Sweet Salt Air (51 page)
With the help of his lawyer, Leo had hired an agent who sold the second Chris Mauldin for bigger bucks than he had ever dreamed. He had written it in four brief winter months, and, having proven to himself that he
could,
had signed another contract. The deal specified that Chris Mauldin would neither tour nor do anything else to reveal his identity, and though his publisher fought him on the issue of confidentiality, Leo wasn’t budging. Moreover, he would only meet with his agent or editor in the office of his attorney. Slightly paranoid? Perhaps. But they were hungry enough for his books to agree.
With the advance he received for
Salt
’s successor, he had bought a brownstone in Brooklyn, where they spent much of their work time at catty-cornered desks. Bear was with them, sleeping through the long drive, too old to care about the change in location or even about having to wear a leash. Leo was probably more aware of the leash than Bear was. Tethered to the dog, he ventured farther afield on his own. And then there was the reality of a hospital. Having accepted that Charlotte absolutely would
not
give birth at home, he used tours and birthing classes to mitigate his unease. It helped that Nicole and Julian were doing the same in Philadelphia; Nicole was due three weeks after Charlotte.
And Julian? Eight months after the transplant, he was remarkably well. Though his symptoms had improved, the hospital wouldn’t allow him to operate. He had known that would be so. Still, it was a door that had closed once and for all, and he took it hard. Then alternatives had sprung up. He was on television more than ever, as something of a poster child now for MS, a motivational speaker at events, an advocate for pushing the envelope of medical trials—all of which was great publicity for Nickitotable and her cookbook.
A vibration sounded on Charlotte’s nightstand. Rolling herself over, she put the mug there in exchange for the phone.
“Just wanted to hear your voice,” Nicole said. Pregnancy had left her breathless, which ratcheted up her voice to the pitch it used to be. But she didn’t babble as much. She had grown up that last summer. It wasn’t a bad thing.
Actually, it was a good thing for Charlotte, since they were in touch every day—often multiple times—sharing advice, complaints, fears. And since Charlotte was trying to get ahead on her own assignments, brief calls or texts worked best.
“Feeling okay?” she asked now.
“I do not like this extra weight. But there’s good news,” Nicole said, clearly struggling to contain her excitement. “We’re into a third printing.” The cookbook had come out in time for Mother’s Day, with promotions planned for summer sales. Since those had yet to begin, something was working even without. “They are thrilled. And my editor says, by the way, that heartburn is not necessarily a sign that the baby will have hair, since she had heartburn the whole time and her baby turned out bald.”
Charlotte laughed. “I don’t have heartburn, just hiccups. What does that mean?” She felt the bed move as Leo slid down behind her.
“ADHD?” Nicole ventured.
“I seriously hope not,” Charlotte said, covering Leo’s hands when they covered her baby bump.
“Maybe he’ll be a dancer.”
“For God’s sake, Nicole.”
“A tap dancer.”
“Is that what you want for
your
son?”
“Oh no. If I have a boy, he’ll be an inventor, kind of like his dad, but if I have a girl, she could be a dancer.”
Charlotte only heard part of the last. Leo was nibbling her ear. “Okay, Nicki, I have to run. Talk later.” She hung up, pushed the phone under the pillow, and smiled at the far wall. “What are you up to?”
“Up,” was all he said, though she could certainly feel that. He snaked a hand under her tee—his actually—and stroked her breast. “When’s she coming?”
“Soon,” Charlotte murmured, there so quickly, given his clever fingers and mobile hips.
His breath was warm against her ear, his smile audible, his up larger. “Not you. Nicole.”
“Next week,” she managed, breathing shallowly. Angie was already on Quinnipeague, beside herself in anticipation of
two
births as she opened the house for the season. Tom had come to help, but would be leaving before Nicole arrived. That said, Nicole was starting to come around, with Bob gone now for eighteen … uh, twenty … uh, however many months—Charlotte couldn’t think straight with Leo’s hand between her legs. When his leg raised hers and he entered her from behind, she gasped at the beauty of the fullness. There had always been physical chemistry between them, but add emotional chemistry to it and the pleasure exploded. This was one of the pieces that Charlotte had never had with anyone else.
Though he barely moved, the heat was searing. Ever so slowly, it built and burst, and for a time after that, all she knew was a residual panting at her ear, the rapid rise and fall of his warm, now-damp torso against her back, and fading spasms inside.
When it finally ended, she rolled herself over, cupped his chin, and met the deep blue eyes that she desperately wanted their son to have.
“I hate not looking at you,” she whispered.
“I don’t want anything between us.”
“Not even your own child?”
“Nope, not even him,” Leo said and grinned. He did that a lot now. It wasn’t the mean grin of a guy with a chip on his shoulder and a fear of flying, but the smug one of a happy man.
Lost in it, she couldn’t speak, but could only look at him and feel the love link they shared.
Raising a brow, he made a show of turning his ear her way. “Nothing to say?”
She smiled back, as smug and happy as he was, and simply shook her head.
Acknowledgments
Sweet Salt Air
marks the start of a new phase in my career as I begin work with the talented and energetic team at St. Martin’s Press. There are so many people to thank. Topping the list, though, have to be my editor, Hilary Rubin Teeman, whose in-depth notes reflect the in-depth thoughts that I need, and my publisher, Matthew Shear, who quickly asked me where I want to go and, as quickly, pointed me there. Still, yet again, I thank my agent, Amy Berkower, for her sound advice and unflagging support, both professionally and politically.
Thanks to my assistant, Lucy Davis, for one very special contact above and beyond the rest—to wit, Dr. John Wagner, whom I thank profusely for his dedication to umbilical cord stem cell research. I asked him to share his thoughts of the future with me, and he did. I dreamed that by the time this book was published, treatments such as the one described here would be the norm. They aren’t yet, but we’re getting there.
In that sense, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the estimated 2.1 million people who, at this writing, have multiple sclerosis. You helped me understand the frustration, pain, and fear this disease brings. I wish you all the very, very best as medical breakthroughs approach.
More generally, I thank my readers for their loyalty and patience as they allow me time to write a better book.
Finally, always, I thank my family for its love. I am one very lucky soul. I wake up every morning knowing that.
Also by Barbara Delinsky
Escape
Not My Daughter
While My Sister Sleeps
The Secret Between Us
Family Tree
Flirting With Pete
The Woman Next Door
Coast Road
Three Wishes
For My Daughters
More Than Friends
Visit
www.barbaradelinsky.com
for a complete list of titles.
About the Author
BARBARA DELINSKY
is a
New York Times
bestselling author with more than thirty million copies of her books in print. She has been published in twenty-eight languages worldwide. A lifelong New Englander, Delinsky earned a B.A. in psychology at Tufts University and an M.A. in sociology at Boston College. Delinsky loves knitting, photography, and cats. She lives in Needham, Massachusetts. Visit her on the Web at
www.barbaradelinsky.com/blog/
.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
SWEET SALT AIR.
Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Delinsky. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover design by Michael Storrings
Cover photographs: lavender © Visions Of Our Land/Getty Images; house © Shaun Lowe/Getty Images; sky and beach © Elena/Getty Images
ISBN 978-1-250-00703-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 9781250020383 (e-book)
First Edition: June 2013