Read Safe Harbor for Free Online Page B

stationery on
which her father had penned his brief letter.
    “Nothing,” Shelley said automatically. This was
between her and her father. If he’d wanted her mother to know, he
would have sent her a copy of the letter.
    Still, Shelley realized that being secretive
would only feed her mother’s curiosity, so she added, “Just that
he’s sorry he can’t come to the island every weekend.”
    Her mother pursed her lips, as if she didn’t
quite believe Shelley. Rising from the table, she crossed to the
sink and busied herself fixing hamburger patties for their
dinner.
    Shelley scowled at her mother’s back for a
minute, then carried her letter upstairs to her bedroom under the
eaves. Stretched out on her bed, she read the letter one more time.
She had told her mother the truth about what it said—an abridged
version, maybe, but essentially the truth. What mattered most to
Shelley, though, were the personal nuances, the father-daughter
stuff, the parts she hadn’t told her mother: I love you, Shelley.
You’re growing up. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive
me.
    “I forgive you,” she whispered, folding the
letter carefully along its original creases and slipping it back
inside the envelope. She hid the letter in the middle drawer of her
dresser, tucked between two folded shirts. Then she smiled at her
reflection in the mirror and went back downstairs to help her
mother fix dinner.
    An hour later, the dishes done and the table
wiped, Shelley told her mother she was going to Kip’s house.
Ensconced in the parlor with her usual props—a magazine and a glass
of sherry—her mother nodded without looking up.
    Terrific, Shelley thought sourly as she
pocketed her house key and left the house. Her mother was angry
with her. She’d simmered all through supper, picking at her food,
responding to Shelley’s conversational gambits with terse answers.
When Shelley finally said, “What’s the matter, Mom?” her mother had
grumbled about how tragic it was when girls couldn’t trust their
own mothers.
    Shelley trusted her mother. It was just that...
Climbing onto her bike, she sighed. The letter was between her
father and her. He’d written it to her. No matter how much she
trusted her mother, she didn’t have to share her mail with
her.
    The last time she’d been to Kip’s house,
Saturday evening, the place had been swarming with guests. Tonight,
except for the single light in an upstairs window, it appeared
vacant. The air was still and mild, fragrant with the scent of
mowed grass. Evening mist was beginning to rise off the water and
drift across the land, giving the world a delicate soft
focus.
    Shelley parked her bike by the front veranda,
climbed the steps, and knocked on the door. Kip’s voice drifted
down to her from the illuminated second-floor window: “Who’s
there?”
    She walked to the far edge of the veranda and
craned her neck. She saw his back-lit silhouette in the window.
“Me,” she shouted up. “Shelley.”
    “Oh—hi! Hang on, I’ll be right
down.”
    He vanished from the window. Ten seconds later,
he was opening the door to her. “Come on in,” he said.
    “Where is everybody?” she asked as she entered
the house. Its silence unnerved her. Whenever Mrs. Stroud was home
she had the stereo on, playing one of her classical music
tapes.
    “The Rosses invited my mother over to see the
slides they took of their sailboat trip to Nantucket. They invited
me, too,” he admitted, then jabbed his finger toward the back of
his mouth to indicate that he found the idea nauseating. “I forced
myself to say no.”
    “I can’t imagine why,” Shelley said with a
grin. “Where’s Diana?”
    “Where else? With Romeo.”
    “His name is Mark,” Shelley declared, “and I
think he’s very nice.”
    “Oh, great. Now you’re in love with him,
too.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Shelley retorted. “I
just thought that, considering how embarrassing Saturday might have
been for him, he held