Safe Haven (2 page)

2

T
he next morning, Katie stepped onto the porch with a cup of coffee, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet, and leaned against the railing. Lilies sprouted amid the wild grass in what once was a flower bed, and she raised the cup, savoring the aroma as she took a sip.

She liked it here. Southport was different from Boston or Philadelphia or Atlantic City, with their endless sounds of traffic and smells and people rushing along the sidewalks, and it was the first time in her life that she had a place to call her own. The cottage wasn’t much, but it was hers and out of the way and that was enough. It was one of two identical structures located at the end of a gravel lane, former hunting cabins with wooden-plank walls, nestled against a grove of oak and pine trees at the edge of a forest that stretched to the coast. The living room and kitchen were small and the bedroom didn’t have a closet, but the cottage was furnished, including rockers on the front porch, and the rent was a bargain. The place wasn’t decaying, but it was dusty from years of neglect, and the landlord offered to buy the supplies if Katie was willing to spruce it up. Since she’d moved in, she’d spent much of her free time on all fours or standing on chairs, doing exactly that. She scrubbed the bathroom until it sparkled; she washed the ceiling with a damp cloth. She wiped the windows with vinegar and spent hours on her hands and knees, trying her best to remove the rust and grime from the linoleum in the kitchen. She’d filled holes in the walls with Spackle and then sanded the Spackle until it was smooth. She’d painted the walls in the kitchen a cheery yellow and put glossy white paint on the cabinets. Her bedroom was now a light blue, the living room was beige, and last week, she’d put a new slipcover on the couch, which made it look practically new again.

With most of the work now behind her, she liked to sit on the front porch in the afternoons and read books she’d checked out from the library. Aside from coffee, reading was her only indulgence. She didn’t have a television, a radio, a cell phone, or a microwave or even a car, and she could pack all her belongings in a single bag. She was twenty-seven years old, a former long-haired blond with no real friends. She’d moved here with almost nothing, and months later she still had little. She saved half of her tips and every night she folded the money into a coffee can she kept hidden in the crawl space beneath the porch. She kept that money for emergencies and would rather go hungry than touch it. Simply the knowledge that it was there made her breathe easier because the past was always around her and might return at any time. It prowled the world searching for her, and she knew it was growing angrier at every passing day.

“Good morning,” a voice called out, disrupting her thoughts. “You must be Katie.”

Katie turned. On the sagging porch of the cottage next door, she saw a woman with long, unruly brown hair, waving at her. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and wore jeans and a button-up shirt she’d rolled to her elbows. A pair of sunglasses nested in tangled curls on her head. She was holding a small rug and she seemed to be debating whether or not to shake it before finally tossing it aside and starting toward Katie’s. She moved with the energy and ease of someone who exercised regularly.

“Irv Benson told me we’d be neighbors.”

The landlord, Katie thought. “I didn’t realize anyone was moving in.”

“I don’t think he did, either. He about fell out of his chair when I said I’d take the place.” By then, she’d reached Katie’s porch and she held out her hand. “My friends call me Jo,” she said.

“Hi,” Katie said, taking it.

“Can you believe this weather? It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

“It’s a beautiful morning,” Katie agreed, shifting from one foot to the other. “When did you move in?”

“Yesterday afternoon. And then, joy of joys, I pretty much spent all night sneezing. I think Benson collected as much dust as he possibly could and stored it at my place. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like in there.”

Katie nodded toward the door. “My place was the same way.”

“It doesn’t look like it. Sorry, I couldn’t help sneaking a glance through your windows when I was standing in my kitchen. Your place is bright and cheery. I, on the other hand, have rented a dusty, spider-filled dungeon.”

“Mr. Benson let me paint.”

“I’ll bet. As long as Mr. Benson doesn’t have to do it, I’ll bet he lets me paint, too. He gets a nice, clean place, and I get to do the work.” She gave a wry grin. “How long have you lived here?”

Katie crossed her arms, feeling the morning sun begin to warm her face. “Almost two months.”

“I’m not sure I can make it that long. If I keep sneezing like I did last night, my head will probably fall off before then.” She reached for her sunglasses and began wiping the lenses with her shirt. “How do you like Southport? It’s a different world, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here. I’d guess somewhere up north?”

After a moment, Katie nodded.

“That’s what I thought,” Jo went on. “And Southport takes awhile to get used to. I mean, I’ve always loved it, but I’m partial to small towns.”

