Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  Nicole was suddenly on her knees, reaching across the table to straighten the thick candle that stood in an even thicker glass pillar. When she was done, she settled back on the rug. “Your parents died too young.”

  Charlotte had freed up her hair when they came inside; now she gathered the mass in a single hand and pulled it away, needing clarity against the clutter of her parents’ memory. Their lives had been an ongoing orgy of self-absorption and excess. She was a freshman at Yale when they died in a fiery car crash that they might have survived, had one or the other been less stoned.

  She took a sip of wine, briefly reflecting on what might have been if they had lived longer. The reflection held little optimism. And she was a realist. “They were never role models, Nicki. I try to romanticize them sometimes—y’know, their being gone and all—but I keep coming back to the mess of their lives. They were married three times, including twice to each other, and in between there were affairs and divorces and bankruptcies. They could act a part, like that of respectable renters of the house beside yours in Baltimore, but it was superficial. I was thinking about this while I was driving up today. When my parents met yours, they had just been kicked out of their apartment in Virginia, which, of course, the rental agent didn’t know because back then, there was no quick way to do background checks, and she had a high-end house that needed a short-term renter, and—voilà—in walked my folks. Your parents saw through them, but they kept up the charade. Why did they do that?”

  “You.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. They loved our being together. They loved that you looked up to them. They saw your potential. Besides, your parents did great barbecue. I remember those ribs.”

  “Likely lifted from the gourmet section of the supermarket,” Charlotte muttered. She was uncomfortable with praise. It put a spotlight on the guilt she was trying so hard to suppress.

  “You’re too harsh.”

  Releasing her hair, she let go of the turmoil of her parents’ lives. “I guess. And even if they did steal the ribs, I met you in the deal, so it wasn’t a horrible thing.” She and Nicole had hit it off from the start, becoming inseparable during the year they were neighbors. After Charlotte moved away, there were overnights, though always at Nicole’s house, and, of course, there were summers on Quinnipeague. “My parents would have been at a loss to find something for me to do. Your parents were a windfall when it came to that.”

  “But it worked both ways. My parents got me a sister at a time when my mom was still having miscarriages. I think your being here helped her accept that I would survive without a sibling. Besides, they trusted you more than they trusted some of the island girls.” Eyes wide, she clamped her mouth shut against a smile that escaped anyway. “Remember Crystal? And Brandy?”

  Charlotte laughed. “Bizarre Brandy. To this day, I’ve never seen so many piercings. What’s she up to now?”

  “She’s a hairdresser on the mainland. Crystal’s still here. She married Aaron Deegan, who lobsters with his dad. They have five kids.”

  “Five? Whoa. And Beth Malcolm? She was smart. I was always afraid you two would be friends, so you wouldn’t need me here.”

  “Are you kidding? I was too shy to do much with her. I didn’t mix with locals until you showed up. You were bolder than I was. You got me out. My parents loved that.”

  “Beth was a reader, too,” Charlotte recalled, then thought. “What are you reading right now?”

  “Salt. It’s about—”

  “Maine!” she broke in, delighted. “So am I! It was on sale at JFK when I flew in from Australia, and when I saw the island on the cover, how could I not buy it?”

  “It’s not our island—”

  “No, but you can feel it, smell it, almost taste it. Are you loving it?”

  Nicole grinned. “Loving it. Loving the setting, the characters, the magic.”

  Charlotte dittoed each point, which on one hand wasn’t surprising. She and Nicole had always liked the same books. They used to spend hours on the beach, passing them back and forth while the surf pounded the shore.

  On the other hand, ten years had passed. While Charlotte was building houses in post-earthquake San Salvador or post-tornado La Plata, Nicole had been decorating a plush Philadelphia home. While Charlotte was in remote towns writing about doctors, farmers, and artists, Nicole had been in Center City blogging about food. Granted, Salt was on every bestseller list. But that they would both be reading it right now was evidence of ways in which they were still the same.

  “At first I thought the author was a woman,” Nicole offered. “Chris Mauldin—it could go either way. There’s no photo, and the bio is vague.”

  Charlotte had wondered it, too. The sex was powerful but exquisitely tender. She didn’t know guys who made love that way—which was probably part of the wide appeal of the book. Chris Mauldin was serving up dream stuff to an audience that craved it. At least, Charlotte did. She wasn’t sure about Nicole and certainly couldn’t ask. “Well, if he was trying to hide being male, he’s given up. I googled the name, and a ‘he’ came right up. Does anyone know his real identity?”

  “Not on the forums. I swear that’s part of the phenomenon. Think about it. He’s self-published—”

  “Only in e,” Charlotte cautioned, sucking cornbread crumbs from her finger. “My hardcover copy has a big-time logo.”

  “Right, but Salt was an e-bestseller for weeks and weeks before he sold the print rights. Can you imagine his marketing genius? He knows how to work the Web and does it in total anonymity from wherever.”

  “Anonymity is part of what makes the success of the book such a phenomenon. It’s the big tease. Here’s this mystery guy serving up our dream, and we don’t know who he is, where he lives, or what he looks like.”

