Kip suspected he was more tired than thirsty, but he dutifully pulled a juice box out of his bag, inserted the straw and handed it to Jamie. The child took two sips, then handed the box back to Kip and sprawled out on the blanket.
Kip lowered himself from the chair to lie beside Jamie, who happily nestled in the curve of his arm. His skin smelled of salt and sand and the baby-oil fragrance of sunscreen. In short time he was fast asleep.
George had settled into the other beach chair, adjusting it so the umbrella would cast its shade over him. “That’s a great kid you’ve got,” he remarked.
“I know.”
“You’ve done a good job with him.”
“Shelley’s done most of it,” Kip said. This was a simple fact, not an attempt to hype Shelley to her father. If George didn’t realize what an amazing person his daughter was, that was his problem.
George ruminated for a while, squinting as he surveyed the vast expanse of the sound. “I don’t get it,” he finally said.
“Don’t get what?”
“The two of you make this wonderful child. You’ve got a nice house, you’ve got money, you seem to like each other...” He fixed an accusing look on Kip. “You don’t want to talk about marrying her, Kip, so we won’t talk about that. But she’s my daughter. She’s beautiful and smart. She’s a woman of quality.” Obviously George did realize what an amazing daughter he had.
“So, what is it?” he went on in his scratchy voice. “You put my suitcase in that bedroom, and I saw it was filled with your things. I could understand if she took over the closet in her room so you had to hang your things in another closet. Her mother used to take up three-quarters of the closet space; I understand how women are. But...it’s not just the closet, Kip. That’s your room. It’s where you live. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” Kip said, focusing on the horizon to avoid meeting George’s inquisitive gaze.
“I could tell. You don’t share a room with Shelley. You don’t live with her.”
Kip closed his eyes and prayed for patience. This was not a conversation he’d planned for—and certainly not one he wanted to have.
His feelings must have been evident, because George continued, “You’re thinking it’s none of my business. You’re thinking I’m way out of line, discussing my daughter’s relationship with you, questioning the sleeping arrangements. And you’re right, Kip. It’s none of my business.”
“Then let’s not talk about it,” Kip muttered. Beyond the basic awkwardness of discussing such a sensitive subject with Shelley’s father, Kip was disturbed by his own yearning that things could be different between him and Shelley. He himself questioned the sleeping arrangements almost every night. When he climbed into Shelley’s bed tonight, he would still be questioning them. He knew he would be there not as a lover but as a comforter, something for her to hold onto, something she needed the way Jamie needed his teddy-bear and his nightlight. He wanted her body, her soul, the warmth of her around him—and she wanted security. For one night. Tomorrow he’d be safely back on his own side of the hall, aching for her but too scared of jeopardizing what little he had with her to demand more.
“I’ll tell you, Kip—at this stage of my life, I don’t give a damn whether something is my business or not, whether I’m stepping on toes or getting on people’s nerves. I’ve done so much damage to my loved ones, at this point it doesn’t matter anymore. You want to hate me? Be my guest.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“I’m not a fool. I’ve done some foolish things in my life, but I’m not a fool. I’ve got a business degree from Columbia University. Just because I work as a motel desk clerk doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”
Kip groaned inwardly. “No one’s calling you an idiot.”
“So, what is it, then? What do you find so distasteful about my daughter? You won’t marry her, you won’t sleep with her. What is it? Are you gay?”
Kip let out a short laugh. “No, I’m not gay. Believe me, if Shelley was interested, I would be very happy to sleep with her. And marry her.”
“You mean, she’s gay?”
“No.”
George ruminated. “All right. Maybe I am an idiot. I just don’t understand the situation.”
Kip’s wry amusement at George’s confusion vanished, replaced by a healthy surge of anger. “I’ll explain it, then, George: it’s you. Shelley sees what you did and she doesn’t trust men. She sees the agony you caused her mother, and she refuses to open herself to anyone. You scarred her, George. You hurt her so badly she’s afraid to love anyone.”
Kip’s enraged accusations seemed to bounce off George. “She loves Jamie,” he pointed out.
Kip lowered his gaze to his son, warm and slumbering, his chest rising and falling as he snored. “Jamie hasn’t betrayed her.”
“And you have?”
“No, I—” Falling silent, Kip glanced away. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were playing in the water, splashing and dunking each other, sending silver arcs of sea spray into each others’ faces. Flirting. Falling in love.
The way he and Shelley had fallen in love so many years ago.
A profound sadness filled him. “She thinks I’m in love with someone else,” he said quietly.
“Are you?”
“No. I was, but... The woman died.”
“And now?”
“I love Shelley.”
“And she doesn’t know that?”
He shook his head.
George cursed. “Damn it, boy—why don’t you make sure she finds out? What the hell are you waiting for?” When Kip turned back to him, too astonished to speak, he added, “She’s my daughter, and I love her, and I came back to make sure she finds that out before I die. You may think an old convict doped up on pain killers has no good advice to give a young hot-shot like you, but you’d be wrong. Tell her you love her. Let her know before it’s too late. Make my daughter happy.”