“You’re from here?”

“I grew up here, went away, and ended up coming back. The oldest story in the book, right? Besides, you can’t find dusty places like this just anywhere.”

Katie smiled, and for a moment neither said anything. Jo seemed content to stand in front of her, waiting for her to make the next move. Katie took a sip of coffee, gazing off into the woods, and then remembered her manners.

“Would you like a cup of coffee? I just brewed a pot.”

Jo put the sunglasses back on her head, tucking them into her hair. “You know, I was hoping you’d say that. I’d
love
a cup of coffee. My entire kitchen is still in boxes and my car is in the shop. Do you have any idea what it’s like to face the day without caffeine?”

“I have an idea.”

“Well, just so you know, I’m a genuine coffee addict. Especially on any day that requires me to unpack. Did I mention I hate unpacking?”

“I don’t think you did.”

“It’s pretty much the most miserable thing there is. Trying to figure out where to put everything, banging your knees as you bump around the clutter. Don’t worry—I’m not the kind of neighbor who asks for that kind of help. But coffee, on the other hand…”

“Come on.” Katie waved her in. “Just keep in mind that most of the furniture came with the place.”

After crossing the kitchen, Katie pulled a cup from the cupboard and filled it to the brim. She handed it to Jo. “Sorry, I don’t have any cream or sugar.”

“Not necessary,” Jo said, taking the cup. She blew on the coffee before taking a sip. “Okay, it’s official,” she said. “As of now, you’re my best friend in the entire world. This is soooo good.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“So Benson said you work at Ivan’s?”

“I’m a waitress.”

“Is Big Dave still working there?” When Katie nodded, Jo went on. “He’s been there since before I was in high school. Does he still make up names for everyone?”

“Yes,” she said.

“How about Melody? Is she still talking about how cute the customers are?”

“Every shift.”

“And Ricky? Is he still hitting on new waitresses?”

When Katie nodded again, Jo laughed. “That place never changes.”

“Did you work there?”

“No, but it’s a small town and Ivan’s is an institution. Besides, the longer you live here, the more you’ll understand that there are no such things as secrets in this place. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and some people, like, let’s say… Melody… have raised gossip to an art form. It used to drive me crazy. Of course, half the people in Southport are the same way. There isn’t much to do around here but gossip.”

“But you came back.”

Jo shrugged. “Yeah, well. What can I say? Maybe I like the crazy.” She took another sip of her coffee and motioned out the window. “You know, as long as I’d lived here, I wasn’t even aware these two places existed.”

“The landlord said they were hunting cottages. They used to be part of the plantation before he turned them into rentals.”

Jo shook her head. “I can’t believe you moved out here.”

“You did, too,” Katie pointed out.

“Yes, but the only reason I considered it was because I knew I wouldn’t be the only woman at the end of a gravel road in the middle of nowhere. It’s kind of isolated.”

Which is why I was more than happy to rent it, Katie thought to herself. “It’s not so bad. I’m used to it by now.”

“I hope I get used to it,” she said. She blew on the coffee, cooling it off. “So what brought you to Southport? I’m sure it wasn’t the exciting career potential at Ivan’s. Do you have any family around here? Parents? Brothers or sisters?”

“No,” Katie said. “Just me.”

“Following a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“So you just… moved here?”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

Katie didn’t answer. They were the same questions that Ivan and Melody and Ricky had asked. She knew there were no ulterior motives behind the questions, it was just natural curiosity, but even so, she was never quite sure what to say, other than to state the truth.

“I just wanted a place where I could start over.”

Jo took another sip of coffee, seemingly mulling over her answer, but surprising Katie, she asked no follow-up questions. Instead, she simply nodded.

“Makes sense to me. Sometimes starting over is exactly what a person needs. And I think it’s admirable. A lot of people don’t have the courage it takes to do something like that.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” she said. “So, what’s on your agenda today? While I’m whining and unpacking and cleaning until my hands are raw.”

“I have to work later. But other than that, not much. I need to run to the store and pick up some things.”

“Are you going to visit Fisher’s or head into town?”

“I’m just going to Fisher’s,” she said.

“Have you met the owner there? The guy with gray hair?”

Katie nodded. “Once or twice.”

Jo finished her coffee and put the cup in the sink before sighing. “All right,” she said, sounding less than enthusiastic. “Enough procrastinating. If I don’t start now, I’m never going to finish. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

Jo gave a little wave. “It was nice meeting you, Katie.”

