Sweet Salt Air Page 11

  Charlotte mingled, catching up with people she hadn’t seen in ten years. She booked interviews, often now alongside Nicole, who sampled every dish in an evaluative way, ever-so-subtly shaking her head or nodding to indicate which they wanted and which they did not.

  They stayed even after the crowd thinned, enjoying themselves, which was a good thing. The enjoyment ended abruptly when Nicole’s phone rang on the way home. It was Julian, apparently having been trying her for several hours, though Nicole couldn’t have heard her phone over the voices at the church.

  He was having trouble breathing. It was one of the more rare side effects of the drug he was on, and usually passed quickly. This time it hadn’t. His doctor wanted to see him Monday morning. So rather than flying south, he was taking the train to New York. He suggested Nicole meet him there.

  * * *

  Charlotte drove her to the pier, where a boat was waiting to take her to Rockland. From there, she would taxi to Portland, then fly to New York. Though Nicole didn’t tell her much beyond the basics, Charlotte felt the weight of worry. “You’ll call me with updates?” she asked when she pulled Nicole’s bag from the Jeep.

  “It’ll be hard. You’re not supposed to know.”

  “But I do, so I’ll be thinking of you the whole time. Text me. Or go down the hall and call.”

  “I’ll try,” Nicole said and gave her a hug.

  * * *

  Back at the house, Charlotte wandered. She tried not to let her imagination do the same, but it was hard not to think of what-ifs. Salt helped; the hero was rebuilding a boat, the process of which Charlotte found intriguing. But reading meant focusing in on words, and she was too antsy to do that for long.

  So she knit for a while. It turned out that those incredibly good chocolate almond candies had been made by a newcomer to Quinnipeague who owned a yarn store in town. Charlotte planned to visit. That meant making progress on her sleeve, so that she didn’t totally embarrass herself. Having finished the ribbed cuff, though, she was following the Aran pattern chart when she made a mistake. She ripped two painstaking rows, knit them again, and discovered she had dropped a stitch, which was now lost three rows back.

  Frustrated, she set the knitting aside and went outside. She walked the beach. She swept the patio. Opening her laptop, she checked her friends’ Facebook pages and looked at Twitter for the first time in days.

  Dusk kept her waiting. But the minute it arrived, she was off.

  Chapter Eight

  LEO COLE WAS DOING SOMETHING different. The sound Charlotte heard as she approached was a sporadic clattering, like he was hurling something against metal. She couldn’t tell what it was until she rounded the Cole curve and saw the floodlit slope of his roof. Two ladders stood there; near the top, a board stretched between them. Boots on the board, Leo was prying up shingles, tossing one after another into the Dumpster below.

  She looked for the dog, didn’t see it, and walked slowly forward. When she was close enough, she linked her hands behind her and watched for a while. Oh yeah, she had told him that his shingles were lifting. Watching him, though, she guessed he had known it. The way he went at the task spoke of experience. His movements were methodical and sure. From time to time, he grunted with the effort of removing a stubborn piece, but for the most part, he seemed untaxed.

  In time, he stopped, pushed a forearm up his brow, hitched the claw tool to the next shingle in line, and reached for a bottle of water. That was when he spotted Charlotte, though if she hadn’t been looking closely, she wouldn’t have known. He didn’t jump, didn’t even fully turn, simply looked sideways as he drank. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Why am I not surprised,” he muttered just loud enough for her to hear, then reached for the claw and continued his work.

  She heard derision. But anger? Not really. “You knew about the roof problem.”

  “Yup. I ordered shingles a month ago.”

  “Why do you do this at night?”

  He was silent. Then, “Why do you want to know?”

  “Human interest.” She shrugged. “Boredom.”

  He pried up several more shingles and tossed them back before saying, “Sun’s down. Wind’s down.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  Another shingle fell. “When I’m tired.”

  “Studies show that the less sleep you get, the greater your chance of stroke.”

  “Studies get it backward,” he countered. “Insomnia is caused by stress, which causes high blood pressure, which causes stroke. I’m not stressed.”

  She might have argued for the sake of argument, if he hadn’t made total sense. So maybe he worked all night and slept all day. “You don’t have a nine-to-five job?”

  He worked on, finally said, “Nope.”

  “How do you pay for the shingles?”

  He glanced down, sounding annoyed. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just curious.” Looking around, she spotted the toolbox. “If you have another roof ripper, I could help.”

  He snorted. “Dressed like that?”

  “I’m not dressed any different from you.” A tank top and shorts. His tank was chopped unevenly at the waist, the shorts as dark and drapey as always.

  “You don’t have boots.”

  No, but her sneakers were designed for traction. She turned one to show him the sole. When he simply went at another shingle, she said, “Seriously. I can help.”

  “You’ve done this, too?”

  “I have.”

  He worked on for a bit. Then, “Nah. Only one claw.” Moving to the right to reach a new spot, he said, “Want to make yourself useful, pick up the shingles that missed the Dumpster.”

  With the floodlight aimed at the roof, the ground was dark. Only when her eyes adjusted did she see what he meant.

