Safe Harbor

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Disappointment must have shown in her face, because Sam said quickly, "I have to find a room for tonight or leave the island altogether. Call me crazy, but I'd much rather wash with water that doesn't have salt in it."

  "Salt? Where have you been staying?"

  Sam smiled grimly and pointed his car key ahead of them. "Chez Toyota."

  He may as well have said in a refrigerator box. Holly was shocked. "But ... you have a book out. You're a celebrity! Don't you know anyone here who can offer you a guest bedroom?"

  "Sadly, no—although one of the ladies working the desk at the Chamber of Commerce did offer to let me sleep in a tent in her backyard. That, however, depends on her grandson's sleepover, which itself depends on the weather. I get the tent if it pours," he said with a wink and a wry smile.

  Was it the wink or was it the smile? Something snagged on Holly's heart, her first real hint that she might be in trouble. So far the man had evoked reactions in her that ranged from annoyance to real annoyance. But this was new, this snagging of the heart. The pain felt oddly pleasurable. Baffled by her response, Holly decided to tuck it quietly out of view and then examine it more carefully when she got home. Without Sam around, she'd be able to think more clearly.

  Or not.

  "You could stay in the apartment above the barn," she was astonished to hear herself say. "As we know, it's currently empty."

  "Eden's place? You're offering me Eden's place?"

  She gave him a breathless nod. "Mm-hmm." Big mouth, big mouth—what're you doing?.

  He nodded warily in return. "Okay-y-y. That, uh, that would be nice. I'd appreciate it."

  "Good. Yes. Well then. Do you have to retrieve your bags? Oh! Obviously you have your bags. In—"

  "The lobby of Chez Toyota," he said, breaking into a sudden, wonderfully good-natured grin that took what was left of her breath away. "I'm ready."

  "Good! Good. So ... I guess we can go home. I mean, to your home. I mean, the barn. I mean, the apartment above the barn. Is what I really mean."

  He was watching her the way he would a dancing bear, undoubtedly waiting to see if she'd fall over from turning around so many times. Holly wanted to seem urbane and sophisticated—she'd been raised on the East Side of Providence, after all—but urbane and sophisticated had never been her strong suit. It was a real effort just to keep her knees from knocking while she waited for Sam to open the door to the car that would transport them to the vacant loft above the barn behind her house.

  Why was she feeling so jumpy? It wasn't as if she was hauling him off to her bed.

  Still, as they drove along chatting with apparent nonchalance about Albrecht Durer and his art, one thought and one thought only seemed to be consuming her: would they end up in bed? Hers, his, who cared, but would they end up together? Once or twice she thought that he had looked at her with a certain ... look. She wouldn't go so far as to say he'd been coming on to her (not that she was any big expert on the subject), but once or twice she was pretty sure that there had been a certain something.

  And then, damn it, a crummy something else. That was the problem with Sam Steadman—that look he would get, just when you were intrigued by the look that he had. Suddenly he would become tense ... distracted ... almost startled, as if a possum had dropped from a tree onto the middle of their picnic blanket.

  And yet at the moment he seemed perfectly normal and entirely at ease. The good news was that he most likely wasn't an ax murderer. The bad news was that he probably wasn't that interested in her.

  Holly sucked in a shudder of breath and let it out in a hurried sigh, and the tiny barb that had snagged her heart dug a little more deeply into it.

  "Hey, duh, there was a sign," Sam said with a laugh, and he threw a sudden, sharp turn onto the drive that led to the barn.

  holly's artworks featured prominently on a gaily painted, flower-bedecked board that Holly had designed, nailed to a stake, and driven into the ground herself. She liked that sign, liked the way it fit in with the mood of crushed quahog shells, blinding white in the afternoon sun, that covered the lane. After a turn or two and a bump in the drive, they emerged in front of the old red barn that Holly had come to love and want for her own.

  Sam parked the Corolla in front of the big sliding door of Holly's studio, and they went up the steep, open stairs that edged the outside of the barn.

