Sweet Salt Air Page 6

  Charlotte took the red one. Helping with the coffee, she carried mugs while Nicole grabbed biscotti. Minutes later, they were outside. The patio was a patchwork of granite slabs that had been quarried in Maine and set in an arcing pattern to mirror the shore. Two heavy wood chairs stood to the right of the beach steps, facing the sea. Closer to the house and more protected were the table on which they had so often eaten back then—glass on top, iron below—newly cleaned and surrounded by chairs.

  Off to the side were a trio of lounges. They pulled two of these closer to the house, under a pergola whose vines would be overrun with peachy roses within the month.

  Cupping her coffee for its warmth, Charlotte tucked her legs under her jacket and angled toward Nicole. “Are you happy?”

  Nicole’s eyes were bright over her mug. “Happy?”

  “With Julian. With your marriage.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is he good to you?”

  “He’s an angel. Why do you ask?”

  Charlotte wanted to believe that Julian loved her, that there was no pattern of infidelity, and that nothing about that one awful night lingered. “Just curious. You always had energy, but it feels nervous now.”

  “I’ve told you—lots on my mind … Dad, the house, the book.”

  “As long as it’s not Julian. I want to know you’re happy.”

  Nicole jumped up and, all but lost in Bob’s parka, crossed the patio. “I would be happy if the gardener had done his job, but look at the mess here.” She knelt at the creeping cypress that bordered the stone and began plucking brown tips from the lowest fronds. “They think we won’t see these, but it isn’t only about looks, it’s about the health of the plant. If you want new growth, the old stuff has to go.”

  “Is George Mayes still doing your work?” Charlotte recalled him being a character, as likely to show up tipsy as not, but intent either way on talking the plants and shrubs through the toughest of times.

  “George tries,” Nicole said as she searched for anything dead she might have missed, “but he’s in his eighties, so his son Liam does most of the work.” Stuffing what she’d pruned in her pocket, she returned to the lounge. “Liam isn’t as good, but they need the money, and it’s not like there are dozens of landscapers on Quinnipeague to choose from, and then there’s Rose.” Wife of George, mother of Liam, Cheryl, and Kate, with however many grands, even great-grands by now. “Her slaw is still the best.” She looked quickly around. “Where’s my coffee?” Spotting it near the cypress, she scrambled up again. When she returned, she said, “I’m not sure if it’s the celery seed or the dressing, but Rose is definitely on our list. Mayes Slaw is the perfect side.”

  Charlotte burrowed deeper into her parka. The memory brought a smile. “The best. And she made it for the whole town. I always imagined she had the grandkids lined up in a row, slicing cabbage at the counter like Santa’s little elves.”

  Nicole laughed. It was a welcome sound. “Granddaughters. The boys’d be doing the physical stuff. They’re a traditional family. Not all on Quinnipeague are. Wait’ll you meet some of the new ones. We’ve gotten more diverse.” Up again, she curved back toward the garden on the side of the house.

  “What are you doing?” Charlotte called, perplexed by her constant up and down.

  “Checking the flowers,” Nicole called back. “Mom’ll want to know if the sweet William is in bloom. That’s the pink one. The lisianthus is ready to pop. It’ll be a deeper purple than the lavender. Wait’ll I tell her about that.” She returned to the lounge. “By the way, I think it’s mustard seed in that slaw.”

  “Is that an herb?”

  “Mustard seed? No, it’s a spice.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “An herb comes from the leaves of a plant, a spice from the seeds,” Nicole explained. “Some plants produce both, like cilantro and coriander. Salt is a mineral. We call it a spice, but it isn’t.”

  “What’s pepper?”

  “A spice. A peppercorn is the seed from a pepper plant.”

  “Did Cecily Cole cultivate mustard plants?”

  “Sure did.”

  Charlotte grinned. “Q.E.D.”

  Nicole laughed again. “That proves nothing. We don’t know for sure what herbs Rose uses in her slaw.”

  “We’ll ask. What we really need to do,” Charlotte decided, “is to explore Cecily’s gardens—you know, take pictures and all. She’s the matriarch of island cooking.”

