Safe Harbor by Judith Arnold Page A

register.
    “Hello?” he called out.
    “Be right out,” a woman’s voice responded.
After a moment he spotted a white-coated figure emerging from
behind one of the metal shelves, carrying a clipboard and a pen.
She stopped and jotted something onto a sheet of paper attached to
the clipboard, then scanned the shelf in front of her and jotted
another note.
    Kip glanced over his shoulder at the rack
behind him, checking to see if there was anything else he ought to
buy while he was there. He had packed toothpaste and a toothbrush,
shampoo, soap and shaving gear. If he wanted books he would go to
the library or see what the summer tenants might have left lying
around at the house.
    He heard the woman’s footsteps as she strode
around the glass barrier to the counter. Reaching for his wallet,
he turned back to make his purchase.
    Shelley.
    No, of course not. He must be mistaken. The
woman nearing the counter couldn’t possibly be...
    Yet the hair that gently brushed past her
shoulders was the same dark blond shade as Shelley Ballard’s had
been. Her eyes were the same expressive gray. Her lips were as full
and soft, her height as statuesque. Her forehead was as high as
Shelley’s had been, her fingers as long and graceful. He could
almost see those fingers tossing a Frisbee with brutal
accuracy.
    She couldn’t be Shelley. Shelley had vanished
without a trace—was it twelve years ago? This pharmacist might be
tall and athletically built, her body trim in a skirt and blouse
beneath her open white lab coat, her eyes clear and direct as she
scrutinized him—but she couldn’t possibly be Shelley.
    She frowned slightly. “Kip?” she
murmured.
    In Shelley’s voice.
    “Oh, my God.”
    “It’s you?”
    “Oh, God. Shelley.”
    The bottle of aspirin slipped unnoticed from
his hand and dropped onto the counter. His attention was riveted to
the woman darting around the counter, her arms outstretched, her
face radiating a delight so contagious Kip felt a strange, wholly
unexpected surge of joy. He extended his arms and she threw herself
into them.
    “Shelley,” he whispered, hugging her
hard.
    She hugged him with equal force. “This is
incredible. Kip, I can’t believe it’s you! I can’t believe
it.”
    “Believe it. It’s me,” he said.
    She stepped back and beamed at him. For a
pregnant minute they simply stared at each other, absorbed each
other.
    “You look good,” she said.
    “I look like shit,” he argued.
    She chuckled. “Okay. You look a little haggard.
But—I mean, God, Kip, you’ve grown up.”
    “So have you.”
    “On you it looks good.”
    “On you, too,” he said, giving her a sweeping
assessment. Her legs were still long, her calves sleek below the
hem of her skirt. Her hips were still compact, her waist slender,
her bosom nicely proportioned. Her face had matured in a remarkable
way. There was nothing specific he could identify as a sign of
aging—no crow’s feet or frown lines—but he sensed a wisdom about
her he’d never discerned when they were kids. Her eyes were older,
somehow. They’d seen more of life, and they intrigued him as they
never had before.
    “I like your new eyeglasses,” she
said.
    “New?” He let out a laugh. The glasses he had
on were four years old.
    “You’ve turned into a yuppie,” she added,
appraising his hand-knit sweater and tailored slacks.
    “I’m afraid so.” He continued to study her
eyes, wondering what exactly they had seen, where she had been for
the past dozen years, why she had left him without saying good-bye
so many summers ago. Wondering whether it was Shelley herself or
merely the shock of seeing her that sent his mood
soaring.
    What made her look good to him had less to do
with her inherent beauty than with his memory of everything she’d
once been—his companion, his critic, his sounding board and
sparring partner, his ally. His friend. Gazing into her bright eyes
he saw not only their intelligence but the trust he’d once had