Safe Harbor

by Judith Arnold

  Last night Kip had gone out to dinner with a friend of a friend of his old high-school classmate. A buyer for Jordan Marsh, Eileen was a bubbly woman, devoted to Chinese food and sixties rock music. She had coppery red hair, pretty green eyes and a full, almost plump figure that had tempted Kip in a supremely healthy way. He hadn’t acted on that temptation, but the fact that he could respond to her pleased him. He’d asked her to have dinner with him again on Saturday night, and she’d accepted the invitation.

  He was ready to start his new life. He was ready to take care of himself. He was ready to be a fully functioning adult once more.

  He still had black moments, flashes of Amanda tearing across his brain, nightmares and episodes of sheer anguish. Occasionally he found himself eating at the counter in the kitchen, standing up, not because he lacked a dining table but because he was lonely, because he had no one with whom to share his coffee and bicker over the sections of the newspaper. Sometimes when he was walking down a busy street he’d see a petite, well-dressed woman with curly black hair and sorrow would squeeze his heart until he was staggered by the pain.

  But those times were fewer and farther between. He had his life back. He was all right. Better than all right—he was happy.

  The night the call came, he was particularly happy because he’d beaten the pants off Dave Alvord on the squash court after work. Even after a year away from the game, his skills hadn’t atrophied. He’d played aggressively, enthusiastically, burning off the tensions of a day at work as well as other tensions, undefined and unexamined, latent but always there. By the time he aced his final serve he’d been too fatigued to be tense. Dave had cheerfully called him something unprintable, and Kip had salved Dave’s wounded pride by treating him to an iced tea in the club’s lounge once they’d both showered and donned their street clothes. They’d made a date for a rematch, then went their separate ways home.

  Kip bounded into his apartment, carrying his athletic bag and racquet along with his briefcase and the letters he’d found in his mailbox downstairs in the building’s lobby. Tossing the athletic bag onto the kitchen counter, he flipped through the envelopes—nothing worthy of his immediate attention—and then pulled a beer from the top shelf of the refrigerator. He removed the jacket of his suit, loosened his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and strode through the living room into the bedroom, where he kicked off his shoes.

  The telephone rang. Making a mental note to buy a phone extension for the bedroom, he returned to the living room, lifted the telephone off the floor, flopped into the easy chair—the only piece of furniture in the room—and answered. “Hello?”

  “Kip? It’s Shelley.”

  “Shelley!” A broad grin spread across his face. God, he missed her. He missed their daily visits, their casual conversations, their easy camaraderie. He’d intended to give her a call, but things had been hectic since he’d returned from Block Island. The first few weeks, he’d spent every day at work and every evening checking out apartments for rent. The past ten days, he’d spent every day at work and every evening trying to turn his new residence into something resembling a home.

  He should have been in touch with Shelley, though. If not for her—if not for Block Island, the brisk sea air, the house-maintenance projects, the long bicycle rides but mostly Shelley herself, her company, her gentle presence and unflagging loyalty—he wouldn’t have made it this far. He would have still been a basket case, drowning in self-pity, haunted by the past.

  He suffered a twinge of guilt for having neglected her, but that didn’t diminish his delight at hearing from her voice. “Hi!” he said. “I moved.”

  “Yes, I know. I called your parents’ house, and your mother told me.”

  He took a quick sip of beer, then set the bottle down on the floor beside the chair and gazed about the barren room. “I’ve been meaning to phone you, but it’s been crazy. It took me a while to find this apartment, and to get settled in... Slowly but surely it’s all coming together.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “The place is a disaster. No—I mean it’s really nice, but it’s empty. I’ve barely begun to unpack. Right now I’m sitting in the only chair I own and staring at six unpacked cartons lined up along the opposite wall. I think one of them contains my CD collection, but since I haven’t got a stereo...” He settled more comfortably into the overstuffed cushions, kicking one leg over one of the chair’s arms and swinging his foot. Simply hearing Shelley’s voice on the line made his apartment seem brighter, more like home. “I felt the time had come for me to move out of my parents’ place,” he said. “They’re wonderful—I don’t have to tell you that—but when I got back from Block Island I just felt...ready.” He sighed. “I should have called, Shelley.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “Even so, I should have called.”

