“He wants to visit,” Shelley informed Kip in a tone devoid of anger—devoid of life. The only way she could cope with her father was to remain numb.
“Oh?”
“He found out about Jamie. He wants to meet his grandson before he dies.”
Kip didn’t speak. The setting sun imbued his face with intriguing shadows. Behind the lenses of his glasses his eyes glowed with sympathy; the light’s angle emphasized the strong, square line of his jaw. His lips curved in an enigmatic half-smile that revealed no hint of his thoughts.
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Shelley continued, struggling to vocalize feelings that hadn’t yet solidified in her mind. “It’s not my father. I don’t give a damn whether he gets to meet his grandson or not. He doesn’t have the right to ask me for any favors.”
Still Kip remained silent, drinking his beer and scrutinizing Shelley through the thickening gloom, listening without judging her.
“It’s Jamie,” she explained. “How can I foist a total stranger on Jamie? He already has a Grampa. He loves your father, Kip. I don’t even know my father anymore. How can I force Jamie to accept him? Why should I?”
Kip’s gaze softened. He extended his hand, and for that one instant Shelley decided to believe their friendship was everything it used to be. She placed her hand inside his and let him pull her across the tiny room, into his arms.
His chest was warm and secure, a solid cushion for her throbbing head. The comfort of his embrace and the soothing sensation of his long, graceful fingers twirling through her hair almost dispelled the oppressive doom that threatened to descend upon her.
“Is it really Jamie you’re worried about?” he asked quietly.
She closed her eyes again, longing to let Kip take care of everything. For once in her life, she wished she could give in to helplessness and become dependent on a man. She wished Kip loved her, not just as a friend or as Jamie’s mother, but truly loved her, the way he had loved his wife. If only he did, she might be able to yield control to him, let him write a response to her father, let him decide what was good or bad for Jamie.
But that wasn’t the way it was, and she wasn’t going to yield control. “No,” she answered in a weary voice. “I mean, yes, I am worried about Jamie. But...it’s me. I can’t give my father anything. I can’t even think about him without hurting.”
Kip’s fingers continued to meander through the soft, silky waves of her hair. “Is he asking you to forgive him?”
“No.” Her father’s letter had contained confession and penitence, but no plea for forgiveness.
“It’s your decision,” Kip murmured, his words washing down over her head like bathwater, calm and cleansing. “You have to do what’s right for you.”
“I don’t want to see him,” she declared.
Kip stroked her hair in silence.
She resented him for leaving her words unchallenged. They hung in the air, petty and spiteful. If her father were a stranger suffering from cancer, Shelley would treat him with greater charity. But because he was her father she felt no sadness at his suffering.
Kip had once accused her of being a lady with a long memory. A long memory and a big grudge.
“Even if I did let him come,” she muttered, “I sure as hell wouldn’t forgive him.”
“Does that mean you’re going to tell him he can come?”
“All I said was I wouldn’t forgive him.”
“No,” Kip argued gently. “That’s not all you said.”
A tear leaked out of her eye and she hastily wiped it away. She wasn’t going to cry in front of Kip. Now, more than ever, she had to present herself as tough and indomitable. In her youth she might have let Kip witness her tears, but not anymore. Not since she’d learned that no man—especially not her father—was worth shedding tears over.
“You don’t have to forgive him,” Kip reminded her.
“I know.” Her voice emerged faint and hoarse from her effort to stifle her bitterness and the unexpected, very real fear she felt at the comprehension that her father was actually dying. “If I don’t let him come, Kip...” A shaky sigh escaped her. “I don’t want him to come, but if I don’t let him meet his grandchild before he dies, I’ll never forgive myself.”
She couldn’t see Kip’s face, but she could picture his smile. She could feel his slight nod of approval, the shift of his shoulders, the constant beat of his heart as she nestled her head against his chest.
“I’ll be right beside you the whole time,” he promised in a low, earnest tone. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll get through it somehow. There’s really nothing you could do, anyway.”
