Sweet Salt Air (19 page)

“Can you drive a boat?”

He snorted.

Taking that for a yes, she said, “I need your help, Leo. She’ll have to stay over in Rockland if we don’t get her.”

He seemed amused. “We?”

“I can’t go alone. And you owe me.”

“For what?”

“Helping with your roof. Do you have a boat—or one you can use? Oh.” She remembered. “You don’t go to the mainland.”

“Who said that?” he asked, seeming offended.

Charlotte wasn’t about to bring the Cole curse down on Melissa. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It sure as hell does.” Letting the nail gun hang, he looked at her. It was only eye to eye—no mouth this time—but she felt it. Those dark blue eyes had depth, and what she saw there was pride. “I know how to get to the mainland. If I don’t go, it isn’t because I can’t, but because I won’t. I can get you there.”

She wanted to believe. Getting Nicole back tonight would be the answer to a prayer. “How?”

“Magic carpet,” he said with a quirk at the corner of his mouth. Then, “When’ll she get to Rockland?”

“Midnight.”

“What time’s it now?” The only thing on his wrist was a spattering of hair where a watch might have been.

“Ten fifteen,” she read from her own.

“Help me finish, then get your car and pick me up at the curve.”

Having issued the order, he put nail gun to plywood, and the popping resumed.

Charlotte assumed he had his own car and wondered what kind, how old, and whether he was embarrassed to use it. Not that it mattered. She didn’t have to go home for the Jeep. It was waiting on the road just beyond the curve.

Excited to be able to do this for Nicole, she texted that news, then helped Leo finish.

*   *   *

Once the ladders were stowed, Leo went around back with neither explanation nor invitation and came back shortly, wearing his watch cap and jeans. The jeans were old and fit him well. She spotted a bulge in the back pocket, likely a wallet, though she didn’t see keys. As soon as he slid into the Jeep, he moved the seat back to make room for his legs.

Cool air whipped her hair as she drove. She might have worried about rain if she hadn’t trusted Leo in some odd way. He knew the weather here as well as anyone, and he did have Cecily on his side.

That said, his arms were bare.
Men run hot,
he had said; still, she wondered if he would be cold once they hit the water. She was none too warm on land. As soon as she parked at the pier, she grabbed her fisherman’s sweater from the backseat and pulled it on.

The harbor was deserted. Other than those few people cleaning up at the eateries, Quinnipeague was asleep.

“I’ll meet you on the dock,” Leo said and loped to the back of the Chowder House. With the slap of a screen door, he went inside, returning moments later with a takeout bag and a set of keys. “Dinner,” he explained and, without commenting on the keys, led her to a slip on a side arm off the dock.

Charlotte had no idea whose boat they took, but it was relatively new and decidedly sturdy. With a minimum of effort, he untied the lines, backed out of the slip, and guided them away from the pier before gunning the motor and shooting them into the moonless ocean night. With the fading of Quinnipeague, she did feel a qualm. The boat’s headlight bounced off the occasional patch of fog, but otherwise it sank like dead weight in the waves.

Standing beside him, she struggled to see a horizon. “How do you know where to
go
?” she finally called over the wind, clutching a handbar on the dash as the boat surged ahead.

“Done it before,” he called back. “Nervous?”

“Yeah, I am. I can’t see a thing.”

He pressed a button, and the GPS came on. “We’re here.” He pointed. “Your friend is there.”

Charlotte studied the screen. If it was accurate, they were headed right.

“Where’s the bag?” he asked.

She pulled it from under the seat and opened it. Even diluted by the wind, the smell that rose from inside was unmistakable. “Little bits?” she asked in excitement. Little bits were one of Dorey Jewett’s gems: small, sweet lobster knuckles that were sautéed in butter. There were no herbs involved, just enough of a Ritz-cracker coating to absorb the butter for ease of eating.

“Want some?”

Charlotte was sorely tempted. “Oh no. I had dinner.”

“There’s enough for two,” he said and, taking a handful from the bag, popped one after the other in his mouth. He didn’t exactly roll his eyes in ecstasy, but he looked content.

