Safe Harbour

The story of extraordinary acts

of faith and courage …

SAFE

HARBOUR

PRAISE FOR

DANIELLE STEEL“Steel pulls out all the emotional stops.… She delivers.”—Publishers Weekly“Steel is one of the best!”—Los Angeles Times“The world's most popular author tells a good, well-paced story and explores some important issues.… Steel affirm[s] life while admitting its turbulance, melodramas, and misfiring passions.”—Booklist“Danielle Steel writes boldly and with practiced vividness about tragedy—both national and personal … with insight and power.”—Nashville Banner“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the pages.”—Pittsburgh Press“One of the things that keeps Danielle Steel fresh is her bent for timely story lines … the combination of Steel's comprehensive research and her skill at creating credible characters makes for a gripping read.”—Newark Star-Ledger“What counts for the reader is the ring of authenticity.”—San Francisco Chronicle“Steel knows how to wring the emotion out of the briefest scene.”—People“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled; men and women swept up in bewildering change, seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner“Danielle Steel has again uplifted her readers while skillfully communicating some of life's bittersweet verities. Who could ask for a finer gift than that?”—Philadelphia Inquirer

a cognizant original v5 release october 16 2010

PRAISE FOR THE RECENT NOVELS OF

DANIELLE STEELSAFE HARBOUR“Danielle Steel offers readers a poignant tale of friendship, family, and hope. The relationships are full, and the unforgettable spirit with which the characters struggle to renew their love for life makes this book a treasure.”—Oklahoman“Her page-turning plot and charming depiction of loving relationships will endear Ms. Steel to her fans.”—Library JournalRANSOM“This suspense novel has automatic appeal for Steel fans.”—Booklist“A surefire best seller.”—Daily NewsJOHNNY ANGEL“Call us sentimental, but sometimes we prefer the classic authors. Make it a point of pride to read Johnny Angel.…”—Chicago Sun-TimesDATING GAME“A cheerful story full of colorful dating scenarios … you can't stop devouring it.”—Chicago TribuneANSWERED PRAYERS“Smooth plotting …”—Publishers WeeklySUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ“Steel's skillful character development shines.”—Newark Star-LedgerA MAIN SELECTION OF

THE LITERARY GUILD

AND

THE DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB

Also by Danielle Steel

SECOND CHANCE VANISHED RANSOM MIXED BLESSINGS JOHNNY ANGEL JEWELS DATING GAME NO GREATER LOVE ANSWERED PRAYERS HEARTBEAT SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ MESSAGE FROM NAM THE COTTAGE DADDY THE KISS STAR LEAP OF FAITH ZOYA LONE EAGLE KALEIDOSCOPE JOURNEY FINE THINGS THE HOUSE ON WANDERLUST HOPE STREET SECRETS THE WEDDING FAMILY ALBUM IRRESISTIBLE FORCES FULL CIRCLE GRANNY DAN CHANGES BITTERSWEET THURSTON HOUSE MIRROR IMAGE CROSSINGS HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: ONCE IN A LIFETIME THE STORY OF NICK TRAINA A PERFECT STRANGER THE KLONE AND I REMEMBRANCE THE LONG ROAD HOME PALOMINO THE GHOST LOVE: POEMS SPECIAL DELIVERY THE RING THE RANCH LOVING SILENT HONOR TO LOVE AGAIN MALICE SUMMER'S END FIVE DAYS IN PARIS SEASON OF PASSION LIGHTNING THE PROMISE WINGS NOW AND FOREVER THE GIFT PASSION'S PROMISE ACCIDENT GOING HOME

To my incredible, wonderful children,

Beatrix, Trevor, Todd, Sam, Victoria,

Vanessa, Maxx, Zara, and Nick,

who keep me safe, happy, and loved,

and whom I love so much.

May you ever be a safe harbour for each other.

And to the angels of “Yo! Angel!”:

Randy, Bob, Jill, Cody, Paul, Tony, Younes,

Jane and John.

with all my love,

d.s.

1

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE CHILLY, FOGGY DAYS THAT MAS-querade as summer in northern California, as the wind whipped across the long crescent of beach, and whiskbroomed a cloud of fine sand into the air. A little girl in red shorts and a white sweatshirt walked slowly down the beach, with her head turned against the wind, as her dog sniffed at seaweed at the water's edge.

The little girl had short curly red hair, amberflecked honey-colored eyes, and a dusting of freckles across her face, and those who knew children would have guessed her to be somewhere between ten and twelve. She was graceful and small, with skinny little legs. And the dog was a chocolate Lab. They walked slowly down from the gated community toward the public beach at the far end. There was almost no one on the beach that day, it was too cold. But she didn't mind, and the dog barked from time to time at the little swirls of sand raised by the wind, and then bounded back to the water's edge. He leaped backward, barking furiously, when he saw a crab, and the little girl laughed. It was obvious that the child and the dog were good friends. Something about the way they walked along together suggested a solitary life, as though one could sense that they had walked along this way often before. They walked side by side for a long time.

Some days it was hot and sunny on the beach, as one would expect in July, but not always. When the fog came in, it always seemed wintry and cold. You could see the fog roll in across the waves, and straight through the spires of the Golden Gate. At times you could see the bridge from the beach. Safe Harbour was thirty-five minutes north of San Francisco, and more than half of it was a gated community, with houses sitting just behind the dune, all along the beach. A security booth with a guard kept out the unwelcome. There was no access to the beach itself save from the houses that bordered it. At the other end, there was a public beach, and a row of simpler, almost shacklike houses, which had access to the beach as well. On hot sunny days, the public beach was crowded and populated inch by inch. But most of the time, even the public beach was sparsely visited, and at the private end, it was rare to see anyone on the beach at all.

The child had just reached the stretch of beach where the simpler houses were, when she saw a man sitting on a folding stool, painting a watercolor propped against an easel. She stopped and watched him from a considerable distance, as the Lab loped up the dune to pursue an intriguing scent he seemed to have discovered on the wind. The little girl sat down on the sand far from the artist, watching him work. She was far enough away that he was not aware of her at all. She just liked watching him, there was something solid and familiar about him as the wind brushed through his short dark hair. She liked observing people, and did the same thing with fishermen sometimes, staying well away from them, but taking in all they did. She sat there for a long time, as the artist worked. And she noticed that there were boats in his painting that didn't exist. It was quite a while before the dog came back and sat down next to her on the sand. She stroked him, without looking at him, she was looking out to sea, and then from time to time at the artist.

After a while, she stood up and approached a little bit, standing behind him and to the side, so he remained unaware of her presence, but she had a clear view of his work in progress. She liked the colors he was working with, and there was a sunset in the painting that she liked as well. The dog was tired by then, and stood by, seeming to wait for a command. And it was yet another little while before she approached again, and stood near enough for the artist to notice her at last. He looked up, startled, as the dog bounded past him, sending up a spray of sand. It was only then that the man glanced up and saw the child. He said nothing, and went on working, and was surprised to notice that she hadn't moved, and was still watching him, when he turned his head again, and mixed some water in his paints, half an hour later.

They said nothing to each other, but she continued to watch, and finally sat down on the sand. It was warmer, keeping low in the wind. Like her, the artist was wearing a sweatshirt, and in his case jeans, and an old pair of deck shoes that were well worn. He had a gently weathered face and a deep tan, and she noticed as he worked that he had nice hands. He was roughly the same age as her father, somewhere in his forties. And as he turned to see if she was still there, their eyes met, but neither smiled. He hadn't talked to a child in a long time.

“Do you like to draw?” He couldn't imagine any other reason why she'd still be there, except if she were an aspiring artist. She would have been bored otherwise. In truth, she just liked the silent companionship of being close to someone, even a stranger. It seemed friendly somehow.

“Sometimes.” She was cautious with him. He was, after all, a stranger, and she knew the rules about that. Her mother always reminded her not to talk to strangers.

“What do you like to draw?” he asked, cleaning a brush, and looking down at it as he talked. He had a handsome, chiseled face, and a cleft chin. There was something quiet and powerful about him, with broad shoulders and long legs. And in spite of sitting on the artist's stool, you could see he was a tall man.

“I like to draw my dog. How do you draw the boats if they aren't there?”

He smiled this time as he turned toward her, and their eyes met again. “I imagine them. Would you like to try?” He held out a small sketch pad and a pencil, it was obvious that she wasn't going anywhere. She hesitated, and then stood up, walked toward him, and took the pad and pencil.

“Can I draw my dog?” Her delicate face was serious as she inquired. She felt honored that he had offered her the pad.

“Sure. You can draw anything you like.” They didn't exchange names, but just sat near each other for a time, as each worked. She looked intent as she labored on the drawing. “What's his name?” the artist inquired as the Lab sailed past them, chasing seagulls.

“Mousse,” she said, without raising her eyes from her drawing.

“He doesn't look much like a moose. But it's a good name,” he said, correcting something on his own work, and momentarily scowling at his painting.

“It's a dessert. It's French, and it's chocolate.”

“I guess that'll work,” he said, looking satisfied again. He was almost through for the day. It was after four o'clock and he'd been there since lunchtime. “Do you speak French?” he said, more for something to say than out of any real interest, and was surprised when she nodded. It had been years since he'd spoken to a child her age, and he wasn't sure what he should say to her. But she had been so tenacious in her silent presence. And he noticed, as he glanced at her, that aside from the red hair, she looked a little like his daughter. Vanessa had had long straight blond hair at that age, but there was something similar about the demeanor and the posture. If he squinted, he could almost see her.

“My mom's French,” she added, as she sat, observing her own work. She had encountered the same difficulty she always did when she drew Mousse—the back legs didn't come out right.

“Let's take a look,” he said, holding a hand out for the sketch pad, aware of her consternation.

“I can never do the back part,” she said, handing it to him. They were like master and student, the drawing creating an instant bond between them. And she seemed strangely comfortable with him.

“I'll show you.… May I?” he asked her permission before adding to her efforts, and she nodded. And with careful strokes of the pencil, he corrected the problem. It was actually a very creditable portrait of the dog, even before he improved it. “You did a good job,” he observed, as he handed the page back to her and put away his sketch pad and pencil.

“Thank you for fixing it. I never know how to do that part.”

“You'll know next time,” he said, and started putting his paints away. It was getting colder, but neither of them seemed to notice.

“Are you going home now?” She looked disappointed, and it struck him as he looked into the cognac-colored eyes that she was lonely, and it touched him. Something about her haunted him.

“It's getting late.” And the fog on the waves was getting thicker. “Do you live here, or are you just visiting?” Neither knew the other's name, but it didn't seem to matter.

“I'm here for the summer.” There was no excitement in her voice, and she smiled seldom. He couldn't help wondering about her. She had crept into his afternoon, and now there was an odd, undefinable link between them.

“At the gated end?” He assumed she had come from the north end of the beach, and she nodded.

“Do you live here?” she asked, and he gestured with his head in the direction of one of the bungalows just behind them in answer. “Are you an artist?”

“I guess so. So are you,” he smiled, glancing at the portrait of Mousse she was holding tightly. Neither of them seemed to want to leave, but they knew they had to. She had to get home before her mother did, or she'd get in trouble. She had escaped the baby-sitter who'd been talking for hours on the phone with her boyfriend. The child knew that the teenage baby-sitter never cared if she went wandering off. Most of the time she didn't even notice, until the child's mother came home and asked about her.

“My father used to draw too.” He noticed the “used to,” but wasn't sure if it meant that her father no longer drew, or had left them. He suspected the latter. She was probably a child from a broken home, hungry for male attention. None of that was unfamiliar to him.

“Is he an artist?”

“No, an engineer. And he invented some things.” And then, with a sigh, she looked at him sadly. “I guess I'd better go home now.” And as though on cue, Mousse reappeared and stood beside her.

“Maybe I'll see you again sometime.” It was early July, and there was still a lot of life left in the summer. But he had never seen her before, and suspected she didn't come down this way very often. It was a good distance for her.

“Thank you for letting me draw with you,” she said politely, a smile dancing in her eyes this time, and the wistfulness he saw there touched him profoundly.

“I liked it,” he said honestly, and then stuck a hand out to her, feeling somewhat awkward. “My name is Matthew Bowles, by the way.”

She shook his hand solemnly, and he was impressed by her poise and good manners. She was a remarkable little soul, and he was glad to have met her. “I'm Pip Mackenzie.”

“That's an interesting name. Pip? Is that short for something?”

“Yes. I hate it,” she giggled, seeming more her own age again. “Phillippa. I was named after my grandfather. Isn't it awful?” She screwed up her face in disdain for her own name, and it elicited a smile from him. She was irresistible, particularly with the curly red hair and the freckles, all of which delighted him. He wasn't even sure anymore if he liked children. He generally avoided them. But this one was different. There was something magical about her.

“Actually, I like it. Phillippa. Maybe one day you'll like it.”

“I don't think so. It's a stupid name. I like Pip better.”

“I'll remember that when I see you next time,” he said, smiling at her.

They seemed to be lingering, reluctant to leave each other.

“I'll come back again, when my mom goes to the city. Maybe Thursday.” He had the distinct impression, given what she said, that she had either sneaked out or slipped away unnoticed, but at least she had the dog with her. Suddenly, for no reason he could think of, he felt responsible for her.

He folded his stool then, and picked up the worn, battered box he kept his paints in. He put the folded easel under one arm, and they stood looking at each other for a long moment.

“Thank you again, Mr. Bowles.”

“Matt. Thank you for the visit. Good-bye, Pip,” he said almost sadly.

“Bye,” she said with a wave, and then danced away like a leaf on the wind, as she waved again, and ran up the beach with Mousse behind her.

He stood watching her for a long time, wondering if he'd ever see her again, or if it mattered. She was only a child after all. He put his head down then against the wind, and walked up the dune to his small weatherbeaten cottage. He never locked the door, and when he walked inside and set his things down in the kitchen, he felt an ache he hadn't felt in years and didn't welcome. That was the trouble with children, he told himself, as he poured himself a glass of wine. They crept right into your soul, like a splinter under a fingernail, and then it hurt like hell when you removed them. But maybe it was worth it. There was something exceptional about her, and as he thought of the little girl on the beach, his eyes drifted to the portrait he had painted years before of a girl who looked remarkably like her. It was his daughter Vanessa when she was roughly the same age. And with that, he walked into his living room, and sank heavily into an old battered leather chair, and looked out at the fog rolling in over the ocean. As he stared at it, all he could see in his mind's eye was the little girl with bright red curly hair and freckles, and the haunting cognac-colored eyes.

2

OPHÉLIE MACKENZIE TOOK THE LAST WINDING TURN in the road, and drove the station wagon slowly through the tiny town of Safe Harbour. The town consisted of two restaurants, a bookstore, a surf shop, a grocery store, and an art gallery. It had been an arduous afternoon in the city for her. She hated going to the group twice a week, but she had to admit that it helped her. She had been going to it since May, and had another two months ahead of her. She had even agreed to attend meetings over the summer, which was why she had left Pip with their neighbor's daughter. Amy was sixteen, liked to baby-sit, or so she claimed, and needed the money to supplement her allowance. Ophélie needed the help, and Pip seemed to like her. It was a comfortable arrangement for all concerned, although Ophélie hated driving into town twice a week, even though it only took her half an hour, forty minutes at most. As commutes went, aside from the ten-mile stretch of hairpin turns between the freeway and the beach, it was easy. And driving along the cliffs, on the winding road, looking out over the ocean relaxed her. But this afternoon she was tired. It was exhausting sometimes listening to the others, and her own problems hadn't improved much since October. If anything, it seemed to be getting harder. But at least she had the support of the group, it was someone to talk to. And when she needed to, she could let her hair down with them, and admit how rotten she was feeling. She didn't like burdening Pip with her troubles. It didn't seem fair to do that to a child of eleven.

Ophélie drove through town, and shortly afterward took a left turn onto the dead-end road that led to the gated portion of Safe Harbour. Most people missed it. She did it by reflex now, on automatic pilot. It had been a good decision, and the right place to spend the summer. She needed the peace and quiet it offered. The solitude. The silence. The long, seemingly endless stretch of beach and white sand, which was sometimes almost wintry, and at other times hot and sunny.

She didn't mind the fog and chilly days. Sometimes they suited her mood better than the bright sun and blue skies that the other residents of the beach longed for. Some days she didn't leave the house at all. She stayed in bed, or tucked herself into a corner of the living room, pretending to read a book, and in fact just thinking, drifting back to another time and place when things were different. Before October. It had been nine months, and seemed like a lifetime.

Ophélie drove slowly through the gate, as the man in the security booth waved, and she nodded. She let out a small sigh as she drove toward the house carefully, over the speed bumps. There were children on bicycles on the road, several dogs, and a few people walking. It was one of those communities where people knew each other, but stayed unto themselves nonetheless. They had been there for a month, and she hadn't met any-one—and didn't want to. And as she drove into the driveway and turned off the car, she sat quietly for a moment. She was too tired to move, see Pip, or cook dinner, but she knew she had to. That was all part of it, the endless lethargy that seemed to make it impossible to do anything more than comb her hair or make a few phone calls.

For the moment at least, she felt as though her life was over. She felt a hundred years old, although she was forty-two, and looked thirty. Her hair was long and blond and soft and curly, and her eyes were the same rusty brandy color as her daughter's. And she was as small and delicate as Pip was. When she was in school, she'd been a dancer. She'd tried to get Pip interested in ballet at an early age, but Pip had hated it. She had found it difficult and boring, hated the exercises, the barre, the other girls who were so intent on perfection. She didn't care about her turnouts, her leaps and jumps or pliés. Ophélie had finally given up trying to convince her, and let Pip do what she wanted. She took horseback-riding lessons for a year instead, took a ceramic class in school, and the rest of the time she preferred drawing. Pip was solitary in her pursuits, and was happy left to her own devices, to read, or draw, or dream, or play with Mousse. In some ways, she was not unlike her mother, who had been solitary as a child too. Ophélie was never sure if it was healthy to let Pip keep to herself as much as she did. But Pip seemed happy that way, and she was always able to entertain herself, even now, when her mother paid so little attention to her. To the casual observer at least, Pip didn't seem to mind it, although her mother often felt guilty about how little they seemed to interact anymore. She had mentioned it to the group often. But Ophélie felt unable to break the spell of her own lethargy. Nothing would ever be the same now.

Ophélie put her car keys in her bag, got out of the car, and slammed the car door without locking it. There was no need to. And when she walked into the house, all she saw was Amy industriously loading the dishwasher and looking busy. She was always busy when Ophélie got home, which meant she had done nothing all afternoon before that and had to frantically catch up in the last few minutes. There was little to do anyway, it was a bright, cheerful, well-kept house, with clean-looking modern furniture, bare light wood floors, and a picture window that went the length of the house and afforded a splendid view of the ocean. There was a long narrow deck outside, with outdoor furniture on it. The house was just exactly what they needed. Peaceful, easy to maintain, and pleasant.

“Hello, Amy. Where's Pip?” Ophélie asked, with tired eyes. You almost could not hear her French origins at all, her English was not only fluent, her accent was nearly perfect. It was only when she was extremely tired, or vastly upset, that a word or two sneaked through that betrayed her.

