Safe Harbor (12 page)

The bottle of aspirin slipped unnoticed from
his hand and dropped onto the counter. His attention was riveted to
the woman darting around the counter, her arms outstretched, her
face radiating a delight so contagious Kip felt a strange, wholly
unexpected surge of joy. He extended his arms and she threw herself
into them.

“Shelley,” he whispered, hugging her
hard.

She hugged him with equal force. “This is
incredible. Kip, I can’t believe it’s you! I can’t believe
it.”

“Believe it. It’s me,” he said.

She stepped back and beamed at him. For a
pregnant minute they simply stared at each other, absorbed each
other.

“You look good,” she said.

“I look like shit,” he argued.

She chuckled. “Okay. You look a little haggard.
But—I mean, God, Kip, you’ve grown up.”

“So have you.”

“On you it looks good.”

“On you, too,” he said, giving her a sweeping
assessment. Her legs were still long, her calves sleek below the
hem of her skirt. Her hips were still compact, her waist slender,
her bosom nicely proportioned. Her face had matured in a remarkable
way. There was nothing specific he could identify as a sign of
aging—no crow’s feet or frown lines—but he sensed a wisdom about
her he’d never discerned when they were kids. Her eyes were older,
somehow. They’d seen more of life, and they intrigued him as they
never had before.

“I like your new eyeglasses,” she
said.

“New?” He let out a laugh. The glasses he had
on were four years old.

“You’ve turned into a yuppie,” she added,
appraising his hand-knit sweater and tailored slacks.

“I’m afraid so.” He continued to study her
eyes, wondering what exactly they had seen, where she had been for
the past dozen years, why she had left him without saying good-bye
so many summers ago. Wondering whether it was Shelley herself or
merely the shock of seeing her that sent his mood
soaring.

What made her look good to him had less to do
with her inherent beauty than with his memory of everything she’d
once been—his companion, his critic, his sounding board and
sparring partner, his ally. His friend. Gazing into her bright eyes
he saw not only their intelligence but the trust he’d once had in
her, the affinity they’d shared, the honesty that had never, never
abandoned them in their friendship.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, realizing
at once that that was a inane thing to say.

“I work here.”

“On the island?”

“Here in the pharmacy. I’m the pharmacist.” As
if to prove it, she pointed to the name tag pinned to the breast
pocket of her jacket: Shelley Ballard, Pharmacist.

He shook his head. “Never, in my wildest
dreams, would I have predicted that you’d wind up a pharmacist. You
were supposed to be...an English teacher, right?” Just before she’d
dropped out of his life she had loaded him up with all those novels
from the library, he recalled. Excellent novels. She’d known what
she was doing when she’d recommended them.

“Well...” Her smile took on a certain
poignancy. “Things worked out differently. But tell me, are you
staying long? I guess your folks’ house is empty now, isn’t it?
Jean Sanderson usually closes things up right after Labor
Day.”

Kip frowned. “Who?”

“Jean Sanderson. She’s a realtor here. She
oversees a lot of summer rentals, including your parents’ house.”
Shelley grinned. “I’m a year-rounder now, Kip. I don’t know the
summer people anymore, but I know the islanders.”

“How long have you been living
here?”

“Three years,” she told him. “Jean says your
folks have been to the house a few times in the past several years,
but I’ve never seen them. Since I’m working and all... You haven’t
been on the island recently, have you? If you were here and I
missed you I’d die.”

A quiet laugh filled his throat. In their youth
she had always been threatening to die over some minor
embarrassment or mishap. “No,” he assured her, the urge to laugh
fading as his heart filled with an aching nostalgia for those
simple days, when all he knew of death was Shelley’s melodramatic
declarations. “I was living out in California until a few months
ago.”

“California! Oh, how exciting! I’ve never been
to California.”

Lord. This was really Shelley. He was actually
standing two feet from her, talking to her, gazing at her, inhaling
her faint honey-sweet fragrance. “Why are you here?” he asked,
regretting at once the accusing undertone in his voice. More
gently, he said, “I mean here, on Block Island? Back then, Shelley,
you just—one day you just disappeared, and...” He realized he was
stammering and shut up.

Her smile expanded and at the same time grew
pensive. “It’s a long story,” she said.

“I’d like to hear it.”

She glanced away. “I’ve got to work. I’m taking
inventory. When you’ve got to order everything from the mainland it
can get tense if the stocks dwindle.”

“Maybe we could have dinner tonight,” he
suggested.

She brightened. “That would be great. Where
should we go?”

“Anywhere. You decide.”

“I close up here around five-thirty. We could
meet at a restaurant at six, or...do you want me to pick you up? Or
you can pick me up. Whatever is easiest for you.”

“I’ll pick you up. Where do you
live?”

“A few blocks from here, on Spring Street. I’ve
got an apartment in a two-family house. Let me write down the
address.” She pulled a blank receipt from a pad on the counter and
scribbled her address and telephone number. Then she tore the sheet
from the pad and pressed it into Kip’s hand. “This is fantastic,
Kip. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” he
said.

She clasped his hands in hers. “Six o’clock,
then,” she confirmed. Her hands felt slim in his, cool and smooth.
Abruptly she arched her eyebrows and looked down at his left hand.
Her thumb rested against his ring finger--against the plain gold
band circling it. “You’re married!” she exclaimed clapping her
hands together in jubilation. “Oh, Kip, how wonderful! You’re
married! Why didn’t you say something? Is your wife here with you?
Oh, please—bring her along for dinner. I want to meet her...” She
tapered off, her exuberance draining away as she gazed into his
face and saw the stark sorrow he knew couldn’t hide.