  “Like it matters who he is?” Nicole asked. “He had me hooked on page one. I mean, what a great first line. Every man wants love, if he can get past the fear of exposure. We like him because he’s honest. At least, I do.” Scrambling up, she added a log to the fire. “I like him because he’s willing to put himself out there and be vulnerable and maybe end up being hurt. Let me tell you, though, I would never hurt this man. I’d buy anything he writes—and I say that though I’m only halfway through Salt.”

  Charlotte wasn’t even that far. “Is he working on a second book?”

  “I hope so, but he’s being vague about that, too. One thing’s for sure. He’s blown away the competition. I’d love to do that with a book.” She jumped up. “Stay. I’m getting dessert.” She was off.

  “Where am I supposed to put dessert?” Charlotte called after her. Nicole hadn’t finished the fiddleheads or clams, but she was up and down, wearing off what little she’d eaten.

  “You’ll find room,” came the voice from the kitchen, along with the open-and-shut of the refrigerator door. “I cannot have a guest here for take-in without adding something of myself to the meal.” She returned with snifters of small, wild strawberries. “These are the first of the season. I picked them this morning.”

  “On the roadside?” Charlotte asked, tickled by a dozen memories. Nicole had always known how to spot the best patches, like her eyes could see the tiny red glow beneath the leaves from fifty feet away. She had been known to yell Stop the car! at odd times to fill either a bag or her hands.

  “No. One of the families on the neck has wide open meadows loaded with fruit. They started a little pick-your-own business, with strawberries now and blueberries soon. They cultivate wildness, and they don’t use herbicides. I go there as often as I can.”

  “These are so small,” Charlotte marveled, though she knew they’d be packed with flavor. “It takes forever to pick a pint.”

  “It’s about the process,” Nicole said with a smile, seeming to relax just thinking about it.

  So did Charlotte. And yes, she could find room. Slipping a berry into her mouth, she savored it, before returning to the interrupted discussion. “Maybe you will.
”

  “Will what?”

  “Blow away the competition. I read your blog, Nicki. You get hundreds of comments on every post—and on Facebook, how many friends?”

  “Seventy thousand.” This, said with quiet pride as she scooped up their chowder bowls and headed off again. “Cappuccino?”

  “No, thanks. You are amazing, Nicki.”

  “The machine does it, not me.”

  “I meant your blog.” She had taken a more traditional route herself, studying journalism at Yale, followed by a postgrad year at Columbia. It was all very safe—precisely why, needing to break the mold, she had signed on as a Web correspondent in Afghanistan, where danger was a constant. The deal was for six months. Back in the States, she poured herself into hands-on charity work while the nightmares receded. Writing was her therapy. Between pieces she did in Appalachia—or in communities struggling to rebuild after a hurricane or fire—and those from Afghanistan, she caught the eye of magazine editors, who signed on for the pieces she pitched.

  It was a career trajectory that had been taken by scads of journalists before her. But Nicole—quiet, introverted Nicole—was breaking new ground. “How’d you do it? How’d you get so big?” she called.

  There was silence from the kitchen, then a dry, “God works in wondrous ways.”

  “I want to know how it happened,” Charlotte insisted. “Nicole, are you going to come in here and sit?”

  She reappeared with a small ceramic creamer from which she topped the fruit in each snifter with something that looked far thicker than cream. “Sabayon, made with Dad’s favorite Riesling,” her high voice announced. “I forgot how much wine he’d stored here.”

  “Oh, yumm.” Forget the strawberries; Charlotte tasted the sauce. “Yummm.” Of course, a mouthful of fruit with sauce would be even better.

  She was about to dig in, when Nicole said a sharp, “Wait!” Up again, she grabbed her camera, arranged the snifters just so, and took several shots, before setting aside the camera. They were on the sofa now, the fire crackling around another new log. She didn’t eat, simply sipped her cappuccino with her eyes on the hearth.

  Charlotte sensed a melancholy. “Thinking of Bob?” Eating sauce made with his favorite wine would do it.

  “And Jules.” Nicole was suddenly teary. “He gave me the cappuccino machine a couple of summers ago. We have one just like it at home. He used to make cappuccino every morning and bring it to me in bed.” Darting Charlotte an awkward glance, she added a quick, “He’s too busy now.”

  Charlotte felt a twinge of envy. It wasn’t about Julian. It was about loving and being loved in return. “You miss him.”

  “Yes.” She gathered herself. “Hence my blog.”

  “Go on,” Charlotte urged gently.

  Sitting straighter, Nicole wet her lips. “Well, you know I like to cook. And entertain.”

  “Martha Stewart Living.” It had always been around the house. Even now, there had to be a dozen issues stacked on the coffee table. Granted, a second stack held copies of New England Home, Summer Cottage, and Cooking Light, but the Living pile was higher.

  “My bible,” Nicole admitted. “It still inspires me, but since I never have exactly the same ingredients she does for, say, a roast duck or bouillabaisse—or the same materials for a centerpiece—mine come out a little different. So Julian and I were having people for dinner a lot—doctors, hospital administrators, friends who’d bring friends—and afterward they’d ask for recipes, or menu suggestions, or how to arrange wildflowers in a vase, or where to buy grass-fed beef. After a while, I thought it’d be cool to have a place to post the information so that everyone could read it. Suddenly people I didn’t know were e-mailing. They were picking up on organic and local and homegrown.”