From her kitchen window, Katie saw Jo shaking the rug she’d set aside earlier. She seemed friendly enough, but Katie wasn’t sure whether she was ready to have a neighbor. Although it might be nice to have someone to visit with now and then, she’d gotten used to being alone.

Then again, she knew that living in a small town meant that her self-imposed isolation couldn’t last forever. She had to work and shop and walk around town; some of the customers at the restaurant already recognized her. And besides, she had to admit she’d enjoyed chatting with Jo. For some reason, she felt that there was more to Jo than met the eye, something… trustworthy, even if she couldn’t explain it. She was also a single woman, which was a definite plus. Katie didn’t want to imagine how she would have reacted had a man moved in next door, and she wondered why she’d never even considered the possibility.

Over by the sink, she washed out the coffee cups then put them back into the cupboard. The act was so familiar—putting two cups away after coffee in the morning—and for an instant, she felt engulfed by the life she’d left behind. Her hands began to tremble, and pressing them together she took a few deep breaths until they finally stilled. Two months ago, she wouldn’t have been able to do that; even two weeks ago, there had been little she could do to stop it. While she was glad that these bouts of anxiety no longer overwhelmed her, it also meant she was getting comfortable here, and that scared her. Because being comfortable meant she might lower her guard, and she could never let that happen.

Even so, she was grateful to have ended up in Southport. It was a small historic town of a few thousand people, located at the mouth of the Cape Fear River, right where it met the Intracoastal. It was a place with sidewalks and shade trees and flowers that bloomed in the sandy soil. Spanish moss hung from the tree branches, while kudzu climbed the wizened trunks. She had watched kids riding their bikes and playing kick ball in the streets, and had marveled at the number of churches, one on nearly every corner. Crickets and frogs sounded in the evening, and she thought again that this place had felt right, even from the beginning. It felt
safe
, as if it had somehow been beckoning to her all along, promising sanctuary.

Katie slipped on her only pair of shoes, a pair of beat-up Converse sneakers. The chest of drawers stood largely empty and there was almost no food in the kitchen, but as she stepped out of the house and into the sunshine and headed toward the store, she thought to herself,
This is home
. Drawing in a deeply scented breath of hyacinth and fresh-cut grass, she knew she hadn’t been happier in years.

3

H
is hair had turned gray when he was in his early twenties, prompting some good-natured ribbing from his friends. It hadn’t been a slow change, either, a few hairs here and there gradually turning to silver. Rather, in January he’d had a head of black hair and by the following January, there was scarcely a single black hair left. His two older brothers had been spared, though in the last couple of years, they’d picked up some silver in their sideburns. Neither his mom nor his dad could explain it; as far as they knew, Alex Wheatley was an anomaly on both sides of the family.

Strangely, it hadn’t bothered him. In the army, he sometimes suspected that it had aided in his advancement. He’d been with Criminal Investigation Division, or CID, stationed in Germany and Georgia, and had spent ten years investigating military crimes, everything from soldiers going AWOL, to burglary, domestic abuse, rape, and even murder. He’d been promoted regularly, finally retiring as a major at thirty-two.

After punching his ticket and ending his career with the military, he moved to Southport, his wife’s hometown. He was newly married with his first child on the way, and though his immediate thought was that he would apply for a job in law enforcement, his father-in-law had offered to sell him the family business.

It was an old-fashioned country store, with white clapboard siding, blue shutters, a sloped porch roof, and a bench out front, the kind of store that enjoyed its heyday long ago and had mostly disappeared. The living quarters were on the second floor. A massive magnolia tree shaded one side of the building, and an oak tree stood out front. Only half of the parking lot was asphalt—the other half was gravel—but the lot was seldom empty. His father-in-law had started the business before Carly was born, when there wasn’t much more than farmland surrounding him. But his father-in-law prided himself on understanding people, and he wanted to stock whatever they happened to need, all of which lent a cluttered organization to the place. Alex felt the same way and kept the store largely the same. Five or six aisles offered groceries and toiletries, refrigerator cases in the back overflowed with everything from soda and water to beer and wine, and as in every other convenience store, this one had racks of chips, candy, and the kind of junk food that people grabbed as they stood near the cash register. But that’s where the similarity ended. There was also assorted fishing gear along the shelves, fresh bait, and a grill manned by Roger Thompson, who’d once worked on Wall Street and had moved to Southport in search of a simpler life. The grill offered burgers, sandwiches, and hot dogs as well as a place to sit. There were DVDs for rent, various kinds of ammunition, rain jackets and umbrellas, and a small offering of bestselling and classic novels. The store sold spark plugs, fan belts, and gas cans, and Alex was able to make duplicates of keys with a machine in the back room. He had three gasoline pumps, and another pump on the dock for any boats that needed to fill up, the only place to do so aside from the marina. Rows of dill pickles, boiled peanuts, and baskets of fresh vegetables sat near the counter.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t hard to keep up with the inventory. Some items moved regularly, others didn’t. Like his father-in-law, Alex had a pretty good sense of what people needed as soon as they walked in the store. He’d always noticed and remembered things that other people didn’t, a trait that had helped him immeasurably in his years working CID. Nowadays he was endlessly tinkering with the items he stocked, in an attempt to keep up with the changing tastes of his customers.