Kip turned back to the horizon, his mind reeling. George made it sound so simple—and perhaps, when one was old and sick and had nothing left to lose, things did become simple.
What did Kip have left to lose? When it came to Shelley, all he had to lose were his heart and his pride and the loneliness of his bed at night.
She already had his heart. His pride was worth risking. And he could think of nothing he’d rather lose than the lonely torment of having to confront each night without Shelley in his arms.
Chapter Fourteen
SHELLEY EMERGED FROM the master bathroom, clad in a demure cotton nightgown. She’d kept her shower brief in order to save hot water for her father and Kip, and the five minutes she’d spent under the spray had done little to calm her. Her nervous system was suffering a critical overload; the only thing that kept her from falling apart completely was the understanding that by the same time tomorrow night her father would be gone, and Kip would be back in his own bed.
He was seated on the edge of her bed, now, his back to her. He’d already removed his shirt, and as he hunched over something on his lap her gaze took in the smooth, masculine arch of his sun-darkened skin, the rugged breadth of his shoulders and the trim span of his waist above the belt of his jeans. In any other context, Shelley would have reacted to his naked torso with a sigh of longing.
Damn it, she was sighing. Despite her frazzled nerves, despite the anguish wringing her soul, she suffered a searing pang of sexual awareness at the realization that this man was going to be spending the night beside her.
She shook her shoulders—as if she could shrug off her longing—and announced, “I’m all done in the bathroom, if you want it.”
Kip turned and smiled at her. He was pulling a crisply folded royal-blue garment out of a rectangular plastic bag. Standing, he crumpled the bag and discarded it in the garbage pail, then unfolded the cloth.
“New pajamas?” Shelley asked.
“I bought them Friday afternoon. I thought you’d feel more comfortable if I wore them.”
His smi
le was apparently meant to ease her distress. His words, however, conveyed that he generally didn’t wear pajamas, and the image that notion provoked only cranked her tension up another notch.
To distract herself, she concentrated on her father in the room across the hall, visualizing his wasted body and his haunted eyes. She recalled the stilted conversation at dinner, during which he had sketchily described his job manning the desk at a motel—thank God for the health insurance, he’d said—and his apartment with its panoramic view of the Connecticut turnpike, and his pet cat, named Joey after his closest friend from his days at the federal prison in Danbury. Fortunately he’d been discreet in front of Jamie, avoiding the actual word “prison.”
Jamie had exclaimed jubilantly over the news that Granddad had a cat. “We get cat?” he asked over and over, to Kip’s amusement and Shelley’s irritation.
Less than a day left, she reminded herself. Less than eighteen hours, and her father would be out of her life once more.
Kip removed his eyeglasses and set them on the night table. Then he went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Shelley brushed her hair, rubbed moisturizer into her hands, listened to the rush of the shower through the closed door and gazed compulsively at the eyeglasses on the night table, next to the pillow that would be Kip’s.
Unable to sit still, she left the bedroom to check on Jamie. He was fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth and his teddy-bear clutched in his free hand. One of his feet poked out from under the blanket, and she rearranged the soft coverlet around his body. Then she leaned over the crib railing and kissed his cheek. He made a faint sucking noise, his cheeks flexing and his lips tightening around his thumb.
Only eighteen more hours, she thought, and it would all be over.
She tiptoed back down the hall to her own room. Her gaze was drawn to the door across the hall from hers. The narrow crack between the door and the floor was dark.
Kip always had his light on when she returned from the nursery after her finally good-night to Jamie. Shelley had never consciously paid attention to that, but it had registered on her in some subliminal way, because the darkness filling the space under the door startled her.
She had absorbed Kip’s presence in so many subtle ways. In the few weeks since he’d moved permanently into the house, she had grown accustomed to his scent, his footsteps, his voice. She’d grown used to seeing the light under his door before she retired for the night. She’d drawn comfort from knowing he was near—but not too near.
Sighing again, she turned and entered her own bedroom. As she closed the door Kip stepped out of the bathroom, running a towel through his thick brown hair. He had on the new pajamas. Spotting Shelley, he tossed the towel onto a chair and struck a comical modeling pose. “Well? How do I look?”
“Very dapper,” she told him with a smile.
He combed the damp waves of his hair loose with his fingers, then extended his hand to her. “Come here,” he murmured.
She experienced another pang, this one comprising both curiosity and annoyance. If he did anything more than kiss her on the cheek, she would scream, or crumble, or burst into tears. She couldn’t handle anything beyond a friendly hug from him, especially not tonight.
Warily she placed her hand in his. He led her to the bed and nudged her to sit. “Lie down, Shelley,” he said.
“Kip.” Her voice carried a firm warning.
“Just lie down.” He sat beside her and forced her shoulders down to the mattress.
“Kip—”
“Roll over. On your stomach. That’s it,” he said, helping her into a prone position. He shifted higher onto the mattress, then leaned over and dug his thumbs into the knotted flesh at the base of her neck.
A back rub. Exactly what she needed. How could she have doubted him? How could she have questioned his motives?
She lifted her face slightly out of the pillow so he would hear her when she said, “Thanks.”
“You were expecting something else,” he needled her.