“There’s plenty I can do, and I’ll do it,” Kip insisted. “Trust me, Shelley. Just trust me.”
Like a woman with no memory at all, no sense of the past, no recollection of how very hard she’d struggled to travel solo and rely only on herself, she whispered, “I trust you.”
***
HE HOVERED BEHIND SHELLEY while S dialed the telephone number her father had written in his letter. He had promised to be beside her the whole time, and that time evidently began the moment she lifted the telephone and started to dial. It was a Connecticut exchange; the return address on the envelope indicated that he was living in Bridgeport.
What would her father be like? Sick, obviously, but beyond that, what? Kip had met George Ballard only a few times, years ago, and he remembered the man as being tall and broad-shouldered, like Shelley, with her fair coloring. There had been a hardness about him, the sort of laminated veneer one might expect to find on a piece of molded Fiberglass. Mr. Ballard had dressed well, favoring knit sport shirts with little alligators on them, pale-hued slacks and expensive loafers.
Without being able to hear anything through the receiver, he knew precisely the moment Shelley’s father answered the phone. She flinched, then stiffened, tension stringing her body as tight as a rubber band about to snap.
“Hello,” she said. “It’s Shelley.”
Kip lifted his hands to her shoulders and massaged them, digging his fingers into the knotted muscles.
“I got your letter,” she said into the phone. Kip could tell from the dry, faint sound of her voice that each word was a struggle.
He worked his hands down her back, moving his thumbs in soothing circles on either side of her spine. Her legs swayed beneath her, and she leaned back against him. Yes, he thought, he wanted her to lean on him. For once in her life, he wanted her to lean on him.
“He’s two years old. He’s—” she choked on what sounded like a sob “—he’s fine. If you really—what? No, we’re not married. We’re friends, Dad. You remember Kip. We’re friends.”
Thank you, Kip mouthed, his lips dancing a fraction of an inch from her hair. At least she would acknowledge that much. He was her friend, always, forever, just as he’d sworn one September morning when he’d discovered he was going to survive Amanda’s death—one foggy, wondrous morning when Jamie was already growing inside Shelley.
“Because friends don’t do to each other what husbands and wives do. That’s why we aren’t married,” she said into the phone, her tone becoming harsh. “Look, Dad, if you’re going to—” She fell silent as her father spoke, then let out a small, shivery sigh. “Okay. Look. You want to come and meet Jamie? Fine. Come. Don’t expect any sort of welcome from me, but—”
Kip circled his arms around her waist and hugged her. She rested against him, her head bowed. He saw a streak of moisture on her cheek, a teardrop falling from her chin to land on her blouse, on the soft curve of her breast.
“This weekend? I thought, maybe—when? Next Wednesday? Wouldn’t you feel better by the weekend? Oh. I didn’t realize... But this weekend is so...no, come if you’re coming. You’re probably better off coming right away, before I can change my mind.” She listened for a minute, then said, “Fine. Call me Friday night and let me know what ferry you’re taking.
I’ll pick you up at Old Harbor.” She recited the telephone number, then mumbled a good-bye and hung up.
Slowly, as if in a daze, she rotated in Kip’s arms. Her body shook. He pulled her close.
He wanted to assure Shelley that in time the pain would recede, and she would find she remembered only the happy parts, not the anguish, not the rage. But if he told her that, she wouldn’t believe him.
He didn’t really believe it himself. No matter how much he loved Shelley, no matter how much he wanted to help her, he didn’t believe in miracles.
He could offer Shelley no miracle. All he could offer were his arms around her, holding her while she trembled and refused to cry.
Chapter Thirteen
SHE WENT THROUGH THE MOTIONS: processing a month’s worth of Cyclopar 500-mg tablets for Sue Byner’s acne; filling his-and-hers bottles of Aldomet for Ed and Lucille Burkholtz and their matching hypertension; refilling John Rucci’s prescription for Amphojel and Hedda Foster’s prescription for Ativan.
