Safe Harbor (26 page)

“We home,” he declared happily. “Can I habba
ride?”

“What’s the magic word?” Kip prompted
him.

“Pleeeeee.”

“Okay. Hop aboard,” said Kip, standing and
setting the spread sheets on his desk.

Jamie clambered onto the chair and let out an
anticipatory squeal of delight. “Fast, Daddy, fast!” he demanded as
Kip began to swivel the chair around.

Kip spun Jamie until his laughter filled the
room, echoing off the hard concrete walls and floor. After a minute
Kip was as breathless as Jamie, simply from laughing along with
him. He slowed the chair to a halt and hoisted Jamie high into the
air. “How’re you doing, sport?”

“I have dizz!”

“You’re dizzy?”

“Lotsa dizz!”

Kip gave him a hug, then balanced him more
comfortably in the crook of his elbow. “Where’s Mommy?”

“Upstairs.”

“Let’s go find her.” Kip turned off the
fluorescent desk lamp, pushed his chair into the well of his desk,
and crossed to the outside steps to turn off the fan. Once he’d
locked the bulkhead door, he carried Jamie up the inner stairs,
shouting, “Mommy? Where’s Mommy? Here come two hungry boys, and we
want to eat!”

“We eat!” Jamie chorused. “Boys wanna
eat!”

They found Shelley in the kitchen, seated at
the table with her back to the door. Her purse and white jacket lay
on the chair next to her. She didn’t move, didn’t turn, didn’t say
hello.

Jamie continued to squawk about eating, but Kip
sobered at once. He lowered Jamie to his feet and circled the table
carefully, aware from the tension in Shelley’s shoulders and the
arch of her spine that something was gravely wrong.

She looked up when he reached the opposite side
of the table. A white sheet of paper covered with a slanting
handwriting lay before her. Beside it lay a torn envelope. Kip
recognized it—he’d pulled it from the mailbox a half hour ago.
Shelley’s hands were clasped together on the table next to the
letter, her fingers woven into a bloodless clench.

Kip lifted his gaze from the letter to her
face. She was pale, her eyes glassy, her lips pressed together as
if to contain her emotions. Rage? he wondered. Anguish? Sorrow? He
couldn’t guess.

“Shell?” he asked softly.

“We eat!” Jamie bellowed as he marched around
the room. “Boys wanna eat!”

“Yes—yes, of course,” Shelley said, breaking
from Kip’s inquisitive stare. “Let’s eat.”

“I’ll make dinner,” he suggested. She was
clearly in no condition to prepare a meal.

She steered her gaze back to him, revealing a
glimmer of gratitude along with her agitation. “I’d like to go
upstairs and change, and then I’ll help you.”

“Take your time.”

Sending him a grateful nod, she folded the
sheet of stationery meticulously along its creases, slid it back
into the envelope, stood and left the kitchen, carrying the letter
with her.

“I hep,” Jamie offered, to Kip’s combined
amusement and alarm. When Jamie “hepped” in the kitchen, Kip
generally wound up working twice as hard to get a meal
ready.

The turkey-burgers were grilled and on the
table before Shelley returned to the kitchen. She refused a roll,
poked at her burger with the tines of her fork, sipped her lemonade
and stared into space. While engaging Jamie in an assortment of
nonsensical dialogues, Kip allowed one part of his mind to focus on
her. He longed to question her about the letter she’d received, but
he didn’t want to pry. She was obviously upset about it. He wished
she trusted him enough to confide in him.

After dinner, he offered to handle Jamie’s bath
and bedtime, and Shelley accepted. Jamie splashed in the tub,
attacked Kip with his ducky, refused to sit on the potty and then
peed all over the bathroom floor while Kip was getting a fresh
diaper from the nursery. While Kip mopped the floor Jamie
attempted, with less than stellar success, to apply a dab of
toothpaste to his brush. While Kip scrubbed the toothpaste off the
wall, Jamie raced up and down the hall, his towel draped over his
shoulders like a cape, and shouted, “Soo-pa-man!”