“I don't know.” Amy looked suddenly blank, as Ophélie observed her. They'd had this conversation before. Amy never seemed to know where Pip was. And Ophélie instantly suspected that, as usual, she'd been talking to her boyfriend on her cell phone. It was the one thing Ophélie complained about nearly each time Amy sat for her. She expected her to know where Pip was, particularly as the house was so close to the ocean. It always panicked Ophélie to think that something could happen to her. “I think she's in her room, reading. That's where she was the last time I saw her,” Amy offered. In truth, Pip hadn't been in her room since she'd left it that morning. Her mother went to take a look, and of course saw no one. At that exact moment, Pip was in fact running down the beach toward home, with Mousse gamboling along beside her.

“Did she go down to the beach?” Ophélie asked, looking nervous as she came back to the kitchen. Her nerves had been raw since October, which previously would have been unlike her. But now everything was different. Amy had just turned on the dishwasher and was preparing to leave, with little or no concern where her charge was. She had the confidence and trust of youth. Ophélie knew better, and had learned the agonizing lesson that life could not be trusted.

“I don't think so. If she did, she didn't tell me.” The sixteen-year-old looked relaxed and unworried. And Ophélie looked anxious, despite the fact that the community was supposed to be safe, and appeared to be, but it still infuriated and terrified her that Amy allowed Pip to wander off with no supervision whatsoever. If she got hurt, or had a problem, or was hit by a car on the road, no one would know it. She had told Pip to report to Amy before she went anywhere, but neither the child nor the teenager heeded her instructions. “See you on Thursday!” Amy called as she breezed out the door, as Ophélie kicked off her sandals, walked out onto the deck, looked down the beach with a worried frown, and saw her. Pip was coming home at a dead run, and holding something in her hand that was flapping in the wind. It looked like a piece of paper, as Ophélie walked out to the dune, feeling relief sweep over her, and then down onto the beach to meet her. The worst possible scenarios always jumped into her mind now, instead of the simpler explanations. It was nearly five by then, and getting colder.

Ophélie waved at her daughter, who came to a breathless stop beside her, with a grin, and Mousse ran around them in circles, barking. Pip could see that her mother looked worried.

“Where've you been?” Ophélie asked quickly with a frown, she was still annoyed at Amy. The girl was hopeless. But Ophélie hadn't found anyone else to sit for her. And she needed someone with Pip whenever she went into the city.

“I went for a walk with Moussy. We went all the way down there,” she pointed in the direction of the public beach, “and it took longer to get back than I thought. He was chasing seagulls.” Ophélie smiled at her and relaxed finally, she was such a sweet child. Just seeing her sometimes reminded Ophélie of her own youth in Paris, and summers in Brittany. The climate had not been so different from this one. She had loved her summers there, and she had taken Pip there when she was little, just so she could see it.

“What's that?” She glanced at the piece of paper and could see it was a drawing of something.

“I did a picture of Mousse. I know how to do the back legs now.” But she did not say how she had learned it. She knew her mother would have disapproved of her wandering off alone on the beach, and talking to a strange man, even if he had improved her drawing, and it was harmless. Her mother was very strict about Pip not talking to strangers. She was well aware of how pretty the child was, even if Pip was entirely unaware of it herself for the moment.

“I can't imagine he sat still for his portrait,” Ophélie said with a smile and a look of amusement. And when she smiled, one could see easily how pretty she was when she was happy. She was beautiful, with exquisitely sculpted fine features, perfect teeth, a lovely smile, and eyes that danced when she was laughing. But since October, she laughed seldom, nearly never. And at night, lost in their separate private worlds, they hardly talked to each other. Despite how much she loved her child, Ophélie could no longer think of topics of conversation. It was too much effort, more than she could cope with. Everything was too much now, sometimes even breathing, and especially talking. She just retreated to her bedroom night after night, and lay on the bed in the dark. Pip went to her own room and closed the door, and if she wanted company, she took the dog with her. He was her constant companion.

“I found some shells for you,” Pip said, pulling two pretty ones out of the pocket of her sweatshirt and handing them to her mother. “I found a sand dollar too, but it was broken.”

“They nearly always are,” Ophélie said as she held the shells in her hand, and they walked back to the house together. She hadn't kissed Pip hello, she had forgotten. But Pip was used to it now. It was as though any form of human touch or contact was too painful for her mother. She had retreated behind her walls, and the mother Pip had known for the past eleven years had vanished. The woman who had taken her place, though outwardly the same, was in fact frail and broken. Someone had taken Ophélie away in the dark of night and replaced her with a robot. She sounded, felt, smelled, and looked the same, nothing about her was visibly different, but everything about her had altered. All the inner workings and mechanisms were irreparably different, and they both knew it. Pip had no choice but to accept it. And she had been gracious about it.

For a child her age, Pip had grown wise in the past nine months, wiser than most girls her age. And she had developed an intuitive sense about people, particularly her mother.

“Are you hungry?” Ophélie asked, looking worried. Cooking dinner had become an agony she hated, a ritual she detested. And eating it was even more distressing. She was never hungry, hadn't been in months. They had both grown thinner from nine months of dinners they couldn't swallow.

“Not yet. Do you want me to make pizza tonight?” Pip offered. It was one of the meals they both enjoyed not eating, although Ophélie seemed not to notice how Pip picked at her food now.

“Maybe,” Ophélie said vaguely. “I can make something if you want.” They had had pizza four nights in a row. There were stacks of them in the freezer. But everything else seemed like too much effort for too little return. If they weren't going to eat anyway, at least the pizzas were easy.

“I'm not really hungry,” Pip said vaguely. They had the same conversation every night. And sometimes in spite of it, Ophélie roasted a chicken and made a salad, but they didn't eat that either, it was too much trouble. Pip was existing on peanut butter and pizza. And Ophélie ate almost nothing, and looked it.

Ophélie went to her room then and lay down, and Pip went to her room and stood the portrait of Mousse against the lamp on her nightstand. The paper from the sketch pad was stiff enough to hold it, and as Pip looked at it, she thought of Matthew. She was anxious to see him again on Thursday. She liked him. And the drawing looked a lot better with the changes he'd made to the back legs. Mousse looked like a real dog in the drawing, and not half-dog half-rabbit, like the earlier portraits she'd done of him. Matthew was clearly a skilled artist.

It was dark outside when Pip finally wandered into her mother's bedroom. She was going to offer to cook dinner, but Ophélie was asleep. She lay there so still that for a moment Pip was worried, but when she moved closer to her, she could see her breathing. She covered her with a blanket that lay at the foot of the bed. Her mother was always cold, probably from the weight she had lost, or just from sadness. She slept a lot now.

Pip walked back out to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. She wasn't in the mood for pizza that night, she normally only ate one piece anyway. Instead she made herself a peanut butter sandwich, and ate it as she put the TV on. She watched quietly for a while, as Mousse slept at her feet. He was exhausted from the run on the beach, he was snoring softly, and woke only when Pip turned off the TV and the lights in the living room, and then she walked softly to her bedroom. She brushed her teeth and put her pajamas on, and a few minutes later got into bed and turned the light off. She lay in bed silently for a while, thinking about Matthew Bowles again, and trying not to think how life had changed since October. A few minutes later she fell asleep. Ophélie never woke until the next morning.

3

WEDNESDAY DAWNED ONE OF THOSE BRILLIANTLY sunny hot days that only happen rarely at Safe Harbour, and cause everyone to scramble for the sun and bask in it gratefully for hours. It was already hot and still when Pip got up, and wandered into the kitchen in her pajamas. Ophélie was sitting at the kitchen table, with a steaming cup of tea, looking exhausted. Even when she slept, she never woke feeling rested. It took only an instant after she woke up, for the wrecking ball of reality to hit her chest again. There was always that one blissful moment when memory failed her, but there was just as surely the hideous moment following it, when she remembered. And between the two instants, the ominous corridor where she had an instinctive sense that something terrible had happened. By the time she got up, the whiplash effect of waking had left her drained and exhausted. Mornings were never easy.

“Did you sleep well?” Pip asked politely as she poured herself a glass of orange juice and put a slice of bread in the toaster. She didn't make one for her mother because she knew she wouldn't eat it. Pip seldom saw her eat now, and never breakfast.

Ophélie didn't bother to answer the question. They both knew it was pointless. “I'm sorry I fell asleep last night. I meant to get up. Did you eat dinner?” She looked worried. She knew how little she was doing for the child, but seemed to be unable to do anything about it. She felt too paralyzed to do anything for her daughter, except feel guilty about it. Pip nodded. She didn't mind cooking for herself. It happened often, in fact almost always. Eating alone in front of the TV was better than sitting at the table together in silence. They had run out of things to say months before. It had been easier the previous winter when she had homework, and an excuse to leave the table quickly.

The slice of toast popped up loudly out of the toaster, Pip grabbed it, buttered it, and ate it without bothering to get a plate. She didn't need one, and she knew that whatever crumbs she dropped, Mousse would take care of. The canine vacuum. Pip walked out to the deck and sat on a lounge chair in the sunshine, and a moment later, Ophélie followed.

“Andrea said she'd come out today with the baby.” Pip looked pleased at the prospect. She loved the baby. William, Andrea's son, was three months old and a symbol of his mother's independence and courage. At forty-four, she had decided that she was unlikely to finally meet Prince Charming and get married. She had conceived the baby by artificial insemination from a sperm donor and had him in April, a bouncing beautiful dark-haired chubby baby boy with laughing blue eyes and a delicious giggle. Ophélie was his godmother, as Andrea was Pip's.

The two women had been friends since Ophélie came to California eighteen years before with her husband. They had lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, for two years before that, while Ted taught physics at Harvard. There had never been any question in any-one's mind that he was a genius. Brilliant, quiet, awkward, almost taciturn at times, yet gentle, tender, and once upon a time loving. Time and life's challenges had hardened him eventually, even embittered him. There had been hard years when nothing went as he wanted, and there was almost literally no money. And in the last five years, he had been lucky. Two of his inventions had made a fortune, and everything had gotten easy. But he was no longer open in heart or spirit.

He loved Ophélie and his family, they knew that, or said they did, but he no longer showed it. He had become lost in his constant struggles to come up with new designs, inventions, and solutions to problems. And he had finally made millions selling licenses to his patents in the field of energy technology. He had become not only world renowned but universally revered and respected. He had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow ultimately, but no longer remembered that there was a rainbow. His entire world centered on his work, and his wife and children were all but forgotten. He had all the hallmarks of a genius. But there was never any doubt in Ophélie's mind that she loved him. For all his difficulties and quirks, there was no one like him, and there had always been a powerful attachment between them. And as Ophélie had said patiently to Andrea one day, “I don't suppose Mrs. Beethoven had it easy either.” His prickly character was the nature of the beast and went with the territory. She had never reproached him his quirks or solitary personality, but she often missed the early years when things were still warm and cozier between them. And in some ways, they both knew Chad had changed that. The difficulties of their son had irreversibly altered the father. And as he withdrew from the boy, he also withdrew from his mother, as though somehow it was her fault. Their only son had been difficult as a small boy, and after endless agonies and a tortuous road, was diagnosed at fourteen as bipolar. But by then, for his own salvation and peace of mind, Ted had disengaged from him completely, and the boy had become entirely his mother's problem. Ted had sought and found refuge in denial.

“What time is Andrea coming out?” Pip asked as she finished her toast.

“Whenever she can get the baby organized. She said sometime this morning.” Ophélie was happy she was coming. The baby was a pleasant distraction, particularly for Pip, who adored him. And in spite of her age and inexperience, Andrea was a fairly easygoing mother. She never minded Pip wandering around with him everywhere, holding him, kissing him, or tickling his toes while his mother nursed him. And the baby loved her. His sunny disposition brought a ray of sunshine into their lives, which even warmed Ophélie whenever she saw him.

Much to everyone's amazement, Andrea had taken a year's sabbatical from her successful law practice to stay home with the baby. She loved being with him. She said that having William was the best thing she'd ever done, and she didn't regret it for an instant. Everyone had told her that having him would preclude ever finding a man, and she didn't seem to give a damn. She was happy with her son, and had been ecstatic over him right from the first. Ophélie had been with her at the birth, and it had moved them both to tears. The delivery had been fast and easy, and the first one, other than her own, that Ophélie had ever seen. The doctor had actually handed the baby to her to give to Andrea, minutes after he was born, and the two women had felt bonded forever after sharing William's birth. It had been an extraordinary event, deeply moving, and a memory they both cherished. It was a defining moment in their friendship.

Mother and daughter sat in the sun for a while without feeling obliged to say anything, and after a while, Ophélie went back into the house to answer the phone. It was Andrea, she had just finished nursing the baby, and said she was heading for the beach. Ophélie went to take a shower, and Pip changed into a bathing suit, and then told her mother she was going down on the beach with Mousse. She was still there, wading in the water, when Andrea arrived forty-five minutes later. And as always, she blew into the house like a gale-force wind. Within minutes of her arrival, there were diaper bags, and blankets, and toys, and a swing all over the living room. Ophélie went to the top of the dune and waved at Pip to come in, when they arrived, and shortly after she was playing with the baby, and Mousse was barking at them excitedly. It was standard fare for one of Andrea's visits. And it was another two hours before she was nursing the baby again, and things finally settled down. Pip had had a sandwich by then, and had gone back to the beach. And Andrea was sipping a glass of orange juice, as she sat peacefully on the couch, and Ophélie smiled at her.

“He's so beautiful… you're so lucky to have him,” Ophélie said enviously. There was something so peaceful and joyous about having a baby in their midst. It was all about beginnings and not endings, about hope instead of disappointment, loss, and grief. Overnight, Andrea's life had become the antithesis of hers. Most of the time now, Ophélie felt as though her own life was over.

“So how are you? How does it feel to be out here?” Andrea was constantly worried about her, and had been for nine months. She stretched out her long legs comfortably as she settled back against the couch with the baby at her breast, and made no effort to cover herself. She was proud of her new role in life. She was a handsome woman, with piercing dark eyes, and long, dark hair that she wore in a braid. Gone suddenly were her businesslike demeanor and courtroom suits. She was wearing a pink halter top, white shorts, and bare feet, and she was a full head taller than Ophélie. In heels, she stood well over six feet and was a striking woman. And despite her height, there was an obvious sensuality about her.

“It's better,” Ophélie answered her, not entirely honestly, although in some ways it was. At least she was in a house where she had no tangible memories, except those she had brought with her in her head. “Sometimes I think the group depresses me, and sometimes I think it helps. Most of the time, I'm not sure which.”

“Probably both. Like most things in life, it's a mixed bag. At least you're with other people going through the same thing. The rest of us probably don't understand all that you feel.” It was comforting to have Andrea admit that. Ophélie hated hearing people say that they understood what she was feeling, when they didn't. How could they? At least Andrea knew it.

“Maybe not. I hope you never do.” Ophélie smiled sadly, as Andrea switched the baby from one breast to the other. He was still drinking avidly, but in a few minutes, she knew, he'd be sated and asleep. “I feel so badly about Pip. I can't seem to connect with her. I feel like I'm floating somewhere in outer space.” And no matter how hard she tried to come back to earth, or wanted to, she couldn't.

“She seems to be doing okay in spite of it. You must be managing to get through to her once in a while. She's a pretty solid kid, she's been through a lot, you both have.” Chad had brought his share of stress to the family in the past several years. And Ted very definitely had his quirks. Pip was remarkably well balanced in spite of all of it, and until October, so was Ophélie. She had been the glue that had kept the family together, despite countless traumas and near tragedies. It was only since October that she had finally been brought to her knees. And Andrea was convinced she'd get back on her feet eventually. She wanted to do all she could to help her in the meantime.

The two women had been friends for nearly two decades. They had met through mutual friends, and liked each other instantly, although they couldn't have been more different, but some of that was what had drawn them to each other. Where Ophélie was quiet and gentle, Andrea was outspoken and assertive, and sometimes nearly masculine in her points of view. She was decidedly heterosexual, bordering on promiscuous at times, and she had never let any man tell her what to do. Ophélie was infinitely feminine, still very European in her values and opinions, and had been submissive to her husband for their entire marriage, and never felt diminished by it. Andrea had always encouraged her to be more independent, and more American in her behaviors. They shared a passion for art, music, great theater, and once or twice had flown to New York together to see the opening of a play. Andrea had even gone to France with her one year. And she and Ted had been enormously compatible. It was one of those rare threesomes where each person liked the other equally. She had been a physics major at MIT before going to law school at Stanford, which was what had brought her to California and ultimately kept her there. She couldn't stand the idea of going back to the snows of winter in Boston, where she was from and had gone to school. She had come out to California only three years before Ophélie and Ted, and was just as determined to stay and make a life there. Ted had loved her physics background and talked to her for hours about his latest projects. She understood far more about what he was doing than Ophélie ever had, and it pleased her that her friend was so knowledgeable. Even Ted, as difficult as he was, had to admit he was impressed by Andrea's extensive comprehension of his field.

She represented large corporations in lawsuits against the federal government, and did only plain-tiff's work, which suited her somewhat confrontational personality. It was also that side of her that allowed her to take Ted on toe to toe sometimes, and he admired her for that too. In some ways, she handled him far better than his own wife did. But Andrea could afford to, she had nothing to lose. Ophélie would never have dared say half the things to him Andrea did. But then again, Andrea didn't have to live with him. Ted behaved like the resident genius, and commanded a great deal of respect from all of them, except of course Chad, who had said he hated his father from the time he was ten. He hated his overbearing manner, and the sense of entitlement and superiority he had because of how smart he was. Chad had been just as smart, his circuitry had just gone awry somehow, so none of the connections matched up, or at least some very important ones didn't.

Ted had never been able to accept that his son was less than perfect, and in spite of all of Ophélie's efforts to mitigate the situation, Ted was ashamed of him. And Chad was well aware of it. It had caused some very ugly scenes between them. And Andrea knew that too. Only Pip had managed to somehow stay away from it, and remain untouched by the strife that nearly destroyed their family eventually. Even as a small child, Pip had become the little fairy who flew above it all, touching each of them gently, and trying to make peace between them. Andrea loved that about her. She was a magical child, and seemed to bless all she touched, just as she did now with Ophélie. It was why Pip was so tolerant and understanding of the fact that her mother was now so incapable of giving anything to her, not even meals. She forgave her for all of it, far more than Ted or Chad would have. Neither of them would have been able to tolerate Ophélie's infirmities, even if caused by them. They still would have blamed her. Or at least Ted would. Not that Ophélie would have seen it that way, she never had. She had always worshiped him, no matter what he did, and made excuses for him. Whether he recognized it or not, she was the perfect wife for him. Devoted, passionate, patient, understanding, long-suffering. She had stood behind him unfailingly, even in the lean, angst-filled years of no money.

“So what are you doing to distract yourself out here?” Andrea asked her pointedly, as the baby fell asleep.

“Not much. Reading. Sleeping. Walking on the beach.”

“Escaping, in other words,” Andrea said, cutting to the heart of things as she always did. It was impossible to fool her.

“Is that so terrible? Maybe that's what I need right now.”