Never in his life had he imagined doing something like this, but it had been a good decision, if only because it allowed him to keep an eye on the kids. Josh was in school, but Kristen wouldn’t start until the fall, and she spent her days with him in the store. He’d set up a play area behind the register, where his bright and talkative daughter seemed most happy. Though only five, she knew how to work the register and make change, using a step stool to reach the buttons. Alex always enjoyed the expressions on strangers’ faces when she started to ring them up.

Still, it wasn’t an ideal childhood for her, even if she didn’t know anything different. When he was honest with himself, he had to admit that taking care of kids and the store took all the energy he had. Sometimes, he felt as though he could barely keep up—making Josh’s lunch and dropping him off at school, ordering from his suppliers, meeting with vendors, and serving the customers, all while keeping Kristen entertained. And that was just for starters. The evenings, he sometimes thought, were even busier. He tried his best to spend time doing kid things with them—going on bike rides, flying kites, and fishing with Josh, but Kristen liked to play with dolls and do arts and crafts, and he’d never been good at those things. Add in making dinner and cleaning the house, and half the time, it was all he could do to keep his head above water. Even when he finally got the kids in bed, he found it nearly impossible to relax because there was always something else to do. He wasn’t sure if he even knew how to relax anymore.

After the kids went to bed, he spent the rest of his evenings alone. Though he seemed to know most everyone in town, he had few real friends. The couples that he and Carly sometimes visited for barbecues or dinners had slowly but surely drifted away. Part of that was his own fault—working at the store and raising his kids took most of his time—but sometimes he got the sense that he made them uncomfortable, as if reminding them that life was unpredictable and scary and that things could go bad in an instant.

It was a wearying and sometimes isolating lifestyle, but he remained focused on Josh and Kristen. Though less frequent than it once had been, both of them had been prone to nightmares with Carly gone. When they woke in the middle of the night, sobbing inconsolably, he would hold them in his arms and whisper that everything was going to be all right, until they were finally able to fall back asleep. Early on, all of them had seen a counselor; the kids had drawn pictures and talked about their feelings. It hadn’t seemed to help as much as he’d hoped it would. Their nightmares continued for almost a year. Once in a while, when he colored with Kristen or fished with Josh, they’d grow quiet and he knew they were missing their mom. Kristen sometimes said as much in a babyish, trembling voice, while tears ran down her cheeks. When that happened, he was sure he could hear his heart breaking, because he knew there was nothing he could do or say to make things any better. The counselor had assured him that kids were resilient and that as long as they knew they were loved, the nightmares would eventually stop and the tears would become less frequent. Time proved the counselor right, but now Alex faced another form of loss, one that left him equally heartbroken. The kids were getting better, he knew, because their memories of their mom were slowly but surely fading away. They’d been so young when they’d lost her—four and three—and it meant that the day would come when their mother would become more an idea than a person to them. It was inevitable, of course, but somehow it didn’t seem right to Alex that they would never remember the sound of Carly’s laughter, or the tender way she’d held them as infants, or know how deeply she’d once loved them.

He’d never been much of a photographer. Carly had always been the one who reached for the camera, and consequently, there were dozens of photographs of him with the kids. There were only a few that included Carly, and though he made it a point to page through the album with Josh and Kristen while he told them about their mother, he suspected that the stories were becoming just that: stories. The emotions attached to them were like sand castles in the tide, slowly washing out to sea. The same thing was happening with the portrait of Carly that hung in his bedroom. In their first year of marriage, he’d arranged to have her portrait taken, despite her protests. He was glad for that. In the photo, she looked beautiful and independent, the strong-willed woman who’d captured his heart, and at night, after the kids were in bed, he would sometimes stare at his wife’s image, his emotions in turmoil. But Josh and Kristen barely noticed the photo at all.

