Safe Harbour (11 page)

“Why don't you do that yourself?” She smiled. She had enjoyed the time she'd spent talking to him, and she wasn't sorry she had told him about Chad. It was an insight into Pip as well for him, she liked him so much, it seemed important to Ophélie to let him know how brave her daughter had been, how much she'd been through, and what she had lost. Heavy baggage for a child to carry, and for Ophélie too, and he had his too, far more than she knew. At a certain age, no matter who it was, people had baggage and wounds and scars and lives that had hurt or sometimes even broken them. No one ever went unscathed, sometimes even a child Pip's age. Ophélie liked to think that it would make Pip stronger in the end, and more caring perhaps, she just wasn't sure anymore what it would do to her. The pattern of scars on anyone's soul determined who they were. Sometimes it enriched the spirit, and sometimes it broke it. The secret of life seemed to be surviving the damage, and wearing the scars well. But in reality, no heart went unscathed. Life itself was all too real. And in order to love someone, whether lover or friend, one had no choice but to be real.

“I'll give Pip a call,” Matt said in response to what she'd said. He felt badly that he hadn't called yet. But he didn't want to intrude on Ophélie.

“Why don't you come to dinner tonight? The food is terrible, but I know she'd enjoy seeing you, and so would I.” It was the nicest invitation he'd had in years, and he smiled.

“I'd like that. Are you sure it's not too much trouble?”

“On the contrary. We'd love it. In fact, I think I'll keep it a surprise for Pip, if you can come. How about seven o'clock?” The invitation was entirely innocent and ingenuous. She liked talking to him, just as Pip did.

“That sounds perfect. Can I bring anything? Pencils? Wine? An eraser?” She laughed at him, but it gave him an idea.

“Just bring yourself. Pip will be thrilled.” He didn't add “me too,” but he wanted to, and felt like a kid. They were nice people, two very nice people, who'd survived an incredible lot of heartache, tragedy, and grief. He had all the more respect for both of them the more he knew, especially after today. What she had told him about her son sounded like an agonizing ordeal.

“See you later, then,” he said with a smile, and she waved as she headed back up the beach, and as he watched her, he couldn't help thinking again how much she reminded him of Pip.

7

P
IP WAS LYING ON THE COUCH LOOKING BORED, WITH
her foot on a pillow, when the doorbell rang. Ophélie went to answer it, she knew who it would be. He was right on time, and when she opened the door, Matt was standing there in a gray turtleneck and jeans, holding a bottle of wine. Ophélie put a finger to her lips and pointed toward the couch. And with a broad smile, he walked in. And when Pip saw him, she squealed with delight and hopped off the couch on one foot.

“Matt!” She looked from him to her mother, immensely pleased, with no idea how the surprise had come about. “How did… what …” She was delighted and confused.

“I ran into your mom on the beach today, and she was nice enough to invite me to join you for dinner. How's the foot?”

“Really dumb. It's a stupid foot, and I'm tired of it. I miss drawing with you.” She had done a lot of sketches on her own, but she was getting tired of that too, and felt as though her newfound skills had regressed. She had had trouble with the hind section on a drawing of Mousse just that afternoon. “I forgot how to do back legs.”

“I'll show you again,” and as he said it, he handed her a brand-new sketch pad, and a box of colored pencils he had found in a drawer. It was just what the doctor ordered, and she pounced on them with glee.

As they chatted, Ophélie set the table for the three of them, and opened the bottle of very nice French wine. Although she seldom drank, it was one that she liked and reminded her of France.

She had put a chicken in the oven, and in a very short time, cooked some asparagus and wild rice, and made hollandaise. It was the most elaborate culinary effort she'd made in a year. And she'd enjoyed doing it.

Matt was impressed when they sat down to dinner, and so was Pip. She laughed at her mom.

“No frozen pizza tonight?”

“Pip, please! Don't give away all my secrets.” Ophélie smiled at her.

