Safe Harbor by Antoinette Stockenberg

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 barre tte," he said. He slid the tor toiseshell 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 a n 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 th e old- fashioned kitchen and the old-fashioned girl preparing a meal for him there,