Through it all, no sign of Shelley.

By the time Jamie was tucked into his crib Kip
was tired enough to lie down next to him and nod off. Instead, he
kissed his son’s soft, clean cheek, turned on the night light and
left the nursery. He went downstairs, checking every room, the
front veranda and the back deck, knowing even as he searched for
Shelley that he wouldn’t find her there. He still had no idea what
was in the letter she’d received, but he knew where she’d go to
think about it.

He pulled two beers from the refrigerator,
opened them, and climbed the stairs to the cupola.

***

SHE FONDLED THIS LETTER as she had the one
she’d received so many years ago. She touched the paper now exactly
as she had then, explored its texture, memorized its surface with
her fingertips. She studied the militant scrawl of the penmanship,
the indentations the ball-point had etched into the stationery. One
thing was different, though: this time she knew better than to
believe a single word of it.

A bilious taste filled her mouth, and she tried
to swallow it down. How could he do this? Everything was going
smoothly in her life. She and Kip had succeeded in creating a home
for their child. The pharmacy’s business was strong, and so,
apparently, was Kip’s consulting enterprise. Other than the daily
joy Jamie brought her, her existence had no significant peaks, but
it had no deep valleys, either. She was getting along, enjoying the
undemanding pace of her days.

She asked for nothing more. How dare he ask so
much of her?

She heard the footsteps in the attic. Of course
Kip would know to look for her here. She assumed that if he was
coming after her Jamie must be asleep. And while she wasn’t sure
she was willing to talk about the letter—

No. She
was
willing to talk
about it. The only person she’d told about the last letter was Kip.
Now he was with her again, and she would talk to him again, like
old times. He was here, and for this one evening, when she was just
moments from disintegrating, she would pretend he was the same
friend now as he’d been so many years ago.

He entered through the trap door and handed her
a cold bottle of beer. She smiled at his thoughtfulness.
Remembering to leave the door open, he took his usual seat in the
corner diagonally across from her. He lifted his own beer in a
silent toast and drank.

Shelley took a sip of her beer, then touched
the icy glass of the bottle to her forehead and cheeks to cool off
her feverish skin. Lowering the bottle to her lap, she noticed Kip
watching her. He said nothing, but his dark eyes were full of
questions.

“It’s my father,” she finally said.

“That would have been one of my guesses,” he
admitted.

“I haven’t heard from him in almost fifteen
years.”

“And now he’s hoping for a
reconciliation?”

“He’s dying,” she said.

An instant of horror flashed across Kip’s face,
and then he let out a long sigh. She knew he was reliving his own
grievous experience with death—but he shouldn’t be. What she felt
for her father was nothing like what Kip must have felt when Amanda
had died. Kip had lost his woman. His wife. His one true
love.

Shelley, on the other hand, despised her
father. In her heart, he’d died long ago. She was all done mourning
for him.

“He has pancreatic cancer,” she told Kip. “His
doctors are treating him with chemotherapy, but his prospects are
pretty grim.”

“Shelley—whatever you think of him, it’s a sad
thing,” Kip said. “You’re allowed to feel sorry for
him.”

“Thanks,” she snapped, then suffered a pang of
remorse. Kip didn’t deserve her wrath. She closed her eyes and
turned away, wishing she could use her bottle of beer to cool off
her temper the way she’d cooled off her cheeks.

The dark slashes
of her father’s handwriting hurtled through her mind, words she’d
read enough times to commit to memory:
I
know you hate me, and I deserve no better.... I have paid for my
mistakes in more ways than you will ever know.... Prison was
nothing compared to losing the respect of my daughter.... I’ve
tracked down your mother, and she’s told me about
you....

“He wants to visit,” Shelley informed Kip in a
tone devoid of anger—devoid of life. The only way she could cope
with her father was to remain numb.

“Oh?”

