Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  “No, I got drunk instead. I’m guessing that I was desperate to feel wanted. It could as easily have been the gardener as Julian.”

  “Blind sex? Indiscriminate sex? You were my maid of honor, Charlotte. How could you be that after what you’d done?”

  “How could I tell you?” Charlotte cried.

  “How could you not? You were pregnant by my husband.”

  “Your fiancé, and I didn’t know I was pregnant until after the wedding.”

  Unable to look at her a second longer, Nicole started out, but she hadn’t even made it past the door when another, horrible thought made her pivot. “Did he know you were pregnant?”

  “No. I haven’t talked with him since I left here ten years ago.”

  “You didn’t think he had a right to know you were carrying his child?”

  “By the time I found out, you were married. I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “You did it!” The words carrying his child were bleeping front and center. She started to cry, but stopped herself and screamed, “How could you, Charlotte? You knew I wanted a baby.”

  “I didn’t plan it,” Charlotte cried. “I didn’t plan that night, didn’t plan a baby. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever lived through.”

  As was this for Nicole. Anger was the only thing keeping her erect. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” she asked, tasting bitterness and hating that, too. But how not to resent Charlotte for having the baby she should have had? More quietly, unable to shake the image, she asked, “What was it?”

  “Oh, Nicki, don’t—”

  “Don’t ask? Don’t wonder? If not now, when?” A detached part of her said she had to know these things, that as long as she kept asking questions, the awful, awful whole of it wouldn’t hit. “What was it?” she repeated.

  “A girl.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Washington.”

  “D.C.?”

  “State. It was a private adoption. The parents were at the hospital for the birth.”

  “And you didn’t think Julian should have been there?”

  “He was married to you. It would have killed you.”

  “Didn’t you think he should have had a say about what happened to his child?”

  Charlotte’s mouth tightened. “No. I didn’t. We avoided each other that last month, then he was married to you, and I was gone. He never asked if there was a chance I’d get pregnant. Neither one of us wanted to remember that night.” Her voice softened, pleading. “I agonized, Nicole. I was pregnant. I was terrified. I thought of every possibility. I knew you’d be the best mother in the world, but how could you raise a child conceived this way? And if I told Julian, he’d either have to keep it from you or risk ruining his marriage. Adoption seemed like the only choice.”

  “Did you hold her?” Nicole asked quietly. How many times had she imagined holding her own child immediately after its birth?

  “This won’t—”

  “Did you?”

  “For a minute.”

  “Did you name her?”

  “No.”

  “Are you in touch with her now?”

  “No.”

  “But you kept the umbilical cord cells.” Charlotte nodded. “Why?”

  “In case I had other children who might need them. Or me.”

  “What about Julian’s other children?” Nicole added, thinking of children she might have had herself, children who would have been half siblings with this one. The question hung in the air without answer. “Did your friends know?”

  “What friends? I was doing community outreach in Appalachia when I found out. I didn’t know anyone there.”

  “They must have seen that you were pregnant.”

  “By that time, I was gone. I got my first writing assignment. It was for a story in Oregon. I spent most of the pregnancy there.”

  She looked ashamed, but that didn’t help Nicole. Somewhere in the back of her mind was Julian … guilty Julian … cheating Julian.

  But Charlotte was here, and Nicole wanted to hit back. “It makes sense in a sick way. Your parents were always fooling around. You said you hated that.”

  “I did.”

  “But then you did the same.” The numbness was starting to wear off. Trembling inside, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “Do you have any idea how I feel? Did you think about that at all?

  Charlotte nodded. “It’s haunted me for ten years.”

  Resentment flared. “I loved you like a sister.”

  “And I you,” Charlotte said, forearms on the table now, earnest and intense. “What I did was wrong, Nicole. I never wanted you to know. Then I got here and you told me about Julian, and I’ve been praying ever since that it wouldn’t come to this. But if he needs those stem cells, how could I not speak up?”

