Safe Harbor (27 page)

“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll get through
it somehow. There’s really nothing you could do,
anyway.”

“There’s plenty I can do, and I’ll do it,” Kip
insisted. “Trust me, Shelley. Just trust me.”

Like a woman with no memory at all, no sense of
the past, no recollection of how very hard she’d struggled to
travel solo and rely only on herself, she whispered, “I trust
you.”

***

HE HOVERED BEHIND SHELLEY while S dialed the
telephone number her father had written in his letter. He had
promised to be beside her the whole time, and that time evidently
began the moment she lifted the telephone and started to dial. It
was a Connecticut exchange; the return address on the envelope
indicated that he was living in Bridgeport.

What would her father be like? Sick, obviously,
but beyond that, what? Kip had met George Ballard only a few times,
years ago, and he remembered the man as being tall and
broad-shouldered, like Shelley, with her fair coloring. There had
been a hardness about him, the sort of laminated veneer one might
expect to find on a piece of molded Fiberglass. Mr. Ballard had
dressed well, favoring knit sport shirts with little alligators on
them, pale-hued slacks and expensive loafers.

Without being able to hear anything through the
receiver, he knew precisely the moment Shelley’s father answered
the phone. She flinched, then stiffened, tension stringing her body
as tight as a rubber band about to snap.

“Hello,” she said. “It’s Shelley.”

Kip lifted his hands to her shoulders and
massaged them, digging his fingers into the knotted
muscles.

“I got your letter,” she said into the phone.
Kip could tell from the dry, faint sound of her voice that each
word was a struggle.

He worked his hands down her back, moving his
thumbs in soothing circles on either side of her spine. Her legs
swayed beneath her, and she leaned back against him. Yes, he
thought, he wanted her to lean on him. For once in her life, he
wanted her to lean on him.

“He’s two years old. He’s—” she choked on what
sounded like a sob “—he’s fine. If you really—what? No, we’re not
married. We’re friends, Dad. You remember Kip. We’re
friends.”

Thank
you
, Kip mouthed, his lips dancing a
fraction of an inch from her hair. At least she would acknowledge
that much. He was her friend, always, forever, just as he’d sworn
one September morning when he’d discovered he was going to survive
Amanda’s death—one foggy, wondrous morning when Jamie was already
growing inside Shelley.

“Because friends don’t do to each other what
husbands and wives do. That’s why we aren’t married,” she said into
the phone, her tone becoming harsh. “Look, Dad, if you’re going
to—” She fell silent as her father spoke, then let out a small,
shivery sigh. “Okay. Look. You want to come and meet Jamie? Fine.
Come. Don’t expect any sort of welcome from me, but—”

Kip circled his arms around her waist and
hugged her. She rested against him, her head bowed. He saw a streak
of moisture on her cheek, a teardrop falling from her chin to land
on her blouse, on the soft curve of her breast.

“This weekend? I thought, maybe—when? Next
Wednesday? Wouldn’t you feel better by the weekend? Oh. I didn’t
realize... But this weekend is so...no, come if you’re coming.
You’re probably better off coming right away, before I can change
my mind.” She listened for a minute, then said, “Fine. Call me
Friday night and let me know what ferry you’re taking. I’ll pick
you up at Old Harbor.” She recited the telephone number, then
mumbled a good-bye and hung up.

Slowly, as if in a daze, she rotated in Kip’s
arms. Her body shook. He pulled her close.

He wanted to assure Shelley that in time the
pain would recede, and she would find she remembered only the happy
parts, not the anguish, not the rage. But if he told her that, she
wouldn’t believe him.

He didn’t really believe it himself. No matter
how much he loved Shelley, no matter how much he wanted to help
her, he didn’t believe in miracles.

He could offer Shelley no miracle. All he could
offer were his arms around her, holding her while she trembled and
refused to cry.

