicole who had been told not to come. “I can’t leave you alone. I have to be here.”

She approached, but he was reaching for her even before she arrived, pulling her close and holding her to him with a strength she wouldn’t have imagined he had from the looks of the rest of him.

“You came,” he murmured, his voice shaky in her hair. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You didn’t ask me to come,” she said in surprise, pulling back. The fear remained in his eyes.

“You sounded so distant. I thought you wanted out.”

“I thought you did.”

“I’m not good at talking about some things,” he said, but before she could tell him that had to change, he ducked his head and caught her lips in a kiss that, yes, held fear and relief, but also the warmth of the good times. When it was done, he held her close for a while, right there in the doorway, and she didn’t complain. When he kissed her again and she felt his arousal for the first time in months, her own excitement grew.

Nothing mattered then—not Charlotte, not the stem cells, not even a tremor in the hand that searched and uncovered. She gave him what he wanted, but the hunger was mutual—and if there was a subconscious anger in her greed, it became desire. She was forward in ways she had never been, reacquainting herself with his skin and his scent, taking the lead when his arms tired, refusing to let him rest until they were both sated.