  “Tell that to her son.”

  “I will.”

  “He has a gun. He shoots gulls for sport.”

  Charlotte winced. “What does he have against gulls?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not looking to find out. Cecily’s plants are all over the island. We can get what we need from everyone else.”

  “But her garden is the source,” Charlotte argued, as Nicole got up again. “Where are you going now?”

  “I’m cold,” came her little-girl voice. “I want to get dressed.”

  “Just grab a blanket from inside. It’s gorgeous out here.” She breathed in. “This air is amazing. Sweet.”

  “Charlotte, it’s salt air, and there’s no sun.” She shot a hateful look at the clouds. “I honestly thought it was coming out, or I wouldn’t have suggested this. Sun is cheerful. That’s what I want. Actually,” she called over her shoulder as she headed toward the house, “I think we should drive into town. It’d be good to let everyone know we’re here.”

  * * *

  Nicole had trouble sitting still. Charlotte couldn’t shake the feeling that she was running from something and that the something was her. There were times when Nicole wouldn’t look her in the eye, which meant maybe she did know about Julian and her, and was trying to move on.

  Chastened, Charlotte got dressed. She offered to drive, but Nicole insisted on taking the old SUV that her parents kept at the house, giving her good reason for sadness. “Dad never worried about my driving here,” she reminisced. “There’s only one road, so you can’t get lost, and you can’t speed because it’s bumpy.”

  “Do they ever repave?” Charlotte asked, jouncing now that she didn’t have a steering wheel to hold.

  “Not often. It’s not a Quinnie priority. We’re the spoiled ones. I was thinking I’d give this car to Eleanor Bailey, kind of as a thank-you. She was always bringing over crab cakes—remember those little minis? She knew Dad loved them.”

  “I loved them, too. That’s another recipe we’ll need.”

  Nicole was silent, staring out the windshield with both hands on the wheel, which would have been fine if her knuckles hadn’t been white.

  Charlotte touched her arm. “You okay?”

  She nodded, cleared her throat, brought herself back. “Just thinking of Dad.”

  “As long as there’s nothing else.”

  Nicole shot her a glance. “What else would there be?”

  “Me,” Charlotte dared say. “Are you sure you want me here to do this?”

  Nicole looked stricken. “You don’t want to be here. You have something better—”

  “Better than this?” Charlotte cut in. “Nothing is better than this. Helping you with a book? I’m honored.”

  “Then don’t say anything else,” Nicole said gently. “We have the ingredients for an amazing team.” More fiercely, she added, “And, please, don’t even think of leaving.” She drove on.

  Paying penance. That was Charlotte’s first thought in response. Her second was more poignant. “Maybe I bring back too many memories.”

  “Like, they won’t come anyway? At least with you here, I have a shoulder to cry on.”

  “Promise you will?”

  “Yes, but I’m fine. Really, I am.”

  * * *

  And she was at first. They stopped at the post office, ostensibly to let the postmaster know that Charlotte might be getting mail, but since he did lobster bakes like no one else on Quinnipeague, and since he was a major conduit of islan
d news, greeting him was good politics.

  Then came the island library, which was connected to the hardware store, which the librarian owned with his wife, who made a great clam macaroni and cheese, hence a dual purpose there as well.

  Neither visit was brief. Charlotte had forgotten how different island time was from time in the rest of the world. People weren’t satisfied with a quick, “Hey, nice to see y’again.” No matter what chore they were doing, they stopped to feed the wood stove and then stood there for the warmth, and you couldn’t just walk away with them clearly in a gathering mood. They wanted to talk about Bob, of course, and Nicole graciously accepted their condolences. Since they had seen her over the years, though, it was Charlotte who was the novelty. They asked where she lived now, how long she had lived there, whether she had a husband or kids. When Nicole told them about her writing, they wanted to know how she came to doing it, whether flying bothered her, what Paris or Belize or Bali was like.

  At times, it was a grilling. Take the hair salon. They stopped there because the owner was known for the quiches she brought to town breakfasts. When they arrived, the woman was in a cloud of scented styling mist as she finished with one client and started on another, and the questions came fast and furious. All three wanted to know everything.