Amphojel was an antacid, Ativan a tranquilizer. Given how distraught Shelley was, she almost wished she could set aside a few pills of each for herself.
Her father would be arriving tomorrow. She would have preferred that he come later in the month, but the following week he was scheduled for a round of chemotherapy, so she’d agreed to let him come now.
She pulled an adhesive label from her computer printer, proofread it, and affixed it to the bottle of Cyclopar. After placing the bottle aside for Sue Byner, she left the glassed-in drug area to ring up a candy purchase for a couple of summer kids in swim suits and sandals. As soon as they left the store, Shelley started back to the glass enclosure. She wanted to lock herself inside, to hide there until Sunday night. She didn’t want to have to leave the pharmacy, go home, wake up tomorrow and confront the man who had ruined her life.
Before she reached the enclosure, the door at the front of the store opened. Stepping back to the counter, she shaped another artificial smile for the customer. The moment she saw who it was, however, she she stopped pretending to be cheerful. She slumped against the cash register and shoved her limp hair back from her brow. “Hi,” she sighed as Kip sauntered down the aisle to her.
He’d been awfully good to her since she’d received her father’s letter, doing more than his share around the house, keeping Jamie occupied whenever Shelley succumbed to a bad mood. But that afternoon, with the dreaded reunion less than twenty-four hours away, even Kip’s gentle smile and luminous brown eyes couldn’t allay her gloominess.
“Rough one?” he asked once he reached the counter.
She nodded sullenly. “This store needs a bigger air conditioner. I’m burning up in here.”
Kip gave her a meaningful look. They both knew that Shelley’s discomfort had little to do with the limited wattage of the store’s air conditioner.
To compensate for her grumpiness, she asked, “Has it been unbearable in the cellar? I’ve been thinking, maybe we ought to move your office up to the attic.”
“The cellar’s fine,” he said, reaching across the counter and taking her hand. He closed his fingers around it, then cupped his other hand over it so his palms rounded her knuckles. She was assailed by an unexpected memory of the agility in his hands when he’d sanded and varnished the stairway railings three years ago. She remembered the way his smooth businessman’s fingers gradually acquired the rough texture of a laborer’s, the way his skill and dexterity had illuminated hidden aspects of his personality. She remembered the way, a couple of days later, his hands had felt on her skin, on her body, making love to her.
She wished his kindness during the past week was a result of love, but she knew it was more a matter of repayment. She had pulled him out of his despair three years ago; now he was trying to do the same for her.
“Did you finish work early today?” she asked, appalled by the catch in her voice. Would she ever stop dwelling on that one extraordinary night she and Kip had made love? Would she ever stop wanting more than he could give her? He was giving her so much, particularly now, when her nervous system was more overheated than the stifling summer air. She simply had to learn to stop wanting so much.
He gave her a pensive smile. “I just got off the phone with your father.”
Her fingers tensed within his hands. He refused to let go. “I don’t suppose he called to cancel his trip,” she muttered.
“He said he’s going to take the ten a.m. ferry out of New London tomorrow. He should be arriving in Old Harbor around noon.”
Shelley swallowed and ordered herself to nod. Her father was truly coming. She was going to have to accept it.
“We haven’t really worked out all the details,” Kip noted.
“Details?” She could scarcely grasp the big picture. How was she supposed to think about details?
“Do you want me to buy something special for dinner tomorrow night?”
“No. I don’t care. We’ll grill hamburgers or something.”
“Okay,” Kip agreed, still holding onto her hand, still perusing her. “The other thing,” he said slowly, “is the sleeping arrangements.”
“He can sleep on the couch in the living room,” she decided. She hadn’t given much thought to it, but she couldn’t imagine where else her father would stay, except at a hotel.
“I think he should have my room,” Kip suggested. “I’ll take the living room couch.”