“Maybe. But pretty soon it will be a year. You've got to get back in the world at some point, Ophélie. You can't hide forever.” Even the name of the community where she had rented a house for the summer was a symbol of what she wanted. Safe Harbour. From the storms that had battered her since the previous October, and long before that.

“Why not?” Ophélie looked hopeless as she said it, and her friend's heart went out to her, as it had for nearly a year. Ophélie had gotten a very tough deal.

“It's not good for you, or Pip, to hide. She needs you front and center, sooner or later. You can't check out indefinitely. It just isn't right. You have to start your life again. You need to get out, and see people, maybe even date at some point. You can't be alone forever.” Andrea thought she should get a job, but she hadn't dared say that to her yet. And Ophélie was still in no condition to start working. Or living.

“I can't even imagine it.” Ophélie looked horrified. She couldn't see herself with anyone but Ted. In her mind, she was still married to him, and always would be. She couldn't conceive of anyone else she'd want to share her life with. No one else would ever measure up to Ted in her eyes, no matter how difficult he had been to live with.

“There are some other things you could do first to get on your feet again. Combing your hair would be nice, once in a while at least.” Most of the time when Andrea saw her now, she looked disheveled, and sometimes she hadn't gotten dressed in days. She showered, but then put on jeans and an old sweater, and just ran a hand through her hair instead of combing it, except when she went somewhere, like to group. But she rarely went anywhere anymore. She had no reason to. Except when she drove Pip to school. And she didn't comb her hair for that either. Andrea thought it had been long enough, it was time to pull herself together. It had been her idea that they come to Safe Harbour, and she had even found the house for them through a realtor she knew. She was glad she had, she could see just from looking at Pip, and even her mother, that it had been a good decision. Ophélie looked healthier than she had in nearly a year. And for once, her hair was combed, or close enough anyway. In spite of herself, she looked suntanned and pretty.

“What are you going to do when you come back to town? You can't lock yourself in the house again all winter.”

“Yes, I can,” Ophélie laughed without embarrassment. “I can do anything I damn well want to now.” And they both knew that was true. Ted had left her an enormous fortune, not that she was showy about it. It was an ironic contrast to the dire straits they had been in, in their early years. At one point, they had lived in a two-room apartment in a dismal neighborhood. The kids had shared the bedroom, and Ted and Ophélie had slept on a pull-out couch in the living room. Ted had turned the garage into his laboratory. And oddly enough, despite the hardships and money worries they had, those had been their happiest years. Things got far more complicated once Ted had made it to the top of his field. Success had been far more stressful for him.

“I'm going to bug the hell out of you if you pull that recluse shit again when you come home,” Andrea threatened. “I'll make you come to the park with William and me. Maybe we should go to New York for the opening of the Met.” They both loved opera and had gone there before several times. “I'm going to drag you out by the hair if I have to,” she said menacingly, as the baby stirred and then settled again, making the soft fluttering sounds that babies do. Both women smiled as they looked at him, and his mother let him sleep at her breast, where he was happiest, and so was she.

“I'm sure you will,” Ophélie said in answer to her threat, and a few minutes later, Pip walked in with Mousse. She had a collection of rocks and seashells in her hands that she carefully deposited on the coffee table, with what looked like a gallon of sand. But Ophélie didn't say anything, as Pip pointed proudly at them.

“They're for you, Andrea. You can take them home with you.”

“I'd love to. Can I take the sand too?” she teased. “What have you been up to? Have you met kids out here?” Andrea was concerned about Pip too.

Pip shrugged noncommittally. She hadn't really met anyone. She seldom saw other people on the beach, and her mother was so reclusive, she hadn't met any families either.

“I'm going to have to come out here more often and shake things up. There must be some kids staying around here somewhere. We'll have to find them for you.”

“I'm fine,” Pip said, as she always did. She never complained. There was no point. She knew it wouldn't have changed anything. Her mother wasn't capable of more than she was doing at the moment. It was just the way things were for now. Maybe it would get better again one day, but obviously not yet. And Pip accepted that. She was wise way beyond her years. And the past nine months had forced her into adult shoes.

Andrea stayed until late in the afternoon, and left just before dinnertime. She wanted to get home before the fog rolled in. But by the time she left, they had laughed and talked, and Pip had played with the baby, and tickled him. They sat on the deck, soaking up the sun, and all in all, it had been a lovely, friendly afternoon. But the minute Andrea and the baby left, the house seemed instantly sad and empty again. She was such a powerful presence that the absence of her actually made things seem worse than they had been before she came. Pip loved the life-force of her. It was always exciting to be around her. And for Ophélie too. She couldn't get her own momentum going anymore, but Andrea had enough for all of them.

“Do you want me to rent a movie?” Ophélie suggested helpfully. She hadn't even thought about things like that in months, but Andrea's visit had energized her too.

“That's okay, Mom. I'll just watch TV,” Pip said quietly.

“Are you sure?” She nodded, and they went through the usual dilemma about what to eat, but tonight Ophélie offered to make hamburgers and a salad. The hamburgers were more cooked than Pip liked them, but she didn't say anything. She didn't want to discourage her, and it was better than the frozen pizza neither of them ate. Pip ate her whole hamburger, while her mother picked at hers, but she ate all the salad and at least half of the hamburger for once. Things had definitely improved with Andrea's good influence on them.

As Pip went to bed that night, she wished her mother would tuck her in. It was too much to ask in her current state, but nice to think about anyway. She remembered that her father used to do that when she was small, although he hadn't in a long time. No one had. He was seldom home and her mother was busy with Chad most of the time. There was always some drama happening. And now that there was none, Ophélie seemed to be gone too. Pip just went to bed herself. No one came to say goodnight, or prayers, or sing songs, or tuck her in. She was used to it. But it would have been nice anyway, in another life, a different world than the one she was in. Her mother had gone to bed straight after dinner that night, while she was still watching TV. Mousse licked her face as she lay in bed, and then with a yawn himself, lay down on the floor next to her, as she reached a hand out of bed and stroked his ear.

Pip smiled to herself as she drifted off to sleep. She knew her mother was going back to the city the next day, which meant she could walk down the beach and visit with Matthew Bowles again. She smiled, thinking of it, as she fell almost instantly to sleep, and dreamt of Andrea and the baby.

4

THURSDAY DAWNED FOGGY AGAIN, AND PIP WAS STILL half asleep when her mother left for the city. Ophélie had an attorney's meeting before her group that day, and had to go into the city before nine. Amy made breakfast for Pip, and then got on the phone as usual, while Pip watched cartoons on TV. It was nearly lunchtime when she decided to walk down the beach. She had wanted to go all morning, but was afraid to go too early, or she might miss him. She thought Matthew was more likely to be there in the afternoon.

“Where are you going?” Amy asked responsibly for once, as she saw Pip walk off the deck onto the sand, and Pip turned to look at her innocently.

“Just on the beach with Mousse.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No, I'll be fine. Thanks,” Pip said, and Amy went back to her call, feeling that she'd done her duty to Ophélie. And a moment later, both child and dog were bounding down the beach.

She had run for a long time when she saw him finally. He was in the same place, sitting on the folding stool, working at his easel. He heard Mousse barking in the distance, and turned to look at her. He had missed her the day before, surprisingly, and was relieved to see her small brown face smiling up at him.

“Hello,” she said, as though greeting an old friend.

“Hi there. How are you and Mousse?”

“We're fine. I would have come sooner, but I was afraid you wouldn't be here if I came too early.”

“I've been here since ten o'clock.” Like Pip, he had been afraid they'd miss each other. He had been looking forward to the meeting just as much as she, although neither of them had in fact promised to be there. They just wanted to be, which was the best way.

“You added another boat,” Pip commented, examining the painting carefully. “I like it. It's pretty.” It was a little red fishing boat in the distance, near the sunset, and it added punch to the painting. She liked it instinctively and he was pleased. “How do you imagine them so well?” she asked admiringly as Mousse disappeared in the sandgrass on the dune.

“I've seen a lot of boats.” He smiled warmly at her. She liked him. Very much, in fact, and there was no question in her mind that he was her friend. “I have a little sailboat I keep in the lagoon. I'll have to show it to you sometime.” It was small and old, but he cherished it. It was an old wooden boat he went out in alone whenever he could. He had loved sailing since he was Pip's age. “What did you do yesterday?” He liked hearing about her, and looking at her. More than ever, he wanted to do a sketch of her, but he loved talking to her too, which was rare for him.

“My godmother came to visit, with her baby. He's three months old. His name is William and he's really cute. She lets me carry him, and he giggles a lot. He doesn't have a father,” she said, looking matter-of-fact.

“That's too bad,” Matthew said carefully, taking a break from his work and enjoying her. “How did that happen?”

“She's not married. She got him from a bank or something. I don't know. It sounds complicated. My mom says it's not important. He just doesn't have one, that's all.”

He got the drift of it better than she had and was intrigued. It sounded very modern to him. He still believed in traditional marriages, and mothers and fathers, although he was well aware that life didn't always work out that way. But it was generally a good place to start. He wondered again what had happened to Pip's father, if anything, but he didn't get the feeling she was living with him, and he was afraid to ask. He didn't want to upset her unnecessarily, or pry. Their budding friendship seemed to rely on a certain amount of discretion and delicacy, which was both her nature and his.

“Do you want to draw today?” he asked, watching her. She was like a little elf hopping around the beach. She seemed so light and lithe, sometimes her feet barely touched the sand.

“Yes, please,” she said, ever polite, and with that, he held a sketch pad and pencil out to her.

“What are you going to draw today? Mousse again? Now that you know how to do the hind legs, it should be easier,” he said practically, and she looked pensive as she glanced up at his work.

“Do you think I could do a boat?” It seemed a stretch to her.

“I don't see why not. Do you want to try and copy mine? Or would you rather do a sailboat? I can sketch one for you, if you like.”

“I can copy the ones in your painting, if that's all right.” She didn't want to put him to a lot of trouble, which was typical of her. She was used to being cautious not to make waves or cause problems. She had always been careful with her father, and it had served her well. He never got as angry at her as he did at Chad. Although most of the time, once they lived in a bigger house, he didn't pay much attention to her at all. He went to an office then, and came home late, and traveled a lot. He had even learned to fly his own plane. He had taken her up in it several times when he first got it, and even let her bring the dog, with Chad's permission. And Mousse had been very well behaved.

“Can you see from down there?” Matthew asked, and she nodded, from where she sat near his feet. He had brought a sandwich to the beach with him, and unwrapped it. He had decided to eat lunch on the beach that day, in case she came by at lunchtime. He hadn't wanted to miss her, and he offered half the sandwich to her, from his perch on his stool. “Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Bowles. And yes, I can see very well.”

“Matt will do.” He smiled at how polite and formal she was. “Did you have lunch?”

“No, but I'm not hungry, thank you.” And then a moment later, as she sketched, out of nowhere came a bit of information that surprised him. It was easier talking to him while she wasn't looking at him, and was intent on her sketch of the boat. “My mother never eats. Or not very often anyway. She's gotten very thin.” It was obvious that Pip was worried about her, and Matt was intrigued.

“Why is that? Has she been sick?”

“No. Just sad.” They went on drawing for a while, and he refused to pry. He figured she would tell him as much as she wanted to, when she was ready. And he was in no rush to press her. Theirs was a friendship that seemed to float in space, independent of time. And he felt as though he had known her for a long time.

And then finally, it occurred to him to ask the obvious. “Have you been sad too?” She nodded silently, and never raised her eyes from the sketch. And this time he purposely did not ask why. He could sense painful memories wafting around her, and he had to resist an urge to reach out and touch her hair or her hand. He didn't want to frighten her, or appear inappropriate by being overly familiar. “How are you now?” It seemed a safer question than other possibilities, and this time she looked up at him.

“I'm better. It's been nice at the beach. I think my mom is better too.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Maybe she'll start eating soon.”

“That's what my godmother said. She worries about my mom a lot too.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters, Pip?” Matt asked her. It seemed a safe question to him, and he was totally unprepared for the look in her eyes as she turned her face up to him. The look of sorrow in her eyes seared him to his very soul, and nearly knocked him off his stool.

“I…yes…” She hesitated, unable to speak for a moment, and then she went on, still looking at him with those sad amber eyes that seemed to draw him into her world. “No…I mean sort of… well, it's hard to explain. My brother's name was Chad. He's fifteen. Well…he was…he had an accident last October.…” Oh God, he hated himself for asking her, and now he understood why her mother was so devastated and wasn't eating. He couldn't even fathom it, but there was nothing worse than the loss of a child.

“I'm so sorry, Pip.…” He didn't know what elseto say.

“It's all right. He was very smart, like my father.” And what she said next nearly finished him and explained everything. “My dad's plane crashed, and they were both… they both died. It exploded,” she said with an audible lump in her throat, but she was glad she had told him. She wanted him to know.

Matt looked at her for an endless moment before he said a word, or could. “How terrible for all of you. I'm really sorry, Pip. How lucky for your mom that she has you.”

“I guess so,” Pip said thoughtfully, sounding unconvinced. “She's been pretty sad though. She stays in her room a lot.” At times Pip had wondered if her mother was sadder because Chad had died and not Pip. It was impossible to know, but the question had inevitably come to mind. She had been so close to Chad and was so destroyed now that he was gone.

“I would be too.” His own losses had damn near drowned him, but they were nothing like hers. His were far more ordinary, and the kind of thing you had to live with and accept. Losing a husband and son were far greater challenges than any he had weathered, and he could only imagine the blow it had been to Pip, particularly if her mother was depressed and withdrawn, which sounded as though it was the case from what Pip had said.

“She goes to a group in the city to talk about it. But I'm not sure it helps. She says everyone is really sad.” It sounded morbid to him, but he knew it was the thing to do these days, to go to groups for whatever miseries you had. But a group of mourning bereft people struggling with their losses sounded grim to him, and hardly the right thing to cheer you up.

“My dad was an inventor, sort of. He did things with energy. I don't know what he did, but he was really good at it. We used to be poor, and when I was six, we got a big house and he bought a plane.” It summed it up fairly succinctly, although it didn't entirely clarify what her father's profession was, but it was enough information for him. “Chad was really smart like him. I'm more like my mom.”

“What does that mean?” Matt took exception to the implication of what she was saying. She was an exceptionally bright, articulate little girl. “You're smart too, Pip. Very smart. Both your parents must be. And you certainly are.” It sounded like she had been pushed aside for a bright older brother, who was perhaps more interested in their father's field, whatever it was. It sounded like rank chauvinism to him, and he didn't like the impression it had obviously given her, of being second best, or worse yet, second rate.

“My dad and my brother used to fight a lot,” she offered gratuitously. She seemed to need to talk to him, but if her mother was depressed, she probably had no one else to confide in, except maybe the godmother with the baby. “Chad said he hated him, but he really didn't. He just said it when he got mad at my dad.”

“That sounds about right for fifteen,” Matt said with a gentle smile, although he didn't know that firsthand. He hadn't seen his own son in six years. The last time he had seen Robert, he was twelve. And Vanessa ten.

“Do you have kids?” Pip asked him, as though reading his mind and seeing them. It was his turn to share with her now.

“Yes, I do.” He didn't tell her he hadn't seen them in six years. It would have been too hard to explain why. “Vanessa and Robert. They're sixteen and eighteen, and they live in New Zealand.” They had been there for over nine years. It had taken him almost exactly three to finally give up. Their silence had convinced him.

“Where's that?” Pip looked puzzled. She'd never heard of New Zealand. Or maybe once, she thought, but she couldn't remember where it was. She thought it was in Africa maybe, or somewhere like that, but she didn't want to sound ignorant to Matt.

“It's a long way from here. It takes about twenty hours to get there by plane. They live in a place called Auckland. I think they're pretty happy there.” Happier than he had been able to tolerate, or wanted to admit to her.

“That must be sad for you, having them so far away. You must miss them. I miss my dad and Chad,” she said, and wiped a tear from her eye, which nearly tore his heart out. They had shared a lot in their second afternoon, and neither of them had drawn a thing in over an hour. It never occurred to her to ask him how often he saw them, she just assumed he did. But she was sorry for him anyway, for having them so far away.

“I miss them too.” He got off his stool then, and came to sit next to her on the sand. Her small bare feet were dug into the sand, and she looked up at him with a sad smile.

“What do they look like?” She was curious about them, just as he had been about her. It was a reasonable thing to ask.

“Robert has dark hair and brown eyes like me. And Vanessa's blond with big blue eyes. She looks just like her mother. Does anyone else in your family have red hair like you?” Pip shook her head with a shy smile at his question.

“My dad had dark hair like you, and blue eyes, and so did Chad. My mom is blond. My brother used to call me carrot stick, because I have skinny legs and red hair.”

“That's nice of him,” Matt said, gently tousling the short curly red hair. “You don't look like a carrot stick to me.”

“Yes, I do,” she said proudly. She liked the name now, because it reminded her of him. She even missed his insults and his temper now that he was gone. Just as Ophélie missed even Ted's dark days. It was odd the things you missed about people once they were gone.

“Are we going to draw today?” he asked, deciding that they had shared enough painful confidences and both needed a break, and she looked relieved when he said it. She had wanted to tell him, but talking about it too much made her sad again.

“Yes. I want to,” she said, picking up the sketch pad as he went back to his stool. And for the next hour or two they exchanged occasional non sequiturs and pleasantries that challenged neither of them. They were just comfortable being near each other, particularly knowing that they both knew more about their respective histories. Some of it was important information.

As she sat and worked on her drawings, and he on his painting, the clouds broke and the sun came out, and the wind died down. It turned out to be a beautiful afternoon. So much so that it was five o'clock before either of them realized how late it was. The time they had spent together had flown. And Pip looked suddenly worried when Matt told her it was after five.

“Will your mom be back by now?” he asked, looking concerned. He didn't want to get her into trouble over an innocent but productive afternoon. He was glad that they had talked. He hoped that it had helped her somehow.

“Probably. I'd better go back. She might get mad.”

“Or worried,” he said, wondering if he should go back with her to reassure her mother, or maybe that would make it worse if Pip came home with a strange man. He looked at the drawing she'd been working on then, and was impressed. “That looks great, Pip. You did a good job. Go on home now. I'll see you soon.”

“Maybe I'll come back tomorrow, if she takes a nap. Will you be here, Matt?” There was a peculiar intimacy about the way she spoke to him, as though they truly were old friends. But they both felt that way now, after the confidences they'd exchanged. All that they had shared had brought them closer, as it was meant to.

“I'm here every afternoon. Don't get yourself in trouble now, little one.”

“I won't.” She stopped for a moment and smiled at him, like a hummingbird poised in midair, and then with a wave, clutching her drawing, and with Mousse at her heels, she dashed off toward home. And within instants, she was far down the beach. She danced around backward once and waved at him again, and he stood for a long time watching her, until she was a tiny figure far down the beach, and finally all he could see clearly was the dog running back and forth.

She was breathless when she got to the house. She had run all the way home. Her mother was sitting on the deck, reading, and Amy was nowhere in sight. Ophélie looked up with a frown.

“Amy said you'd gone down to the beach. I couldn't see you anywhere, Pip. Where were you? Did you find a friend?” She wasn't angry at the child, but she'd been concerned, and she had forced herself to stay calm. She didn't want her going to strangers' houses with them, it was a rule that Pip knew well, and conformed to. But Pip also knew that her mother worried more now than she had in the past.

