Sweet Salt Air (15 page)

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 charge. 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.”

“The wrong direction,” Julian repeated ominously.

*   *   *

Charlotte spent the morning sorting through a ragtag collection of cups in leftover colors and designs, mismatched plates, napkins, picnic tablecloths, and plastic cutlery. Nicole had waved a dismissive hand at the pantry in which these were kept; she far preferred the real stuff to paper and plastic, and had suggested a wholesale cleaning. Charlotte figured she could help with this, at least.

After filling two large bags, she drove them to the church. Though she kept her phone in her pocket, Nicole didn’t call.

Having stowed her camera in the backseat, she continued on to the farm where Anna McDowell Cabot raised the chickens that produced eggs for so many island specialties. Anna was a rotund woman who waddled and clucked like her hens, but her clucking was informative. A lifelong Quinnie, she knew as much about the island as anyone. She talked for hours about the ways in which the island had changed, and, with Charlotte’s frequent rechanneling, how those changes had affected the food.

Having been the beneficiary of herbal remedies for acid reflux, she considered Cecily Cole a saint. But when Charlotte mentioned Leo, she grew cautious. “He’s very private.”

“A bad boy.”

“Bad?” With a soft clucking, she considered. “Not so much bad, as misunderstood.”

“By whom?”

“Everyone for a while. He was an unhappy child. Now, he just keeps to himself.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“Oh”—a specious sigh—“a little of this, little of that,” which told her nothing.

“He still grows Cecily’s herbs,” she tried.

“Leo does not.” A wise smile here. “Those herbs grow themselves.”

“Does he sell them?”

“I never heard that.”

“Does he give them to people who need them, like Cecily used to do?”

“I guess.”

“Does he trade them for food?”

Anna frowned. “Why the questions?”

Charlotte wasn’t about to suggest there were personal reasons, when there was reason enough on a professional vein. “Cecily’s been dead five years, but her herbs are going strong. We’re assembling a cookbook. How can I not ask about the herbs?”

“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat,” the hen-keeper clucked.

Charlotte certainly did. Curiosity killed it. Bob Lilly used to warn her about that, though he loved her questions and never once refused an answer. There was, of course, a rejoinder to the adage—
and satisfaction brought it back
—but Charlotte let it go. Having taken pictures as they talked and walked, she was more than satisfied with the interview. While others on the list could talk about specifics, Anna provided an overview that would be crucial for the book.

Charlotte left the Cabot farm feeling a new enthusiasm. Wanting to share it with Nicole, she sent a quick text. When she didn’t hear back, she grew uneasy and tried calling, but Nicole didn’t pick up.

*   *   *

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when they returned to their hotel to pack, that Nicole was able to call Charlotte. Texting wouldn’t do it. She needed to hear a comforting voice. Julian was taking a shower—wanting to wash the patient from his body, he said. She stood in the farthest corner of the bedroom, hunched over the phone with her eyes on the bathroom door.

“It’s me,” she said in a low rush. “I can’t talk long. If the shower goes off, I’m done. We’re heading to LaGuardia for a flight to Chicago.”

“Chicago?” Charlotte asked in alarm. “What happened to Raleigh-Durham?”

Thinking how glad she was to be able to share her frustration, Nicole murmured, “Postponed for a couple of days, and I’m not happy about Chicago, either. I mean, things were fine today. It wasn’t a heart attack, just a problem with the meds. His doctor wants to alter the dosage and give it more time, but my husband is impatient. We’re going to Chicago for a consult.”

“Aren’t there other specialists in New York?”

“Yes, but Julian knows who’s doing what where, and this one’s into different therapies.”

“What kind of different therapies?” Charlotte asked with what sounded like rising alarm—but even that was calming for Nicole, who welcomed validation of her own worry.

“This particular doctor is into stem cell transplants.” The words shimmied around in her belly. She pressed a steadying hand there. “Julian is willing to try something unproven, if there’s a chance it’ll work. This scares me to death, Charlotte, but he’s getting desperate.” The shower went off. Straightening, she spoke casually. “So Anna was good?”

“Desperate to do something radical?” came the voice at the other end, but before she could answer, Julian opened the bathroom door. Toweling off, he came into the bedroom, eyes questioning.

“Just letting Charlotte know I won’t be back tonight,” she explained.

Charlotte exhaled audibly. “Okay. Well, you got my text. Anna’s a great resource.”

“Did she give you her recipe for layered eggs?” Nicole asked lightly. “By the way, I don’t know why she calls it layered eggs, since it’s really about ham, zucchini, and mushroom, but she uses incredible herbs. Did she list those for you?”

“She did.”

