Of course, he did. And she said nothing to ease his mind. He didn’t need to know it all now—and if there was some reason he did, he certainly wasn’t telling her. Was she being spiteful? Yes. Did she hate herself for it? Yes. Could she reverse it? No. After feeling powerless for so long, she needed to cling to this just a bit.
Besides, if he was worried about her for once, maybe that was good. For four years, he had been totally self-absorbed. Four, she caught herself? Try
ten
. He hadn’t thought about her—hadn’t considered how small she might feel learning he’d had sex with her best friend on the eve of their wedding. Small. Yes. That was it. Small. Insignificant. Worthless.
But she wasn’t.
If her parents’ faith had meant anything, she was substantial and significant and worthy of being respected and loved.
He
was the small one here—at least, when it came to marriage. He had accused Monica of leaving him out of her life. Wasn’t he doing the same to Nicole, and if so, was he the problem? Had he never considered that?
If not, it was time he did.
Actually, it was long
past
time he did.
That thought strengthened her, but her resolve lasted only through the call. The instant it was done, everything rushed back like the incoming tide, dumping at her feet the debris of ill health, a rotting marriage, and a muddy future. When the waters receded again, she was left with the realization that Julian might be the biggest asshole in the world, but he was still her husband, and that though she might hold a winning card in those stem cells, that didn’t make up for the loss of love. Love was all she had ever wanted.
Turning toward the sea, she burst into tears.
* * *
By the time Nicole was composed enough to head for the house, Charlotte was approaching. They met at the patio’s edge. Done being the perfect hostess who had to greet everyone with a smile and kind word, Nicole pulled her sweater tight and waited.
“Kaylin saw you crying,” Charlotte said quietly. With her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans and her hair pulled starkly back, she looked subdued. “She’s convinced you’re lying about you and Julian.”
Nicole glanced at the house. Kaylin stood at the glass sliders. “She thinks we’re separating? Maybe we are.”
“You confronted him then?”
“About you two? No. If my marriage falls apart, it won’t be because of that. It’ll be because my husband is an uptight jerk who refuses to include his wife in his life.”
“He’s sick, Nicki. You said it way back—he isn’t himself.”
Nicole remembered those words. They had totally new meaning now. “Maybe not completely,” she said, “but I’m suddenly wondering about all the things I didn’t see. I wasn’t looking for anything wrong. He dictated and I obeyed. I was too soft.”
“But we all
love
you for that.”
Nicole wanted to say that it hadn’t gotten her far and to ask whether Charlotte thought she should obey now or hold her ground, to rush to Durham or stay here, to give on the issue of stem cells or object. She wanted to pour out her fears, confiding in Charlotte as she’d always done, and not only during summers. During those growing-up years, they talked on the phone during winters, too. Charlotte had known about her first bra, her first kiss, her first serious crush. She had helped Nicole write her college essays and had been the first person Nicole called when she got into Middlebury. During their sophomore year, they had driven hours, meeting halfway between schools to sing their hearts out at a Shania Twain concert.
Nicole wanted the closeness back. She wanted Charlotte’s help with Julian. Charlotte was smart. She would know what to do.
But she was still the enemy. Nicole wanted to forgive her, but couldn’t.
Feeling a pervasive sadness, she said, “I never could understand why we grew apart. I told myself you were giving me space, like you knew you couldn’t be part of my marriage and were stepping back. When it got worse, I blamed it on your work. Then on our having such different lifestyles. But all along it was the other, wasn’t it?”
Charlotte’s eyes were dull.
Yes.
That quickly, Nicole was stung all over again. “You were my BFF.”
“I
am.
”
“A BFF is supposed to be loyal. She’s supposed to be honest and considerate and generous. She’s supposed to sacrifice something she wants if she knows that getting it will hurt the other.”
“I did all those things,” Charlotte claimed helplessly.
“You did
not
.”
“Once. I screwed up
once
—and I was so drunk I didn’t know I was doing it. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”
Oh yes, Nicole thought. She had trusted blindly. But no more. “Don’t tell Julian about the stem cells, Charlotte. He doesn’t need to know yet.”