She watched, salivated, finally sighed and reached into the bag. He was right; there was plenty for two. Wondering if this was Leo’s idea of a dinner date, she savored every bite. When they were gone, she crinkled up the bag, stowed it in a side pocket where it wouldn’t blow away, and returned to Leo’s side.

They didn’t talk then. It seemed a wasted effort, what with the roar of the motor and the crash of the boat as it flew through the waves, but there was something exhilarating about standing beside Leo Cole with her hair flying back from her face. One thing was clear. He was as comfortable at the helm as he was on the roof of his house. He didn’t seem bothered by the bite of the wind. Nor was he bothered by the darkness, either truly knowing his way or simply putting his faith in the screen on the dash.

In a surprisingly short time, the lights of Rockland appeared. Deftly, Leo slowed, turned, and let the waves carry the boat the last few feet to the dock where Nicole stood, a lone, frail figure with her luggage beside her and the woes of the world on her huddled shoulders.

Scrambling out, Charlotte wrapped her arms around her, and Nicole started to cry. She didn’t speak, just sobbed softly for what seemed the longest time. Finally, she drew back, wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and looked around for her roller bag.

“He put it on the boat,” Charlotte said gently, at which point Nicole looked closely at who the “he” was.

Her wet eyes widened. “Leo Cole?” she mouthed to Charlotte, and, with a look of alarm, whispered, “You
promised
.”

But Charlotte was guiding her to the boat. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Right now, you need to be home.”

Chapter Twelve

C
HARLOTTE SPENT MOST OF THE
night in the Great Room, anxiously imagining every possible scenario, and distractions didn’t work. She wanted to read but couldn’t focus, wanted to write but couldn’t create. Finally, picking up her knitting, she got the sleeve of her sweater back on track, only to realize three inches later that the cables weren’t right. She studied the pattern, studied the cables, studied the pattern again—and pushed the whole thing aside in disgust.

Through it all, she was listening for Nicole, but the only sound she heard came at dawn in the form of wind-driven rain. It slapped the patio stones, bowed the beach grass, and whipped up the waves. It would be a good morning to talk, she thought, but when Nicole finally came downstairs, talk seemed the last thing she wanted. Her face was pale, her hair flat, and she reached for the coffee like she couldn’t think beyond that.

“Did you sleep?” Charlotte asked once they both held steaming mugs.

Nicole was uncharacteristically quiet. “Barely.”

“Can I get you something to eat?”

Smiling sadly, she shook her head and sipped her coffee.

Rain gusted against the windows, its earthy smell mixing with that of the dark brew in what would have been a soothing blend if Charlotte hadn’t been so keyed up. “Was it really bad?”

A nod, another sip.

“How?” Charlotte asked.

Eyes on the mug, Nicole lifted it again. When she put it down this time, she sank deeper into the chair and finally looked up. “What’s with Leo Cole?”

Charlotte would rather talk about Julian’s condition, but Nicole clearly needed a warm-up. “I’ve been helping him, so he helped me. I have no idea whose boat it was, but he knew how to drive it.”

“It was Hayden Perry’s,” Nicole said. “He and Dad used to talk boats all the time. I wonder if Hayden knew he took it.”

“He must have. Leo got the keys from Dorey, who wouldn’t give them to just anyone. Besides, twenty-two miles full-throttle in a boat like that, and the fuel gauge will be way down. He’d have to notice.”

Nicole looked to be considering that. Frowning, she pulled Charlotte’s interviews close, thumbed the first few pages, but didn’t read. Her eyes rose. “Does this mean you owe Leo something?”

“No. It’s the other way around. He owed me for helping with his roof.”

“Will he give you access to Cecily’s gardens?”

“I’m working on that,” Charlotte promised. It was a major goal of hers. “The idea is to befriend him. I’m not sure he has many friends.” Then again, she wouldn’t have guessed that a prominent islander would loan his expensive boat to Leo Cole. “It’s weird,” she mused aloud. “There are times when I feel like the thug act is a show. He can be as well-spoken as you and me.”