He hadn’t gotten around to removing his wedding
ring yet. He couldn’t bring himself to take it off. He should, he
had to—but he couldn’t. Taking it off would be like an
amputation.

“I’m not married,” he told her, his voice low
and strained.

Shelley’s arms dropped to her sides. “Oh,” she
said uncertainly, her gaze lingering on his left hand.

He struggled to reclaim the happiness he’d
experienced at finding her here, but it seemed permanently gone.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking away. “I—I don’t think—I’m not
quite up to going out to a restaurant for dinner,” he said. “I’m
sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she said, obviously
bewildered. “Some other time, maybe.”

“No.” Suddenly it was imperative that he make
things clear to her. He wanted her company; he wanted to learn why
she’d left his world so long ago, what had happened to her, what
had brought her back to Block Island. He wanted her friendship once
more.

But he didn’t think he could survive a fancy
dinner at a restaurant, where he would have to dress smartly and
act suavely and contend with the presence of other suave, smartly
dressed diners seated at tables all around him. “Look, I—” he took
a deep breath. “I haven’t got much, but if you’d like to come up to
the house, we could throw together some sandwiches.”

She gazed into his eyes. “If you don’t want
to—”

“I do want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

She smiled slightly. “How about if I come up to
the house and bring a pizza?”

“Even better,” he said.

She stared at him for a minute longer. Then,
with a swift glance at his wedding band, she moved back around the
counter to the cash register. “I’ll ring this up for you,” she
said, righting the bottle of aspirin and scanning it into the cash
register.

He noticed the concentration in her face, the
confusion that haunted her eyes for a moment and then vanished
behind a carefully wrought mask of brisk competence. She was
pulling back from him, withdrawing, interpreting his reticence as a
lack of candor on his part.

She slid the aspirin bottle into a paper bag
and handed it to him. Her eyes met his and he saw in them doubt,
distrust and something else he couldn’t interpret. “Eight dollars
and forty-seven cents,” she said.

He gave her a ten dollar bill and she gave him
his change. “I really want you to come to the house,” he
swore.

Her gaze held his. “I’ll be there,” she
promised.

“You remember where it is, don’t
you?”

“I could find it with my eyes
closed.”

He studied her face, reveling in its blessed
familiarity. Something had happened to her twelve summers ago,
something significant, something that had altered her existence
forever. Something just as traumatic had happened to him. If anyone
would understand what he’d been through, Shelley would.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

Her eyes shimmered with tears but she didn’t
look away. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured, then
turned and walked down the aisle to the front door. He didn’t want
to watch her cry, not here, not in this public place, surrounded by
jars of acne cream and boxes of gauze.

“I’ll see you,” she echoed, her voice softer
than a whisper.

He barely heard her words, but he felt them
deep in his heart. And for the first time in ages, he found himself
looking forward to dinner.

Chapter Six

HE WAS IN THE CUPOLA when she showed up. The
glass in his hand was full; he’d already polished off one dose of
bourbon and was starting on his second. For better or worse, the
liquor had had no effect on him so far.

He’d arrived at the house besieged by
conflicting emotions. The place looked well-maintained, the lawn
trimmed, the trees pruned and the rose and honeysuckle bushes
trailing decoratively over the stone walls. The house’s exterior
must have been painted within the previous year; salty sea breezes
could destroy a paint job with ruthless dispatch, but the clapboard
siding and gingerbread trim looked clean and fresh. He cruised up
the driveway past the house to the detached garage, left the engine
running while he opened the padlock that held the doors shut, and
drove in.

He told himself, again and again, that coming
here was a good idea. He chanted the words like a mantra, waiting
for the moment when he would start to believe them. As soon as he
crossed the threshold into the front hall, though, apprehension
clutched him by the throat.

Coming here was not a good idea. This was a
place of happiness, not mourning. It was a place of joyful
memories. He felt like a trespasser, polluting the atmosphere with
his grief.

Setting down his suitcase and the bag of
groceries in the entry, he wandered into the living room. His gaze
traveled from the fireplace to the framed print of a Winslow Homer
seascape above it, from the overstuffed sofa where his mother used
to stretch out, listening to her beloved Handel and Bach on the
stereo, to the ancient rocking chair where his grandmother used to
doze.

His grandmother had passed away three and a
half years ago. Although she’d been eighty-eight years old her
death had pained Kip. He’d consoled himself with the knowledge that
she’d lived a rich life bursting with experience and surrounded by
love.

Amanda had been surrounded by love, too. But
she hadn’t gotten her full allotment of experience. She had only
just begun to live her life.

He hurried out of the room, stopped to retrieve
the groceries, and went into the kitchen. Again his vision drank in
not just the scene itself but the memories that haunted it. He
surveyed the windowed cabinets, the deep double-basin sink, the
door to the pantry, the marble-topped counters. He remembered
sitting on one of those counters, munching on an apple and swinging
his feet until his mother yelled at him for scuffing the cabinet
with his shoes. He remembered sneaking up on Diana when she was
seated at the circular table in the walk-out bay and shoving an
ice-cube down the back of her shirt. He remembered gobbling his
breakfast and then tearing out the back door, eager to join Shelley
for a day of adventure.

Amanda would have loved this room. She would
have loved the high ceilings, the scent of cinnamon that hung in
the air, the spring latches that held the cabinets shut, the
black-and-white checkerboard tiles covering the floor. She would
have loved spreading out her cooking paraphernalia on the spacious
counters, cluttering every available surface as she made stuffed
chicken breasts or Creole shrimp. She had always complained about
the cramped size of the kitchen in their Pacific Heights
apartment.