“But shouldn’t he at least know they’re an option?”
“He needs to consider other options first.”
“You said he was going straight to stem cells.”
“He will if I tell him what you have. Don’t you see? Even with cells from his own child, he could die.”
“Do you care?”
“Yes!” Nicole exclaimed, then quieted. “I shouldn’t. But I do.”
They stood for a moment, facing each other in silence while the ocean pounded and the gulls screeched. Finally, Charlotte said, “Are you afraid he’ll want to know the child?”
Nicole considered the question. She wanted to deny it, but her anger wasn’t that strong. “Maybe.”
“The adoption papers forbid our contacting her.”
“You. But not him.”
“Both of us. The parents know how to reach me, but they’ve never tried.”
“Why did they let you keep the stem cells?”
“She can use them if she needs them. That was part of the agreement.”
“But why did you want them? Was it to keep some little last thing of hers?”
Charlotte looked vulnerable now. “I thought that if I had other children—”
Nicole cut her off, feeling a trace of impatience. “Yes, you said that, but wasn’t there even a little bit of wanting something of hers?”
There was silence, then a reluctant, “Maybe subconsciously. But they’re yours, Nicki. I’m serious about that. I can’t think of a better use.”
Nicole had wanted the admission. She wanted Charlotte to know she did understand the emotions involved. Now, though, she turned away. “I don’t want them.”
“He might. Please tell him.”
“I can’t.”
“No one would have to know,” Charlotte argued, her voice low and quickly taken by the wind. “You could just say he used donor cells. No one but the three of us would know their source.”
Nicole knew it wasn’t that simple. Kaylin was here, still watching from the sliders. And Angie was coming. And then there were Johnny, Julian’s parents, and Monica, plus dozens of friends and colleagues, all of whom would ask questions if a stem cell transplant went bad.
But she couldn’t think that far. One step at a time was all she could manage. “I’d better go talk with Kaylin.” She set off, then stopped and, wary, turned back to Charlotte. “What about Leo? Will your working with Kaylin interfere with that?”
“No. He has his own work.”
Nicole still wasn’t sure what Charlotte saw in Leo Cole. She found him abrasive. But she hadn’t been able to trip him up. “He really did write
Salt
?”
“Yes.”
“Has he sold the rights to a second book?” Charlotte shook her head. “Why not?”
“He’s keeping his options open.”
“About writing the next one, or about who to sell it to?”
“Both.”
“So if the world already knows Chris Mauldin is male, why’s he’s hiding out on Quinnipeague?”
“This is his home.”
“But he never leaves. Is he agoraphobic?”
“No. He just prefers life here.”
“Is he not interested in broadening his horizons? In growing as a writer?”
“He’s not interested in what it would cost him. He figures he can grow just doing more of what he’s done.”
Nicole thought it a waste. Not in her wildest dreams did she have publishers fighting each other for the rights to her second book. Leo Cole was either very brilliant or very stupid—though she couldn’t say that to Charlotte, who was clearly biased. So she settled for, “Well, anyway, thanks for giving Kaylin a job.”
“Don’t thank me,” Charlotte insisted. “
Use
me. Please?”
* * *
Nicole knew Charlotte was feeling guilty—but so was she. Yes, she should tell Julian about the stem cells, but she wasn’t ready, just wasn’t ready. So she converted guilt into productivity. On a wave of antisentimentality, she attacked her bedroom closet, bagging up clothes she hadn’t worn in years. That took her into Saturday, when, with Kaylin’s help, she opened the Great Room cabinets and boxed up childhood games, jigsaw puzzles, old cassettes and CDs. After dinner at the Chowder House with her stepdaughter—Charlotte had gone down the road in the opposite direction, the details of which Nicole didn’t want to know—she blogged about lobster rolls, adding a photo from her stock source, and when the posting was done, she spent several hours reading farm journals.
The thought did cross her mind that with Kaylin here, Charlotte could leave when the interviews were done. Kaylin could help organize the book, and if not Kaylin, her own editors. Wasn’t that was editors were for?