Chapter
Thirteen

SHE WENT THROUGH THE MOTIONS: processing a
month’s worth of Cyclopar 500-mg tablets for Sue Byner’s acne;
filling his-and-hers bottles of Aldomet for Ed and Lucille
Burkholtz and their matching hypertension; refilling John Rucci’s
prescription for Amphojel and Hedda Foster’s prescription for
Ativan.

Amphojel was an antacid, Ativan a tranquilizer.
Given how distraught Shelley was, she almost wished she could set
aside a few pills of each for herself.

Her father would be arriving tomorrow. She
would have preferred that he come later in the month, but the
following week he was scheduled for a round of chemotherapy, so
she’d agreed to let him come now.

She pulled an adhesive label from her computer
printer, proofread it, and affixed it to the bottle of Cyclopar.
After placing the bottle aside for Sue Byner, she left the
glassed-in drug area to ring up a candy purchase for a couple of
summer kids in swim suits and sandals. As soon as they left the
store, Shelley started back to the glass enclosure. She wanted to
lock herself inside, to hide there until Sunday night. She didn’t
want to have to leave the pharmacy, go home, wake up tomorrow and
confront the man who had ruined her life.

Before she reached the enclosure, the door at
the front of the store opened. Stepping back to the counter, she
shaped another artificial smile for the customer. The moment she
saw who it was, however, she she stopped pretending to be cheerful.
She slumped against the cash register and shoved her limp hair back
from her brow. “Hi,” she sighed as Kip sauntered down the aisle to
her.

He’d been awfully good to her since she’d
received her father’s letter, doing more than his share around the
house, keeping Jamie occupied whenever Shelley succumbed to a bad
mood. But that afternoon, with the dreaded reunion less than
twenty-four hours away, even Kip’s gentle smile and luminous brown
eyes couldn’t allay her gloominess.

“Rough one?” he asked once he reached the
counter.

She nodded sullenly. “This store needs a bigger
air conditioner. I’m burning up in here.”

Kip gave her a meaningful look. They both knew
that Shelley’s discomfort had little to do with the limited wattage
of the store’s air conditioner.

To compensate for her grumpiness, she asked,
“Has it been unbearable in the cellar? I’ve been thinking, maybe we
ought to move your office up to the attic.”

“The cellar’s fine,” he said, reaching across
the counter and taking her hand. He closed his fingers around it,
then cupped his other hand over it so his palms rounded her
knuckles. She was assailed by an unexpected memory of the agility
in his hands when he’d sanded and varnished the stairway railings
three years ago. She remembered the way his smooth businessman’s
fingers gradually acquired the rough texture of a laborer’s, the
way his skill and dexterity had illuminated hidden aspects of his
personality. She remembered the way, a couple of days later, his
hands had felt on her skin, on her body, making love to
her.

She wished his kindness during the past week
was a result of love, but she knew it was more a matter of
repayment. She had pulled him out of his despair three years ago;
now he was trying to do the same for her.

“Did you finish work early today?” she asked,
appalled by the catch in her voice. Would she ever stop dwelling on
that one extraordinary night she and Kip had made love? Would she
ever stop wanting more than he could give her? He was giving her so
much, particularly now, when her nervous system was more overheated
than the stifling summer air. She simply had to learn to stop
wanting so much.

He gave her a pensive smile. “I just got off
the phone with your father.”

Her fingers tensed within his hands. He refused
to let go. “I don’t suppose he called to cancel his trip,” she
muttered.

“He said he’s going to take the ten a.m. ferry
out of New London tomorrow. He should be arriving in Old Harbor
around noon.”

Shelley swallowed and ordered herself to nod.
Her father was truly coming. She was going to have to accept
it.

“We haven’t really worked out all the details,”
Kip noted.

“Details?” She could scarcely grasp the big
picture. How was she supposed to think about details?

“Do you want me to buy something special for
dinner tomorrow night?”

“No. I don’t care. We’ll grill hamburgers or
something.”