Nicole sighed. “Well-spoken didn’t get me far yesterday.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I think my marriage is in trouble. And I’m not the only one who thinks it. Kaylin called last night right after I landed in Portland. She had just talked with Julian, and she knows something’s wrong. She said he sounded removed. That was the word she used—
removed
. She asked me if he made a mistake in the OR and was being sued, or if the hospital was being sold and his department was going somewhere else. When I said no to those, she asked if we were getting divorced.” Her expression turned stricken. “She actually asked that.”

“She was just tossing out wild fears, Nicki. That doesn’t mean she believes any of them.”

“Why wouldn’t she? The reality is that he divorced her mother, so he could divorce me. It’s easier to do if you’ve done it once.”

“You’re nothing like Monica. You fill a gaping hole in Julian’s life. He
loves
you.”

“After what happened yesterday, I’m not so sure,” Nicole said. The fact of her voice being so quiet—so
dull
—said something. “It’s like he’s pushing me away, too.”

“Maybe he’s trying to protect himself.”

“From
me
?”

“Maybe he’s building a wall, in case you leave him.”

“Why would I leave him?”

“Because you’re young and healthy, and you want a child.”

Nicole sat up straight. “That is so wrong, Charlotte. I wouldn’t leave him. I’d have gone to North Carolina with him in a heartbeat. I’d have done the book another time, and if my publisher bailed out, I’d have found another. He knows this. I told him more than once.”

But Charlotte was into the psychology of Julian’s situation. “Monica abandoned him. She chose her business over him. Maybe he fears that because he’s sick, you’ll choose a younger guy over him. Maybe”—she was thinking—“he’s afraid your book will be such a success that you won’t need him at all.”

“I would
never
dump him for a career,” Nicole argued, “and I would
especially
never dump him because he’s sick. That’s not how marriage works—at least, it isn’t in my life—and if you think it does work that way, well, maybe that’s why you aren’t married yourself!” Silence hit. Seconds later came remorse. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.” She grabbed her friend’s hand and held it tightly. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was mean.”

Charlotte understood that she was upset. She was actually grateful to see spunk and fire, rather than pure sadness. And Nicole raised an interesting point. Quietly, she said, “I’m not married because I can’t find the perfect guy.”

“No guy’s perfect.”

“No, but if you don’t think it at least at the start, you’re sunk. Forget my parents’ experience. Half the people I meet are divorced.”

“And that terrifies you?”

“What terrifies me,” Charlotte said in a measured way, speaking from the heart as she couldn’t with anyone else, “is falling hard, getting hurt, and having to put my life back together again.” The truth was, she had lousy taste in men, dating ones who turned out to be either chronic playboys, profoundly needy, or married. Maybe she went for the bad ones to keep from falling hard in the first place.

She had thought about this. She had analyzed it in depth. When you live alone, travel alone, exist solely on the outskirts of other people’s lives, you do have time to wonder why what you want most in life is out of reach. You also have time to tell yourself that you don’t want it at all, though whether you can ever be completely convinced is something else.

She sighed. “Not your worry, Nicki. Besides, I’m in agony waiting here. Tell me,” she begged. “What happened yesterday?”

The diversion had helped. After taking another drink of coffee, Nicole sank back in her chair. “He agreed to try a different medication.”

Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. “Ahhh. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” She was studying her coffee. “There’s a new one that’s supposed to work on the immune system to keep it from eroding the myelin that covers the nerves, because when the myelin erodes, the nerves don’t communicate with the brain, which is what MS is all about.” The words were rote; clearly, she had read the same description of MS hundreds of times since Julian’s diagnosis.

Charlotte already knew what the disease was, though she let Nicole take her time.

“This new treatment means injections every day,” she finished, raising her eyes. “No problem there. Julian’s a doctor.”

“What’s the drawback?”

“Liver damage. He’ll need constant monitoring. But he’s willing to risk it. He’s convinced he’s just sitting around watching himself fail.” She pushed an arm high on her forehead, baring resignation. “He’s always been on the cutting edge of medicine, so he takes risk for granted. And he’s made up his mind. He wants to try a stem cell transplant. He’s only taking this other drug to show the doctor it won’t work. I would put money on the fact that this minute, as we sit here talking, he’s calling around to find a doctor who wants a guinea pig. He doesn’t seem to care that the risk of rejection is worse for him, and he still refuses to tell his parents or his kids, any of whom might be a donor.”