  But she didn’t move. Climbing a ladder was one thing; groveling around on the ground with her arms and legs exposed was another. “Where’s the dog?” she asked.

  “In the bushes.”

  “Will he attack?”

  “Not if you pick up the shingles and leave.”

  Trusting that he could control his dog, she collected an armful of shingles and dropped them in the Dumpster. After a second, then a third, she was done. Brushing off her hands, she called up, “What else can I do?”

  “Get away from the Dumpster. Stay there, and you’re gonna be hit.”

  “You wouldn’t aim at me.”

  He barked out what might have been a laugh. “If my aim was perfect, you wouldn’t’a had anything to pick up just now.”

  He had a point. Moving away from the Dumpster, she folded her arms on her chest and watched him work. He must have been trying harder, because every shingle went into the Dumpster, so there was nothing to do. After a bit, she sat.

  “You said you’d leave,” he charged.

  “You said that. Not me.” Her curiosity was far from satisfied, and the dog hadn’t appeared. “What’s it like being in jail?”

  He shot her a look. But he didn’t call the dog. “That’s a dumb question. It sucks.” He pried up several more shingles, tossed them down with greater force. One hit the ground, but he didn’t seem to notice. “How’d you know I was in jail?”

  “People talked about it back then,” she said, standing, waiting. As soon as he tossed down the next shingle, she darted in for the one on the ground and tipped it into the Dumpster.

  “You were here before?”

  “Well, now you’ve hurt my feelings. I spent seventeen summers here. So I didn’t make any impression?”

  He stretched to reach higher shingles. “I don’t remember much.”

  “High on Cecily’s cures?”

  Bracing the claw against the roof, he scowled down at her. “One of the reasons I work at night is because it’s quiet. If you’re gonna stay here, you have to shut up.”

  At least he wasn’t harping on her leaving. This was progress. “I can shut up.”r />
  “Do it. Please.” He moved farther right to work on a final swath of shingles. “And you’re wrong. I wasn’t high all the time. I was angry.”

  “Seriously,” Charlotte mused. That scowl was what she remembered, but she didn’t hear anger. “What did Cecily die of?”

  He worked for a bit. She guessed he was ignoring her, but she had interviewed reluctant subjects before. She was about to lob up an easier question, when he said, “Pneumonia.”

  Pneumonia. That surprised Charlotte. Cecily would have known how to treat pneumonia. “I was thinking it had to be cancer.”

  “It was. She went to the hospital for that. While she was there, she got pneumonia.”

  Charlotte had heard similar stories, but it suddenly made Leo more human. “That’s bad. I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” he said, grimacing against a stubborn shingle. “I was the one who dragged her to the hospital.”

  Since Quinnipeague had no hospital, that would have been on the mainland, and what Charlotte heard went beyond regret to guilt. Gently, she asked, “Is that why you hang around here, to keep up her house and garden?”

  “Among other reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  He looked down, annoyed again. “Don’t you need to be somewhere?”

  “Actually, no,” though, sitting still, she was feeling a chill, so she unwound the sweatshirt from her waist. “Nicole’s in New York. It’s just me at the house.” She looped the sweatshirt around her shoulders.

  “Should you be telling me this?” he asked.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m dangerous.”

  “So they say,” she remarked, because she was still alive now after, what, four visits?

  “You know different?”

  She smiled. “I know karate.”

  The movement of his cheek might have been a smile or a wince, though it was lost when he hung his head. After a minute, he straightened and took another drink of water. Then he climbed down the ladder.

  Not trusting him, Charlotte stood. “Another few minutes, and you’ll be done,” she said, studying the small strip of remaining shingles. “What’s next?”

  He stood an arm’s length away, seeming taller than he had the night before, when she’d passed him on the drive. “If you’ve done a roof, you know,” he warned. The slightest pat of his thigh caused a rustle in the bushes.

  Tar paper was next. But the dog was at his side now, so she put a smile on her face, turned, and sauntered off.

  Karate might protect her from the man, but the dog? She didn’t know which was more dangerous—or whether either was, certainly a thought there.

  One thing was for sure, though. Both paled next to MS, which was what rose up in her mind the nearer she came to the house.

  * * *

  Nicole knew the drill. After landing at LaGuardia, she took a cab to the small hotel where they always stayed. It was an easy walk from the hospital, but this night even that seemed too far. Shortness of breath? A tight chest? Both were documented side effects of the meds Julian was on, but they were also classic symptoms of a heart attack. She suspected Peter Keppler had suggested he go straight to the ER in Philadelphia, but that he had refused.

  Much as she told herself that, being a doctor, Julian would know the difference, she was terrified about what she would find.

  Having already checked in, he had texted her the room number, so she pulled her roller bag straight to the elevator. Eight anxious floors up, she went down the hall and knocked softly. Praying he was still alive, she listened for sound. But he wasn’t a heavy man, and, as it happened, he was barefoot. The relief she felt when the latch clicked and the door opened was intense.

  He looked pale, but not blue. Though clearly tired, he stood straight.