He thought of her often, and he missed the companionship they’d once shared and the friendship that had been the bedrock of their marriage at its best. And when he was honest with himself, he knew he wanted those things again. He was lonely, even though it bothered him to admit it. For months after they lost her, he simply couldn’t imagine ever being in another relationship, let alone consider the possibility of loving someone again. Even after a year, it was the kind of thought he would force from his mind. The pain was too fresh, the memory of the aftermath too raw. But a few months ago, he’d taken the kids to the aquarium and as they’d stood in front of the shark tank, he’d struck up a conversation with an attractive woman standing next to him. Like him, she’d brought her kids, and like him, she wore no ring on her finger. Her children were the same ages as Josh and Kristen, and while the four of them were off pointing at the fish, she’d laughed at something he’d said and he’d felt a spark of attraction, reminding him of what he had once had. The conversation eventually came to an end and they went their separate ways, but on the way out, he’d seen her once more. She’d waved at him and there’d been an instant when he contemplated jogging over to her car and asking for her phone number. But he didn’t, and a moment later, she was pulling out of the parking lot. He never saw her again.

That night, he waited for the wave of self-reproach and regret to come, but strangely, it didn’t. Nor did it feel
wrong
. Instead, it felt… okay. Not affirming, not exhilarating, but okay, and he somehow knew it meant he was finally beginning to heal. That didn’t mean, of course, that he was ready to rush headlong into the single life. If it happened, it happened. And if it didn’t? He figured he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He was willing to wait until he met the right person, someone who not only brought joy back into his life, but who loved his kids as much as he did. He recognized, however, that in this town, the odds of finding that person were tiny. Southport was too small. Nearly everyone he knew was either married or retired or attending one of the local schools. There weren’t a lot of single women around, let alone women who wanted a package deal, kids included. And that, of course, was the deal breaker. He might be lonely, he might want companionship, but he wasn’t about to sacrifice his kids to get it. They’d been through enough and would always be his first priority.

Still… there was one possibility, he supposed. Another woman interested him, though he knew almost nothing about her, aside from the fact that she was single. She’d been coming to the store once or twice a week since early March. The first time he’d seen her, she was pale and gaunt, almost desperately thin. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. People passing through town often stopped at the store for sodas or gasoline or junk food; he seldom saw such people again. But she wanted none of those things; instead, she kept her head down as she walked toward the grocery aisles, as if trying to remain unseen, a ghost in human form. Unfortunately for her, it wasn’t working. She was too attractive to go unnoticed. She was in her late twenties, he guessed, with brown hair cut a little unevenly above her shoulder. She wore no makeup and her high cheekbones and round, wide-set eyes gave her an elegant if slightly fragile appearance.

At the register, he realized that up close she was even prettier than she’d been from a distance. Her eyes were a greenish-hazel color and flecked with gold, and her brief, distracted smile vanished as quickly as it had come. On the counter, she placed nothing but staples: coffee, rice, oatmeal, pasta, peanut butter, and toiletries. He sensed that conversation would make her uncomfortable so he began to ring her up in silence. As he did, he heard her voice for the first time.

“Do you have any dry beans?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” he’d answered. “I don’t normally keep those in stock.”

As he bagged her items after his answer, he noticed her staring out the window, absently chewing her lower lip. For some reason, he had the strange impression that she was about to cry.

He cleared his throat. “If it’s something you’re going to need regularly, I’d be happy to stock them. I just need to know what kind you want.”

“I don’t want to bother you.” When she answered, her voice barely registered above a whisper.

She paid him in small bills, and after taking the bag, she left the store. Surprising him, she kept walking out of the lot, and it was only then he realized she hadn’t driven, which only added to his curiosity.

The following week, there were dry beans in the store. He’d stocked three types: pinto, kidney, and lima, though only a single bag of each, and the next time she came in, he made a point of mentioning that they could be found on the bottom shelf in the corner, near the rice. Bringing all three bags to the register, she’d asked him if he happened to have an onion. He pointed to a small bag he kept in a bushel basket near the door, but she’d shaken her head. “I only need one,” she murmured, her smile hesitant and apologetic. Her hands shook as she counted out her bills, and again, she left on foot.