“I was way down there,” she waved vaguely in the direction from whence she'd come. “I was drawing a boat, and I didn't know what time it was. I'm sorry, Mom.”

“Don't do it again, Pip. I don't want you wandering off that far. And I don't want you anywhere near the public beach. You never know who those people are.” She wanted to tell her mother that some of them were nice, or Matt was at least. But she was afraid to tell her about her new friend. She sensed instinctively that her mother wouldn't understand. And she was right. “Stay around here next time.” She was aware that the child was getting adventuresome. She was probably bored hanging around the house all day, or being alone on the beach with the dog. But nonetheless, Ophélie was concerned. She didn't ask to see the drawing, it never even occurred to her, as Pip went to her room, and laid it on the table next to the one of the dog. They were souvenirs of afternoons that were precious to her, and reminded her of Matt. She didn't have a crush on him, but there was no denying they had formed a special bond.

“How was your day?” Pip asked her mother when she came back to the deck. But she could see how it had been. Ophélie looked tired. She often did after her group.

“It was all right.” She had been to the lawyer about Ted's estate. They still had some taxes to pay, and the last of the insurance money had come in. It was going to be a while before the estate was closed. Maybe even a long time. Ted had left everything in good order, and she had more money than she'd ever need. Hopefully most of it would go to Pip one day. Ophélie had never been extravagant. In fact, in some ways, she had always felt they'd been happier when they were poor. His success had brought headaches with it, and a lot of stress he had never had before. Not to mention the plane he had died in with Chad.

Ophélie spent hours every day fighting back the memories, particularly of that last day. That hideous call that had altered her life forever. And the fact that she had forced Ted to take Chad. He had had meetings in L.A., and wanted to go alone, but she had thought it would be good for both of them to spend some time together. Chad had been doing better than he had been in a while, and she thought they could both handle it. But neither of them had been enthused about sharing the trip. She blamed herself for selfish motives too. Their son required so much attention, and had been in such a precarious state for months, she had wanted a break from him, and to spend a quiet afternoon with Pip. With all the attention focused on Chad constantly, she never seemed to spend enough time with her. It was the first opportunity they'd had in a long time. And now it was all they had. Each other. Their life, their family, their happiness had been destroyed. And the fortune Ted had left meant nothing to Ophélie. She would have given all of it to spend the rest of her life with Ted, and to have Chad alive too.

There had been some tough times between her and Ted, but even then, her love for him hadn't faltered. But there was no question, it had been rocky between them at one point, and more than once because of Chad. But that was all over now. Their troubled son was at peace at last. And Ted, for all his brilliance and awkwardness and chemistry and charm, had vanished from her life. She spent hours at night rolling the film of their life backward in her head, trying to sort it out, trying to remember what it had really been like, savoring the good times, and trying to fast-forward past the bad. And as she did, she did some careful editing. What was left in the end was the memory of a man she had deeply loved, whatever his faults. Her love for him had been unconditional, not that it mattered now.

They solved the dinner dilemma with sandwiches, although Pip had barely eaten that day, and the silence in the house was deafening. They never put music on. They barely spoke. And as Pip sat eating the turkey sandwich her mother had made, she was thinking about Matt. She wondered again where New Zealand was, and felt sorry for him that he lived so far from his kids. She could imagine how hard that was. And she was glad she had told him about her father and Chad, although she hadn't explained how sick Chad had been. But it seemed disloyal to her to tell him that. She knew Chad's sickness had been a secret they kept to themselves. And there was no point telling him about it now. Chad was gone.

His illness had left a deep mark on her, on all of them. Living with him had been traumatic and difficult, and just as Chad had known how much his father resented him and the mental illness he refused to name, Pip had been aware of it herself. She had mentioned it to her father once, when Chad was in the hospital, and he had shouted at her and told her she didn't know what she was talking about, but she knew better than that. She understood full well, perhaps even better than he, how sick Chad was. And Ophélie did too. Only Ted clung to denial. It was essential to him. It was a matter of pride to Ted not to admit his son was sick. No matter what anyone said to him, or what doctors spoke to him, Ted insisted that if Ophélie handled Chad differently, and established stricter rules for him, there would be no problem at all. He always blamed Ophélie, and clung to the belief that Chad wasn't sick at all. No matter how severe the evidence, Ted's eyes remained firmly closed.

The weekend passed quietly. Andrea had promised to come to the beach again, but in the end, she didn't. She called and said the baby had a cold. And by Sunday afternoon, Pip was longing to see Matt. Her mother slept on the deck all afternoon, and after watching her quietly for an hour, Pip went down on the beach with Mousse. She wasn't intending to walk down to the public beach, she just headed that way, and before she knew it, she was far down the beach, and then she started running, hoping to see him. He was where he had been both times before, painting quietly, this time on a new watercolor. It was another sunset, with a child in it this time. She had red hair and was very small, and was wearing white shorts and a pink shirt. And in the far distance, there was a dark brown dog.

“Is that me and Mousse?” she asked quietly and startled him. He hadn't seen her approach, and when he turned to look at her, he smiled. He hadn't expected her until after the weekend, when her mother went to town again. But he was obviously pleased that she'd turned up.

“Could be, my friend. What a nice surprise.” He smiled.

“My mom's asleep, and I had nothing to do, so I thought I'd come to visit you.”

“I'm glad you did. Will she worry when she wakes up?”

Pip shook her head. He knew enough now to understand. “She sleeps all day sometimes. I think she likes it better that way.” There was no question that Pip's mother was depressed, but he was no longer surprised. Who wouldn't be, having lost both her husband and son. The only problem he could see, greater than that, was that her depression left Pip lonely and alone with no one to talk to but her dog.

She sat down on the sand next to him, and watched him paint for a while. And then she went down to the water's edge to look for shells. Mousse followed her, as Matt stopped painting and watched. He enjoyed just looking at her, she was so sweet, and seemed so otherworldly at times, like a wood sprite dancing along the beach. There was an elfin quality to her. And he was so intent on watching her that he didn't see a woman approach. She was standing only a few feet from him, with a serious expression, when he turned and gave a start. He had no idea who she was.

“Why are you watching my daughter? And why is she in your drawing?” Ophélie had instantly made the connection between the artist and the sketches Pip had brought home. She had come down to the public beach to find Pip and see what she was doing on her lengthy forays. And she didn't know how or why, but she knew this man was part of it somehow, and had no doubt once she saw the child and the dog in his painting.

“You have a lovely daughter, Mrs. Mackenzie. You must be very proud of her,” he said calmly. More calmly than he felt actually. Her intense stare gave him considerable discomfort. He could almost sense what she was thinking, and wanted to reassure her, but he was afraid that doing so might arouse even darker suspicions.

“Are you aware that she is only eleven years old?” It would have been hard to mistake her for any older. If anything, she looked younger. But Ophélie couldn't imagine what this man wanted with her, and suspected him instantly of evil intentions. His seemingly innocent painting could have been, in her mind at least, simply a cover for something far more lurid. He could have been a kidnapper, or worse, and Pip was far too innocent to suspect that.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “she told me.”

“Why have you been talking to her?… and drawing with her?” He wanted to tell her that her daughter was desperately lonely, but didn't. By then, Pip had seen her mother standing, talking to him, and she approached quickly, with a handful of seashells. She searched her mother's eyes instantly to see if she was in trouble. And she realized almost as quickly that she wasn't, but Matt was. Her mother looked frightened and angry, and Pip wanted instantly to protect him.

“Mom, this is Matt,” Pip said, as though trying to give some formality and respectability to the situation with an introduction.

“Matthew Bowles,” he said, extending a hand to Ophélie, but she didn't take it, instead she looked directly at her daughter, with fire dancing in the amber eyes. Pip knew what that meant. It was rare for her mother to get angry at her, particularly lately. But now she was.

“I've told you never to talk to strangers. Never! Do you understand me?” And then she turned to Matt, with her eyes blazing. “There are names for this kind of thing,” she said to him, “and none of them are pretty. You have no business picking up a child on the beach and befriending her, using your supposed artwork as a ruse to lure her. If you come near her again, I'll call the police. And I mean that!” she shot at him, and he looked wounded. Pip looked outraged, and was quick to defend him.

“He's my friend! All we did was draw together. He didn't try to take me anywhere. I came down the beach to see him.” But Ophélie knew better, or thought she did. She knew that a man like him would lull Pip into feeling comfortable with him, and then God only knew what he would do to her, or where he would take her.

“You will not come down here again, do you hear me? Tu entends? Je t'interdis!” I forbid you. In her fury, her mother tongue betrayed her. She looked utterly Gallic as she raged at both of them. Her anger was born of fear, and Matt understood that.

“Your mother is right, Pip. You shouldn't talk to strangers.” And then he turned to her mother. “I apologize. I didn't mean to upset you. I assure you, it has been an entirely respectable exchange between us. I understand your concerns, I have children who are only slightly older.”

“And where are they?” Ophélie shot back at him, suspicious of him. She did not believe him.

“In New Zealand,” Pip filled in for him, which didn't help the situation. Matt could see she didn't believe them.

“I don't know who you are, or why you've been speaking to my daughter, but I hope that you understand I'm serious. I'll call the authorities and report you if you encourage her to come and see you again.”

“You've made yourself quite clear,” he said, growing testy. In circumstances other than these, he would have said something harsher to her. She was being more than a little insulting, but he didn't want to upset Pip by being rude to her mother. And she deserved a little leeway given all she'd been through, but she had used almost all of it with her last words to him. No one had ever accused him of such vile motives. She was a very angry woman.

She pointed down the beach to Pip then, as the child looked sorrowfully over her shoulder. There were tears brimming in her eyes that spilled onto her cheeks, and all Matt wanted to do was hug her, but he couldn't.

“It's all right, Pip. I understand,” he said softly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, nearly sobbing, as her mother continued to point, and even Mousse looked subdued, as though he sensed that something awkward had happened. And with that, Ophélie took Pip's hand in her own, and led her firmly back down the beach, as Matt watched them. His heart went out to the child he had so quickly grown attached to, and for an instant, he wanted to shake her mother. He could understand her concerns, but they were unwarranted, and it was so obvious that Pip needed someone to talk to. Her mother may not have eaten much in the past nine months, but it was Pip who was starving.

He put his paints and drawing away then, and folded up his stool and easel, and with his head down and a grim expression, he walked back to his cottage to drop them off. Five minutes later, he was on his way to the lagoon to take his boat out for a sail. He knew he needed to get out on the water to clear his head. Sailing always did that for him, and had all his life.

And on their way back to the part of the beach that belonged to the gated community, Ophélie interrogated her daughter. “Is that what you've been doing every time you disappear? How did you meet him?”

“I just saw him drawing,” she said, still crying. “He's a good person. I know it.”

“You don't know anything about him. He's a stranger. You don't know if what he told you is the truth. You know nothing. Did he ever ask you to go to his house?” her mother asked with a look of panic. The possibilities didn't even bear thinking.

“Of course not. He wasn't trying to kill me. He taught me how to draw Mousse's back legs. That's all. And a boat once.” Killing her wasn't what Ophélie was worried about. She was an innocent child who could have easily been raped, kidnapped, or tortured. Once Pip trusted him, he could have done anything he wanted. The thought terrified her. And all of Pip's protests meant nothing to her. She was a child of eleven and didn't understand the potential dangers of befriending a strange man about whom she knew nothing.

“I want you to stay away from him,” Ophélie said again. “I forbid you to leave the house without a grown-up. And if you don't understand that, we'll go back to the city.”

“You were rude to my friend.” Pip was suddenly angry, not just heartbroken. She had lost so many people she cared about, and now she had lost this one as well. He was the only friend she'd made all summer, or in a very long time.

“He's not your friend. He's a stranger. Don't forget that. And don't argue with me.” They walked the rest of the way in silence, and once back at the house, Ophélie sent Pip to her room and called Andrea. She sounded distraught as her friend listened. Andrea heard the whole story, and then asked questions, sounding like an attorney.

“Are you going to call the police?”

“I don't know. Should I? He looked fairly respectable. He was decently dressed, but that doesn't mean anything. He could be an ax murderer for all I know. Can I get a restraining order against him?”

“You don't really have grounds to do that. He didn't threaten her, or molest her, or try to get her to go anywhere, did he?”

“She says he didn't. But he may have been trying to set the stage to do something dreadful later.” Ophélie had a hard time believing his intentions had been innocent. In spite of everything Pip said, or maybe even because of it, she sensed danger. Why would he make friends with a child?

“I hope not,” Andrea said, sounding thoughtful. “What makes you think it wasn't innocent? Did he look like a weirdo?”

“What does a weirdo look like? No…he looked relatively normal. And he says he has children. But he could be lying.” Ophélie was convinced he was a child molester.

“Maybe he's just friendly.”

“He has no business being friendly with a child that age, particularly a little girl. She's at exactly the right age for men like that to go after her, she's a total innocent, that's how they like them.”

“That's true, of course. But maybe he isn't a pedophile. Was he cute?” Andrea grinned at her end, and Ophélie sounded outraged.

“You're disgusting!”

“More important, was he wearing a wedding ring? Maybe he's single.”

“I don't want to hear this. The man was making friends with my daughter. He's four times her age, and he has no business doing that. If he is decent, then he should know better, particularly if he has children himself. How would he feel if some man were chatting up his daughter?”

“I don't know. Why don't you go back and ask him? Actually, he's beginning to sound interesting. Maybe Pip did you a favor.”

“She did nothing of the sort. She put herself at great risk, and I'm not going to let her out of the house without me. And I mean it.”

“Just tell her not to go back. She'll listen.”

“I did. And I told him I'd call the police if he came near her.”

“If he isn't a rapist, and he is a decent guy, he must have really liked that. Maybe we need to file down your fangs a little. I'm not sure you're quite ready for reentry.” Matt was beginning to sound all right to her. She wasn't sure why, but her instincts told her the guy might actually be decent. If so, Ophélie's tirade must not have been appreciated or welcome.

“I'm not interested in ‘reentry.’ I'm not planning to reenter. I'm planning to stay out here. But I don't want anything terrible happening to Pip. I couldn't stand it.” Her voice shook as she said it, and there were tears of terror in her eyes.

“I understand that,” Andrea said gently. “Just keep an eye on her. Maybe she's lonely.” After she'd said it, there was a silence, as Ophélie sat at the other end and cried.

“I know she is. But I can't seem to do anything about it. Chad is gone, her father's gone, and I'm a basket case. I'm barely functional. We don't even talk to each other.” She knew it, she just couldn't get out of her own black hole enough to change it.

“Now maybe you've got the answer as to why she's picking up strangers,” Andrea said gently.

“Apparently, they draw together,” Ophélie said, sounding desperate. The entire episode had upset her immensely.

“There are worse things. Maybe you should invite him to the house for a drink and check him out. He might actually be a decent guy. You may even like him.” As Ophélie listened, she shook her head.

“I don't think he'd speak to me after everything I said to him.” But she wasn't sorry she had. They still had no idea who he was.

“You could go back and apologize tomorrow. Tell him you've been through a tough time and you're a little nervous.”

“Don't be silly. I can't do that. And besides, what if I was right? Maybe he is a child molester, for all we know.”

“In that case, don't go back and apologize. But my guess is that he's just a guy who was painting on the beach and likes kids. It sounds more like Pip went after him.”

“And that is precisely why I sent her to her room.”

“Poor kid. She didn't mean any harm by it, she was probably just having fun.”

“Well, from now on she'll have to stay close to the house and have fun here.” But after she hung up, Ophélie realized how little fun she provided for her. There were no children to play with, no activities, and they never did anything together anymore. The last time they'd been out somewhere together was the day that Ted and Chad had died. Ophélie had taken her nowhere since then.

After talking to Andrea, Ophélie went and knocked on the door of Pip's room. The door was closed, and when she tried to open it, she found it was bolted from inside.

“Pip?” There was no answer, and she knocked again. “Pip? May I come in?” There was another long silence, and then finally a small voice drowning in tears.

“You were mean to my friend. You were horrible. I hate you. Go away.” Ophélie stood on the other side of the door, feeling helpless, but not guilty. She had an obligation to protect her daughter, even if Pip didn't agree or understand.

“I'm sorry. You don't know who he is,” she said firmly.

“Yes, I do. He's a nice person. And he has children in New Zealand.”

“Maybe he was lying,” Ophélie persisted, but she was beginning to feel foolish trying to convince her through a locked door. And it was obvious that Pip had no intention of letting her in. Nor of coming out. “Come out and talk to me.”

“I don't want to talk to you. I hate you.”

“Let's have dinner and talk about it. We can go out if you want.” There were two restaurants in town where they had never been.

“I don't want to go anywhere with you. Ever again.” Ophélie didn't say it, but she was tempted to point out to Pip that her mother was all she had. Just as Pip was all she had now. All they had in the world was each other. They couldn't afford to be enemies or at each other's throats. They needed each other far too much.

“Why don't you just unlock the door? I won't come in if you don't want. You don't need to keep it locked.”

“Yes, I do,” Pip said stubbornly. She was holding the drawing of Mousse that she'd done with Matt, and still crying. She already missed him. And she wasn't going to let her mother keep her from him. She'd go to see him on the days when she was with Amy. And she hated the things her mother had said to him. She was mortified for him.

Ophélie continued to try to coax her out for a while longer, and then finally gave up, and went back to her bedroom. Neither of them ate dinner that night, and hunger finally drove Pip out of her bedroom the next morning. She came out for a piece of toast and a bowl of cereal and went back to her bedroom. She said not a single word to her mother, as she prepared her breakfast, and then left.

And at his house, Matt had lain awake all night, thinking of her, and worried about her. He didn't even know where they lived, so he could make a formal apology to her mother, in the hopes of softening her position. He hated to let Pip slip out of his life. He hardly knew her, but he already missed her a lot.

The war between Pip and her mother went on until early afternoon. And then they sat through one of their silent, painful dinners. It was the look on Pip's face that finally unnerved her mother.

“For heaven's sake, Pip, what's so special about him? You don't even know him.”

“Yes, I do. And I like to draw with him. He lets me sit there. Sometimes we talk, and sometimes we don't. I just like being with him.”

“That's what worries me, Pip. He's old enough to be your father. Why would he want to be with you? It's not healthy.”

“Maybe he misses his children. I don't know. Maybe he likes me. I think he's lonely or something,” just as she was, but she didn't say that. She was remarkably stubborn, and ready to defend their cause.

“Maybe I could go with you sometime, if you really want to draw with him. I don't think he'd be very happy to see me.” After everything she'd said, it would have been a miracle if he didn't throw his easel at her. And she wasn't sure she blamed him. She was beginning to wonder if she had been a little extreme in her position, or at least her expression of it. She had pretty much accused him of being a child molester. But at the time, she'd been startled to see them together, and frightened for her daughter. It was a somewhat normal reaction, although she had expressed it more than a little bluntly.

“Can I go back to see him, Mom?” Pip looked excited and hopeful. “I promise I'll never go to his house with him, and besides he never asked me.” And she sensed correctly that he wouldn't. He would never have put her in that position, or himself.