  “You could have told him,” Nicole fired back. “Why me first?”

  “Because you’re the one I care about.”

  “By wrecking my marriage?”

  “That’s the last thing I want. I went away after the wedding and I stayed away. I tried to remove myself from your life. But you invited me back, and I’ve missed you. Everything seemed so right when we talked that I hoped the past was done and we could regain what we had. I did something awful, Nicole. If these cells give you hope, I’ll have been able to give something back for all I’ve taken away.”

  “Really,” Nicole said in a swirl of fury, because fury was the most obvious thing to feel. There was also disbelief and disappointment. There was emptiness. She had always thought she and Julian were the couple. Now to learn that it was Charlotte and Julian? She had no idea where that left her.

  Charlotte didn’t speak.

  Nicole’s fury did. “You had my husband’s baby.“

  Still nothing.

  “I can never forgive you for that.”

  “I understand,” Charlotte said, turning beseechful, “but listen to me. This isn’t about the baby. It’s about stem cells. I have them. They could be the answer.”

  “Answer to what?” Nicole shouted, letting anger give her strength. “Saving my husband’s life? Right now, I couldn’t care less. He betrayed me as much as you did.”

  “Neither of us knew what we were doing.”

  Nicole didn’t buy that. She could understand a lapse of morals in Charlotte, in whom they were poorly rooted to begin with. But Julian? Her husband? Even with his being married before—even with his dating other women between—she had assumed faithfulness, and if not on the eve of their wedding, when?

  Charlotte drew her arms from the table and, in a faint voice, said, “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Yes,” Nicole said, then, “No.” She thought about the cookbook, which was why Charlotte was here. On one hand, the cookbook seemed irrelevant right now. Food … place settings … tens of thousands of followers? Her whole career seemed irrelevant.

  On the other hand, it was all she had. And Charlotte had committed to help. And kicking her out would only let her off the hook.

  What to do? Nicole’s thoughts were muddled by thick globs of emotion. Dismayed, she simply said, “I can’t look at you,” and, turning on a heel, ran through the Great Room and up the front stairs.

  * * *

  Charlotte waited for her to return. There was no sound from above—no crying, no yelling at Julian, not even the slam of a door. I can’t look at you. Charlotte deserved that. She deserved worse. Still, it hurt.

  Needing the comfort of the ocean, she went out the kitchen door. In the distance, the boom of fireworks at the pier marked the start of festivities for the Fourth, but festive was the last thing Charlotte felt. Crossing the patio, she settled on the beach steps and hunched over her knees. The tide was out, leaving a deep stretch of seaweed-blotched sand. Beyond it, the surf frothed in, broke, rolled out, echoing down the Quinnipeague coast. She tried to see the poetry in it; life ebbed and flowed. Bob Lilly had talked about that when she first came here, an eight-year-old child, t
roubled by what was happening at home. His voice, his words, and the echo of the poetry had given her strength during the loneliest times in her life.

  None of it helped now. She had betrayed Bob, too. Wondering if Nicole was right—if she was as defective as her parents had been—she felt worse than ever. She rocked lightly. She put her head to her knees, listening, waiting, but though the ocean thundered rhythmically, it didn’t soothe.

  In time, she raised her head. Midnight had come and gone, but she doubted Nicole was asleep. She couldn’t go to her. But she could wait in the Great Room, all night if need be, glad to be a whipping post if that would help Nicole.

  She had just started back when the house lights went out. Uneasy, she made her way through the dark to the kitchen door and turned the handle, but the door didn’t budge. She tried the patio sliders, then the front door, without luck.

  She was wondering what to do next, when she heard footsteps inside. In a moment of fantasy, Charlotte imagined Nicole throwing open the door, saying that she understood, that people made mistakes, that those stem cells were the answer to a prayer.