  “It’s a hot topic.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that when I started to blog, but by the time the site was built, most of my posts had to do with eating organic, buying organic, supporting local farms and markets, and identifying restaurants that did the same, because that’s what people were asking about. I began tagging along with Julian when he traveled for work, so it wasn’t just Philadelphia, but Seattle, Denver, and Chicago. And it was Quinnipeague. People here didn’t give it a name, but they were living farm-to-table before farm-to-table was a movement. They didn’t call their produce organic, but they let you know that they didn’t use artificial pesticides and fertilizers, and you knew the result—all delicious and safe. Organic was ingrained in me. Majoring in environmental studies at Middlebury was a logical next step, but I swear I didn’t put two and two together until I started blogging about Quinnipeague. It’s amazing, Charlotte. Those blogs get the most responses. People love reading about local farms and hand-made goods and free-range chickens, and it’s all about farm-to-table.”

  “Hence Nickitotable.com.” Charlotte was still amazed. “How many people read you now? Say, a single post.”

  “Over time, maybe thirty thousand.”

  “And Twitter?”

  “The same number.”

  Charlotte sat back. “That’s amazing, Nicki. All from nothing in how long?”

  “Six years. Mostly the last four.” Pushing up, she was off for the kitchen again. “I have cookies.”

  “I’m stuffed,” Charlotte cried, but the words of protest were barely out when Nicole returned with a dish of chocolate almond cookies.

  “From the café.” Settling back into the sofa, she retrieved her cappuccino.

  Charlotte took a cookie, but didn’t eat. “Did your dad know about the book?”

  “He knew I was talking with a publisher. He’d have loved this.” She frowned at her cup and said quietly, “I think about your parents, who weren’t there for you. Then I think about Dad and me. To be so close to a parent—I was very lucky.”

  “You still are. You have Julian and his kids. You have Angie. They keep you anchored. I envy you that.”

  “You do not,” Nicole scoffed with a small smile. “You love freedom. You love adventure. I’m the one who needs support.” She stood, pausing as she reached for the fruit. “You’ve had enough, right?”

  “For now.” But before she could tell Nicole to sit and relax, Nicole was collecting utensils and plates. “Did you finish the Australia story?”

  “I did.” Gathering up wineglasses and napkins, Charlotte followed her into the kitchen. “Seriously. You have an incredible life. Freedom has its downside. There are times when I’d give anything for a real home. You—you have stability. I can’t believe you and Julian have anniversary number ten coming up. Will you do something big to celebrate?”

  “Maybe. What did you do about France?”

  “Postponed. I’ll go in the fall. But you need to do something for your tenth.”

  “We were in Paris two years ago,” Nicole said as she loaded the dishwasher. “Julian delivered a paper there.”

  Julian Carlysle was cutting edge when it came to prenatal cardiac surgery. A brilliant surgeon, he had been a rising star at the time of his marriage to Nicole. Charlotte assumed Paris wasn’t his only big-time venue. “How often do you two travel?”

  “Every few months.” Her green eyes lit. “Want to take a walk?”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever you want.”

  Having been in the car all day and just overeaten, Charlotte liked the idea. “The beach,” was all she had to say.

  Bundling up, they slipped out the sliders, crossed the stone patio, and went down two wide granite steps. Typical of the North Atlantic, the shore was rocky. The beach grass that sprouted between boulders was its only softening touch. Even the sand at the water’s edge was hard packed and strewn with stones. But the ruggedness didn’t detract from its lure. Here was nature in its raw beauty. The tide had ebbed, leaving behind swaths of seaweed. Drawn by its fishy smell, gulls squealed as they dove to peck marine life from the tangle.

  Since it was still light, they walked toward the tail of the island. Sand and surf were r
ougher at this end, but invigorating. The breeze was steady, blowing hair, scarf, and grass. When Nicole looped an arm through Charlotte’s, they walked as they had when they were kids—and for a time Charlotte was one again, on her own personal escape.

  Then they passed the spot where she had been with Julian, and the escape turned dark. She had never retained the details of that hour. There had been too much wine, too much exhaustion, too much fog that night. There had also been subconscious baggage, at least on her part, though she didn’t admit that for weeks. At the time, all she saw was a gigantic mistake. Julian had sworn her to silence the next morning, and she had readily agreed.

  His life hadn’t changed. He married Nicole a month later and had gone on with his career. For all she knew, he had convinced himself that nothing had ever happened.

  She had tried to do it, too. There had been no love involved, no forethought. It was a gross error, a lapse in character, and while she might blame her parents for the example they set, she had no one to blame but herself. Julian had started it, but she had gone along.

  Feeling ten years’ worth of guilt now, she freed her arm under the pretense of scrambling over a cluster of rocks. When she returned to Nicole, she walked sideways. “So, how is the good doctor?”

  “Fine,” Nicole chirped. “Really busy.”

  “Still working long hours?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Does that bother you?”