  "Eden left everything very neat," said Holly, nervously fishing her key ring out of her bag, "but I haven't been in here since I discovered that she'd gone. I hope the bathroom's okay."

  "It will be," Sam said in a voice gone suddenly tight. "Eden had a thing for—uh, she was a woman, wasn't she? She'd have a thing for clean bathrooms. In any case, it doesn't matter at all. Thank you."

  Holly stopped with the key still in the lock to stare at him. He was doing it again, that Jekyll-Hyde thing.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked, trying not to seem nervous. No way was she going to walk into an apartment on a well-hidden property with a relative stranger who looked as if he had blood on his mind.

  Sam laughed softly and shook his head. "Nope. Nothing's wrong. Nothing's right. Everything's in a state of paralysis."

  She cocked her head in a puzzled squint, trying to understand. He was there to recover an engraving stolen from people he loved. It was a noble mission. She could trust him. She could trust him.

  "Why do I have the sense that you're afraid to open that door?" he said at last.

  "Me, afraid?"

  "Holly." He shook his head. "What do you think I'm going to do? Steal the bedspread?"

  No, but you might throw me down on it and ravish me.

  "That's ridiculous," she murmured. She could feel her cheeks heating up. "Nothing could be further from my mind. It's just that ... I feel obliged to warn you that ... this is a very temporary arrangement. I need to rent this apartment out. It's costing me money to have it vacant in high season."

  She had just got done telling him that she'd all but abandoned the place, but never mind.

  He was leaning his shoulder into the doorjamb and was standing very close as he said in a soft and insinuating voice, "There must be some way I can repay you."

  Her lashes fluttered down. She still couldn't make herself turn the key. "Like ... how?"

  "Well, let's see," he said in her ear. "You already have a copy of my book, so what do you say to straight cash? Assuming, of course, you don't take Visa."

  Smartass. She unlocked the door and threw it open. "That won't be necessary," she said primly. "Just don't make a mess. I may need to show it."

  He dumped his bag inside the door. "You won't even know I'm here," he promised.

  Which wasn't true at all. Holly was exceedingly, preternaturally aware that he was there—all six-feet-and-change of him, standing in the middle of her rental apartment with his hands in his pockets and looking around with his keen photographer's eye. It struck her all over again that she didn't know squat about the man, and yet here she was, making him feel at home.

  "The bathroom's through that door; the bed's behind that pair of folding screens. I think Eden left a couple of yogurts in the fridge if you're hungry, but check the dates. Towels and linens are in that armoire."

  She strode over to the bed, whipped back the bedspread—how bold, how brazen she seemed to herself—and lifted a pillow to her nose. "Just what I thought: these haven't been slept on. So you won't even have to change the bedding ... and that's about it. There's no phone, of course. But you can charge your cell."

  "No problem," Sam said. He was scanning the few paperbacks in the narrow, mostly empty bookcase that was squeezed between two windows. She watched as he picked up a book, scanned the floral cover, and slipped it back on the shelf.

  For some reason Holly felt obliged to apologize for the reading selection. "I doubt that you'll find anything that interests you. No Clancy, no King, much less Hemingway. The books are mine and my sister's: women's fiction."

  "Ah, yes. Relationships—the k
ind of story where nothing happens."

  "Plenty can happen in a relationship."

  "Yeah. Two people meet. They marry. They split up," he said caustically.

  "That's a lot. Ask my mother.'

  "Touché. But I'd still rather read King. There's less horror."

  What a bitter man he was. Clearly he'd been hurt by someone and was taking it out on the bookcase. "I'm sorry you feel that way," she said, regretting that she brought up the subject. "If you need anything, just yell. And I guess I should give you a key." She began the laborious process of working the key out of its double-circled ring.

  "Here, let me," he offered. He held out his hand for the set. Holly was making a mess of it, driving the key right back over the others on the ring, so she gave it up willingly to him. Freed from the odious task, she was able to study his hands.

