Safe Harbor (21 page)

Last night Kip had gone out to dinner with a
friend of a friend of his old high-school classmate. A buyer for
Jordan Marsh, Eileen was a bubbly woman, devoted to Chinese food
and sixties rock music. She had coppery red hair, pretty green eyes
and a full, almost plump figure that had tempted Kip in a supremely
healthy way. He hadn’t acted on that temptation, but the fact that
he could respond to her pleased him. He’d asked her to have dinner
with him again on Saturday night, and she’d accepted the
invitation.

He was ready to start his new life. He was
ready to take care of himself. He was ready to be a fully
functioning adult once more.

He still had black moments, flashes of Amanda
tearing across his brain, nightmares and episodes of sheer anguish.
Occasionally he found himself eating at the counter in the kitchen,
standing up, not because he lacked a dining table but because he
was lonely, because he had no one with whom to share his coffee and
bicker over the sections of the newspaper. Sometimes when he was
walking down a busy street he’d see a petite, well-dressed woman
with curly black hair and sorrow would squeeze his heart until he
was staggered by the pain.

But those times were fewer and farther between.
He had his life back. He was all right. Better than all right—he
was happy.

The night the call came, he was particularly
happy because he’d beaten the pants off Dave Alvord on the squash
court after work. Even after a year away from the game, his skills
hadn’t atrophied. He’d played aggressively, enthusiastically,
burning off the tensions of a day at work as well as other
tensions, undefined and unexamined, latent but always there. By the
time he aced his final serve he’d been too fatigued to be tense.
Dave had cheerfully called him something unprintable, and Kip had
salved Dave’s wounded pride by treating him to an iced tea in the
club’s lounge once they’d both showered and donned their street
clothes. They’d made a date for a rematch, then went their separate
ways home.

Kip bounded into his apartment, carrying his
athletic bag and racquet along with his briefcase and the letters
he’d found in his mailbox downstairs in the building’s lobby.
Tossing the athletic bag onto the kitchen counter, he flipped
through the envelopes—nothing worthy of his immediate attention—and
then pulled a beer from the top shelf of the refrigerator. He
removed the jacket of his suit, loosened his tie, rolled up the
sleeves of his shirt and strode through the living room into the
bedroom, where he kicked off his shoes.

The telephone rang. Making a mental note to buy
a phone extension for the bedroom, he returned to the living room,
lifted the telephone off the floor, flopped into the easy chair—the
only piece of furniture in the room—and answered.
“Hello?”

“Kip? It’s Shelley.”

“Shelley!” A broad grin spread across his face.
God, he missed her. He missed their daily visits, their casual
conversations, their easy camaraderie. He’d intended to give her a
call, but things had been hectic since he’d returned from Block
Island. The first few weeks, he’d spent every day at work and every
evening checking out apartments for rent. The past ten days, he’d
spent every day at work and every evening trying to turn his new
residence into something resembling a home.

He should have been in touch with Shelley,
though. If not for her—if not for Block Island, the brisk sea air,
the house-maintenance projects, the long bicycle rides but mostly
Shelley herself, her company, her gentle presence and unflagging
loyalty—he wouldn’t have made it this far. He would have still been
a basket case, drowning in self-pity, haunted by the
past.

He suffered a twinge of guilt for having
neglected her, but that didn’t diminish his delight at hearing from
her voice. “Hi!” he said. “I moved.”

“Yes, I know. I called your parents’ house, and
your mother told me.”

He took a quick sip of beer, then set the
bottle down on the floor beside the chair and gazed about the
barren room. “I’ve been meaning to phone you, but it’s been crazy.
It took me a while to find this apartment, and to get settled in...
Slowly but surely it’s all coming together.”

“Congratulations.”

“The place is a disaster. No—I mean it’s really
nice, but it’s empty. I’ve barely begun to unpack. Right now I’m
sitting in the only chair I own and staring at six unpacked cartons
lined up along the opposite wall. I think one of them contains my
CD collection, but since I haven’t got a stereo...” He settled more
comfortably into the overstuffed cushions, kicking one leg over one
of the chair’s arms and swinging his foot. Simply hearing Shelley’s
voice on the line made his apartment seem brighter, more like home.
“I felt the time had come for me to move out of my parents’ place,”
he said. “They’re wonderful—I don’t have to tell you that—but when
I got back from Block Island I just felt...ready.” He sighed. “I
should have called, Shelley.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Even so, I should have called.”

She offered no argument. Evidently she agreed
with him. He chuckled at the stubborn honesty that ruled their
friendship. One thing he could count on Shelley for was the refusal
to make excuses for his behavior.

“So you’re back at work?” she asked.

“Yes, and loving it. Harrison—my boss—stuck me
with a really screwy client. The challenge is unbelievable, but I
love it. I can walk to work from my new apartment, which is great.
I’ve got the car garaged here, but it’s only about a half-mile walk
to my office, so I commute on foot. I’m getting myself back into
shape, Shell. As a matter of fact, I just got home from a killer
squash game with a friend of mine. I’m eating better,
too.”

“Scallops in wine?” she asked.

He heard the humorous lilt in her voice; he
could picture her smile. “I wish,” he muttered with pretended
dismay. “I need some equipment for the kitchen. All I’ve got is a
skillet and two pots. But if you visit, I promise I’ll go out and
invest in some cookware. How about it?” he said, his smile
widening. The invitation had popped out unexpectedly, but as soon
as he voiced it he was thrilled. He took a sip of beer and said,
“Why don’t you come visit me in Boston? We can go to a museum, take
in a show... You can give me some advice on what kind of furniture
I should buy, and in return I’ll stuff you with gourmet cookery.
How about it?”

A long silence, and then: “I don’t think so,
Kip.”