  She offered no argument. Evidently she agreed with him. He chuckled at the stubborn honesty that ruled their friendship. One thing he could count on Shelley for was the refusal to make excuses for his behavior.

  “So you’re back at work?” she asked.

  “Yes, and loving it. Harrison—my boss—stuck me with a really screwy client. The challenge is unbelievable, but I love it. I can walk to work from my new apartment, which is great. I’ve got the car garaged here, but it’s only about a half-mile walk to my office, so I commute on foot. I’m getting myself back into shape, Shell. As a matter of fact, I just got home from a killer squash game with a friend of mine. I’m eating better, too.”

  “Scallops in wine?” she asked.

  He heard the humorous lilt in her voice; he could picture her smile. “I wish,” he muttered with pretended dismay. “I need some equipment for the kitchen. All I’ve got is a skillet and two pots. But if you visit, I promise I’ll go out and invest in some cookware. How about it?” he said, his smile widening. The invitation had popped out unexpectedly, but as soon as he voiced it he was thrilled. He took a sip of beer and said, “Why don’t you come visit me in Boston? We can go to a museum, take in a show... You can give me some advice on what kind of furniture I should buy, and in return I’ll stuff you with gourmet cookery. How about it?”

  A long silence, and then: “I don’t think so, Kip.”

  Belatedly, it dawned on him that perhaps she hadn’t called just to shoot the breeze with him. “What’s up?” he asked, unconsciously sitting straighter.

  “Well...” He heard the crackle of long-distance static on the line. “I’m pregnant.”

  He stared at the Georgia O’Keefe print on the wall opposite him, a sensuous symmetrical rendering of an orchid. He concentrated on the smooth plastic of the receiver in one hand, the cold glass of his beer bottle in the other, the weight of the telephone base in his lap. He listened to the silence Shelley’s statement left in its wake.

  Unable to digest what she’d said, he closed his eyes. He expected to see Amanda, but all he saw was blackness, a bit frightening yet at the same time curiously restful. The emotion that jolted might have been horror or dread, or something quite different. It was dark, elusive, portentous.

  “Kip?” she said after a minute.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice a faint rasp.

  “I haven’t seen Dr. Hodge yet. I used a home pregnancy test—we carry them at the pharmacy. It tested positive.” She paused, giving him the opportunity to say something. He didn’t know what to say, though. “When I go to Dr. Hodge, everyone on the island is going to know. Everybody knows everything here, Kip, so once I go to him it will be public knowledge. I thought...I thought you should know first.”

  Should he thank her for that courtesy? Should he feel honored that she told him before everybody on Block Island knew?

  Jesus. What was he going to do? He’d only just gotten back on his feet again. He’d only just started to feel his life taking shape, falling back within his control, resembling normality. He’d only just begun to master his destiny, to set new goals and look toward the future wi
th something other than anguish or apathy.

  He’d only moved into this apartment. He hadn’t even unpacked, for God’s sake!

  Why couldn’t he get a handle on what he was feeling? Why couldn’t he clear his head? Damn it to hell, why couldn’t he think?

  “I assumed you’d want to know,” Shelley said, sounding keenly disappointed.

  “I do,” he insisted. “I do want to know. It’s just...” He set down the beer, leaned forward and planted his feet firmly on the hardwood floor in front of him, as if a more stringent posture would clarify the situation and tell him what he was supposed to do. “Why didn’t you say anything? That night, I mean—before we made love. You should have told me you weren’t using anything. You should have stopped me.”

