Sweet Salt Air (39 page)

“Hey,” he whispered, lowering to his haunches. His hand slipped to her nape, stroking gently, but he let her cry.

In time, she took a ragged breath and, wiping her face, raised her head. “Oh God,” she whispered, embarrassed. “Where did that come from?”

He didn’t answer, simply sank down, folded his legs, and faced her.

“He wants the stem cells, so I made the call,” she said, looking anywhere but at him. “I should feel pleased that I was able to help. Or relieved that it’s done.” Her eyes filled again, her voice high and broken. “So why do I feel so … nothing?”

“Empty.”

She pushed her fingers against her eyes. “Yes.”

“They were yours all this time, Charlotte. Now they’re gone.”

“But it was just blood, frozen away in some anonymous repository.”

“It was a link.”

“I gave her up. I’ve been just fine without her.”

“It was a link,” he repeated quietly.

Chin in her hands, fingers spread over her face, she admitted a soft, “Yes.” And now the link was gone. “But that isn’t why I kept them—” She caught herself. “Or maybe it was and I didn’t know it? Why else would I be upset now?”

Unfolding his legs, he turned her and pulled her close. With her back to his front, he cinched her in with his arms, but the quiet of that only lasted until she looped her fingers around his wrists.

“Jeez,”
he breathed in horror, “what in the hell happened to your hands!”

She straightened them, only then seeing the scrapes. Some were a superficial white, some more pink, others outright crusted with blood. “I had to hike to get here. It was either that or swim.”

“You couldn’t
drive
?”

“And spoil my dramatic departure from the house?” she asked, self-mocking. “Absolutely not.”

“Let’s get those cleaned,” he said, but when he started to stand, she clamped her arms on his to prevent it.

“Let’s sit here. Just a couple more minutes, okay?”

*   *   *

After a healthy disinfecting with sage soap and a cup of passionflower tea sipped for calm, Leo dropped her back at the house. Nicole was at the kitchen table with her laptop, eyes on the door in anticipation when she came through, but she didn’t speak, for which Charlotte was grateful. The cells were gone. Nothing Nicole said could bring them back.

Determined to move on, Charlotte asked, “Are you blogging?”

“Just finished. There was an interesting piece in today’s
Wall Street Journal
comparing farm-raised and wild salmon. Readers always wonder. So I talked a little about PCBs. I mean, we don’t know exactly how harmful they are, but they’re definitely there in farm-raised fish. Right now, I’m writing the introduction to the chapter on
FISH
.”

Charlotte heard nervousness in the chatter. But if the talk was of fish, she could bear it.

“No PCBs here, it’s pure sea-to-table,” Nicole went on, “but I want to change the name to
SEAFOOD
. A lot of people think of
FISH
as white fish or fish with a soft skin as opposed to
SHELLFISH
, like lobster and scallops. But I don’t want two separate chapters.
SEAFOOD
covers it all, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

She frowned, thoughtful. “That’s actually a good idea for a blog—fish versus shellfish, what each includes and why. Cookbooks sometimes confuse the two, but they really are different.”

She babbled on, definitely nervous energy, Charlotte realized. She would be second-guessing the stem cell route, wondering if these weeks would be the best she’d ever have with Julian again and whether he would be functional after this treatment was done.

Had Charlotte been the frenzied type, she might have babbled, too, though not about fear for Julian’s health, and not about losing the cells. She understood herself more now, and while she hadn’t expected to feel buyer’s remorse, it was what it was. Leo had said it; those cells were a link. Gone now, she had to let go.

Her own nervous energy was quieter, and it had less to do with UCB cells than with time. She was leaving in four weeks. The comfort Leo had given her just now was sweet, so sweet, and perfect for her. She would never find it in another man. She had been around long enough to know that. But it was the same old same old. He wouldn’t leave and she couldn’t stay. What to do?

“Hel-lo?” Nicole called softly.

