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.
“For a long time,” she said, her voice low and velvety in the candlelit room, “all I wanted was to be in control of my life. I wanted to be self-reliant, to make my own decisions, to prove to myself that I didn’t need anyone. My mother used to say she was afraid to travel solo. Well, that was what I wanted to do—travel solo.”
“Do you still want that?” he asked.
“It’s a part of me now,” she explained. “It’s not something I have to want anymore. It’s a part of my life.” Lapsing into thought, she gazed at the reflection of the candles’ delicate flames on the surface of her wine. After a moment she lifted her eyes back to Kip. “Until you came to the island, I was so afraid of losing that control that I didn’t dare to make room in my life for anyone else. I’m not afraid anymore. You’ve proven that I can like a man without losing my autonomy, that I can be friends with a man and still travel solo.”
“And that’s what you want?”
“More than anything.” She set down her glass, reached across the table and clasped his hand. “And so...I thank you.”
A great deal passed between them in that embrace of hands, more than they’d communicated with words. When, at long last, Shelley pulled her hand away and rose from her chair, Kip felt as if he had absorbed the essence of her touch, as if it would always be inside him.
He stood and blew out the candles. Without speaking—without having to say anything—they gathered the dishes and brought them to the kitchen. They worked smoothly together, neither having to tell the other what to do. Kip wrapped the leftovers and placed them in the refrigerator; Shelley scraped the dishes and stacked them in the sink; Kip washed, Shelley dried. Every now and then his eyes would meet hers and they would smile.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this content. Amanda wasn’t with him but he still felt good, without guilt or grief gnawing at the edges of his happiness, without an aching void in his soul.
When the dishes were all put away, Shelley glanced at her wristwatch and sighed. “I really should be going,” she said.
Nodding, he took her hand and strolled with her out of the kitchen, down the hall and through the front door. The fog had thickened with nightfall; the air was cool and damp, dulling the outlines of the porch railing, the red maple and the Chevy Blazer in the driveway.
He continued to hold her hand as they ambled through the dense mist to the car. He wanted to speak, but he wasn’t sure what to say. So much had already been said, so many emotions revealed. A bond had been created between them, a promise sealed.
Maybe he didn’t have to say anything, other than good-bye. He could say that without qualms now, because no matter whether he sailed across the sound or flew across the continent, Shelley would remain in his life in some vital way.
At her car she stopped and turned to face him. “I’ll try to stop by the pharmacy tomorrow,” he said.
“If you can. You’re going to be pretty busy packing.”
“I’ll make the time.” He lifted his hands to her shoulders and pulled her toward him for a farewell kiss.
She looped her arms around his waist and touched her mouth to his. He was startled by the unexpected stirring in his body, the sudden flash of sensation along his nerve endings as her lips brushed innocently over his. She had such soft lips.
He wasn’t certain if what he heard was a gust of wind or the catch of her breath. Her eyes peered into his, questioning.
The only answer he could think of was yes. He wanted this. He wanted to kiss her again.
He bowed and pressed his mouth cautiously to hers. His pulse drummed in his temples as her lips moved against his with equal caution.
They were friends. He hadn’t desired a woman in so long. Shelley trusted him.
He angled his head just enough to fuse his mouth to hers. The sound he heard was definitely her breath, a tiny gasp followed by a hushed, lyrical sigh as her mouth opened beneath his. Their tongues found each other, first shy and then eager, tangling and tempting, mating with wild abandon.
He groaned. It had been so long since he had wanted this, so long since he’d been with a woman he could want this way. His body hummed with yearning. His muscles flexed and strained; his skin begged for the feel of a woman’s hands on it. Shelley’s hands.
Shelley.
With great reluctance he broke the kiss. He couldn’t do this to her. They’d just established that they were true, trusting friends. No matter how much he wanted her at this moment, he would never do anything to undermine their friendship.
That was what he meant to say. Only one word emerged, though: “Stay.”
She looked up at him. Her eyes glittered enigmatically; her lips looked as alluring as they’d felt. It took all his willpower not to crush his mouth to hers and deny her the chance to speak.
She appeared on the verge of shaking her head. She withdrew her hands from his waist, then lifted them to his chest. He waited for her to push him away.
After an endless moment, she let her fingers drift up to
his shoulders. They molded to him, trailed towards his arms and back again, exploring, curious, undecided. Her gaze held his; her lips remained gently parted, air passing between them in shallow breaths.
Moonlight fought its way through the heavy fog. The light in her eyes was much brighter, illuminating her face. A smile whispered over her lips.
She guided his mouth back to hers.
Chapter Nine
HE LED HER THROUGH the moonlit room to his bed. After folding down the covers, he beckoned her to sit on the edge of mattress. He knelt on the floor in front of her and gazed up into her face. It seemed both familiar and strange to him, her eyes bright in a way he’d never seen them before, her lips curved in a knowing smile. This had not been an impulsive decision on her part. She understood what she was doing in Kip’s room. She had willingly chosen to come here.
He turned his attention to her feet, easing off her shoes and setting them aside. He skimmed his hands up her legs, beneath her skirt, along the outer edges of her thighs. Her breath grew short but she didn’t object.
He raised his eyes back to hers. She lifted her hips so he could remove her nylons. Her skin felt warm against his fingertips, silky. His hands shook slightly as he peeled down her stockings and panties.
He prayed she knew how much this meant to him, how important she was to him. He prayed that after so many months of self-imposed abstinence—in thought as well as deed—he would be able to contain himself, to please her, to make this as special for her as it was for him.
The temptation to run his fingers back up her naked legs was too great. He forced himself to pull his hands away, then rose and sat on the bed beside her. As he unfastened the top button of her blouse she plucked his eyeglasses off and placed them on the night table. “I don’t want to break your nose,” she said with a smile.
Remembering, he grinned. They had been so earnest that night in the cupola twelve years ago, practicing their kisses and assessing the results, two solemn students trying to get it right. Two intimate friends.
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