Safe Harbor (18 page)

Harrison had found a place for Kip in his firm
as an act of charity. But Kip had had every intention of earning
the right to stay there, and with one project, he’d done
that.

“I’m doing well,” Kip told Harrison over the
telephone. “How are things back in `America’?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Kip laughed. “Sorry—that’s what people on Block
Island call the mainland.”

“Maybe you’ve been there too long, if you’re
starting to speak the native tongue,” Harrison joked. “Your father
mentioned that you’ve been in touch with him and your mother every
few days. He said you told them you were getting some rest and
exercise.”

“Exercise,” Kip groaned. “I’ve been doing
repairs on his house. What he calls exercise I call cheap
labor.”

“Well, speaking of cheap labor...I’ve got a new
client I think you could do a repair on. I don’t want to rush you,
Kip—I know your situation and I want to accommodate you any way I
can. But we’ve got another of those teetery-tottery little
high-tech companies peering anxiously into the abyss. Just your
kind of thing.”

“I don’t know if it’s my kind of thing,
Harrison. I did it once, but it’s nothing like what I was doing
back in San Francisco.”

“You aren’t in San Francisco now, Kip. You’re
working for me. If you can’t handle it, fine, but if you can, I
could really use you back in the office.”

Kip turned to gaze out the window. It was
already nine-thirty. Since the mist hadn’t yet burned away, it was
likely to linger all day. It swirled above the grass in a vague,
mysterious pattern, one of Mother Nature’s glorious special
effects.

Even on gray days like this, Kip loved being on
the island. The stretch of days he’d spent here had done him good.
But maybe he’d been here long enough. Maybe the time had come to
face real life once more.

He could try, anyway. He could return to Boston
and do another wham-bang consultation for Harrison. If the walls
started to close in on him again, if his taste buds went on strike
and his ability to laugh stalled out, if he closed his eyes and saw
Amanda smiling, Amanda bleeding, Amanda’s face twisted into a
silent scream...he would jump on the next ferry out of Pt.
Judith.

The island would always be here for him when he
needed it. He had no doubt he would need it again—merely thinking
about going back to Boston cast a nebulous shadow over his mood.
But there was a limit to how long he could hide. He felt stronger
now than he had a week ago, or even a day ago.

He would try. He would go back to “America” and
try to function.

“I could be there on Monday,” he
said.

***

“I’M UNDERDRESSED,” Shelley groaned as she
stepped into the house and glimpsed the dining room.

Kip had telephoned her at the pharmacy and
informed her that he would make dinner at his house that night.
He’d wanted to do something special to celebrate their reunion and
to thank her for her friendship over the past two weeks. It would
be a festive occasion; whatever good-byes he exchanged with Shelley
wouldn’t be permanent. He would be coming back, visiting the island
again, staying in touch.

He’d spent hours
scouring the island’s shops for candles, fresh scallops, an
assortment of produce and wine. Amanda had been the gourmet cook in
their marriage, but Kip had been her willing assistant, and he’d
picked up a few skills along the way. If his attempt at
Coquille St. Jacques
wasn’t destined to win a four-star review in the press, at
least it would be reasonably palatable.

Given the ambitions of his menu, he decided the
dining room would be the appropriate setting. He covered the
ancient mahogany table with a lace cloth he’d located in one of the
breakfront drawers, and set two places with matching cloth napkins.
A pair of candlesticks flanked a vase which held the last scraggly
rose he’d found clinging to one of the bushes near the stone
wall.

Outside, the cool, humid air held the scent of
the ocean. Inside the house the air smelled of wine and butter and
herbs.

Shelley stood in the entry, her hands shoved
into the pockets of her corduroy skirt, and inspected the elegant
dining room table. “I came straight from work,” she told him. “It
was getting late, so I didn’t bother to go home and change. Which
is just as well, I suppose—if I had gone home, I probably would
have changed into jeans.” Grinning, she tore her gaze from the
dining room to study him. He had on his khakis and a crisp, fresh
shirt. On Block Island, dressing in anything fancier than that
would be absurd.

She followed him into the kitchen, where he
engaged in a flurry of final preparations: turning off burners on
the stove, lifting pot lids, stirring contents. After making the
appropriate oohs and ahhs over the feast he’d prepared, she offered
to toss the salad, but he refused to let her. “I’m the chef,” he
told her. “I’ll toss my own creations, thank you.”

She held up her hands in surrender. “Toss
away.”

He carried the salad and vinaigrette dressing
to the dining room, returned for the scallops and rice, the bottle
of Mosel and the French bread. Then, with playful gallantry, he
came back to the kitchen, bowed, and offered her his arm. She
dutifully slipped her hand around the bend in his elbow and let him
escort her to her seat.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, suspicion
filtering through her obvious delight at the elegant
meal.

“What it’s all about,” he said, “is...”
Smiling, he settled himself in the chair across from her and
considered various replies. As he did, he watched the twin flames
of the candles flicker in the breeze from the open window, shedding
their dancing golden light across her face. She returned his smile,
her eyes unwavering on him, her smile mesmerizing.

He would tell her about his plans to return to
Boston, but not yet. Not until they’d dug into their food. Not
until he’d made absolutely sure he could taste what he was eating—a
sure sign that he was truly recovered enough to leave the island.
“I felt like showing off,” he belatedly completed his
answer.

“Showing off is right. When you came to my
house for dinner I made broiled chicken.”

“It was very good broiled chicken,” he assured
her. He couldn’t resist adding, “Not as good as this is going to
be, but I’m sure you did your best.”

She wadded up her napkin, threatening to hurl
it across the table at him, then laughed and tasted a scallop.
“You’re right,” she conceded after swallowing. “You win the Block
Island cook-off. This is outstanding. When did you learn to
cook?”

