“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 island 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!”
Charlotte shook her. “What
is
it, Nicki?”
Nicole put both hands to her head and pressed, her eyes suddenly confused.
“Please tell me,” Charlotte begged gently.
“I can’t.” A whisper, pleading. “I can’t.”
“I’m here to help. I want to. It can’t be that bad.”
Nicole exploded. “MS
not that bad?
”
Charlotte gasped. “You?”
“Julian!”
* * *
The words echoed. Nicole looked around, thinking that someone else had said them, because if she was the one, it would be a betrayal of the worst kind.
But the only person in sight was Charlotte, who couldn’t have known about this, and wouldn’t have yelled it at her anyway, and Charlotte’s face was blank.
Nicole felt a great sinking inside.
“He has what?” Charlotte whispered, cupping her shoulders.
She couldn’t say it again. Julian hadn’t wanted her to tell anyone, least of all Charlotte. Hadn’t he specifically asked that last night? Now she’d gone and done it. She hadn’t planned to, but that didn’t matter.
He would be hurt, disappointed,
angry
. Their relationship had been rocky lately. This wouldn’t help.
Thinking that she simply wouldn’t tell him, which meant another secret to keep, she felt a great wave of despair and, sinking to her knees, burst into tears.
Chapter Five
C
HARLOTTE WAS STUNNED.
O
F ALL
the possibilities to explain what was going on, she hadn’t imagined illness. The Julian she remembered was too active, too fit. He was too dedicated, too
famous
—which, of course, was an absurd thing to say. Famous people got sick all the time. Famous people
died
all the time.
Not that Julian would die. MS was doable. Charlotte knew this for fact. But it was chronic, and chronic illness changed lives.
Kneeling, she wrapped her arms around Nicole, but her friend didn’t allow it for long. Pulling back, she said in a voice that was broken but urgent, her eyes a haunted green, “You can’t tell anyone, Charlotte. Promise you won’t?”