“We'll see. Give me a little time to think about it. He may not want you there now,” Ophélie said realistically, “after everything I said to him. I'm sure he didn't enjoy that.”

“I'll tell him you're sorry.” Pip beamed at her.

“Maybe you should take Amy with you. I'll walk down the beach with you later, and apologize. I hope he deserves it.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Pip said, with eyes filled with light again. She had won a major victory, the right to visit her only friend.

They walked down the beach together later that afternoon, and Pip could hardly contain herself as she ran along the water's edge with Mousse. Ophélie trailed far behind, she was trying to think of what she was going to say to him. She was doing this for Pip.

But when they got to the spot where Pip had always seen him before, there was no one there this time. There was no sign of Matt, the easel, or the folding stool. He had been so disheartened by the events of the day before, that he had stayed inside, despite Wedgwood blue skies, and was quietly reading a book. He wasn't even in the mood to sail, which was rare for him. Ophélie and Pip sat on the sand together for a long time, talking about him, and finally they went back up the beach, hand in hand. For the first time in a long time, Pip felt closer to her mother again. And she was glad that she had at least tried to apologize to Matt.

And from his living room, Matt stood and gazed out the window for a long time. He saw birds, and a fishing boat, and some new driftwood on the beach. He never saw Pip and her mother sitting there, or walking hand in hand. They were gone by the time he looked, and the beach was empty and deserted, like his life.

5

SHORTLY BEFORE NOON THE NEXT DAY, PIP TOLD AMY she was going down the beach to see a friend. She took sandwiches with her this time, and an apple, in an effort to make amends for her mother's behavior. Amy thought to ask if it was okay with her mother, and Pip assured her it was. She left with her offering for him in a small brown bag, and hoped he would be back in his usual spot after his absence of the day before. She wondered what had happened to him, since he said he went there every day, and hoped his absence wasn't her mother's fault. But as soon as she saw him and looked into his eyes, before he said a single word, she knew it was. Even two days later, he looked distant and hurt. She got straight to the point.

“I'm sorry, Matt. My mom came to apologize yesterday, but you weren't here.”

“That was nice of her,” he said noncommittally, wondering what it had taken to get her there. Pip, obviously. She would have moved mountains for him, and had. And he was touched by that. “I'm sorry she got so upset about us. Was she very angry with you when you left?”

“For a while,” Pip said honestly, and was relieved to see him relax again. “She said I could come to see you today, and whenever I want. I just can't go to your house.”

“That makes sense. How did you get her to agree to that?” he asked with interest, as he sat comfortably on his folding stool, pleased to see her again. He had been depressed all the night before at the prospect of her no longer being able to draw with him. He was going to miss their conversations and her confidences. She had come to mean a lot to him, in a remarkably brief time. She had landed like a bright little bird, right on his heart. But there were also deep emotional holes in each of them that the other filled. She had lost a father and brother, he both his children. And Matt and Pip each filled a need for the other.

“I locked myself in my room, and refused to come out,” Pip said with a grin. “I think she felt bad afterward. She was so rude to you. I'm sorry… she's different than she used to be. She worries about everything, and she gets mad about stupid, little stuff sometimes. And other times she doesn't seem to care about anything. I think she's confused.”

“Or suffering from post-traumatic stress,” he said sympathetically. He hadn't liked her much the day before, for obvious reasons. But he could also understand her point of view. He just thought she had expressed it a little too stridently. There had been something faintly hysterical about her pitch.

“What's that?” Pip asked, as she opened the bag of sandwiches and handed one to him. It was so comfortable being back with him. She loved talking to him, and watching him paint. “The post office thing you just talked about… what is it?”

“Thank you,” he said for the carefully wrapped sandwich, and then took a bite. “Post-traumatic stress. It's when something very shocking happens to someone, it's what happens to them afterward. It's kind of like they're in shock. Your mom probably still is. She had a terrific blow to her system when your brother and father died.”

“Do people like that ever get better again? Can they be fixed?” She'd been worried about it for nine months and had no one to ask. She had never felt as comfortable talking to Andrea, as she did with Matt. He was her friend, and Andrea was her mother's.

“I think so. It takes time. Is she any better than she was when it first happened?”

“Sort of,” Pip said pensively, but didn't sound convinced. “She sleeps a lot more now, and she doesn't talk as much as she used to before it happened. She almost never smiles. But she doesn't cry all the time either. She did at first,” and then she looked sheepish. “Me too…”

“So would I in your shoes. It would have been weird if you didn't, Pip. Half your family disappeared.” And what was left didn't even feel like one, but out of loyalty to her mother, she didn't say anything.

“My mom was really sorry about the things she said the other day.” Pip was still embarrassed about the way her mother had behaved.

“It's all right,” he said calmly, “she was right in some ways. I really am a stranger, and you don't know much about me. I could have been trying to fool you or do something bad to you, just as she said. She was right to be suspicious of me, and you should have been too.”

“Why? You were nice to me, and you helped me draw Moussy's hind legs. That was a nice thing to do. I still have the picture of him in my room.”

“How does it look?” he teased.

“Pretty good.” She grinned. And when he finished his sandwich, she handed him the apple. He cut it in half, and handed the better half back to her. “I always knew you were a good person, right from the first time I saw you.”

“How did you know?” He looked amused.

“I just knew. You have nice eyes.” She didn't tell him that she was touched when he looked sad, when he talked about his kids being so far away. She liked that about him too. It would have been worse if he didn't care about them.

“You have nice eyes too. I'd like to draw you one day. Maybe even paint you. What do you think of that?” He had been thinking about it since they met.

“I think my mom would like it a lot. Maybe I could give it to her for her birthday.”

“When's that?” He wasn't her mother's greatest fan yet, but he would have done it for Pip. Besides, he wanted to do a portrait of her. She was a remarkable little girl, and now his friend.

“December tenth,” she said solemnly.

“And when's yours?” he asked with interest. He always wanted to know more about her. She reminded him so much of his daughter Vanessa. And aside from that, he admired her, she was a spunky little kid. Even more than he had first thought, if she had managed to convince her mother to let her come back down the beach to visit him, and even dragged her along to apologize the day before. That was a major feat. The woman he had seen on Sunday looked like she never apologized, except at gunpoint maybe. In this case, Pip had held the gun.

“My birthday is in October.” Not long after her brother and father died.

“How was your last one?” he asked conversationally.

“My mom and I went out to dinner.” She didn't tell him it was abysmal. Her mother had almost forgotten it, and there had been no party or cake. It was her first birthday since her father and Chad had died, and it had been horrible. She couldn't wait for it to end.

“Do you and your mom go out a lot?”

“No. We used to. Before. My dad liked taking us to restaurants. But it always takes too long. I get bored,” she admitted easily.

“That's hard to believe. You don't look bored to me.”

“I'm not when I'm with you,” she said graciously. “I like drawing with you.”

“I like drawing with you too.” And with that, he handed her pencil and sketch pad, and she decided to draw a bird, one of the bold seagulls that swooped down next to them whenever possible, and then flew away instantly as Mousse began to chase them. It was hard doing a seagull, she discovered. And after a while, she switched to boats again. But just in the few times she'd been with him, her drawing had improved. She was getting good, as long as she liked what she was drawing, but that was true for him too.

They sat for hours in the sunshine, it was another golden day at Safe Harbour. And she was in no rush to go home. She was glad she didn't have to lie about it anymore. She could tell the truth, that she'd been drawing with him on the beach. It was four-thirty when she finally got up. Mousse had been lying quietly next to her for once, and he got up too.

“Are you two heading back?” Matt asked with a warm smile, and as she looked at him, she realized that he looked more like her father than ever when he smiled, although her father hadn't smiled very often. He'd been a very serious man, probably because he was so smart. Everyone said he was a genius, and Pip suspected it was true. It made people accept the way he behaved, which was nice for him. Sometimes it seemed to her that her father was allowed to say and do anything he wanted.

“My mom comes home around this time. She's usually pretty tired after she goes to group. Sometimes she just walks in, and falls asleep on her bed.”

“It must be pretty rough.”

“I don't know. She doesn't talk about it. Maybe people cry a lot.” It was a depressing thought. “I'll come back tomorrow or Thursday, if that's okay with you.” She had never asked him before, but they had more leeway now.

“I'd like that, Pip. Whenever you like. Say hello to your mother for me.” She nodded, and thanked him, waved, and then like a butterfly she flew off and was gone. And he watched her and Mousse disappear down the beach, as he always did. She was like a rare gift that had happened into his life. A little bird who came and went, her wings fluttering, her huge eyes so full of mysteries. Their conversations touched him and made him smile. He couldn't help wondering, as he thought about her, what her mother was really like. And the father she said was a genius. He sounded difficult, from things she'd said, and a little dark. And the boy sounded unusual too. Not the typical family. And she was certainly no ordinary child. Nor were his. They had been great kids. The last time he'd seen them anyway. It had been a long time. But he didn't let himself dwell on that.

It occurred to him as he walked over the dune to his cottage that he would have liked to take her sailing with him, and even teach her how to sail, as he had his own kids. Vanessa had loved it, Robert hadn't. But out of respect for Pip's mother, Matt knew he wouldn't take her out on the boat. She didn't know him well enough to trust him on the water, and there was always the faint possibility that something could go wrong. He didn't want to risk that.

When Pip got home, she found her mother just walking through the door. As usual, she looked drained, and asked where Pip had been.

“I went to see Matt. He said to say hi. I drew boats today. I couldn't do birds, they were too hard.” She dropped several pages on the kitchen table, and as she glanced at them, Ophélie saw that the drawings were good. She was surprised to find how much Pip had improved. Chad had been something of an artist too, but she tried not to think of that. “I'll cook dinner tonight, if you want,” Pip offered, and for once, Ophélie smiled.

“Let's go out.”

“We don't have to.” Pip knew how tired she was, but she looked a little better tonight.

“It might be fun. How about it? Why don't we go now?” It was a major step for Ophélie, which Pip knew and acknowledged.

“Okay.” Pip looked pleased and surprised. And half an hour later, they were seated at a table for two at the Mermaid Café, one of the two restaurants in town. They both had hamburgers, and chatted amiably. It was the first night out they'd had. And when they got back to the house, they were both happy, full, and tired.

Pip went to bed early that night, and went back to see Matt the next day. Her mother offered no objection when she left, and looked relaxed when Pip got back. As usual, she dropped her drawings on the table. And by the end of the following week, there was a sizable collection of them, most of them pretty good. She was learning a lot from Matt.

It was on a Friday morning, when she had brought him lunch again, that she walked off with Mousse for a few minutes to look for shells, as she sometimes did, and he saw her jump back from the water's edge. He smiled, thinking she had seen a jellyfish or a crab, and he waited to hear Mousse bark. But this time he heard Mousse whine, and saw Pip sitting on the sand, holding her foot.

“Are you okay?” he called out to her, wondering if she'd hear, she was a good distance away. But she shook her head, and he put down his brush and watched her for a minute. She didn't move or stand up. She just sat there and held her foot. And he couldn't see her face. Her head was bent as she looked down at her foot, and the dog continued to whine. Matt walked over to her to see what had happened, and hoped she hadn't stepped on a nail. There were a lot of rusty ones on the beach, loose in the sand or sticking out of pieces of wood that had washed up on shore.

But as soon as he got to her, he saw that it wasn't a nail she'd stepped on, but a jagged piece of glass, and she had an ugly gash on the sole of her foot.

“How did that happen?” he asked as he sat down next to her, there was a considerable amount of blood in the sand, and her foot was still bleeding profusely.

“It was under a piece of seaweed I stepped on,” she said bravely, but he saw instantly that her face was pale.

“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked solicitously, reaching out gently for her foot.

“Not too much,” she lied.

“I'll bet it does. Let me have a look at it.” He wanted to make sure there was no glass left in it. It looked like a clean slice, but it was a deep gash. And she looked up at him with worried eyes.

“Is it okay?”

“It will be, after I cut off the foot. You won't miss it a bit.” In spite of how much it hurt, she laughed. But she looked frightened too. “You can still draw with one foot,” he said, as he scooped her up. She was light as a feather and even smaller than she looked. He didn't want her to get sand in it, and was afraid she already had. And he instantly remembered her mother's admonitions not to go to his house. But he couldn't let her walk home with a gash in her foot, and he was almost certain she'd need stitches, although he didn't mention it to Pip. “Your mom may get mad at both of us, but I'm going to take you inside, and clean this up a bit.”

“Will it hurt?” She looked anxious, and he smiled at her reassuringly, as he carried her toward his house, and Mousse followed. He left all his painting equipment on the beach without a thought.

“It won't hurt as much as your mom yelling at both of us,” he said, distracting her. But they both noticed that they were leaving a trail of blood along the sand as he walked over the dune with Pip in his arms. And in a few strides, he had reached his front door, and walked straight into the kitchen, still carrying her. And they left a trail of blood on his floor too. He sat her on a kitchen chair, and lifted her foot gently to rest it on the sink. And within seconds, it looked like there was blood everywhere, and all over him as well.

“Will I have to go to the hospital?” she asked nervously. Her eyes looked enormous in the pale face. “Chad cut his head open once, and he bled all over the place and had to have a lot of stitches.” She didn't tell him it was because he had had a tantrum, and had banged his head into the wall. He had been about ten at the time, and she was six, but she remembered it perfectly. Her father had shouted at her mother about it, and at Chad too. And their mother cried. It had been an ugly scene.

“Let's take a look.” It didn't look any better to him than it had on the beach. He lifted her up and sat her on the edge of the sink, and ran some cold water on it, which made it feel better, but the water looked bright red as it ran down the drain. “Well, my friend, let's wrap this in a towel.” He took a clean one from a rack, and she noticed that he had a warm, cozy kitchen, although everything in it looked worn and old. But it seemed friendly that way. “And after we wrap it in the towel, I think I should get you home to your mom. Is she at the house today?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Good. I'm going to drive you up to the house, so you don't have to walk. How does that sound to you?”

“Pretty good. And then will we have to go to the hospital?”

“Let's see what your mom says. Unless you want me to chop the leg off right here. It'll only take a minute, unless Mousse gets in the way.” He was sitting obediently in the corner, watching them both quietly. And Pip giggled at what he'd said, but she still looked pale to him, and he suspected that the foot hurt a lot. He was right, but she didn't want to admit it to him. She was trying very hard to be brave.

He wrapped the foot in a towel, as he'd promised, and picked her up again, grabbing his car keys on the way, and Mousse followed them out behind the house, and got into the back of the station wagon as soon as Matt opened the door. By the time he set her down on the front passenger seat, there was a large spot of bright red blood soaking through the towel.

“Is it really bad, Matt?” she asked on the way home, and he tried to look unconcerned.

“No, but it's not terrific. People shouldn't leave glass like that on the beach.” It had sliced through her like a knife. And felt that way too.

They were at her house in less than five minutes, and when they got there, he carried her inside, with Mousse at his heels. Her mother was in the living room, and was startled when she looked up and saw them both, and Pip in Matt's arms.

“What happened? Pip, are you all right?” Ophélie looked instantly worried as she came toward them.

“I'm okay, Mom. I cut my foot.” Matt's eyes met her mother's. It was the first time he had seen her since the day she had implied he was a child molester when she met him on the beach.

“Is she all right?” Ophélie asked him, noticing how gently he set her down, and carefully unwrapped the foot.

“I think so. But I thought you should have a look.” He didn't want to tell her in front of Pip that he thought she should have stitches, but as soon as she saw it, she came to the same conclusion.

“We'd better go to the doctor. I think you need stitches, Pip,” her mother said calmly, as Pip's eyes filled with tears and Matt patted her shoulder.

“Maybe one or two,” he said, gently touching the child's head, and feeling the silky curls. But the disquieting event got the best of her then, and she started to cry, in spite of wanting to be brave for him. She didn't want him to think she was a sissy. “They'll make it numb first. I did the same thing last year. It won't even hurt.”

“Yes, it will!” she shouted at both of them, sounding eleven years old for once. She had a right to. It was a nasty cut, and had bled a lot. “I don't want stitches!” she said, burying her face against her mother.

“We'll do something fun afterward, I promise,” Matt said, looking at Ophélie, and wondering if he should leave. He didn't want to intrude. But she seemed grateful to have him there, and so was Pip. He had a calming influence on both of them. He was a patient, easygoing person, and it showed at times like this.

“Is there a doctor here?” Ophélie asked, looking worried.

“There's a clinic behind the grocery store. With a nurse. She sewed me up last year. How do you feel about that? Otherwise, we can drive her into the city. I don't mind taking you if you'd like.”

“Why don't we take her to the clinic, and see what the nurse says.”

Pip whimpered a little on the way there, and Matt told her funny stories and distracted them both, which was a relief. And as soon as the nurse saw it, she agreed with Matt and Ophélie. And she did just what Matt had said she would. She gave Pip a shot to numb it, and then neatly stitched it up. She had seven stitches, and a huge bandage to cover it, and she had to stay off the foot for several days, and come back to get the stitches out in a week. Matt carried her back to the car afterward, and she looked worn out from the ordeal.

“Can I take you both out to lunch?” Matt offered, as they drove through the tiny town, but Pip said weakly that she felt kind of sick, and they decided to drive home. Once there, he laid her gently on the couch. Her mother turned on the TV for her, and five minutes later, she was sound asleep.

“Poor kid, that was a nasty one. I knew it the minute I saw it. She was very brave.”

“Thank you for being so good to us,” Ophélie said gratefully, as Matt thought it was hard to believe she was the same woman who had read him the riot act on the beach. This one was a gentle soul, with the saddest eyes he'd ever seen, much like Pip's. There was the same waiflike quality to her. And it made him want to put his arms around her too. Everything she had been through and suffered was in her eyes and on her face. But in spite of it, he couldn't help noticing that she was a beautiful woman, and looked surprisingly young for her age.

“I have to confess,” he said with a look of concern, but he wanted to tell her first, and take the brunt of her anger, if there was any. “I took her into my house to clean the foot. We were only there for five minutes, and then I brought her back to you. I wouldn't have done it otherwise, but I wanted to get some water on the foot, and she was bleeding all over the place, so I needed something to wrap it up.”

“It's lucky you were there. I understand. Thank you for telling me.”

“I thought about bringing her straight here, knowing how you'd feel about it, but I wanted to take a good look at the cut. It was uglier than I thought.”

“Yes, it was.” She had felt sick herself as she watched the nurse stitch it up. She had felt that way when Chad had cut his head too. And that had been such an upsetting day. This had been far simpler, and thanks to Matt, they had gotten her to the clinic quickly, and he had kept Pip amused and distracted all the way. She could see now what Pip saw in him. He was a remarkably nice person. “Thank you for being so kind. You made it a lot easier for her. And for me.”

“I'm just sorry it happened. It's so dangerous to leave glass on the beach. I always pick it up when I see it. It leads to things like this.” He glanced over at Pip, and smiled as he watched her sleep.

“Can I offer you something to eat?” she asked graciously, and he hesitated. They had been through enough that morning.

“You must be tired. It's always hard to watch when kids get hurt.” He was feeling a little worn out too. It had been an emotional morning.