  “I couldn’t have stopped you, Kip. I couldn’t have stopped myself.” There was no accusation in her voice, no blame. She sounded lucid, thoughtful. “I couldn’t leave you that night. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have gotten in my car and driven away. But I couldn’t.” She mulled over her words. “I said no regrets, Kip. And I meant it.”

  “Not even now?”

  “Not even now.” She paused again. “I want to have the baby.”

  “Okay,” he said at once. The ramifications of her decision circled infuriatingly around his brain. He wished they would slow down so he could grab hold of them. They were amorphous, intangible, too fast, too fleeting. His struggle to think caused his breath to grow short, his pulse to quicken, his head to pound.

  “I want you to understand, Kip—that’s my choice. You have a choice, too.”

  “No. I mean, if you want to have the baby—”

  “No one has to know you’re the father. I can lie. I can tell them I don’t know who the father is.”

  A weak laugh escaped him. “Anyone who knows you would never believe that.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether or not anyone believes me. What matters is, if you want me to, I’ll keep you out of it. No one would have to know. It would be my secret.” She was calm, blessedly calm. Obviously, she’d had more time to adjust to the situation than he had, but he envied her her steadiness, her resolve. “I don’t want you to feel an obligation, Kip. I’ve made my choice, but you have the right to make your choice, too.”

  “No,” he said again, and hearing himself speak the word so forcefully filled him with an odd, totally unjustified satisfaction. “If you want the baby, we’ll have the baby. I’m the father; I’m not going to run away from that.”

  “Okay.”

  “We could even get married if you’d like.” Why not? They were friends. She was so considerate of him she would willingly protect him from the consequences of his own recklessness. She was a good person, kind and intelligent. They trusted each other. She would never leave him in the lurch, and he would never leave her in the lurch, either. “How about it? Would you like to get married?”

  “No,” she said with such quiet fervor he was insulted. Marrying him wasn’t such a vile idea, was it? Her swift rejection made it seem as if she thought he’d suggested swallowing poison.

  When she spoke again she used her calm, rational tone. “I don’t believe in marriage, Kip. You know that. I would never want to get married, not even because of this. Definitely not because of this.”

  “Shelley.”

  “Marriage guarantees nothing. It would be hypocritical to get married just to make things look proper. I’m not going to become dependent on a man who doesn’t love me. That’s not for me.”

  “Shelley—”

  “And anyway, you’re not ready for marriage. That’s not what you want, or what you need. I know you’re doing well, you’re feeling better. But you’re still in mourning for Amanda. You’re still in love with her. You know that.”

  Yes. He knew that. He wished he could swear to Shelley that he was ready for marriage, that he did love her, that he was over Amanda and never thought about her anymore, never missed her, never wished to have her in his arms again.

  But he couldn’t lie, not to Shelley. Her relentless honesty compelled the same from him.

  “If you won’t marry me,” he conceded, “at least let me help out financially.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m the father. I want to do whatever I can.”

  “Fine.”

  I’m the father. Why didn’t enunciating those three words shock him? Why didn’t they shake him to his soul? I’m the father.

  God. He was going to be a father. Shelley was carrying his child inside her. His baby. A piece of him, living inside her, a piece of his life.

  “Shelley?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to do more than help out financially,” he heard himself say, and the words sounded right to him, hopeful, as honest as everything that had ever passed between them. “I want to be its father. I’m not sure what that’s going to entail, but...I want to be a father to my child.”

  Her silence implied that she wasn’t sure what it was going to entail, either. “We’ll work it out,” she said after a moment. “If that’s what you want, Kip—we’ll work it out.”

  They talked for a few minutes more, their words measured and cautious. Kip promised to call Shelley the following evening after she’d seen Dr. Hodge, and they wished each other a good night and hung up.

  He fingered the phone in his lap and stared at the voluptuous womb-shaped flower in the O’Keefe print on the wall. Then he lowered the phone to the floor, lifted his beer, and sank back in his chair.

  A baby. Shelley was going to have a baby. His baby. Theirs.