“It's the mainstay of my diet too. That and instant soup.” Matt grinned. He looked handsome and well groomed as he sat with them, there was a faint whiff of male cologne, and more than anything, he looked fresh and wholesome and real. Ophélie had combed her hair for him, and was wearing a black cashmere sweater and jeans. She hadn't worn makeup or color all year and didn't tonight. She had been wearing formal mourning for Ted and Chad. But for the first time, she wondered if she should have at least put on lipstick. She hadn't even brought any to the beach. It was all in a drawer somewhere at home. For the last ten months, she hadn't cared if she never wore it again. It seemed irrelevant now. Or had, until tonight. Not that she was wooing him, but she at least felt like looking like a woman again. The robot she had become in the past year was slowly coming back to life.

The three of them enjoyed a lively conversation through dinner. They talked about Paris, and art, and school. Pip said she wasn't looking forward to going back. She was turning twelve in the fall and entering seventh grade. And when asked, she told Matt she had a lot of friends, but she felt weird with them now. A lot of her friends' parents were divorced, but no one had lost a father. She didn't want people to feel sorry for her, and she knew some of them did. She said she didn't want them to be “too nice,” because it made her sad. She didn't want to feel different. And he knew it was inevitable that she would. “I can't even go to the father-daughter dinner,” she said plaintively. “Who would I take?” Her mother had thought of it too, and had no solution to the dilemma. She had taken Chad once when her father couldn't go. But now she couldn't take him either.

“You can take me, if you want,” Matt offered sincerely, and then glanced at Ophélie. “If your mother doesn't object. There's no reason why you can't take a friend, unless you can take your mom. You could do that too, you don't have to follow the rules. A mom is as good as a dad.”

“They won't let you do that, someone else tried last year,” which seemed pathetically limited to him. But she looked delighted at the prospect of taking Matt, and her mother nodded approval.

“That would be very nice of you, Matt,” she said quietly, and then brought out dessert. All they had was ice cream in the freezer, and she had melted some chocolate and poured it on the vanilla bean ice cream Pip loved. It had been Ted's favorite too. She and Chad were addicted to Rocky Road. It was odd how even favorite ice cream flavors were sometimes dictated by genes. She had noticed that before.

“When is the father-daughter dinner?” Matt inquired.

“Sometime before Thanksgiving.” Pip looked thrilled.

“Tell me when, and I'll be there. I'll even wear a suit.” He hadn't done that in years either. He lived in jeans and old sweaters, and the occasional worn tweed jacket left over from the old days. He didn't need suits anymore. He didn't go anywhere, and hadn't had or wanted a social life in years. Once in a while, an old friend came over from the city to have dinner with him, but less and less. He had been out of the loop for a long time, and liked it that way. He was enjoying being a recluse. And no one argued with him about it anymore. They just figured that was who he was, and had become.

Pip stayed and chatted with them until long after her bedtime, and finally she began to yawn. She said she could hardly wait to get her stitches out at the end of the week, but was annoyed that she would have to wear shoes on the beach for another week afterward.

“Maybe you could ride Mousse,” Matt teased, and she came back in her pajamas a few minutes later to say goodnight to them both. They were sitting on the couch, and Matt had lit a fire. It was a warm, cozy scene, and Pip looked happy when she left them and went to bed, happier than she had been in a long time. And so did Ophélie. There was something very comfortable about having a man around. His male presence seemed to fill the entire house. Even Mousse looked up from time to time, and wagged his tail, where he lay by the fire.

“You're very blessed,” he said quietly to Ophélie, after she had gently closed Pip's door so they didn't keep her up. The house had only a large living room, an open kitchen and dining room, and their two bedrooms. It all seemed to blend together, no one wanted privacy or grandeur at the beach. But the decor was very nice. The owners had some lovely things, and some very handsome modern paintings, which Matt said he liked. “She's a terrific kid.” He was crazy about her, and she always reminded him of his own. But he wasn't even sure his own children would have been as open, as wise, or as adult. And he had no idea who they were now. They were Hamish's now, and no longer his. Sally had seen to that.

“Yes, she is. We're very lucky we have each other.” She thanked God again that Pip hadn't been on the plane too. “She's all I have. My parents died years ago, and so did Ted's. We were both only children. All I have are some second cousins in France, and an aunt I never liked and haven't seen in years. I like taking Pip back there, to keep her in touch with her French roots, but there's no one we're really close to. It's just us.”