“I'm fine. Why don't I make some sandwiches? It won't take me a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally. Would you like a glass of wine?” He declined and settled for a Coke, and she put out a plate of sandwiches a few minutes later. In spite of her constant lethargy these days, she seemed calm and efficient. And they sat down facing each other at the kitchen table.

“Pip tells me you're French, although you can't even hear it. You speak amazingly good English.”

“I learned it as a child in school, and I've been here for more than half my life. I came here to college as a foreign student, and married one of my professors.”

“What did you come to study?”

“I was a pre-med student. But I never went on to med school. I got married right after graduation.” She didn't mention that she'd gone to Radcliffe, which would have seemed pretentious to her.

“Are you sorry you didn't go on to med school?” he asked with interest. Like her daughter, she was an intriguing woman.

“Never. I don't think I'd have been a very good doctor. I got squeamish just now watching the nurse sew up Pip's foot.”

“It's different when it's one of your own children. I felt the same way when I watched her, and she's not even my daughter.”

It reminded her of one of the few facts she knew about him. “Pip tells me your children are in New Zealand,” but as soon as she said it, she knew it was a painful subject. His eyes looked pained. “How old are they?”

“Sixteen and eighteen.”

“My son would have been sixteen in April,” she said sadly, and then for both their sakes, he changed the subject.

“I studied at the Beaux Arts in Paris for a year when I was in college,” he said. “What a spectacular city. I haven't been back in a few years, but I used to go at every opportunity. The Louvre is my favorite place on the planet.”

“I took Pip there last year and she hated it. It's a bit too serious for her. But she loved the international cafeteria in the basement. She almost liked it better than McDonald's.” They both laughed at the culinary and cultural perversities of children.

“Do you go back often?” He was curious about her. And she about him now.

“Usually, every summer. But I didn't want to this year. This seemed easier, and more peaceful. I used to go to Brittany as a child, and this reminds me a little of it.” Matt was surprised to admit it to himself as he chatted with her, but he liked her. She seemed simple, warm, and honest, and not like the wife of a man who had made an enormous fortune and flown his own plane. She seemed down-to-earth and unpretentious. Although he couldn't help noticing that peeking through the mane of long wavy blond hair were tiny diamond studs on her ears, and she was wearing a beautiful black cashmere sweater. But the luxuries seemed inconsequential and were outshone by her gentleness and beauty. She was a very pretty woman. And he noticed that she was still wearing her plain gold wedding ring, and that touched him. Sally had thrown hers away, she said, the day she left him. At the time, it had been a piece of information that nearly killed him. He liked the fact that Ophélie still wore hers. It seemed like a gesture of love and respect for her late husband. And he admired her for it.

They chatted quietly as they finished lunch, and were both surprised by how long they'd talked when they finally heard Pip stirring. But she only whimpered a little, and turned on her side on the couch, as Mousse lay on the floor near her.

“That dog adores her, doesn't he?” Matt commented, and she nodded.

“He was my son's originally, but he's adopted Pip now. She loves him.”

A little while later, Matt got up to leave, thanked her for lunch, and suggested she come down the beach with Pip one day. He had told her about his sailboat too, and had offered to take her sailing when Ophélie said how much she loved the ocean.

“I don't suppose she'll be walking anywhere for the next week,” he said almost sadly. He would miss her.

“You can come and visit her here, if you'd like. I know she'd love to see you.” It was hard to believe, as he looked at her, that this was the same woman who, almost two weeks earlier, had forbidden her daughter to see him. But things had changed in the meantime. Because of Pip's staunch loyalty to him, Ophélie had come to trust him. And after the morning they had just shared, more than that, she was grateful to him, and even liked him. She could see why Pip had befriended him. Everything about him suggested that he was a decent person. And she noticed, as Pip had, that he looked ever so slightly like her husband. It was more in size and shape and the way he moved, and coloring, than in any great similarity of features, but there was something that made Ophélie feel comfortable with him.

“Thank you for lunch,” he said politely. She gave him the phone number, and he promised to call before coming by. He said he would give Pip a few days to recover before he called them.

And Pip was vastly disappointed when she woke up to discover that he had left and she had missed him. She had slept for nearly four hours, and the anesthetic had worn off by then. The foot hurt a lot, as the nurse had warned it might for a day or two. Ophélie gave her some aspirin and tucked a blanket over her in front of the TV, and Pip was sound asleep again before dinner.

She was still asleep when Andrea called them, and Ophélie told her what had happened. And she commented on Matt's involvement.

“He doesn't sound like a child molester to me. Maybe you should molest him,” Andrea suggested with a chuckle. “And if you don't, I will.” She hadn't had a date since the baby, and she was getting antsy. Andrea enjoyed male companionship, and she had her eye on a single father at the playground. She had always dated the men in her office, many of them married. “Why don't you invite him to dinner?”

“We'll see,” Ophélie said vaguely. She had enjoyed having lunch with him, but she had no desire to pursue him, or anyone, for that matter. As far as she was concerned, she still felt married. She had talked about it in her group frequently, and couldn't imagine feeling otherwise. The thought of being single again made her shudder. She had been in love with Ted for twenty years, and even death hadn't changed that. In spite of everything that had happened, her love for him had never wavered.

“I'll come out to see you this week,” Andrea promised. “Why don't you invite him to dinner when I come? I want to see him.”

“You're disgusting.” Ophélie laughed at her old friend. They chatted for a few minutes, and after they hung up, she carried Pip into her room and tucked her in. And as she did, she realized she hadn't done it in ages. She felt as though she were slowly waking from a deep sleep. Ted and Chad had been gone for ten months now. It was hard to believe. Nearly a year since her life had been utterly and totally shattered. She hadn't picked up the pieces yet, but ever so slowly she was finding them here and there, and one day, maybe, she would get her life back together. But she wasn't there yet. And she knew she still had a long way to go before she got there. It had been nice having company that afternoon, and talking to Matt. But she still felt like a married woman entertaining a guest. The thought of dating was inconceivable to her, if not to Andrea.

But it was that which had impressed Matt as he sat across the table from her. He had liked her dignity, and gentle grace. There was nothing sharp or pushy about her. He had had the same feelings as Ophélie about dating at first. It had taken him years and years and years to get over Sally. And now where those feelings had been, he was numb finally. He didn't love her anymore, and he no longer hated her. He felt nothing for her. And where his heart had been, there was empty space. All he was capable of, in his own mind at least, was a friendship with an eleven-year-old girl.

6

PIP'S WEEK OF CONVALESCENCE WAS FRUSTRATING FOR her. She sat on the couch in the living room watching television and reading books, and when Ophélie felt up to it, playing cards. But most of the time, Ophélie was still too distracted to play with her. Pip did little sketches on random pieces of paper she found, but what irked her most of all was that she couldn't go down on the beach, or visit Matt, she wasn't supposed to get sand in her stitches. And ever since the day she'd cut her foot, the weather at the beach had been terrific, which made her incarceration seem that much worse.

Pip had been home for three days, under house arrest, when Ophélie decided to take a walk down the beach, and turned without thinking toward the public end. She kept walking, and after a while, much to her surprise, she saw Matt at his easel. He was hard at work and deeply engrossed in what he was doing. She hesitated, as Pip had at first, staying at a distance. And after a time, Matt sensed her, turned, and then saw her. She was standing hesitantly, and looked strikingly like her daughter. And when he smiled at her, she finally approached him.

“Hello, how are you? I didn't want to interrupt you,” she said, smiling shyly.

“No problem,” he smiled reassuringly, “I welcome the interruptions.” He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and she could see that he was in good shape. He had strong arms and broad shoulders, and an easy way about him. “How's Pip?”

“Bored, poor thing. Having to stay off the foot is driving her crazy. She misses coming down to see you.”

“I'll have to come and visit, if that's all right with you,” he asked cautiously. He didn't want to intrude on child or mother.

“She'd love that.”

“Maybe I'll give her some assignments.”

Ophélie noticed that he was working on a view of the sea, with tall, rolling waves on a stormy day, and a tiny sailboat being buffeted by them. The painting was powerful, and somehow touching. It gave off a sense of loneliness and isolation, and the relentlessness of the ocean.

“I like your work.” And she meant it. The painting was lovely, and very good.

“Thank you.”

“Do you always work in watercolors?”

“No, I prefer oils. And I enjoy doing portraits.” It made him think of the one he had promised to do of Pip for her mother's birthday. He wanted to get started before she left Safe Harbour, but since her accident, he hadn't had time to do the preliminary sketches of her. Although he had a clear picture in his head of how he would paint her.

“Do you live here all year round?” she asked with interest.

“Yes, I do. I have for almost ten years.”

“It must get lonely in the wintertime,” she said quietly, not sure if she should sit down in the sand, or just stand near him. She felt as though she should wait for an invitation, as if this part of the beach was his private province. Like an office.

“It's quiet here. I like that. It suits me.” Almost all of the residents of the beach community were summer visitors. There were a few more people who lived there year-round in the section between the public beach and the gated community, but not many. The beach and the town were all but deserted in winter. He seemed like a lonely man to Ophélie, or solitary at least, but he didn't look unhappy. He seemed peaceful and very much at ease in his own skin, as the French would say.

“Do you go into the city much?” she chatted with him, curious about him. It was easy to see why Pip liked him. He was not overly talkative, he had a way of making people feel comfortable with him.

“Almost never. I have no reason to anymore. I sold my business ten years ago when I moved here. I thought I was just taking a break before getting back into it again, and as things turned out, I stayed here.” Selling the ad agency at the top of the market had allowed him to do that, even after he split the proceeds with Sally. And a small inheritance he'd gotten from his parents after that had allowed him to stay. All he had wanted originally was a year off before he started something else, but then she'd left for New Zealand, and he had tried commuting to see the kids. By the time he stopped doing that four years later, he had lost interest in starting another business. And all he wanted to do now was paint. He had had a few one-man shows over the years, but he didn't even do that anymore. He had no need to show his work, only to do it.

“I love it here,” Ophélie said quietly, sinking down into the sand eight or ten feet away from him. It was close enough to see what he was doing and talk to him, but not so close that either of them felt encroached on or invaded. They were mindful of each other's space, and as Pip did sometimes, Ophélie sat watching him in silence, until he finally spoke again.

“It's good for kids here,” he said, squinting at his work, and then looking into the distance. “It's pretty safe, and they can run around on the beach. It's a lot simpler than life in the city.”

“I like how close it is. I can go back and forth easily, and leave her here. We don't have to go anywhere, just be here.”

“I like that too.” He smiled at her. And then he decided to inquire further about her. He was curious, despite what he knew, she was obviously bright, but at the same time, haunted and quiet. “Do you work?” He didn't think so. She hadn't mentioned it at lunch, and Pip had never said anything about it.

“No. I did a long time ago, when we lived in Cambridge, before we moved out here and the kids were born. I didn't work then, because whatever I would have made wouldn't have been enough to pay a babysitter, so there didn't seem to be much point. I worked as a TA in the biochemistry lab at Harvard. I loved it.” Ted had gotten her the job, and it had fit into her premed plans then, until she'd shelved her own dreams completely. In the end, and almost since the beginning, Ted had been the only dream she wanted or needed. He and their children had been her entire world.

“Sounds very lofty. Do you think you'd ever go back to it? I mean med school.” Ophélie laughed in answer to the question.

“I'm way too old. Between med school and residency and studying for boards and certifying, I'd be fifty by the time I was a doctor.” At forty-two, her dreams of med school had long since vanished.

“Some people do it. It might be fun.”

“It would have been then, I guess. But I was happy standing behind my husband.” In many ways, she was still very French, and had been happy to play second fiddle to him. She didn't see it that way, she saw herself as his support system and cheering team to encourage him through the hard times, and she had been. It was the main reason their marriage had lasted. Ted needed her as his link to the real world. She was the one thing that had kept him going when things were hardest. And now there was no one to do the same for her, except her daughter. “I've been thinking about getting a job lately. Or to be honest, other people have been thinking of it for me. My group and my closest friend mostly. They think I need something to keep me busy. Pip is in school all day, and I don't have a lot to do.” With Ted and Chad gone, her job seemed to be almost over. Chad had kept her more than occupied, with his many challenges and problems. And Ted had also required a fair amount of attention. But Pip didn't, she was busy during the day and after school and with her friends on weekends. She was surprisingly well occupied and self-sufficient. And Ophélie felt as though she had lost not only half her family but her job along with it. “I don't know what I'd do though. I have no formal training.”

“What do you like to do?” he asked with interest, glancing over at her from time to time. Most of the time he talked while he painted, and Ophélie liked that. They could talk to each other without her feeling overly focused on or scrutinized. It was almost like therapy as she opened up to him, just as Pip did.

“You know, it's embarrassing, but I'm not sure. I haven't done anything for myself, or that I wanted to do, in such a long time. I was always busy with my children and my husband. And Pip seems to need me much less than Ted and Chad did.”

“Don't be so sure,” Matt said quietly. He wanted to tell her that the child was obviously lonely, but he didn't. “What about some kind of volunteer work?” It was obvious from the house they were renting, and the fact that her husband had flown his own plane, that she didn't need the money.

“I've been thinking about that,” she said, looking pensive.

“I used to teach a drawing class in a mental hospital. It was wonderful. One of the best things I've ever done. They taught me more than I taught them, about life, and patience, and courage. They were terrific people. I stopped doing it when I moved here.” It was more complicated than that, he had stopped when he had been overwhelmed by depression himself, when he stopped seeing his children. And by the time he'd come out of it, or felt better at least, he was happier here alone, and rarely went into the city.

“People with mental illnesses are sometimes extraordinary people,” she said softly, and the way she said it made him turn to look at her. He could see instantly in her eyes that she knew more than a little about what she was saying. Their eyes met, and then he turned back to his painting. He was suddenly afraid to ask her why she had said it, but she sensed his question.

“My son was manic-depressive… bipolar…it was a struggle for him, but he was very brave. He tried to commit suicide twice in the year before he died.” It was an enormous gesture of trust that she had shared that with him, but she knew from what she had seen of him with Pip that he was compassionate and understanding.

“Does Pip know that?” He looked shaken.

“Yes. It was very hard for her. I found him the first time, and she found him the second. It was very traumatic.”

“Poor kid… both of them… how did he do it?” His heart went out to her as he watched her and listened.

“The first time he slashed his wrists, and made a botch of it, thank God. The second he tried to hang himself, and Pip went into his room to ask him something, and she found him. He was already blue, and he had nearly done it. But she came and got me, we got him down, and his heart stopped. I kept him going with CPR until the paramedics came, and they saved him. They had to defibrillate him, and it was a close call, a very close call. It was terrifying.” She seemed almost breathless herself as she said it. The memory of it was still haunting. Even now sometimes, she had dreams about it. “He was doing much better when he died, which is why I had sent him to L.A. with his father that day. Ted had meetings, and I thought it would be fun for Chad to go with him. They didn't spend a lot of time together. Ted was very busy.” And had almost total denial about Chad's problems, although she didn't say that. Even after the suicide attempts, Ted steadfastly insisted it had been a play for attention, and not something far worse.

But Matt knew men, and children. “How did he relate to your son? Was it hard for him to accept his illness?”

She hesitated, and then nodded. “Very. Ted always thought he'd outgrow it. He refused to accept how ill Chad was, no matter what the doctors said. Every time things got better, he thought the war was over. And so did I, at first. Ted never even thought there was a war, he kept saying it was growing pains, or that I was spoiling him, or he needed a girlfriend. I think it's hard for parents to admit sometimes that they have a sick child, and it's never going to go away, or get better. It gets better for a while, with the right medication, and a lot of work and effort, but it doesn't go away. It's going to be there forever.” She seemed to have a good grip on it, but she had learned her lessons at a high price, and had never had denial about it. She had believed since Chad was small that he had serious problems, no matter how bright and charming he was. He was brilliant, like his father, but also very, very sick. It was Ophélie who had been relentless in ferreting out the problem, until they had a diagnosis. And even then, Ted refused to believe it. He said the psychiatrists were quacks, and the tests inconclusive. There had been nothing inconclusive about Chad's suicide attempts, his manic episodes, sleepless nights, or crippling depressions. And for him, medication and therapy had taken the edge off, but never solved the problem adequately. By the time he died, Ophélie had accepted that Chad would be sick forever. Only Ted hadn't. He had resisted facing it to the end. Having a mentally ill son was unacceptable to him.

And her greatest grief, her biggest sin, as far as she was concerned, was that she had sent him to L.A. with his father. She had wanted a break, and to spend some quiet time with Pip, without worrying about Chad for a change, or being distracted by him. He needed so much attention. Only she knew that she had sent the boy away for two days, not so much to foster the relationship between Ted and him, as to get a breather herself. She knew that, however long she lived or how many groups she went to, she would never forgive herself for it. But she said nothing of that to Matt. She had to live with it now, whatever it cost her.

“You've all been through a lot, not just the tragedy of the accident. It must be particularly hard knowing you saved the boy twice, and then lost him to a fluke accident like that.”

“Destiny,” she said quietly. “We are all in the hands of fate, and can do nothing to control it. Thank God I didn't send Pip too,” although it had never been an issue. Ted hadn't even wanted to take Chad, the boy always irritated him and made him nervous, and Chad hadn't been enthused about the trip either. They'd both agreed finally, at Ophélie's insistence. But Ted would never have taken Pip. She was too young to go on a trip with him, in his estimation, and he rarely paid attention to her. He had in their early days of poverty, but since then, he had been far too busy. The only better solution to what had happened, barring the accident not happening, which would have been the best of all worlds, would have been if they had all been on the plane, and died together. There were many, many times now when Ophélie wished that that had happened. It would have been so much simpler.

“Would you want to do volunteer work with mentally ill kids?” Matt asked kindly, trying to get off the immediate subject of the son she'd lost and her late husband. Inevitably, he could see in her eyes that it was excruciatingly painful.

“I don't know,” Ophélie said, looking out to sea and thinking about it, as she stretched her legs into the sand. “I had so many years of it with Chad, and it was so intense at times, in some ways I'd like to use what I learned, to help others maybe, or it might just be better to do something else. I don't want to fight that war forever. For me anyway, it's over. It may be better to do something different. I suppose that sounds selfish, but it's honest.” She seemed to be that above all, and wise, caring, and wounded. Who wouldn't have been after what she'd been through? Matt had nothing but compassion and respect for her, and more for Pip now. She had been through a lot too, particularly for a child her age.

“You could be right. Maybe you need a break from all that, and to do something a little more cheerful. What about some kind of work with kids? Runaways, homeless kids or families? There's a lot of good work to be done there.”

“That would be interesting. It's amazing how many lost people you see now on the streets, even in France, not just here. It's a problem all around the world.” They talked about homelessness for a while then, and the political and economic issues they both felt had caused it. For the moment at least, the problem seemed insoluble, but it made for an interesting conversation between the two of them, and it was obviously far more adult than the things he discussed with Pip, while he taught her to draw. He liked both of them, and felt lucky that their paths had crossed and he had met them both.

Ophélie got up eventually, and said she had to get back, and he told her to say hello to Pip for him, and then she had a thought.