“Okay,” Kip agreed, still holding onto her
hand, still perusing her. “The other thing,” he said slowly, “is
the sleeping arrangements.”

“He can sleep on the couch in the living room,”
she decided. She hadn’t given much thought to it, but she couldn’t
imagine where else her father would stay, except at a
hotel.

“I think he should have my room,” Kip
suggested. “I’ll take the living room couch.”

“Absolutely not.” Her father didn’t deserve to
have people inconveniencing themselves on his behalf.

“Shelley. I know you’re angry with him, but...”
Kip paused to consider his words. “Your father isn’t young and he
isn’t well. My room is private, and he would be much more
comfortable in my bed.”

He was right, of course. She reluctantly
admitted that if she was going to extend any hospitality at all,
she might as well extend a little more and not force an ailing man
to spend the night on a sofa in the living room. “It’s not fair for
you to have to put yourself out that way, Kip,” she said. “I’ll
take the couch. My father can have my room.”

“You should be on the same floor as Jamie,” Kip
argued.

“But you shouldn’t get stuck on the
sofa.”

Kip’s eyes met hers for a moment, and then he
glanced away and shaped a lopsided grin. “Call it my punishment for
cluttering up the small bedroom with all my junk. If only I’d
gotten around to unpacking those cartons, we could have set up a
cot in there for your father.”

Shelley allowed herself an equally crooked
smile. “Your punishment has been to put up with my horrible temper
this past week.” She moved her hand within his, rotating her wrist
to lace her fingers through his. “I don’t want you stuck on the
couch,” she said.

He steered his gaze back to her, and as she
absorbed the dark beauty of his eyes, she recalled not only how
talented his hands were but how safe and comforting his embrace
could be.

“You can stay in my room,” she whispered,
lowering her gaze to their intertwined fingers.

His grip tightened on her—almost imperceptibly,
but she felt the change in him, the ripple of tension. She wondered
whether he believed she was trying to unbalance things, risking
destruction of the fragile harmony they’d worked so hard to
achieve. “What I mean,” she clarified, “is... It’s a big bed, and
it’s not—I’m not saying—”

“I know exactly what you’re saying,” he said,
his voice amiable although his grip remained numbingly
tight.

“This isn’t an—an invitation or
anything—”

“No. It’s the ravings of a desperate woman,” he
joked.

She lifted her eyes to him. His smile comforted
her. But his hand was still binding, possessive, sending a
distinctly unfunny message up her arm.

He didn’t want her, she reminded herself. He
didn’t want her that way. No doubt if she happened to be
conveniently stretched out beneath the covers beside him he
wouldn’t object to availing himself, but he didn’t want her. She
was his pal.

“You’re right,” she said, offering him a feeble
smile. “I’m desperate.”

“It’s a big bed,” he murmured. He leaned across
the counter to kiss her cheek, then let go of her hand, turned and
strode down the aisle to the door.

She watched his departure, resentful of his
easy grace, his appealing lankiness, his serene response to the
prospect of spending a night in bed with her. The tensing of his
fingers around her hand had been simply a male reflex, not an
expression of desire. He didn’t love her. He didn’t need her. She
was merely someone to talk to over dinner, someone to diaper Jamie,
someone who’d consoled him in his grief and sweated and bled so he
could have a son.

She gave her head a sharp shake. Kip didn’t
deserve that bitter judgment. He was a good man, and he was going
to help her survive the weekend, and he was going to prove himself
the ultimate gentleman—whether or not she wanted him to be one—when
he lay in bed next to her on Saturday night.

Letting out a weary breath, she moved back to
the glass enclosure, ready to measure out some more prescriptions,
resolved to stop thinking about Kip and concentrate on her father.
It was easier to focus on him. She knew what she felt about him.
The emotion was uncluttered and unmistakable.

That was the best strategy: put Kip out of her
mind and think only about how much she despised her
father.