Belatedly, it dawned on him that perhaps she
hadn’t called just to shoot the breeze with him. “What’s up?” he
asked, unconsciously sitting straighter.

“Well...” He heard the crackle of long-distance
static on the line. “I’m pregnant.”

He stared at the Georgia O’Keefe print on the
wall opposite him, a sensuous symmetrical rendering of an orchid.
He concentrated on the smooth plastic of the receiver in one hand,
the cold glass of his beer bottle in the other, the weight of the
telephone base in his lap. He listened to the silence Shelley’s
statement left in its wake.

Unable to digest what she’d said, he closed his
eyes. He expected to see Amanda, but all he saw was blackness, a
bit frightening yet at the same time curiously restful. The emotion
that jolted might have been horror or dread, or something quite
different. It was dark, elusive, portentous.

“Kip?” she said after a minute.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice a faint
rasp.

“I haven’t seen Dr. Hodge yet. I used a home
pregnancy test—we carry them at the pharmacy. It tested positive.”
She paused, giving him the opportunity to say something. He didn’t
know what to say, though. “When I go to Dr. Hodge, everyone on the
island is going to know. Everybody knows everything here, Kip, so
once I go to him it will be public knowledge. I thought...I thought
you should know first.”

Should he thank her for that courtesy? Should
he feel honored that she told him before everybody on Block Island
knew?

Jesus. What was he going to do? He’d only just
gotten back on his feet again. He’d only just started to feel his
life taking shape, falling back within his control, resembling
normality. He’d only just begun to master his destiny, to set new
goals and look toward the future with something other than anguish
or apathy.

He’d only moved into this apartment. He hadn’t
even unpacked, for God’s sake!

Why couldn’t he
get a handle on what he was feeling? Why couldn’t he clear his
head? Damn it to hell, why couldn’t he
think
?

“I assumed you’d want to know,” Shelley said,
sounding keenly disappointed.

“I do,” he insisted. “I do want to know. It’s
just...” He set down the beer, leaned forward and planted his feet
firmly on the hardwood floor in front of him, as if a more
stringent posture would clarify the situation and tell him what he
was supposed to do. “Why didn’t you say anything? That night, I
mean—before we made love. You should have told me you weren’t using
anything. You should have stopped me.”

“I couldn’t have stopped you, Kip. I couldn’t
have stopped myself.” There was no accusation in her voice, no
blame. She sounded lucid, thoughtful. “I couldn’t leave you that
night. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have gotten in my car
and driven away. But I couldn’t.” She mulled over her words. “I
said no regrets, Kip. And I meant it.”

“Not even now?”

“Not even now.” She paused again. “I want to
have the baby.”

“Okay,” he said at once. The ramifications of
her decision circled infuriatingly around his brain. He wished they
would slow down so he could grab hold of them. They were amorphous,
intangible, too fast, too fleeting. His struggle to think caused
his breath to grow short, his pulse to quicken, his head to
pound.

“I want you to
understand, Kip—that’s
my
choice. You have a choice,
too.”

“No. I mean, if you want to have the
baby—”

“No one has to know you’re the father. I can
lie. I can tell them I don’t know who the father is.”

A weak laugh escaped him. “Anyone who knows you
would never believe that.”

“It doesn’t matter whether or not anyone
believes me. What matters is, if you want me to, I’ll keep you out
of it. No one would have to know. It would be my secret.” She was
calm, blessedly calm. Obviously, she’d had more time to adjust to
the situation than he had, but he envied her her steadiness, her
resolve. “I don’t want you to feel an obligation, Kip. I’ve made my
choice, but you have the right to make your choice,
too.”

“No,” he said again, and hearing himself speak
the word so forcefully filled him with an odd, totally unjustified
satisfaction. “If you want the baby, we’ll have the baby. I’m the
father; I’m not going to run away from that.”

“Okay.”

“We could even get married if you’d like.” Why
not? They were friends. She was so considerate of him she would
willingly protect him from the consequences of his own
recklessness. She was a good person, kind and intelligent. They
trusted each other. She would never leave him in the lurch, and he
would never leave her in the lurch, either. “How about it? Would
you like to get married?”

“No,” she said with such quiet fervor he was
insulted. Marrying him wasn’t such a vile idea, was it? Her swift
rejection made it seem as if she thought he’d suggested swallowing
poison.

When she spoke again she used her calm,
rational tone. “I don’t believe in marriage, Kip. You know that. I
would never want to get married, not even because of this.
Definitely not because of this.”

“Shelley.”

“Marriage guarantees nothing. It would be
hypocritical to get married just to make things look proper. I’m
not going to become dependent on a man who doesn’t love me. That’s
not for me.”

“Shelley—”

“And anyway, you’re not ready for marriage.
That’s not what you want, or what you need. I know you’re doing
well, you’re feeling better. But you’re still in mourning for
Amanda. You’re still in love with her. You know that.”

Yes. He knew that. He wished he could swear to
Shelley that he was ready for marriage, that he did love her, that
he was over Amanda and never thought about her anymore, never
missed her, never wished to have her in his arms again.

But he couldn’t lie, not to Shelley. Her
relentless honesty compelled the same from him.

“If you won’t marry me,” he conceded, “at least
let me help out financially.”

“All right.”

“I’m the father. I want to do whatever I
can.”

“Fine.”

I’m the
father
. Why didn’t enunciating those three
words shock him? Why didn’t they shake him to his soul?
I’m the father
.

God. He was going to be a father. Shelley was
carrying his child inside her. His baby. A piece of him, living
inside her, a piece of his life.

“Shelley?”

“Yes?”

“I want to do
more than help out financially,” he heard himself say, and the
words sounded right to him, hopeful, as honest as everything that
had ever passed between them. “I want to
be
its father. I’m not sure what
that’s going to entail, but...I want to be a father to my
child.”