She was getting ahead of herself with this, but it was nice to have a choice.
Feeling marginally in control, she slept soundly and awoke Sunday morning on the same positive note. She lost a little of it during the drive to the pier as she faced the thought of her mother again and wondered just what to say. But it wasn’t until the ferry ramp lowered and her mother came down that her confidence imploded.
Driving up the coast these last few days, Angie hadn’t been alone.
Chapter Nineteen
N
ICOLE KNEW THE MAN.
T
ALL
and robust, Tom Herschel had been one of Bob’s law partners and was an old family friend, a widower who had lost his wife to breast cancer three years before—all of which,
including
two nights in motels along the coast, might have been totally innocent, if it hadn’t been for the look on Angie’s face. Her eyes were larger than normal, and it wasn’t from makeup, though Angie was an expert at that. She was also an expert dresser, and though she weighed five pounds more this summer than last, she was still stunning in her sweater and slacks. What Nicole saw most, though, in these first instants, was nervousness.
Perhaps she was uneasy coming here for the first time without Bob? Or she was anxious about Nicole’s mental state?
“You remember Tom,” Angie said after they’d hugged—and it was such a ridiculous comment, what with Tom having been at the house all the time during the dark days after Bob’s sudden death, that Nicole just
knew
.
How to behave? Speechless, she kept her right arm around her mother and extended her left for a genial clasp of Tom’s hand, but she faced Angie again in the next breath.
“Up the coast?” she managed to say.
Angie’s smile was stilted. “We went to Bar Harbor. Acadia is a fabulous place to hike.”
Nicole had never known her mother to be a hiker but couldn’t say that with Tom right there at her elbow. Rather, an inbred politeness kicked in, and she nodded and smiled, at which point Angie drew her into a motherly hug and deftly changed the subject. “I’ve been worried about you since I learned about Julian. I talked with him again this morning. He’s worried about you, too.” Holding Nicole back, she scowled. “For what it’s worth, I’m furious at him for making you keep this all to yourself. There was no
reason
why you couldn’t tell me. You poor thing.”
Not wanting to dwell on what “poor thing” could mean, Nicole reached for her mother’s bag before Tom could and led them to the car. Once the engine turned over, though, Angie picked up where she’d left off. “He sounded okay. But, of course, I couldn’t see him. This has to have been such a strain on you. He was right to want you here, though this has to be bittersweet for you, too. Well, maybe it’s different for me. My memories go so far back. Even standing on that ferry and watching Rockland recede, how many times your father and I did that.” She sucked in a breath. “Has the island given you any kind of a break?”
Nicole checked the rearview mirror, then turned left and started down the neck road. She didn’t have time to answer before Angie said, “Of course, you have the cookbook to do. That must be a diversion. How’s it coming? Have islanders been cooperative? I don’t suppose they wouldn’t be, but asking for something as intimate as a personal recipe has to be challenging. Recipes
are
intimate, don’t you think? Many of them have been in families for generations. I was telling Tom about the project, and he raised the issue of getting signed releases for everyone whose recipes you print. Have you thought about that?”
“My publisher did. They gave me a form.”
“Oh, good. Do you think that’s okay,” she called to Tom, who was in the backseat, “or should we have someone in the firm check it out?”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he reassured her, much as he had done dozens of times during the funeral planning—and suddenly Nicole had a thought that would have made her apoplectic, if she hadn’t already been numb. Angie and Tom, even before Bob died? She couldn’t bear to
think
it!
But here was her mother, giving a running commentary on whose drive they passed and how
were
the Warrens or the McKenzies or the Matthews? Yes, she jabbered. Normally Nicole would have given her competition, but since she wasn’t saying much now, Angie had the airwaves all to herself. Still, she sounded … what? Apprehensive? Uncomfortable?
Guilty?
* * *
By the time they were home, Nicole’s head was throbbing. While she filled a glass with water and downed two Tylenol tabs, her mother opened the refrigerator and, after studying its contents, extracted boxes of blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries. Setting a colander in the sink, she put the berries under the spray.