“Just keep rubbing. It feels wonderful.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She groaned, feeling him rout out the knots in her muscles, draw her stress to the surface and sweep it away with the deft motions of his fingertips. She was ashamed of herself for having suspected him of attempting a seduction. He had been her champion all day, her savior, her protector.
“You’ve been too good to me,” she mumbled, succumbing to the soothing spell of his massage.
“I know,” he agreed.
She measured his tone, searching for amusement in it. He’d sounded surprisingly serious, though.
“Well—I appreciate it,” she said.
“Do you?”
Puzzled, she raised her head and shoulders, twisting to glimpse his face.
He pushed her back down. “I’m not done yet,” he said, inching his fingers down along her spine, loosening the clenched muscles of her back, soothing her nerves. A minute passed in silence, and then he said, “You’ve treated your father terribly, Shelley.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” His voice was low and even, devoid of rancor. “You’ve been awful to him. You’ve treated him like shit. You’ve been acting like a first-class bitch.”
She drew in a sharp, angry breath. If he hadn’t been giving her such an effective back rub, she would have reared up and slapped him. How could he say such a thing? He knew what her life had been like, thanks to her father. He knew the way she’d been wounded, the scars she carried. What was she supposed to do, treat her father like visiting royalty?
Kip’s hands continued to move on her back. “You didn’t come to the beach with us. Over dinner you scarcely said a word to him, and then the minute we were done eating you raced off with Jamie to get his bath and put him to bed. Then you came back downstairs and pretended to clean the kitchen, even though I had already put everything away. And finally, when you condescended to join your father and me, you sat at the opposite end of the living room and glowered at him until nine-thirty, at which point you came upstairs. You didn’t even say good-night.”
So what? She hadn’t even wanted her father to come. She’d done her good deed by letting him meet his grandchild. How dare he—or Kip—demand more of her?
She rolled away from Kip so he wouldn’t be able to subdue her with his massage. Sitting, she glared at him. “Well, I guess he’s lucky he had you for company all day. He’s obviously won you over to his side.”
Kip’s expression was stern, his mouth shaping a grim line as he met her hostile stare. “This isn’t a game, Shelley. Nobody’s choosing sides.”
“That man—” she waved a furious finger in the direction of Kip’s bedroom “—is a convicted criminal. He’s an adulterer. He destroyed my family out of greed and selfishness. He made us pay for his sins, and I’m not talking about the money. I’m talking about my heart.” She jabbed her chest with her thumb. “I’m talking about how much I’ve paid, right here, inside me.”
“Fine. You’ve paid. It’s time to close out the account.”
“Don’t you throw your financial-consulting language at me.”
“I’m not throwing anything at you, Shelley. I’m trying to talk some sense into you.”
His patronizing attitude honed her already frazzled nerves to razor sharpness. “Thanks,” she snapped, her voice taut and her spinal muscles coiling with tension again. “Thanks a hell of a lot. I thought I could depend on you this weekend. I should have known better. You’re just a man, sticking up for another man.”
“Stop,” Kip said with disarming gentleness.
She wasn’t fooled, not anymore. This wasn’t a good time to have to learn that even Kip couldn’t be trusted, that in a crisis he wouldn’t support her. But he’d forced the lesson on her. She was learning.
He extended his hand and she shrank from him. “Shelley,” he said, “I’m just trying to open your eyes—”
“Thanks. They’re wide open.” A few tear
s leaked down her cheeks, but she wouldn’t give Kip the satisfaction of seeing her close her eyes against them.
“He’s come to work it out with you before he dies. Don’t you see? He didn’t come here just to meet his grandchild. He came here to make amends with you.”
“I haven’t seen him trying to make amends—”
“You haven’t seen him, period.”
“I let him come here. I never promised I’d greet him with open arms. He ought to be happy I let him enter my house.”
“You let him enter your house, and ever since he walked through the door you’ve been running from him. You’re evading him. You’re shutting yourself off from him.”
“Because he ruined my life!”
“Ruined it?” Kip put an incredulous spin on the words. “Whatever he did to your life, Shelley, you’ve managed to rise above it quite nicely.”
“What is going on here, Kip? What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m fighting with you.”
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve—”
“Shelley—”
“Criticizing me, lashing out at me—” Her words became disjointed, mirroring her fragmented state of mind. “Just stop it, okay? Leave me alone.”
Kip examined her for a moment, gazing across the bed as if it were a great chasm. He took a deep breath, then said, “Let’s talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about anything,” she railed, twisting away and fluffing her pillow in the hope that he’d turn off the light and shut up.
Instead, he reached across the bed, gripped her shoulder and turned her back to him. His touch ignited an unknown rage in her, an emotion as raw and blind as the fury she’d felt when she’d first found out about her father’s crimes. Without thinking, she curled her hand into a fist and swung, her only desire to hit Kip, to hurt him the way he was hurting her.
He easily blocked her punch and manacled her wrist with his hand. Neither of them spoke. They simply stared at each other, breathing hard. At that moment, his dark eyes stabbing her, his hand squeezing until her fingers began to tingle, Shelley hated Kip more than she’d ever hated anyone before.
Safe Harbor Page 21