“Amanda taught me.”

“She was a good teacher. This is fantastic,”
Shelley said before spearing another scallop and popping it into
her mouth.

They talked about inconsequential things during
dinner. Kip told Shelley about his continuing attempts to educate
himself about wine and Shelley confessed she still wasn’t quite
clear on the difference between Burgundy and Beaujolais. She told
him that at the University of Texas, long-neck beer was the drink
of choice and wine was considered a beverage for sissies and
Yankees--”which is redundant, since they think all Yankees are
sissies,” she explained. “The best thing about Texas, as far as I’m
concerned, is that everyone is tall there. I never feel like a
freak when I’m there.”

“You don’t feel like a freak here, do
you?”

“I used to, back at the high school in
Westport. I was taller than half the boys in my class.”

“Ah. How reassuring it must be for you to find
yourself surrounded by all those brawny beer-swigging cowboys in
Texas,” he teased.

“Believe it,” she teased right back. “You
wouldn’t catch any of those manly men of the Lone Star State
tossing their own salads.”

“The only reason I’m so liberated is because
you made me read all those girl coming-of-age novels during my
formative years.”

“For which you should thank me,” she
said.

“For which
I
do
thank you,”
he murmured, growing solemn. Dinner was winding down. Their
refilled wine glasses were already half-empty, and the candles had
shrunken to stubs. The time had come for Kip to tell her he was
leaving the island—and to tell her how much her friendship meant to
him. He didn’t want to put a damper on the evening or wax overly
sentimental, but these things had to be said.

Shelley gazed at him, her eyebrows arched with
anticipation.

He returned her gaze and felt himself relax.
With Shelley he didn’t have to panic about choosing the right words
and making the proper impression. He could say anything, and if she
misunderstood he’d say it again differently, and yet again if need
be, knowing she’d stick with him until he got his message
across.

“I’m going back to Boston this weekend,” he
said.

She gave herself a moment to digest his
announcement. Then she nodded.

“My boss wants me back at the office. He’s been
generous about letting me take off from work for a while. I don’t
want to take advantage of him.”

She smiled slightly. “You didn’t exactly take
off from work,” she reminded him. “You’ve knocked yourself out
working on the house here.”

“Busy-work,” he said, remembering that when
he’d first taken inventory of the maintenance projects that needed
doing around the house, he’d considered them little more than an
attempt to distract himself from his grief. They’d
helped.

Shelley had helped more. “I’m not going to make
a speech, Shelley. I’m not going to say good-bye. I plan to come
back to the island when I can. I like it here.”

Her smile expanded. “So do I.”

He traced the rim of his wine glass with his
index finger, searching for a way to convey his feelings without
sounding corny—and then giving up. If he sounded corny he sounded
corny. “Your friendship means a lot to me,” he said. “Without you,
I don’t know if I could have pulled myself together. I would still
be a mass of exposed nerves, fighting off the nightmares. You’ve
done so much for me, Shelley—I can’t begin to thank you. I never
want us to lose track of each other. I want you to promise you’ll
never disappear on me again. Okay?”

Shelley’s smile changed once more, becoming
softer, quieter, more profoundly felt. “I’m afraid to make a
promise like that,” she admitted, continuing before he could
protest. “But for you, I will.” She sipped her wine, then cradled
her glass in her hands, her eyes steady on him. “I don’t want your
thanks, Kip. Friendship works both ways. You’ve done a lot for me,
too.”

Her words pleased and surprised him. “What have
I done for you—other than teach you the correct way to varnish a
stairway railing?”

“You cooked me this incredible meal,” she
joked, then became serious once more. “You taught me that I’m
capable of trusting a man. You reminded me of how nice it can be to
trust someone.”

His eyes drank her in. She looked serene,
satisfied, stunningly honest. Nothing was hidden in her face,
nothing held back. Her smile was genuine, sweet and
affectionate.

He hadn’t been aware of teaching her anything.
Then again, she probably hadn’t been aware of doing anything
deliberate to help him come to terms with Amanda’s death. Their
relationship wasn’t a product of conscious effort. What they did
for each other—what they had always done for each other, even as
eight-year-old playmates so many years ago—was natural and
instinctive. They talked--and they listened. They felt each other’s
pain and shared each other’s wonder. Their friendship was built on
loyalty, humor and trust—an immeasurable degree of
trust.

“So,” he said with a wink, “thanks to me,
you’re going to give old Jack McRae of the U.S. Coast Guard another
chance?”

Shelley wrinkled
her nose. “I trust
you
, Kip. That doesn’t mean I trust everyone.”

“I’m sure I’m not the only trustworthy man in
the world.”

She snorted. “Oh, maybe there are three or four
others. But don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that the vast
majority of men in this world are creeps.”

“We’re not talking about your father, Shelley.
We’re talking about guys like me.”

“Guys like you are rare,” she argued in a calm,
matter-of-fact tone. “Believe me, I’ve looked. I’ve done my share
of dating, Kip. I’ve given it the old college try, and I’ve gotten
pressured and hoodwinked and made a fool of. I’ve never met a man I
could love and trust at the same time. If I had...” She sent him a
rueful smile. “I’d probably be with him right now.”

Her candor touched him. He had sensed
bitterness in her from the first time they talked, nibbling pizza
in the kitchen. But now he comprehended her sorrow from a new
perspective. The old saw about loving and losing hit home; he
realized that in spite of his agony over losing Amanda, he had been
lucky to experience such a marvelous love once in his life. Shelley
had never known a love like that. It didn’t seem fair.

Yet she didn’t deserve his sympathy. She’d made
her peace with the world. She’d found a solution that worked for
her. Kip couldn’t bring himself to pity her.