  She found them incredibly attractive. Most of her friends seemed to be fixated on men's buns. Not her. Perhaps because she was an artist, she could appreciate the potential in someone's hands. Or maybe it was something more visceral: the realization that a man's hands were often the first point of contact between him and a woman. A man might shake a woman's hand at an introduction. He might take her by the elbow in a restaurant. He might pick off a blade of grass ... help her in or out of a seaplane ... stroke her cheek ... touch her in ways that would set her nerve-ends humming. A man might do anything, if he were adept enough with his hands.

  What possible good were buns?

  Pocketing the apartment key, Sam returned the ring to her. "I appreciate this, Holly," he said, flashing a remarkably boyish smile. Suddenly he reached out to her hair. "You're losing a barrette," he said. He slid the tortoiseshell clip free of its tenuous hold and handed it to her. "You wouldn't want to lose this; it's a pretty one."

  She was right; she was right. A man with an adept touch might slide a barrette from a woman's hair and in the process snag her heart so well that it would never get free.

  "I'll make us something to eat while you shower," she blurted. "You have to eat."

  He looked surprised, then pleased. "That'd be great. I can be over in five minutes."

  Holly left the apartment in a state of joy, her hair still tingling from his touch. She didn't care if Sam went and emptied the apartment lock, stock, and bedspread. He could do what he wanted with it, just as long as he came over to lunch.

  ****

  Sam watched through a window as Holly started down the stairs, and then he began a thorough search of the apartment for signs of Eden. He had no real hope of finding any—Eden was far too clever to leave much of a trail—but sometimes people got lucky. He checked out the dresser, the bureau, the bedstand, and every cupboard in the kitchen, looking for—what? A clearly marked key to a safe-deposit box?

  Only in a B-movie, pal.

  He found no key and certainly no engraving. He lifted each of the throw rugs. Nothing. He looked between the mattresses and under the bed. Nothing.

  He got up from his knees, angry and disappointed and above all else, frustrated. Eden was good at this vanishing shit. She was nowhere and yet everywhere. He could feel her presence, smell her allure. Impulsively he lifted the same pillow that Holly had checked and inhaled deep. Holly was wrong: Eden's scent was still there, mixed with the merest molecules of Joy, her favorite perfume, and the awareness of it did wrenching things to Sam's heart.

  He glanced at his watch: his five minutes were up five minutes ago. He took a shower in less than two more, though he would have liked another twenty. Towelling himself dry, trying not to realize that Eden herself had used the same towels, he let his gaze settle on a stack of newspapers in the corner. He hadn't noticed it during his search, but an ad on the top page was circled. He picked up the section for a closer look.

  In the classifieds of the Sunday Globe he found what even a less desperate man might call a clue: a small want ad offering to buy European landscape art. The three-line ad had not only been circled but had a line drawn through it, as though a probe had come up dry.

  So: Eden hadn't known where to unload the engraving. It surprised Sam; he thought she'd be more connected than that. He looked for more clues but realized with chagrin that a whole page was missing from the paper. Had it contained a more promising ad? Sam had to assume that the answer was yes.

  It was maddening. His only recourse was to track down the missing page of the Globe and try to second-guess any promising leads that Eden might have pursued. He checked his ferry schedule and decided that he could catch a boat to New Bedford, pick up his car, and drive it to Boston in time to get a room, hopefully with running water, and hit the library and then the galleries first thing the next day. He might be too late—but he might not. For the first time since his parents had revealed the stunning theft, Sam took heart. He was getting closer to Eden.

  He threw his clothes back in his duffel bag and loaded the car again before realizing that he had promised to be somewhere for lunch. He pictured the old-fashioned kitchen and the old-fashioned girl preparing a meal for him there, and he felt an immediate surge of guilt. He hadn't been candid with Holly, and as far as he could see, that was never going to change.

  Hell. He couldn't just leave her waiting for him to show.

  Reluctantly he backtracked to the little Cape and tapped on the window of the back door before letting himself in. Holly was all smiles and setting the table. She had changed from tank top and shorts to a pale green, jumper-kind-of-sundress thing, and she looked, if possible, even more old fashioned than the image of her that he seemed to have been filed permanently in his mind.