  Charlotte was beginning to weary of it, when they turned to Nicole. “And you, you’re too thin. We’ll fatten you up this summer. I didn’t get to see your husband last week. Still curing the ills of the world, is he?”

  “He is,” Nicole said, slipping her elbow through Charlotte’s and adding a singsongy, “We’re off. We’ll be back another time. Bye-bye.” They were barely out the door when her elbow tightened and she muttered, “Still curing the ills of the world? Is that supposed to be funny? It’s disrespectful, is what it is. Why can’t people keep their mouths shut, if they can’t say something nice?”

  Charlotte was startled. “She thought it was.” When Nicole didn’t respond, she tried to smooth things over. “But hey, I’m glad we left. I’m usually the one asking the questions. It’s hard being on the other end. I need a snack. Does the Café still have scones?”

  Nicole was a minute settling. Then, she said, “Sure does.”

  “Are you game?”

  “Sure am.”

  * * *

  The Quinnie Café was as charming as Charlotte remembered. Relics of whaling days hung on dark-paneled walls, though the main attraction was the windows that looked out to the sea. Weather permitting, they would be open under awnings. This morning, though, it was all about the woodstove, whose dry scent flowed over armchairs, five round tables with chairs of a sturdy birch, and a counter with stools. The tables looked new, as did the pendant lights that hung over each, but the biggest change since Charlotte had been here last was a profusion of outlets. Just then, two tables held people at laptops, newer Quinnies whom Nicole introduced as an op-ed writer for the Times and a computer programmer.

  Since the Café was at the far end of the island store, hidden behind shelves of dog-eared magazines, jigsaw puzzles, and toys, those having coffee might not have been seen by those shopping for food if Bev Simone, who ran the store, hadn’t spread the word, which she did—but only after following them in and updating Charlotte on ten years’ worth of births, deaths, and marriages. “But Nicole and Julian, their wedding was the best,” she concluded. “We still talk about it.” She squeezed Nicole’s shoulder. “Your daddy, God rest his soul, knew how to throw a bash. And such a handsome couple, you and the doctor. When’ll he be back?”

  “I’m not sure,” Nicole said without blinking. “His schedule’s tight. He’s hoping maybe August.”

  “Hoping isn’t good enough,” Bev scolded.

  Nicole’s smile didn’t budge. “It’s the best he can do.”

  “He is one busy guy,” Charlotte told Bev, who seemed mollified by that and, hearing a distant jangle, returned to the store. But she wasn’t done. Since she viewed Nicole and Charlotte as celebrities—writing a book, on us!—she sent in one islander after the other to say hello.

  So there were lots of questions in the Café, too, again aimed mostly at Charlotte, whom they hadn’t seen in so long. Seeming happy to be left out, Nicole busied herself going back and forth in turn for scones, cappuccino, spoons for the cappuccino, knives to spread jam on the scones, and napkins.

  Then came Beth Malcolm, the one who had worried Charlotte so many years before. She taught at the island school, which had just finished for the year, hence her being at the Café midday, midweek, and what she carried as she joined them was Salt.

  “I must be the last person on Quinnipeague to read this,” she remarked when Nicole and Charlotte exchanged a glance. “Have you read it?”

  “Reading, present tense,” Charlotte said.

  “And you like it?”

  “We do.”

  “Isn’t it amazing?” she asked, then, seeming startled, abruptly turned to Nicole. “I saw Julian on TV. It was so awesome. I didn’t recognize him at first. He was wearing a suit and looking so serious, but good serious, like you just knew he knew what he was talking about, and then there he was wearing shorts and a shirt here last week. The electrician—you know, the one who just did the wiring at your place—his wife had a baby in April and for a while before that they thought there was a problem with his heart, so everyone was talking about Julian and the miracles he does with preemies.”

  “Fetuses.”

  “We love it when he’s here. When’s he coming back?”

  Nicole rolled her eyes toward Charlotte in a way that might have passed for indulgent if Charlotte hadn’t known her so well. Here, it was pleading.