“He found out about Jamie. He wants to meet his
grandson before he dies.”

Kip didn’t speak. The setting sun imbued his
face with intriguing shadows. Behind the lenses of his glasses his
eyes glowed with sympathy; the light’s angle emphasized the strong,
square line of his jaw. His lips curved in an enigmatic half-smile
that revealed no hint of his thoughts.

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Shelley
continued, struggling to vocalize feelings that hadn’t yet
solidified in her mind. “It’s not my father. I don’t give a damn
whether he gets to meet his grandson or not. He doesn’t have the
right to ask me for any favors.”

Still Kip remained silent, drinking his beer
and scrutinizing Shelley through the thickening gloom, listening
without judging her.

“It’s Jamie,” she explained. “How can I foist a
total stranger on Jamie? He already has a Grampa. He loves your
father, Kip. I don’t even know my father anymore. How can I force
Jamie to accept him? Why should I?”

Kip’s gaze softened. He extended his hand, and
for that one instant Shelley decided to believe their friendship
was everything it used to be. She placed her hand inside his and
let him pull her across the tiny room, into his arms.

His chest was warm and secure, a solid cushion
for her throbbing head. The comfort of his embrace and the soothing
sensation of his long, graceful fingers twirling through her hair
almost dispelled the oppressive doom that threatened to descend
upon her.

“Is it really Jamie you’re worried about?” he
asked quietly.

She closed her eyes again, longing to let Kip
take care of everything. For once in her life, she wished she could
give in to helplessness and become dependent on a man. She wished
Kip loved her, not just as a friend or as Jamie’s mother, but truly
loved her, the way he had loved his wife. If only he did, she might
be able to yield control to him, let him write a response to her
father, let him decide what was good or bad for Jamie.

But that wasn’t the way it was, and she wasn’t
going to yield control. “No,” she answered in a weary voice. “I
mean, yes, I am worried about Jamie. But...it’s me. I can’t give my
father anything. I can’t even think about him without
hurting.”

Kip’s fingers continued to meander through the
soft, silky waves of her hair. “Is he asking you to forgive
him?”

“No.” Her father’s letter had contained
confession and penitence, but no plea for forgiveness.

“It’s your decision,” Kip murmured, his words
washing down over her head like bathwater, calm and cleansing. “You
have to do what’s right for you.”

“I don’t want to see him,” she
declared.

Kip stroked her hair in silence.

She resented him for leaving her words
unchallenged. They hung in the air, petty and spiteful. If her
father were a stranger suffering from cancer, Shelley would treat
him with greater charity. But because he was her father she felt no
sadness at his suffering.

Kip had once accused her of being a lady with a
long memory. A long memory and a big grudge.

“Even if I did let him come,” she muttered, “I
sure as hell wouldn’t forgive him.”

“Does that mean you’re going to tell him he can
come?”

“All I said was I wouldn’t forgive
him.”

“No,” Kip argued gently. “That’s not all you
said.”

A tear leaked out of her eye and she hastily
wiped it away. She wasn’t going to cry in front of Kip. Now, more
than ever, she had to present herself as tough and indomitable. In
her youth she might have let Kip witness her tears, but not
anymore. Not since she’d learned that no man—especially not her
father—was worth shedding tears over.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” Kip reminded
her.

“I know.” Her voice emerged faint and hoarse
from her effort to stifle her bitterness and the unexpected, very
real fear she felt at the comprehension that her father was
actually dying. “If I don’t let him come, Kip...” A shaky sigh
escaped her. “I don’t want him to come, but if I don’t let him meet
his grandchild before he dies, I’ll never forgive
myself.”

She couldn’t see Kip’s face, but she could
picture his smile. She could feel his slight nod of approval, the
shift of his shoulders, the constant beat of his heart as she
nestled her head against his chest.

“I’ll be right beside you the whole time,” he
promised in a low, earnest tone. “I’ll do whatever I can to
help.”