Danielle Steel - Safe Harbour

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.