  The only thing reality brought, though, was the realization that the footsteps had been going up the stairs. Nicole had locked her out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  CHARLOTTE STOOD IN THE DARK, wondering what to do. She couldn’t ring the bell. This wasn’t a case of Nicole being distracted. She knew Charlotte was outside and didn’t want her coming in.

  Feeling like scum, she sat on the steps in the moonless night, arms around her knees, eyes on nothing at all. She had made a gross mistake ten years ago. It seemed she had compounded the error tonight. In weighing hurt against help, she had misjudged. Everything she had wanted not to happen had. And now the damage was done.

  She thought to drive to the pier and wait there until morning to catch the ferry, but she didn’t have money or even her car keys. Besides, running away wasn’t the answer. She had spent her life running from one unpleasant relationship or another. But Nicole wasn’t an unpleasant relationship. Charlotte loved her like a sister.

  Anxious, she jumped up and started to walk. The night was cool. Still in the blouse and shorts she had worn to Rockland, she felt chilled, though she suspected part of it was grief. When easy walking didn’t do it, she walked faster.

  Five minutes later, though, she sat down on the side of the road. She had no business going to Leo’s. She didn’t deserve comfort. But she had never felt this alone. Even during the years when she hadn’t seen Nicole, Charlotte had known the Lillys were there—an emotional, if fanciful touchstone. But no more. The loss was crippling.

  She didn’t know if Leo would understand. But she had nowhere else to go.

  She walked with increasing speed, trying to escape an unspeakable sadness. Distracted, she didn’t see the decaying road until her foot twisted in a rut. She caught herself and limped on, barely slowing, welcoming the pain. Shortly before the Cole curve, she started to run, pushing herself mercilessly down the dirt drive. She didn’t notice the shadows of plants, the scents, the rustle of leaves. Not even the ocean registered.

  Running straight to the house and up the steps, she sagged against the door. Her breath came in short gasps; her forehead, palms, and torso braced the wood. Shifting, she glanced at her watch. It was 2:10. All was silent inside.

  She shouldn’t have come. But she couldn’t leave. She was cold and shaky, and that was totally apart from her mental state.

  With only the faintest move of her hand, she knocked, then paused to listen for sounds from within. Hearing none, she repeated the knock. This time, Bear barked from the back of the house. She knocked again, still softly. The bark came closer.

  When the door opened, she nearly fell forward. She caught herself just in time and looked up. Leo’s hair was messed, but he didn’t seem groggy. Though barefoot, he wore a T-shirt and jeans.

  She must have looked like a madwoman, with her hair every which way and her face desolate, because he stared at her in stunned silence before whispering a frightened, “Jesus,” and pulling her inside.

  As soon as the door shut, she slumped against it. In the next instant, her legs gave way and she slid down the wood to the floor. Covering her face, she burst into tears. Uncontrollable, they came in gut-wrenching sobs that went on and on. Mortified, she pressed her face to her knees and covered her head with her arms.

  She felt a hand on her nape. “What happened?” he asked.

  The connection was enough. Something inside her snapped, and the whole of it poured out. The words were broken, but, like the tears, they kept coming. She told him every last little private thing—about herself, Julian, the baby, Nicole.

  He didn’t say anything, just listened. When she ran out of words, he helped her up, led her through the dark house, and put her to bed.

  * * *

  She woke up feeling a wonderful warmth, a heartbeat under her ear, an arm around her back. Not daring to move, she opened an eye. The room was dark. It was a minute before she noticed a sliver of light where the drapes met, another before her eyes adjusted and she realized where she was. She sat up quickly, clutching the sheet to her chest, though she was fully dressed—and looked beside her. Leo half sat against the headboard with pillows at his back. His chest was bare, but he still wore his jeans. The arm that had held her lay empty on the sheet, the other was folded behind his head. His eyes, reflecting that sliver of light between the drapes, were on her.

  Everything flooded back—her confrontation with Nicole, her flight here, her blubbering confession—and she was stricken. “My God,” she breathed, thinking of Nicole, who was broken, then of Julian, who would damn her, then, in horror, of Leo. “I can’t believe I told you all that!”