  He tried to picture her pregnant, her belly swollen, her breasts enlarged, her face radiant. As incomprehensible as that image was, even more incomprehensible was the thought of an actual infant emerging from her, a creature smaller even than his niece, Victoria. Kip tried to imagine himself holding his newborn child, lifting it into his arms, talking to it and teaching it, initiating it into the magnificence of life.

  He ought to be chastising himself for his carelessness, worrying about his future, scrambling to figure out how in hell he was going to be a father to a baby whose mother lived on an island two and a half hours away. He ought to be wondering how, when his own mental health was such a fragile thing, he was ever going to find the strength to take on a responsibility like this. He ought to be tearing himself up.

  But all he could think about was that a new life had staked its claim on his world. He had spent a long time grappling with death and all its crushing pain. Now there was something more significant for him to contend with than death.

  There was this: a baby. His baby.

  PART THREE

  THE CUPOLA

  Chapter Ten

  HEARING THE CRUNCH of tires on gravel, Shelley set down the weeding claw and tossed her garden gloves onto the ground beside it. Then she rose to her feet, dusted off the knees of her jeans and smoothed out her shirt. Her hair was pinned back in a loose pony-tail, but a few strands had escaped the barrette and drizzled forward, tickling her cheeks as she wandered around from the side of the house. The sight of Kip’s Saab rolling to a halt at the top of the driveway brought a frown to her face.

  Kip frequently spent his weekends on the island. He didn’t have to; Shelley was willing to accommodate him if he wanted to have Jamie spend the weekend with him in “America.” But Kip insisted he preferred to come to the island, not only because it was easier on Shelley and Jamie but because he liked being there, getting away from Providence and unwinding in the island’s restful atmosphere.

  On those occasions when he did want to spend the weekend on the mainland, Shelley usually delivered Jamie to Kip in Pt. Judith Friday night or Saturday morning, and Kip brought Jamie back on the five o’clock ferry into Old Harbor. Shelley would meet them at the boat landing and the three of them would go out to dinner at one of the restaurants on Water Street. Then Jamie and Shelley would wave Kip off on the eight p.m. ferry back to Pt. Judith, where he would have left his car.


  It was only a little past one o’clock now, however—and Kip had brought his car onto the island. Shielding her eyes in the glaring midday sun, Shelley spotted Jamie in the bucket seat next to Kip. The back seat was folded down and the rear of the car was filled with cartons.

  Her frown deepened momentarily, then dissolved as she heard Jamie’s sweet, chirping voice through the open window. “Mommy! Mommy!” he sang out as Kip unfastened the harness of his child safety seat. Sliding down from the seat, Jamie opened the door and bolted out of the car, shouting, “Soo-pri! Soo-pri! Mommy! Soo-pri!”

  He raced to her on his pudgy toddler legs, and she raced to him. He all but flew into her outstretched arms, and she swooped him into the air and swung him around before peppering his fine blond curls with kisses. “Hello, Jamie! Hello! Did you have a good time with Daddy?”

  “Daddy say we drive home an’ soo-pri you,” Jamie babbled. At two years old, he had a limited vocabulary, and he mispronounced at least eighty percent of the words he knew.

  “I am surprised,” she admitted, half to Jamie and half to Kip, who had emerged from behind the wheel. Clad in jeans, a loose-fitting cotton shirt, sneakers and sunglasses, he approached shyly, as if not wishing to intrude on the exuberant reunion of mother and child.

  Reaching her, he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” She searched his face for an explanation as to why he’d brought Jamie home early and spent over twenty dollars to transport his car to the island. But his eyes were hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses and his mouth curved in a cryptic smile.

  Before she could question him, Jamie declared, “I see Gramma Grampa! I go see Gramma Grampa!”

  “I know you saw them,” Shelley said, smiling and nuzzling Jamie’s soft, round chin. “You went to a barbecue to celebrate your birthday, didn’t you. You went all the way up to Chestnut Hill.”

  “I see Gramma Grampa an’ they gimme stuff.”