  Slipping into the room, she closed the door and wrapped her arms around his neck, relieved to be able to drink in everything that was Julian and strong. When he hugged her back, she imagined there was an element of clinging in it. He did need her. That was gratifying.

  Finally drawing back, she studied his face. “How is it?”

  “Better.”

  “But still there. Which one—tightness or short breath?”

  “Both, but better. What did you tell Charlotte?” he asked, and she wanted to yell that Charlotte wasn’t what mattered, he was.

  But Julian, being Julian, was neurotic about secrecy, and if he was worried about Charlotte, she could help him with this at least. “I told her one of your colleagues died and I wanted to be with you at the funeral. I’ve gotten good at lying.” Wasn’t she doing it right then? Oh yes, she was good. If he had suspected she wasn’t telling the truth, he would have pushed it.

  But he simply asked, “Flight okay?”

  “I guess. I wasn’t really focused on it. I kept thinking I’d walk in here and—”

  “Don’t say it, baby.”

  “I know I know I know,” she whispered, as much in contrition as anything else. “Were you sleeping?” Though he was still dressed, his hair was disheveled and his eyes heavy.

  He shook his head, made the face that said he had been doing nothing worthwhile, which meant he was likely sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling, worrying about the same things she was and then some.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  And suddenly, out of the blue, she was livid. Growing up, the only child of adoring parents, she had been indulged on every level. She hadn’t had to filter her thoughts back then, and though life experiences had taught her something of self-control, when she was upset—really upset—she still lost it.

  That happened now. After a long day of travel, hours of worry, and months of strain, thanks for coming hit her wrong. “Where else would I be?” she cried. “You’re my husband. I should have been in Philly with you. You take care of me, Julian. Would it be so awful if I took care of you once in a while?”

  “There’s nothing to do,” he said, pulling away.

  “There is,” she said, telling herself that this wasn’t the time, what with that lingering tightness in his chest, only this was the time. “You’ve cut yourself off from everyone who means something to you.”

  “Not true. I talked with my parents yesterday. I talk with friends all the time.”

  “But not about the truth, so it’s all a show. And this, now? I’m your cover, Jules. We both know that if we’re in the hospital tomorrow and you see a colleague, the idea is that I’m the patient—and that’s fine, if it makes you feel better. But it doesn’t make me feel better, because I’m your wife, and you’re shutting me out, too. Is that all I am, your cover?”

  He stared at her. Ease up, you’re making things worse, don’t nag, don’t hover. She heard it all.

  Turning away, he began unbuttoning his shirt. After that came his pants and his socks. It used to be that his boxers would follow, and that when he turned back to her, his need would be clear. MS affected the sexual response of some patients, but not Julian. He remained perfectly capable—amazingly capable. But it had been weeks since he had allowed himself to feel the need.

  Granted, they couldn’t make love with his chest tight, regardless of how he tried to minimize the problem.

  Still, watching him undress, she couldn’t help but remember the days when sex was a constant, when all he had to do was to call her baby—such a macho word for an academic guy—and the attraction flamed.

  She felt the longing.

  Leaving the boxers on tonight, though, he slipped into bed, snapped off the light on his side, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Peter Keppler was thorough. Nicole had always liked that about him. It meant hours of waiting for tests, but by the end of the day, he had enough data to make an informed decision. They were in his hospital office, which was little more than a glorified examining room, but Nicole wasn’t complaining. Julian looked better, she thought. He always did when they were with Peter, like he could finally, fully let someone else take char
ge. And he had slept well, moving so that their bodies touched. She wasn’t sure it was conscious, but she had cherished it nonetheless.

  They were in separate chairs now, Nicole trying to be calm, while Peter reviewed the day’s tests. The good news, he reported, was that Julian’s heart would be fine, the bad was that the daily charts he kept at home in Philly confirmed that there was no improvement in the symptoms.

  “We’ll change the cocktail,” Peter decided. “It’s a small tweaking, but I don’t like these side effects.”

  “Forget the side effects,” Julian said in his informed way. “I’m worried about the efficacy of these drugs. After three months, there should have been improvement. These meds are the newest and best. If they’re not working, I’m in trouble.”

  The neurologist made a sound that was halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “Doctors are the worst patients. They’re always one step ahead.”

  “You bet,” Julian said. “My hands are shaking as often as ever. And numbness? Sitting in a chair when it hits is bad enough, but what happens if I’m walking down the hall with colleagues?”

  Peter studied him. “I wish I could operate and correct the problem with a scalpel like you do, but MS isn’t that way. You’re stable. One new symptom isn’t much in the overall scheme.”

  Nicole agreed. Three months wasn’t very long. The research she had done suggested that it often took far longer on a medication for the disease to get the message.

  But Julian wasn’t on that page. “One new symptom is one too many,” he said. “I’m getting worse. This is my life, and it’s heading in the wrong direction.”

  “You have MS,” Peter reminded him. “For all we know, your symptoms would be worse without the treatments you’ve had.” Precisely, Nicole thought, as the doctor went on. “I’ve worked with some patients for ten years before finding a path to remission. You and I, we’ve only been at it for four.”