Charlotte blinked. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said we need to brainstorm. I am freaking out about what we have left to do in a very short period of time, and the only way I can see us getting through is to make lists and assign dates and put everything on a schedule. They want a completed draft by August fifteenth, but I don’t even think I’ll be here then. Can we redo the schedule to speed things up?”

*   *   *

We just spent two hours with a calendar,
Charlotte e-mailed Leo later that afternoon, while she was organizing the interviews on her laptop.
Made an accelerated outline for the rest of the cookbook. She printed out four copies of the schedule—one for each of us to keep in clear sight, one for the note board in the kitchen, one for her purse. Nicole likes organization.

Too much?
he wrote back.

Maybe, but who am I to judge? I slipped through Yale on the seat of my pants, while she graduated magna from Middlebury, so clearly this works for her.

I didn’t graduate from college. I didn’t even go.

And look at you now,
Charlotte replied, knowing he was testing her to see if she cared.
You’re more successful than any of us.

That was beginner’s luck. I’m writing squat today.

Because you were busy playing shrink. Thank you, Leo. You helped.

Anytime, Charlotte. Another session tonight?

Charlotte wanted to be good. That meant trying her best to be attentive to Nicole, perhaps out of guilt for still feeling annoyed, more likely because the cookbook was her project, too.

That said, the time issue loomed.
Be there at nine,
she e-mailed.

Late dinner?

I’d like that.

*   *   *

Leo knew how to cook. His offerings were simple, like the strip steak he grilled that night, but he had a wicked way with herbs. Not that she was surprised, given his background. Still, the sight of his lean, long fingers expertly wielding a chopping knife in his new, relatively sleek, definitely state-of-the-art kitchen was such a contrast from dirt-crusted ones wielding a hammer, callused ones hauling up sails, and literary ones typing a book, that she found herself watching him in awe. Barefoot, he wore jeans and an open-neck shirt. When she found herself imagining how well he would fit into her Brooklyn neighborhood, she determinedly dragged herself back to the reality of the moment—which was tarragon butter, freshly drawn and dribbled over the steak, served with a salad that contained chives, basil, and a slew of other herbs she couldn’t name.

“You know parsley,” he said and pointed in turn at dill, marjoram, and arugula.

“Arugula? Huh. With these others, it looks like an herb.”

“It is an herb.”

“I thought it was a lettuce?”

Midnight-blue eyes were indulgent as he shook his head.

“Do you grow it in your garden?”

Amused, he nodded.

She took another taste of the salad. The dressing was a simple blend of olive oil and lemon juice that she had watched him squeeze. He had added fresh-ground pepper, but no salt. The salad didn’t miss it. “Can I have this recipe for our book?”

He shook his head no.

“Even if I keep it anonymous?”

Another headshake. “You’ll get other recipes like it. Herbs are a Quinnie thing.”

*   *   *

You were right about that, too,
Charlotte texted from town the next morning.
I just interviewed Carrie Samuels, and she gave me three different herb salad recipes.

Three?
he typed back.

Parsley, mixed herbs, and fennel.

Fennel. Good one. Why were you interviewing Carrie?

Age. And family. She’s younger than me but with six siblings and four times that in aunts, uncles, and cousins, she has very deep roots. I envy that.

You envy roots?

Yeah. I don’t have any.

Roots can be shackles.

Her thumbs hovered. Shackles were a negative, right? Was he complaining? If he wanted to cut roots and wander afield, she could help.

But he typed before she could reply,
I have plenty to share. Want some?

She sighed.
You’re the root guy, I’m the wanderlust girl. Is there a way to graft the two?
She sent the question, then, fearing a discussion that texting couldn’t handle or, worse, an argument, quickly typed,
What’s with fennel? Carrie gave me a quart of fennel soup for Julian. She says it’s medicinal.

It is,
he replied,
but not for MS. Ask about her mother’s pregnancies.

Carrie’s mother’s pregnancies. That had not come up during the interview, but she figured if he had mentioned it, it was something to add. Climbing from the Wrangler, she ran back to the small cottage where Carrie lived with her husband and three kids, knocked on the door, and smiled apologetically. “One last question?”