“Maybe that's enough,” he said quietly. He didn't even have that. And like her, he was an only child, and had become solitary over the years. He didn't even have close friends anymore. During the bad years after the divorce, the friendships had been too hard to maintain, and like Pip, he didn't want people feeling sorry for him. What had happened with Sally had just been too tough. “Do you have a lot of friends, Ophélie? In San Francisco, I mean.”

“Some. Ted wasn't very sociable. He was very much a loner, and completely engrossed in his work. And he expected me to be there for him. I wanted to be. But it made it hard to keep friendships. He never really wanted to see people, only work. I have one woman friend I'm very close to, but other than that, I lost touch with a lot of people over the years, because of Ted. And Chad became all-consuming in the last few years. I never knew what was going to happen, if he would be bouncing off the walls, or too depressed for me to leave. He became a pretty full-time job at the end.” She had had her hands full between him, Ted, and Pip. And now her hands were emptier than they had been for years, except for Pip, who didn't need much from her. Although the little she did need, Ophélie hadn't been able to deliver. She felt a little better now, after the summer at the beach, and she was hoping she would improve further in the coming months. She had felt utterly disconnected for the past ten months, but the connections were slowly forming again. The robot she had become was nearly humanoid again, but not quite. But there were clearly indications of returning life, and even the fact that she had invited Matt to dinner, and was willing to extend a hand of friendship to him, and take his in exchange, was a good sign.

“What about you?” she asked him with curiosity. “Do you see a lot of friends in town?”

“None,” he said with a small smile. “I've been very bad at that, for nearly ten years. I ran an ad agency in New York with my wife, and we got tangled up in a pretty ugly divorce. We sold the business, and I decided to come out here. I lived in the city then, and I took a little bungalow out here to paint on the weekends. And then, just when you think things won't get worse, they did. She was living in New Zealand, and I was trying to commute to see my kids, which is pretty hard to do. I had no home turf there. I stayed at a hotel, I even got an apartment at one point, but I was very much the fifth wheel. She married a great guy, a friend of mine, who loved my kids, about nine years ago, and they were crazy about him. He's very much a man's man, lots of money, lots of toys. Four kids of his own, they had two more. My kids got completely absorbed in their combined family, and they loved it. I can't blame them, it was pretty appealing.

“After a while, whenever I got to Auckland, they didn't have time to see me, they wanted to be with their friends. As they say in your country, I felt like hair on the soup.” She smiled at the familiar expression, and understood the feeling. Sometimes she had felt like hair on the soup in Ted's busy, scientific life. Out of place. Superfluous, except as a possession he owned but didn't need. Obsolete.

“That must have been hard for you,” she said sympathetically, touched by the look of loss in his eyes. He was a man who had known pain, and had survived. He had made his peace with it, but like everyone else, at a price. A high price.

“It was hard,” he said honestly. “Very. I kept at it for four years. The last few times I went out there, I hardly saw them, and Sally explained that I was disrupting their life. She thought I should only come out when they wanted to see me, which of course was almost never. I called a lot, and they were busy. And eventually, I wrote and they didn't answer. They were only seven and nine when she remarried, and she had the other babies in the first two years they were married. My kids got swept up in her new family. I felt in a way as though I was making things harder for them. I did a lot of soul-searching, and it was probably stupid, but I wrote to them and asked them what they wanted. They never answered. I didn't hear from them for a year, but I kept writing. I figured, if they wanted to see me, they'd ask me to come out. And I have to confess, I drank a lot that year. I wrote to them for three years and heard nothing. And Sally told me in no uncertain terms that they no longer wanted to see me and were afraid to say so. That was three years ago, and I haven't written since. I finally gave up. And I haven't seen or heard from them in six years. My only contact with them is the support checks I still send Sally. And the Christmas card she sends me every year. I never wanted to confront them about seeing me. They know where I am if they want me. But sometimes I've thought that I should have gone out there and discussed it with them. I didn't want to put them on the spot. Sally was so emphatic about how they felt. They were only ten and twelve the last time I saw them, more or less Pip's age, that's a tough age to have to be brave enough to tell your father to get lost. Their silence did that. It was enough. I understand. So I bowed out.