  Only now she wore lipstick. And maybe a little ... her eyes looked bigger somehow, even more green than usual. It was a subtle and yet startling change. He smiled sheepishly and said, "You look nice."

  "Thank you. I've been known to try."

  "I didn't mean you didn't look nice before," he amended. "Just that you look—green must suit you." Suddenly he was feeling truly uncomfortable.

  She laughed and said, "I know what you meant, Sam. Now sit down and we can enjoy a delicious lunch. The avocado's ripe, the wine's breathing, and the crab salad is perfection itself—as perfect as yesterday's crab salad can be, anyway. You really lucked out. There are days when I have turkey hot dogs for lunch."

  He saw that she had set the table with care. Lattice-patterned dishes shared space on a fancy white tablecloth with a vase of flowers, stemmed glasses, and a wicker basket filled with French bread. The salt and pepper shakers were silver. The atmosphere struck him as less struggling-folk-artist than lunch at the Ritz. Leisurely lunch at the Ritz.

  "This is really very nice," he said as he took the chair he was bid. "You went to a lot of trouble, Holly. The only thing is ... I have to catch a ferry."

  "A ferry! When?" she asked, setting a plate with a crab-stuffed avocado before him.

  Right after I wolf this down would have been the honest answer. He settled for saying, "I have a little while yet."

  "I see." She brought the bottle of wine over and filled his glass. "It's just that you never mentioned it."

  "True. I would have, if I'd known about it. Something just came up."

  "What could come up? Your cell phone's dead."

  "True." The girl was quick. "It's more something that I remembered." Lies, more lies, more lies. What was it about her that made him want to cover his tracks so completely?

  "Well, it's a good thing you remembered," she said, stabbing the stuffed avocado hard with her fork. After a minute she looked up at him and said, "Remembered what, exactly?"

  Even he knew that she was crossing the bounds of good manners. He twitched an eyebrow in the politest possible reprimand. It was enough to send heat flooding into her cheeks.

  "Well, of course if you'd rather not say, I understand," she said as she concentrated on buttering a slice of bread. "That's absolutely your right." After a short, meditative chew, she lifted her chin. "Why would you rather not say?"

  "I thought it was my
right," he answered lightly.

  She thought about it and apparently decided that it wasn't. Resting her fist ends on the table, she leaned forward and said, "Sam, can we stop playing games? This change of plans has something to do with Eden. If it has to do with Eden, then it has to do with me."

  "I'm not sure I see a connection," he ventured.

  "Then take off your blindfold! I've told you everything I know about her—and a lot of stuff I shouldn't have said about my parents besides. Whereas you've told me virtually nothing," she said, her voice rising with emotion. "I don't even know who owns the damn engraving!"

  She was impassioned, and she had a point. With a grudging frown he handed her a cookie of information. "The engraving belongs to my parents."

  "Your parents! You said they were dead!"

  "My birth mother is, they tell me. Since no one has a clue who my biological father is, I like to think of him that way as well. But my adoptive parents are alive. Alive and ailing and poor as church mice now."

  Her full lips parted in an expression of unquestioning—and unwanted—sympathy. "Sam! Oh, that's awful! No wonder you're after Eden. Why didn't you tell me?"

  So that I wouldn't have to deal with that look on your face, that's why.

  All his life Sam had been an emotional loner. Millie and Jim Steadman had done their best, but a loner he had remained—until Eden. The one time he had fully trusted someone ... the one time he'd given in to what he now saw was a pathetic need to be wanted and needed by someone ...

  "I didn't see the point of mentioning it," he said with a shrug.

  Bad answer. Holly didn't like it at all. "Does everything have to have a point?" she said, sitting back in exasperation. "Can't you just confide in someone because it feels good?"

  "You've read way too many books in that bookcase," he shot back. There was definitely an edge in his voice. He could feel it coming, that prickly, defensive reaction whenever someone talked psychobabble. He remembered a title on her bookshelf and said acidly, "Men are from Mars, remember?"