*   *   *

Back in the Jeep a short time later, she typed,
Constant morning sickness, for which only fennel helped, and with seven babies in twelve years, she lived and breathed the stuff. Carrie wanted to know how I knew to ask, and while I was trying to think up an answer, she said she knew it was you. Is there something I don’t know, Leo Cole?

I used to deliver fennel to her mom. Carrie followed me around.

Puppy love?

(Snort.)

Well,
Charlotte wrote,
I didn’t confirm or deny that you were my source, so your virtue is safe.

Thank you, Charlotte.

Thank you for the tip, Leo.

*   *   *

That afternoon Charlotte was pro-active.
I’m off to interview Mary Ellen Holloway,
she e-mailed before closing her laptop
. Anything special I should ask?

The zucchini lady? I thought you were doing salads today.

Nicole says we have too much to do to limit ourselves.

What about the schedule?

She revised it again. So while she does a blanket sweep for recipes, I’m interviewing whoever commits to a time. She set up matching files on our computers for sorting. Zucchini is both a side and a snack. I’ve never had zucchini chips like Quinnie ones. (Sigh.) Why aren’t you working????

Because I’m e-mailing you.

That won’t pay the bills.

Neither will
Next Book.
I told you. It sucks.

When can I read it?

When it starts getting better. (Sigh.) Ask Mary Ellen about blossoms.

Blossoms?

Zucchini blossoms. She fries them.

*   *   *

OMG,
Charlotte texted when, after two hours with Mary Ellen, she returned to the Wrangler.
ZBs are AMAZING. She just fried up a batch. Why didn’t I know about them?

Because she doesn’t make them for island events. Didn’t Nicole know?

She must not have, since she didn’t have them on our list. Mary Ellen sent me home with what we didn’t eat just now, plus zucchini bread for Julian. She knew all about him, BTW.

Quinnies talk. Are you coming over tonight?

Nicole wants to work. But I told her I’d be gone for the night tomorrow. Are you free?

*   *   *

They spent Saturday night grilling fat hot dogs on sticks over a fire on the beach, and, undressing only enough, made love on the sand in the embers’ warmth. Taking refuge in his bed from the cool of the night, she fell asleep in his arms while he read Grisham’s latest. His body heat held her close until the arrival of Sunday’s sun, and when she awoke to his hands on her body, she was ready again.

“How do you do that?” she breathed after an orgasm that was stronger, deeper, more mind-blowing than any other.

His heart was thudding under her cheek. “Do what?” he asked hoarsely.

“Make me feel so much.”

He didn’t answer at first, simply stretched a hair-spattered leg between hers. Gradually, his pulse steadied. “Do I?”

She tipped her head back. Her fingers had left his damp hair a mess of dark spikes. The lines of his face were softer, but the midnight blue of his eyes was dark, and not with passion, she realized. She saw worry.

“What?” she asked softly. She wanted him to say it—say that he loved her and that she should stay. They weren’t texting. They were together and naked. They could discuss this now.

But he simply drew her closer, kissed the top of her head, and held her until it was time to bring her breakfast in bed.

*   *   *

Charlotte spent Monday with Eleanor Bailey, owner of a must-have recipe for mini crab cakes as well as the biggest Quinnie heart. If there had been a formal hospitality committee on Quinnipeague, Eleanor would have chaired it. Since this was the crux of Charlotte’s profile, they drove the island roads together, stopping to visit shut-ins, deliver groceries to others unable to get to the store, even prepare lunch for the four young children of a woman whose preemie baby was taking huge chunks of her time.

Eleanor was storing the leftovers from lunch in the fridge, when Charlotte’s phone pinged.

S’up?
he wrote.

I’m at the Blodgetts’ with Eleanor. Too noisy to think. I’ll get back to you.
An hour later, she typed,
What a zoo.

Lotsa little creatures?

Oh, yeah. S’up with you?