“Why don't you do that yourself?” She smiled. She had enjoyed the time she'd spent talking to him, and she wasn't sorry she had told him about Chad. It was an insight into Pip as well for him, she liked him so much, it seemed important to Ophélie to let him know how brave her daughter had been, how much she'd been through, and what she had lost. Heavy baggage for a child to carry, and for Ophélie too, and he had his too, far more than she knew. At a certain age, no matter who it was, people had baggage and wounds and scars and lives that had hurt or sometimes even broken them. No one ever went unscathed, sometimes even a child Pip's age. Ophélie liked to think that it would make Pip stronger in the end, and more caring perhaps, she just wasn't sure anymore what it would do to her. The pattern of scars on anyone's soul determined who they were. Sometimes it enriched the spirit, and sometimes it broke it. The secret of life seemed to be surviving the damage, and wearing the scars well. But in reality, no heart went unscathed. Life itself was all too real. And in order to love someone, whether lover or friend, one had no choice but to be real.

“I'll give Pip a call,” Matt said in response to what she'd said. He felt badly that he hadn't called yet. But he didn't want to intrude on Ophélie.

“Why don't you come to dinner tonight? The food is terrible, but I know she'd enjoy seeing you, and so would I.” It was the nicest invitation he'd had in years, and he smiled.

“I'd like that. Are you sure it's not too much trouble?”

“On the contrary. We'd love it. In fact, I think I'll keep it a surprise for Pip, if you can come. How about seven o'clock?” The invitation was entirely innocent and ingenuous. She liked talking to him, just as Pip did.

“That sounds perfect. Can I bring anything? Pencils? Wine? An eraser?” She laughed at him, but it gave him an idea.

“Just bring yourself. Pip will be thrilled.” He didn't add “me too,” but he wanted to, and felt like a kid. They were nice people, two very nice people, who'd survived an incredible lot of heartache, tragedy, and grief. He had all the more respect for both of them the more he knew, especially after today. What she had told him about her son sounded like an agonizing ordeal.

“See you later, then,” he said with a smile, and she waved as she headed back up the beach, and as he watched her, he couldn't help thinking again how much she reminded him of Pip.

7

PIP WAS LYING ON THE COUCH LOOKING BORED, WITH her foot on a pillow, when the doorbell rang. Ophélie went to answer it, she knew who it would be. He was right on time, and when she opened the door, Matt was standing there in a gray turtleneck and jeans, holding a bottle of wine. Ophélie put a finger to her lips and pointed toward the couch. And with a broad smile, he walked in. And when Pip saw him, she squealed with delight and hopped off the couch on one foot.

“Matt!” She looked from him to her mother, immensely pleased, with no idea how the surprise had come about. “How did… what …” She was delighted and confused.

“I ran into your mom on the beach today, and she was nice enough to invite me to join you for dinner. How's the foot?”

“Really dumb. It's a stupid foot, and I'm tired of it. I miss drawing with you.” She had done a lot of sketches on her own, but she was getting tired of that too, and felt as though her newfound skills had regressed. She had had trouble with the hind section on a drawing of Mousse just that afternoon. “I forgot how to do back legs.”

“I'll show you again,” and as he said it, he handed her a brand-new sketch pad, and a box of colored pencils he had found in a drawer. It was just what the doctor ordered, and she pounced on them with glee.

As they chatted, Ophélie set the table for the three of them, and opened the bottle of very nice French wine. Although she seldom drank, it was one that she liked and reminded her of France.

She had put a chicken in the oven, and in a very short time, cooked some asparagus and wild rice, and made hollandaise. It was the most elaborate culinary effort she'd made in a year. And she'd enjoyed doing it.

Matt was impressed when they sat down to dinner, and so was Pip. She laughed at her mom.

“No frozen pizza tonight?”

“Pip, please! Don't give away all my secrets.” Ophélie smiled at her.

“It's the mainstay of my diet too. That and instant soup.” Matt grinned. He looked handsome and well groomed as he sat with them, there was a faint whiff of male cologne, and more than anything, he looked fresh and wholesome and real. Ophélie had combed her hair for him, and was wearing a black cashmere sweater and jeans. She hadn't worn makeup or color all year and didn't tonight. She had been wearing formal mourning for Ted and Chad. But for the first time, she wondered if she should have at least put on lipstick. She hadn't even brought any to the beach. It was all in a drawer somewhere at home. For the last ten months, she hadn't cared if she never wore it again. It seemed irrelevant now. Or had, until tonight. Not that she was wooing him, but she at least felt like looking like a woman again. The robot she had become in the past year was slowly coming back to life.

The three of them enjoyed a lively conversation through dinner. They talked about Paris, and art, and school. Pip said she wasn't looking forward to going back. She was turning twelve in the fall and entering seventh grade. And when asked, she told Matt she had a lot of friends, but she felt weird with them now. A lot of her friends' parents were divorced, but no one had lost a father. She didn't want people to feel sorry for her, and she knew some of them did. She said she didn't want them to be “too nice,” because it made her sad. She didn't want to feel different. And he knew it was inevitable that she would. “I can't even go to the father-daughter dinner,” she said plaintively. “Who would I take?” Her mother had thought of it too, and had no solution to the dilemma. She had taken Chad once when her father couldn't go. But now she couldn't take him either.

“You can take me, if you want,” Matt offered sincerely, and then glanced at Ophélie. “If your mother doesn't object. There's no reason why you can't take a friend, unless you can take your mom. You could do that too, you don't have to follow the rules. A mom is as good as a dad.”

“They won't let you do that, someone else tried last year,” which seemed pathetically limited to him. But she looked delighted at the prospect of taking Matt, and her mother nodded approval.

“That would be very nice of you, Matt,” she said quietly, and then brought out dessert. All they had was ice cream in the freezer, and she had melted some chocolate and poured it on the vanilla bean ice cream Pip loved. It had been Ted's favorite too. She and Chad were addicted to Rocky Road. It was odd how even favorite ice cream flavors were sometimes dictated by genes. She had noticed that before.

“When is the father-daughter dinner?” Matt inquired.

“Sometime before Thanksgiving.” Pip looked thrilled.

“Tell me when, and I'll be there. I'll even wear a suit.” He hadn't done that in years either. He lived in jeans and old sweaters, and the occasional worn tweed jacket left over from the old days. He didn't need suits anymore. He didn't go anywhere, and hadn't had or wanted a social life in years. Once in a while, an old friend came over from the city to have dinner with him, but less and less. He had been out of the loop for a long time, and liked it that way. He was enjoying being a recluse. And no one argued with him about it anymore. They just figured that was who he was, and had become.

Pip stayed and chatted with them until long after her bedtime, and finally she began to yawn. She said she could hardly wait to get her stitches out at the end of the week, but was annoyed that she would have to wear shoes on the beach for another week afterward.

“Maybe you could ride Mousse,” Matt teased, and she came back in her pajamas a few minutes later to say goodnight to them both. They were sitting on the couch, and Matt had lit a fire. It was a warm, cozy scene, and Pip looked happy when she left them and went to bed, happier than she had been in a long time. And so did Ophélie. There was something very comfortable about having a man around. His male presence seemed to fill the entire house. Even Mousse looked up from time to time, and wagged his tail, where he lay by the fire.

“You're very blessed,” he said quietly to Ophélie, after she had gently closed Pip's door so they didn't keep her up. The house had only a large living room, an open kitchen and dining room, and their two bedrooms. It all seemed to blend together, no one wanted privacy or grandeur at the beach. But the decor was very nice. The owners had some lovely things, and some very handsome modern paintings, which Matt said he liked. “She's a terrific kid.” He was crazy about her, and she always reminded him of his own. But he wasn't even sure his own children would have been as open, as wise, or as adult. And he had no idea who they were now. They were Hamish's now, and no longer his. Sally had seen to that.

“Yes, she is. We're very lucky we have each other.” She thanked God again that Pip hadn't been on the plane too. “She's all I have. My parents died years ago, and so did Ted's. We were both only children. All I have are some second cousins in France, and an aunt I never liked and haven't seen in years. I like taking Pip back there, to keep her in touch with her French roots, but there's no one we're really close to. It's just us.”

“Maybe that's enough,” he said quietly. He didn't even have that. And like her, he was an only child, and had become solitary over the years. He didn't even have close friends anymore. During the bad years after the divorce, the friendships had been too hard to maintain, and like Pip, he didn't want people feeling sorry for him. What had happened with Sally had just been too tough. “Do you have a lot of friends, Ophélie? In San Francisco, I mean.”

“Some. Ted wasn't very sociable. He was very much a loner, and completely engrossed in his work. And he expected me to be there for him. I wanted to be. But it made it hard to keep friendships. He never really wanted to see people, only work. I have one woman friend I'm very close to, but other than that, I lost touch with a lot of people over the years, because of Ted. And Chad became all-consuming in the last few years. I never knew what was going to happen, if he would be bouncing off the walls, or too depressed for me to leave. He became a pretty full-time job at the end.” She had had her hands full between him, Ted, and Pip. And now her hands were emptier than they had been for years, except for Pip, who didn't need much from her. Although the little she did need, Ophélie hadn't been able to deliver. She felt a little better now, after the summer at the beach, and she was hoping she would improve further in the coming months. She had felt utterly disconnected for the past ten months, but the connections were slowly forming again. The robot she had become was nearly humanoid again, but not quite. But there were clearly indications of returning life, and even the fact that she had invited Matt to dinner, and was willing to extend a hand of friendship to him, and take his in exchange, was a good sign.

“What about you?” she asked him with curiosity. “Do you see a lot of friends in town?”

“None,” he said with a small smile. “I've been very bad at that, for nearly ten years. I ran an ad agency in New York with my wife, and we got tangled up in a pretty ugly divorce. We sold the business, and I decided to come out here. I lived in the city then, and I took a little bungalow out here to paint on the weekends. And then, just when you think things won't get worse, they did. She was living in New Zealand, and I was trying to commute to see my kids, which is pretty hard to do. I had no home turf there. I stayed at a hotel, I even got an apartment at one point, but I was very much the fifth wheel. She married a great guy, a friend of mine, who loved my kids, about nine years ago, and they were crazy about him. He's very much a man's man, lots of money, lots of toys. Four kids of his own, they had two more. My kids got completely absorbed in their combined family, and they loved it. I can't blame them, it was pretty appealing.

“After a while, whenever I got to Auckland, they didn't have time to see me, they wanted to be with their friends. As they say in your country, I felt like hair on the soup.” She smiled at the familiar expression, and understood the feeling. Sometimes she had felt like hair on the soup in Ted's busy, scientific life. Out of place. Superfluous, except as a possession he owned but didn't need. Obsolete.

“That must have been hard for you,” she said sympathetically, touched by the look of loss in his eyes. He was a man who had known pain, and had survived. He had made his peace with it, but like everyone else, at a price. A high price.

“It was hard,” he said honestly. “Very. I kept at it for four years. The last few times I went out there, I hardly saw them, and Sally explained that I was disrupting their life. She thought I should only come out when they wanted to see me, which of course was almost never. I called a lot, and they were busy. And eventually, I wrote and they didn't answer. They were only seven and nine when she remarried, and she had the other babies in the first two years they were married. My kids got swept up in her new family. I felt in a way as though I was making things harder for them. I did a lot of soul-searching, and it was probably stupid, but I wrote to them and asked them what they wanted. They never answered. I didn't hear from them for a year, but I kept writing. I figured, if they wanted to see me, they'd ask me to come out. And I have to confess, I drank a lot that year. I wrote to them for three years and heard nothing. And Sally told me in no uncertain terms that they no longer wanted to see me and were afraid to say so. That was three years ago, and I haven't written since. I finally gave up. And I haven't seen or heard from them in six years. My only contact with them is the support checks I still send Sally. And the Christmas card she sends me every year. I never wanted to confront them about seeing me. They know where I am if they want me. But sometimes I've thought that I should have gone out there and discussed it with them. I didn't want to put them on the spot. Sally was so emphatic about how they felt. They were only ten and twelve the last time I saw them, more or less Pip's age, that's a tough age to have to be brave enough to tell your father to get lost. Their silence did that. It was enough. I understand. So I bowed out.

“I wrote them some pretty pathetic letters for years before I gave up. And they never answered. And sometimes I write to them now, but in the end, I never send the letters. It doesn't seem fair to put pressure on them. I miss them like crazy. I don't think I exist for them anymore. I've talked to their mother and she says it's for the best. She tells me they're happy and don't want me in their life. I never did anything wrong, from my perspective, they just don't need me anymore. Their stepfather is a great guy. I like him myself, or did. We were good friends for years before he and Sally got together. Anyway, that's the story of my kids, and the last ten years. The last six without my kids. She sends me photographs with the Christmas card so I know what they look like. I'm not sure if that's better or worse. Sometimes better, sometimes worse. I feel like one of those poor women who've given birth to a baby, and for whatever reason, given it up. And all they get are pictures once a year. She sends me Christmas cards with all eight kids on it, his, mine, and theirs. I usually cry when I look at it,” he said, barely looking embarrassed. They knew a lot about each other now. “But I stepped back for them. I think it's what they need, or want, or so she tells me.

“Robert is eighteen now. He'll be going to college soon, probably over there. They have a great life in Auckland. Hamish owns the biggest ad agency in that part of the world. Sally runs it with him, just as she did ours with me. She's a very capable woman. Not a lot of heart, but enormously creative. And a good mother, I think. She knows what the kids need. Better than I do probably. I don't even know them anymore. I'm not even sure I'd recognize them on the street, which is an agonizing admission. That's the worst of it. I try not to think of it. I let go for their sakes. Sally wrote to me a few years ago and asked how I felt about Hamish adopting my kids. It damn near killed me. I don't care how much they don't want me in their lives, they're still my kids. And always will be. I wouldn't agree to it. I've hardly heard from her since, except at Christmas. Before that, we'd talk once in a while. I think they just wish I'd go away quietly and disappear somewhere, and I pretty much have. Out of their lives and everyone else's. I lead a very quiet life here, and it's taken me a long time to get over everything that went wrong between me and Sally, and losing my kids to Hamish.” It was an agonizing story, but explained a lot of things to her as she listened, and said much about him. Like her, he was a man who had lost nearly everything that mattered to him, his business, his wife, and his children. And he had retreated into the life of a hermit. At least she had Pip, and was grateful for it. She couldn't even begin to imagine her life without her.

“Why did the marriage break up?” She knew it was impertinent, but it was a piece she didn't have yet of the total picture, and she knew that if he didn't want to tell her, he wouldn't. After all that they had told each other, they were friends now.

He sighed for a moment before he answered. “It's a pretty classic story. Hamish and I went to grad school together. He went back to Auckland afterward. I stayed in New York. We both opened ad agencies, and formed a sort of loose alliance with each other. We shared some clients with international interests, referred business to each other, consulted on some big accounts together. He came to New York several times a year. We went there. Sally was the creative director of our agency, she was the brain of the outfit, and also handled the business side, and brought in most of the clients. I was the art director. We were a fairly unbeatable combination, and we had some of the biggest clients in the business. Hamish and I stayed friends, and he and his wife and Sally and I went on a number of vacations together. Mostly to Europe. A safari in Botswana once. We rented a château in France one fateful summer. I had to go back early, and Hamish's wife's mother died unexpectedly and she went back to Auckland. He stayed in France. So did Sally, with our kids. In as few words as possible, Hamish and Sally fell in love. Four weeks later she came home and told me she was leaving me. She was in love with him, and they were going to see what happened. She needed to get away from me to figure it out. She needed space, and time. Those things happen, I guess. To some people. She told me she'd never really been in love with me, we were just a great business team, and she had had the kids because it was expected of her. Hell of a thing to say about our children, and about me, but I actually think she meant it. She's not known for her sensitivity about other people's feelings, which is probably why she's so successful.

“Anyway, Hamish went home and delivered the same piece of news to his wife, Margaret, and the rest is history. Sally moved out of the apartment in New York with the kids, and stayed in a hotel. She offered to sell me her half of the business, but I had no desire to run it without her, or find a new partner. I just didn't have the heart to do it. She knocked me flat on my ass, and I couldn't get up for a long time. We sold the whole shebang, lock, stock, and barrel, to a major conglomerate. It was a terrific deal for both of us, but all I had left after fifteen years of marriage was a hell of a lot of money, no wife, no job, and kids who had moved nine thousand miles away to Auckland. She left me on Labor Day, and she and the kids moved to Auckland the day after Christmas. They got married as soon as the ink on our divorce was dry. I'd been hoping that if I let her be, and didn't push her, she'd come back to me. Crazy of me to think that, I guess. But we're all crazy, and stupid sometimes.

“By the time she left, my head was still spinning. And I guess that, my friend, answers your question about my marriage. The worst of it is I still think Hamish Greene is a great guy. Not a great friend, mind you, but he's an all-around bright, fun, amusing person. And from all I can gather, I think they've been very happy with each other. And their business is booming.” From the outside, all Ophélie could see was that Matt had been screwed royally, by his wife, his best friend, and maybe even by his children. She'd heard stories like it before over the years, but none as totally ruthless. He had lost everything, except his money, and it didn't look like that mattered much to him. All he seemed to want was a quiet life in a bungalow on the beach at Safe Harbour. Other than that, and his talent, he had absolutely nothing left. It was disgraceful what they had done to him. The thought of it left her speechless and grief-stricken on his behalf.

“That is a horrible story,” she said, frowning. “Absolutely awful. I hate them both, just listening to you. But not the children. They are the victims of all this, as you have been. They've obviously been manipulated into shutting you out and forgetting you. It was your wife's responsibility to help them maintain their relationship with you,” she said sensibly, and he didn't disagree with her. And amazingly, he had never blamed his children for their defection. They were too young to know what they were doing, and he knew how convincing Sally could be. She could turn anyone around in a hot minute, and confuse them forever.

“That's not Sally. She wanted a clean break from me, and she got one. Sally always got what she wanted, even from Hamish. I'm not sure whose idea their children were, but knowing Sally, she thought it was a smart thing to do to lock him in. Hamish is a little naïve in some ways, it was one of the things I always liked about him. Sally isn't. She's as clear and calculating as it gets, and she always does what's best for Sally.”

“She sounds like a very evil woman,” Ophélie said loyally, and it touched him. Telling her about his life had been somewhat emotional for him, and as he stoked the fire again, they were both silent for a moment.

“And what about since then? Has there been no one important to you?” It would have been the only possible consolation, but there was no evidence of a woman in his life. He seemed to lead a very solitary existence, or at least that was her impression of him. There could have been someone, of course, but she didn't think so.