  “Why not?” he asked quietly.

  “It was private. I’ve betrayed her again.”

  “You think I’d tell anyone?”

  “I don’t know. Would you?”

  He stared at her a minute longer, less relaxed now if the rigidity of his jaw was a clue. She was thinking she had offended him, when he rose from the bed and opened the drapes—and even then, she might have continued to watch him if he hadn’t glanced around the room in daylight, inviting her to do the same.

  The bedroom was a surprise. From the looks of the outside of the house, she would have expected something shabby, but nothing here was. The king-sized bed was sleek and black, the walls sleek and white, the carpet a nubby blend of both. French doors surrounded by windows faced the ocean, but there were also built-in dressers, paintings hung floor-to-ceiling, and Bear sprawled beneath a wall that held a huge flat-screen TV.

  If this had been Cecily’s bedroom, it was no more. Everything here was masculine, definitely Leo’s. Everything in it was new and of fine quality, from the sheets and quilt to the carpet and art—all of which raised more questions than they answered. Confused, she looked back at him.

  “We all have secrets,” he said sadly and, opening a door to the outside, hitched his chin. When she joined him, he led her over a planked deck, across a well-kept beachfront, and down a long dock that extended out into the waves. At its end, sails furled, was an elegant sloop of fiberglass and teak.

  A bell rang in Charlotte’s head. This was the ghost ship she had seen the first morning she was here.

  “Yours?” she whispered, stunned.

  He nodded. Far from gloating, though, he seemed troubled. When her eyes asked why, he turned her so that she looked back at the house.

  She sucked in a breath, thinking that this couldn’t be the same house she had helped to reroof. That one was old, this one new. That one had peeling brown paint, this one was artfully set stone in myriad shades of sand. That one was two-storied and boxy, this one a single level with high ceilings, a handful of skylights, and an extension on the right that was nestled into the trees as sweetly as if it were part of the woods.

  Oh, it was the same house. She could see the cupola up high behind the bedroom roof. But it had been totally
rehabbed on this ocean side.

  “When…?” she asked, not sure where to begin.

  “This year.”

  “You did it yourself?”

  “I had help.”

  “Who?”

  “Islanders.”

  “They know about this?” Being on the remote end of the island, it wasn’t a part of Quinnipeague that they would normally pass.

  “Some.”

  She hadn’t been able to take her eyes from the house, but at his cryptic tone now, she did. He was chewing on the inside of his mouth, looking nervous, which, of course, made her wonder yet again where he got his money. Her first thought was grand theft, which would have been something a guy might do after he’d quit selling pot. But like the house, this guy wasn’t what he seemed. Insider trading?

  She finally had to ask, albeit in a confused hush. “Materials, labor—how did you pay?”

  He stared at her with what actually looked like fear, and she might have questioned that if it hadn’t slowly faded. Seeming resigned, he walked back down that long wooden dock and set off across the sand toward the room on the right. He didn’t have to wave her along. Desperate for answers, she went.

  As with the bedroom, the ocean-facing wall of this room was glass, reflecting the seascape so effectively that Charlotte couldn’t see anything inside until he opened one of the doors, and then, her eyes were on him. He was chewing on the inside of his mouth again, clearly torn. But he did cock his head, gesturing her to pass him and go in.

  Even with trees draping the skylights, there was enough sun pouring in over the ocean from the east to show endless shelves packed with a motley assortment of books. The only break in the shelves was for a machine of the copy-fax-scan variety. A large desk stood in the center of the room. Like the shelves, it looked to be cherry. It held a large computer screen that was surrounded by papers, some in neat piles, others not. This was a working desk, she realized and shot him a puzzled look.

  He had his hands in his pockets. His jeans clung to lean hips, with his chest an inverted wedge above, but his shoulders seemed slumped. Clearly uneasy, he tipped his head toward one of the bookshelves.