Free Sweet Salt Air by Barbara Delinsky

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,