“Not really. I was in no condition to get involved with anyone else for the first few years after Sally left. I was a basket case. And after that, I was commuting to Auckland to see my kids, and I wasn't in the mood. I didn't trust anyone, and I didn't want to. I swore I never would again. There was a woman I liked very much about three years ago, but she was a lot younger than I, and she wanted to get married and have kids. I just couldn't see myself doing that again, or trusting anyone enough to put myself in that position. I didn't want to get married and have kids, and risk getting divorced again and losing them. I couldn't see the point. She was thirty-two years old, and I was forty-four at the time, and she gave me an ultimatum. I don't blame her. But I couldn't make a commitment to her either. I bowed out gracefully, and she got married about six months later, to a very nice guy. They just had their third baby this summer. I just couldn't go there. I hope I'll get back in touch with my own kids again someday, when they get a little older. But I have no desire to start another family, or open myself up to that kind of disappointment. Going through that once in a lifetime has done it for me.” Ophélie had to admit that very few people would have survived what he'd been through. And in some ways he hadn't. As gentle and caring as he was, he was emotionally shut down, and not willing to open up again, but she couldn't really blame him. It also explained why he had opened up to Pip so much and reached out to her. She was almost the same age as his children the last time he saw them. And he was obviously hungry for some kind of human contact, even from a little girl of eleven. And she was safe for him. He had no real investment in her, other than friendship. There was nothing wrong with it, and it met Pip's needs at the moment as well. But it was hardly enough emotional sustenance for a man of forty-seven. He deserved so much more than that, in Ophélie's eyes at least, but he wasn't brave enough at this point to share more than he did with a child on the beach, whom he could teach to draw a few times a week. For a man of his caliber and abilities, it seemed a paltry existence. But clearly, it was all he wanted.

“What about you, Ophélie? What kind of marriage did you have? I get the feeling that your husband wasn't entirely an easy person. Geniuses usually aren't, or so they say.” Ophélie looked gentle and accommodating to him. And from what she had said about her husband's relationship with his sick son, he had the feeling that her late husband hadn't given her an easy time. He wasn't far from wrong, although she didn't often admit it to anyone, and hadn't over the years, sometimes even herself.

“He was a brilliant man. With incredible vision. He always knew what he wanted to do, from the beginning. He was single-minded in his purpose, and he refused to let anything stop him. Absolutely nothing. Not even me, or the children, not that we wanted to stand in his way. We did everything we could to support him, or I did at least. And he finally got what he wanted, and achieved what he'd always dreamed of. He was a huge success in the last five years of his life. It was wonderful for him.” But not necessarily for her or their kids, other than materially.

“And how was he to you in all that?” Matt asked persistently. It was obvious that he'd been a success, even from the little Matt knew of him. He had achieved greatness in his field. But the real question, in Matt's mind, was how was he as a human being and a husband? Ophélie seemed to have dodged the question.

“I always loved him. From the very first moment I met him. I had a huge crush on him as a student. I always admired him, his brilliant mind, his singlemindedness of purpose. He was a man who never lost sight of his dreams. You have to admire someone like that.” Whether or not he had been difficult had never been the issue for her. She accepted that about him. She thought he was entitled to be.

“And what were your dreams?”

“Being married to him.” She smiled sadly at Matt. “It was all I ever wanted. When he married me, I thought I'd died and gone to Heaven. And it was difficult certainly at times. There were years, many of them, when we had absolutely no money. We struggled for about fifteen years, and then he made so much we didn't know what to do with it. But that was never what was important to us, or me anyway. I loved him just as much when we were poor. His money never mattered to me. He did.” He had been the sun and the moon to her, along with their kids.

“Did he spend time with you and the children?” Matt asked quietly.

“Sometimes. When he could. He was always incredibly busy, doing far more important things.” It was obvious to Matt that she had worshiped him. Probably far more than he deserved.

“What's more important than your wife and kids?” Matt said simply, but he was very different than Ted, in a lot of ways. And she was light-years from Sally. Ophélie was everything Sally wasn't. Gentle, kind, decent, honest, compassionate. She was locked in her own miseries at the moment, but even with that, he could tell she wasn't a selfish person. She was lost and grieving, which was different. He knew it well. He had been there himself. And grief could be allabsorbing when you were in the midst of it, which was why she was less attentive than she had previously been with Pip. But she was aware enough to berate herself for it.

“Scientists are very different people,” Ophélie explained tolerantly. “They have different needs, different perceptions, different emotional abilities than the rest of us. He wasn't an ordinary person.” But in spite of her excuses for him, Matt didn't like what he was hearing. He suspected that the late Dr. Mackenzie had been narcissistic and egocentric, and possibly even a lousy father. And he wasn't at all sure he'd been a decent husband to her. But if not, Ophélie was clearly not prepared to see it, or admit it to him. Death was different from divorce, Matt knew too, with a deceased spouse came early sainthood. It seemed to be hard to remember the flaws and failings of someone you loved who had died. In divorces, all you remembered was what had been wrong with them. And over time the remembered flaws just seemed to get bigger and worse. When they died, all you remembered was the best part, and then you improved on it. It made the deceased spouse's absence seem that much more cruel. And Matt felt genuinely sorry for her.

They talked for a long time that night, about their childhoods, their marriages, their kids. Her heart ached every time she thought of Matt's estrangement from his children, and as he spoke of it, from the look in his eyes, she could see easily what it had cost him. Nearly his sanity at one point, and eventually, his faith in the human race, and desire to be with people, a woman especially. It was a high price to pay for two children, and a marriage he had lost ten years before. Ophélie suspected his ex-wife had stolen the kids from him, more than likely by some kind of manipulation. It was hard to believe that without prodding or prejudice from her, children that age would decide not to see their father. There had to be some foul play in there somewhere, although Matt didn't say much more about it, and didn't seem to want to wage war with her. As far as he was concerned, he had lost the war, and for now at least, it was over. All he could hope was to see his children again someday. A distant hope he thought of at times, but no longer lived for. He lived day to day, and was content with his spartan existence at the beach. Safe Harbour was a refuge for him.

Matt was about to leave when it occurred to him to ask her something. He had been meaning to mention it all evening.

“Do you like to sail, Ophélie?” he inquired cautiously, looking hopeful. Along with art, it had always been one of his passions. And it suited his solitary nature.

“I haven't in years, but I used to love it. I sailed as a child, when we went to Brittany in the summer. And in Cape Cod, when I was in college.”

“I have a little sailboat in the lagoon that I take out from time to time. I'd be happy to take you with me, if you'd like that. It's very simple, it's an old wooden boat I restored myself when I first moved here.”

“I'd love to see it, and it would be fun to go out with you sometime,” Ophélie said, looking enthusiastic about it.

“I'll call you the next time I go sailing,” he said, pleased to hear that she liked sailing. It was one more thing they had in common, and he could easily imagine she would be fun to sail with. She was lively and bright, and energetic, and her eyes had lit up when he mentioned his sailboat. She and Ted had gone out on the bay a couple of times with friends and he'd never enjoyed it. He complained bitterly about the cold and the wet, and always got seasick. She didn't, and although she didn't say it to Matt, she was an excellent sailor.

It was after midnight when he left, and it had been a good evening for both of them. It had been the human contact and warmth that they both so desperately needed, although neither of them was aware of it. If nothing else, they each needed a friend, and they had found that. It was the one thing they both still trusted. Friendship. Pip had done them a great favor by bringing them together.

Ophélie turned off the lights after he left, walked softly into Pip's bedroom, and smiled as she saw her there. Mousse was asleep at the foot of her bed, and never stirred as Ophélie approached them. She smoothed back Pip's soft red curls, and bent to kiss her. Another piece of the robot had been dismantled that night, and little by little the woman she had once been was emerging.

8

WHEN OPHÉLIE WENT BACK TO HER GROUP LATER THAT week, she mentioned seeing Matt, and what a nice evening it had been, which brought up the issue of dating among some of the others. There were twelve people in the group, ranging in age from twenty-six to eighty-three. Their common bond was having lost someone dear to them. The youngest member of the group had lost her brother in a car accident. The oldest had lost his wife of sixty-one years. There were husbands and wives and sisters and children. Age-wise, Ophélie was somewhere in the middle, and some of the stories were truly heart-wrenching. A young woman had lost her husband to a stroke at thirty-two, eight months after they were married, and she was already pregnant. She had just had the baby, and spent most of her time in the group crying. A mother had watched her son choke on a peanut butter sandwich in front of her, and had been unable to do anything to reverse it. The wad of peanut butter had been too soft to respond to the Heimlich, and too far down his throat for her to reach it. Along with her own grief, she was wrestling with the guilt she felt over not being able to save him. All of the stories were deeply touching. And Ophélie's was no different. Hers was not the only double loss. A woman in her sixties had lost two sons to cancer, within three weeks of each other, her only children. There was a woman there who had lost her five-year-old grandson when he died in his parents' pool. She had been baby-sitting, and had found him. She also blamed herself for what had happened, and her daughter and son-in-law had not spoken to her since the funeral. Tragedies in abundance. The stuff of which real lives are made, and destroyed. None of it was easy, for any of them. Their common bonds were grief, loss, and mutual compassion.

Ophélie had talked about losing Ted and Chad for the past month, but she had said little about their marriage, except that from her perception, it had been perfect. And she had talked a little about Chad's mental illness, and the stress it had put on all of them, particularly Ted, since he was so unwilling to accept it. She barely saw the strain his denial had put on her, trying to bridge the gap between father and son, while keeping Pip happy.

She found the subject of dating of no interest to her when they discussed it. She had said for the past month that she had no interest in marrying again, or even in dating.

The eighty-three-year-old man had commented that she was too young to give up on a romantic life, and in spite of his intense grief over his wife, he said he was hoping to go out with other women, as soon as he met one who appealed to him. He wasn't embarrassed to admit he was looking.

“What if I live to be ninety-five, or even ninetyeight?” he said optimistically. “I don't want to be alone until then. I want to get married.” All feelings were fair game here. Nothing was shocking or taboo. The hallmark of the group was that they were all honest, and tried to be. As honest as they were with themselves at least. And some of them admitted that they were angry at their loved ones for dying, which was a normal part of the grief process. They each had to work through whatever aspect of their grief they were wrestling with at the moment. Until then, Ophélie had been deadlocked in depression. But they all noticed this week that she seemed better. She said she thought she was, but she was afraid she would slip back again. And she talked about wanting to find a job after the summer, which she thought might help her.

When Ophélie mentioned it, Blake, the leader of the group, questioned her about what kind of job she wanted, and she admitted she didn't know. Ophélie had been referred to the group by her doctor, when she told him she wasn't sleeping at night right after Ted and Chad died. She had been reluctant to come at first, and it had taken her eight months to do it. She was sleeping too much by then, and eating far too little. Even she knew that she was seriously depressed, and it was unlikely to get better unless she did something about it. It had been hard at first to get over her own sense that she had failed somehow because she couldn't solve her own problems. But no one else in the group had been able to either, and most people couldn't. The smart ones tried to reach out at least, and despite her initial skepticism, even Ophélie had to admit it had made some slight difference in her life, even after a month. At least she had others in the same boat to talk to. It made the process just a little bit less lonely, and she felt less like a freak for the things she was experiencing and thinking. She was able to share with them, without shame, how disconnected she felt from Pip, and that she sneaked into Chad's room more often than she should, just to lie on his bed and smell his pillow. The others had all done similar things, and were experiencing varying degrees of the same problems, with spouses, or children, or even parents. One woman had admitted to the group that she hadn't had sex with her husband in a year since her son died, she just couldn't. Ophélie was always impressed by the things they were willing and able to say to each other, without shame. She felt safe in their midst.

The goal of the group was to heal the wound, bind the broken heart, and deal with the practical issues of daily living. The first questions Blake asked each of them every week were “Are you eating? Are you sleeping?” And in Ophélie's case, he often asked her if she had gotten out of her nightgown since their last meeting. Sometimes their progress was measured in such tiny increments that no one outside of the group would have been impressed with what they had accomplished. But each of them knew how hard the baby steps were, and what a difference it made when you finally achieved one. They celebrated each other's victories, and sympathized with each other's anguish. And you could tell early on who the successes would be, those who were willing to go through the agony of moving forward. It was by no means an easy process, and even making the commitment to be there meant something. And the wounds that were touched on were so raw that sometimes when they left after a meeting, the pain was worse rather than better. But dealing with it was part of the healing process. At times, saying something out loud was exhilarating, and at other times just getting it out was exhausting. Ophélie had experienced both ends of the spectrum in the past month, and most of the time, afterward she was exhausted, but also grateful. And when she thought about it, she knew that it had helped her, far more than she had hoped.

Her doctor had recommended this particular group because Ophélie had resisted the idea of antidepressants, and the group itself was less formal than some. And the doctor had a profound respect for the man who ran it, Blake Thompson. He had a Ph.D. in clinical psychology, had done grief work for nearly twenty years, and was somewhere in his mid-fifties. He was a warm, practical man, who was open to trying anything that worked, and reminded the group often that there was no one right way to go through the grief process. As long as they were doing whatever worked for them, he was more than happy to support it. And when it wasn't working, he was tireless in his efforts, encouragement, and creative suggestions. He often felt that when people left the group, they had broadened their lives to something more than the life they'd been living prior to their loss. And to that end, he had just suggested singing lessons to a woman who had lost her husband, scuba diving lessons to a man who'd lost his wife in a car accident, and a religious retreat to a woman who had been a confirmed atheist, and was finding deep religious feelings for the first time since the death of her only son. All he wanted for the people in the group was for their lives to be better than they had been before he met them. And for twenty years, his results had been fairly impressive. The group was challenging, and painful at times, but much to every-one's surprise, not depressing. All he asked from them when they began was to be open-minded, kind to themselves, and respectful of each other. What they discussed in the group was to be kept only among themselves. And he was adamant about a four-month commitment.

And although some people had met their new spouses in his groups, he strongly discouraged people from dating each other while they were in it. He didn't want people either showing off, or hiding things, in order to impress each other. That request and the privacy of the group he had borrowed from the twelvestep model, and he had found them helpful, although now and then there were people in the group who grew attached to each other and started dating before the group ended. Even there, he reminded people that there was no “right model” for new relationships or even marriage.

Some people waited years to find a new mate, others never did, nor wanted to. Some felt they needed to wait a year before dating or remarrying, others married literally weeks after they lost a spouse. In his opinion, it didn't mean you hadn't loved your late husband or wife, it meant that you felt ready to move on and make another commitment. And no one else had a right to judge if that was right or wrong. “We are not the grief police here,” he reminded the group from time to time. “We're here to help and support each other, not judge each other.” And he always shared with each group that he had come into this particular line of work when he lost his wife, and a daughter and son, his only two children at the time, in a car accident on a rainy winter night that he had thought at the time had been the end of his life. And when it happened, he wished it had been. Five years later he had remarried, to a wonderful woman, and they had three children. “I would have married earlier, if I'd met her sooner, but she was worth waiting for,” he always told them, with a smile that never failed to touch the people with whom he shared the story. The focus of the group was not on remarriage, but it was an issue that came up, and was a focal point for some, and of no interest to others, many of whom had lost siblings, parents, or children, and were married. But they all agreed that the loss of a loved one, particularly a child, put an enormous strain on an existing marriage. In some cases, there were couples in the group, but more often than not, one spouse was willing to reach out earlier than the other, and it was actually rare for couples to attend together, although Blake always wished that people did that more often.

For some reason, the issue of dating had come up a lot that day, and Blake never got around to discussing Ophélie's wanting to find a job. It was the second time she had mentioned it, and he stopped to talk to her after the group. He had an idea that he wanted to suggest to her. He didn't know why, but he had the feeling it might be right up her alley. She had been doing well in the group so far, although he had the impression that she didn't think so. She was consumed with guilt over what she was still not able to do for her daughter, and might not be able to do for a long time. More than anything, he didn't want her beating herself up over it. What she was experiencing, in the disconnect from all other loved ones, was entirely normal, according to him. If she were attuned to them, or to her daughter in this case, her feelings would be wide open, and all the pain she felt over her loss would come rushing in to drown her. The only way her psyche could keep the agony at bay was to put itself on hold for a while, so she felt nothing at all, for anyone. The only problem was that it left her surviving child out in the cold in the meantime. It was a fairly typical problem, and an even more disruptive one when it happened between spouses, as it often did. The divorce rate was high among people who had lost children. Often, by the time they recovered to a significant extent, they had lost each other and the marriage.

When Blake spoke to Ophélie after the group, he asked her if she'd be interested in volunteering at a homeless shelter. Matt had suggested something like that too, and she thought it might be meaningful to her, and less emotionally charged for her than volunteering in the field of mental illness. She had always had a keen interest in the welfare of the homeless, and no time to pursue it, while Ted and Chad were alive. She had far more disposable time now, with no husband and only one child at home.

She responded with considerable warmth and interest, and Blake promised to get some referrals for her, of volunteer projects dealing with the homeless. This was exactly what he was good at. She was thinking about it as she drove back to Safe Harbour. She had to take Pip to get her stitches out that afternoon. And as soon as they did, Pip chortled with glee, and put on a pair of sneakers when she got home.

“How does that feel?” Ophélie asked, watching her. She was beginning to enjoy her again, and they seemed to talk more than they had in a long time. Not as much as they used to, but things were definitely a little better. And even she wondered if talking to Matt had helped her. He was a very kind, soothing person. And very caring. He had been through so much himself that he was full of empathy for others, without being sappy. And there was no question that the group was helping too, and she liked the people in it.

“It feels pretty good. It only hurts a little.”

“Well, don't overdo it.” She knew what Pip had in mind. She was dying to walk down the beach to see Matt. She had a load of new drawings to show him. “Why don't you wait till tomorrow. It's probably too late today anyway,” Ophélie said wisely. She could read Pip's mind sometimes. It was just that for months, she hadn't tried to. She was starting to tune in again, and Pip liked it.

The next day Pip set out with the sketch pad and pencils he had given her, and two sandwiches in a brown bag. Ophélie was tempted to go with her, but she didn't want to intrude on them. Their friendship had been the primary one, hers with him had been an offshoot of it and came later. She waved as Pip set off down the beach in her sneakers, to protect the newly healed foot. And she didn't run, as she usually did. She was being a little more circumspect, and respectful of the foot, and as a result, it took her longer to reach him. And when she did, he stopped painting and beamed at her.

“I was hoping you'd come today. If you didn't, I was going to call you tonight. How's the foot?”

“Better.” It was a little tender after the long walk down the beach, but she would have walked on nails and ground glass to see him. She was so happy to be there. And he looked equally pleased to see her.

“I've really missed you,” he said happily.

“Me too. I hated being home all week. Mousse didn't like it either.”

“Poor guy, he probably needed the exercise. I had a nice time with you and your mom the other night by the way. That was a delicious dinner.”

“A lot better than pizza!” She grinned at him. He had brought out the best in her mother, and even since then. She had seen her mother rooting around in her purse the day before, and she had finally come up with an old lipstick, and put some on before she went into the city. It made Pip realize how long it had been since she'd worn any. And it made her happy to see that she was getting better. It had been a good summer in Safe Harbour. “I like your new painting,” she commented to Matt. He had done a sketch of a woman on the beach, with a haunted expression. She was looking out to sea, as though she had lost someone there. There was something anxious and uncomfortable about it, almost tragic. “It looks very sad though, but she's pretty. Is that my mom?”

“A little maybe. She might have inspired it, but it's just a woman. It's more about a thought process and a feeling, than a person. It's a little bit in the spirit of a painter called Wyeth.” Pip nodded solemnly, fully aware of what he was saying. She always enjoyed their conversations, particularly about his paintings. And a few minutes later, she sat down with her own sketch pad and pencils, close to him. She liked being next to him.

The hours flew by as they had before, and they were sorry to leave each other at the end of the afternoon. He wanted to sit there with her forever.