“Absolutely not.” Her father didn’t deserve to have people inconveniencing themselves on his behalf.
“Shelley. I know you’re angry with him, but...” Kip paused to consider his words. “Your father isn’t young and he isn’t well. My room is private, and he would be much more comfortable in my bed.”
He was right, of course. She reluctantly admitted that if she was going to extend any hospitality at all, she might as well extend a little more and not force an ailing man to spend the night on a sofa in the living room. “It’s not fair for you to have to put yourself out that way, Kip,” she said. “I’ll take the couch. My father can have my room.”
“You should be on the same floor as Jamie,” Kip argued.
“But you shouldn’t get stuck on the sofa.”
Kip’s eyes met hers for a moment, and then he glanced away and shaped a lopsided grin. “Call it my punishment for cluttering up the small bedroom with all my junk. If only I’d gotten around to unpacking those cartons, we could have set up a cot in there for your father.”
Shelley allowed herself an equally crooked smile. “Your punishment has been to put up with my horrible temper this past week.” She moved her hand within his, rotating her wrist to lace her fingers through his. “I don’t want you stuck on the couch,” she said.
He steered his gaze back to her, and as she absorbed the dark beauty of his eyes, she recalled not only how talented his hands were but how safe and comforting his embrace could be.
“You can stay in my room,” she whispered, lowering her gaze to their intertwined fingers.
His grip tightened on her—almost imperceptibly, but she felt the change in him, the ripple of tension. She wondered whether he believed she was trying to unbalance things, risking destruction of the fragile harmony they’d worked so hard to achieve. “What I mean,” she clarified, “is... It’s a big bed, and it’s not—I’m not saying—”
“I know exactly what you’re saying,” he said, his voice amiable although his grip remained numbingly tight.
“This isn’t an—an invitation or anything—”
“No. It’s the ravings of a desperate woman,” he joked.
She lifted her eyes to him. His smile comforted her. But his hand was still binding, possessive, sending a distinctly unfunny message up her arm.
He didn’t want her, she reminded herself. He didn’t want her that way. No doubt if she happened to be conveniently stretched out beneath the covers beside him he wouldn’t object to availing himself, but he didn’t want her. She was his pal.
“You’re righ
t,” she said, offering him a feeble smile. “I’m desperate.”
“It’s a big bed,” he murmured. He leaned across the counter to kiss her cheek, then let go of her hand, turned and strode down the aisle to the door.
She watched his departure, resentful of his easy grace, his appealing lankiness, his serene response to the prospect of spending a night in bed with her. The tensing of his fingers around her hand had been simply a male reflex, not an expression of desire. He didn’t love her. He didn’t need her. She was merely someone to talk to over dinner, someone to diaper Jamie, someone who’d consoled him in his grief and sweated and bled so he could have a son.
She gave her head a sharp shake. Kip didn’t deserve that bitter judgment. He was a good man, and he was going to help her survive the weekend, and he was going to prove himself the ultimate gentleman—whether or not she wanted him to be one—when he lay in bed next to her on Saturday night.
Letting out a weary breath, she moved back to the glass enclosure, ready to measure out some more prescriptions, resolved to stop thinking about Kip and concentrate on her father. It was easier to focus on him. She knew what she felt about him. The emotion was uncluttered and unmistakable.
That was the best strategy: put Kip out of her mind and think only about how much she despised her father.
***
CRUISING ALONG THE WINDING ROAD leading east to Old Harbor at noon on Saturday, Kip began to whistle. Objectively he was sorry for what Shelley was going through, but from a selfish point of view...this was his chance.
He did feel sorry for her. She was a wreck. She’d spent most of the previous evening with Jamie, clinging obsessively to him even when he’d wanted to wriggle off her lap and play. She’d lingered over his bath until he’d hauled himself out of the tub, and she’d sat in the rocker by his crib in the dimly lit nursery, riding the chair back and forth, back and forth, for hours after Jamie had drifted off to sleep.
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