  “Everyone’s asking that,” Charlotte told Beth, “and he’s hoping for later in the summer, but he’s swamped with work—”

  “And besides,” Nicole added in a high voice, “if he came back, he’d be on vacation. He wouldn’t want people staring at him. He’d want privacy.”

  “Which,” Charlotte quickly put in, because that high voice held an edge, “is the island specialty. How many kids are in the island school now?”

  Distracted, Beth talked about that, then about her own two kids and her husband, whom she had met in college and brought back. He was a sculptor, creating masterpieces out of metal and struggling to be recognized, though after confessing the last, Beth said a contrite, “I promised him a sticky bun. Gotta go. Hey, we have a book group. You guys want to come?”

  “Are you discussing Salt?” Charlotte asked with interest.

  “Oh no, we all read that out of curiosity. But we’re doing Caleb’s Crossing. It’s also about an island.”

  Charlotte had read it. “Maybe we will,” she said and waved as Beth left. She would have asked if Nicole had read that one, too, if Nicole hadn’t been looking in alarm at her scone.”What?”

  “Currants,” Nicole cried. “In these scones. Not grown here.”

  Charlotte was unsettled by what almost sounded like panic. Currants were no cause for that. Besides, the Nicole she had known was easy-going. Either she had changed, or something else was up, and it wasn’t Bob. If she were thinking of Bob, she would be sad, not panicked.

  They finished eating with little talk. Bev sent in another shopper, but the woman was innocuous and brief. As soon as she was gone, they slipped out themselves.

  That was when they bumped into the publisher of the island weekly. He lit up when he saw them, though he quickly focused on Nicole. “I heard your good news. A book, huh?”

  “Cookbook,” Nicole corrected with a plastic smile. Cornered was the word that came to Charlotte’s mind. She had thought it once yesterday, too.

  “Good for you,” the man said, “though I’m not surprised. Y’always had that little something special, right down to bringing that husband of yours to Quinnipeague. Say, I’d love to have a sit-down with the two of you to talk about your book—cookbook—and about his work. When’s he comin’ next? I’d do a story for the paper. This is front-page
stuff. And hey, I’m sorry about Bob. He’ll be missed.”

  Nicole nodded. She neither blinked nor stopped smiling.

  The newspaperman barreled on. “He would have loved my doing a profile of the doctor and you—y’know, photo spread and all. Think Julian would agree to do it? Ahh, well of course he would. The paper’s just for us Quinnies, and he loves it here.” He reached for the door. “The wife needs elbows. She promised me lobster mac ’n’ cheese, and I don’t turn that down. If you want the best island recipes, you’ll need that one. I’ll tell her. She’ll be excited about being in a book. So will you let me know when the doctor makes his plans? I’ll come out to the house. That’s worth profiling all on its own, but now we have you two stars in it. Book, TV—you’re the power couple. Po-wer coup-le,” he repeated, marking each syllable with a fist, before proceeding into the store.

  Charlotte was thinking that it was true, when Nicole turned owl eyes on her. “I remember her lobster mac,” she brayed, “and if she wants her dish in my book, she’ll have to add something to it to make it different from every other mac ’n’ cheese recipe out there today!” Charlotte drew her away from the store, but Nicole ranted on. “Power couple? Power couple? He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” She sounded frantic. “There are a gazillion cookbooks out there, I’m one of millions writing more, and Julian spends more time teaching than doing. Power couple? That is such a crock of shit.”

  Language, tone, look—all were so unexpected that Charlotte couldn’t let it pass. Before she could ask, though, Nicole broke free and stormed off, away from the SUV and down the street.

  “Where are you going?” Charlotte called.

  Nicole stopped and looked around. Turning right, she headed for a cluster of rocks overlooking the pier. In summer, the rocks would hold visitors eating lunch, but on as cool a day as this, they were deserted. The only thing Charlotte could imagine was that she planned to jump.

  She ran, catching Nicole’s arm just shy of the rocks. “What is wrong?” she cried, frantic now herself.

  Nicole’s eyes were large, her face nearly as pale as her hair. “Nothing! Everything’s fine!”