“Good. I’ll do a test batch once I’m back.” She relished the thought, and it had nothing to do with food. Immersing herself in even this tiny bit of work was a respite. “Did you and Melissa Parker agree on a time to talk?” she asked. Melissa provided baked goods for the Chowder House, the Island Grill, and the Quinnie Café. Not only was she a must profile, but Nicole had given Charlotte a dream list of Melissa’s recipes for inclusion as well.

“Tomorrow,” Charlotte said. “So you’re flying out tonight?”

“We are.” She reverted to alibi. “It’s been tough on the family. I’ll do some cooking and bring over a few meals.”

“How long will you stay in Chicago?”

Now that he was off the offending drug and he knew he would live, Julian wouldn’t stay more than a day. He wanted to get to Duke before anyone suspected something amiss. Besides, the consultation was strictly informational. He had even offered to go alone, but in that case, Nicole knew she would get an abridgement of the discussion and would forever worry about what she had missed.

She had a stake in this; she wanted to hear exactly what was said. “I’ll fly up Wednesday,” she told Charlotte. “Can you make it without me until then?”

Chapter Nine

C
HARLOTTE HELD THE PHONE TO
her belly for a long time after the call ended. Nicole wasn’t the only one who was scared. When it came to experimental treatments for MS, stem cell transplants held great promise. But there were stem cells—and then there were
umbilical cord
stem cells. Umbilical cord cells came from the blood that remained in a baby’s umbilical cord after it was cut, blood that was drained and whisked to a blood bank where it was frozen and stored for future need. The ethical issues surrounding embryonic stem cells didn’t apply here. This was blood. There was no egg, no fertilization. A baby couldn’t grow from it. But increasingly, in research labs and hospitals worldwide, stem cells taken from umbilical cord blood were being found to have properties for healing and regrowth in humans with different diseases.

Such were the facts. Nicole surely knew them.

But Charlotte knew something Nicole did not. She knew something
Julian
did not. If she had to tell what she knew, the damage might be catastrophic.

Dreading that, she sat on the beach for a while. The ocean air was warm, blowing her hair, skimming her skin. She watched a gull swoop into the shallows for a catch, then a pair of sandpipers flipping stones in search of crabs. The sea was eternal, she told herself. Life went on. Traumas came and went.

It was small solace.

Needing a dose of comfort, she drove to the Chowder House for a lobster roll and fries, drove home again, and returned to the beach, where she proceeded to devour every last crumb in the bag.

Did she feel better? No. If anything, she felt worse now, like a terrible
fat
friend.

She needed to walk, and not to Leo’s. She needed to
really
walk. Heading for town, she moved as quickly as her stomach allowed, going faster as the clams settled, finally turning and running home. She wasn’t a runner. She had always wanted to be, but her knees disagreed. No doubt, they would be screaming by morning.

The Jacuzzi in Angie and Bob’s bedroom would help. Nicole would have insisted, as would Angie, which was why she couldn’t do it. She was a traitor of the worst kind—betraying Nicole, betraying Angie and Bob, even betraying Julian.

She was a bad person. If Leo Cole was, too, they deserved each other, or so her thinking went as she scrunched her mutinous hair into a wad and set off for the island’s tail. She was so absorbed in her own guilt that she didn’t hear anything—not the roll of the surf, the hoot of an owl, or the slap of her own feet—until she reached the Cole curve and the sound of hammering registered.

He would be applying tar paper to the roof he had exposed the night before. She knew that even before she saw him at it. Moving steadily along makeshift scaffolding, he unrolled the paper left to right, and hammered nails at regular intervals to secure it.

She watched for a while unobserved. For a bad guy, he had nice legs. He also had a tight butt, though his shorts were loose enough so that the shape came and went.

“Can you hammer?” he finally called down.

Not unobserved at all. “Can I hammer,” she murmured in wry affirmation.

He gestured toward the second ladder. When she reached the top, he picked up a new roll of tar paper, anchored it, handed her a hammer and a tin of nails, and let her at it.

Tar paper came in different weights. This one was of the heavier variety, which made sense given the climate. Until she had unrolled and secured a healthy swatch, it was awkward, but she refused to complain.

“Utility knife?” she asked when she reached the edge of the roof.

He walked it to her. Warm from his tool belt, it did the trick. She went back in the other direction, cutting again when she reached the paper he had laid. He touched her arm once to move her aside so that he could better work the edges together, but she was soon on her own again. When they finished one row, they climbed higher and started the next, then the next. In time, they reached the cupola, which was harder, closer. Their arms touched more than once, legs touched more than once, none of it unpleasant.

The air was still. He was right about the wind being down at night. Or maybe it was just this particular night, capping another long summer day. Even with her hair off her neck, it was heavy and hot. Not that she was alone. The floodlight picked up streaks of sweat on Leo’s face and neck. He paused often to swipe at it with his arm.