Safe Haven

memories of their mom were slowly but surely fading away. They’d been so young when they’d lost her — four and three — and it meant that the day would come when their mother would become more an idea than a person to them. It was inevitable, of course, but somehow it didn’t seem right to Alex that they would never remember the sound of Carly’s laughter, or the tender way she’d held them as infants, or know how deeply she’d once loved them.

He’d never been much of a photographer. Carly had always been the one who reached for the camera, and consequently, there were dozens of photographs of him with the kids. There were only a few that included Carly, and though he made it a point to page through the album with Josh and Kristen while he told them about their mother, he suspected that the stories were becoming just that: stories. The emotions attached to them were like sand castles in the tide, slowly washing out to sea. The same thing was happening with the portrait of Carly that hung in his bedroom. In their first year of marriage, he’d arranged to have her portrait taken, despite her protests. He was glad for that. In the photo, she looked beautiful and independent, the strong-willed woman who’d captured his heart, and at night, after the kids were in bed, he would sometimes stare at his wife’s image, his emotions in turmoil. But Josh and Kristen barely noticed the photo at all.

He thought of her often, and he missed the companionship they’d once shared and the friendship that had been the bedrock of their marriage at its best. And when he was honest with himself, he knew he wanted those things again. He was lonely, even though it bothered him to admit it. For months after they lost her, he simply couldn’t imagine ever being in another relationship, let alone consider the possibility of loving someone again. Even after a year, it was the kind of thought he would force from his mind. The pain was too fresh, the memory of the aftermath too raw. But a few months ago, he’d taken the kids to the aquarium and as they’d stood in front of the shark tank, he’d struck up a conversation with an attractive woman standing next to him. Like him, she’d brought her kids, and like him, she wore no ring on her finger. Her children were the same ages as Josh and Kristen, and while the four of them were off pointing at the fish, she’d laughed at something he’d said and he’d felt a spark of attraction, reminding him of what he had once had. The conversation eventually came to an end and they went their separate ways, but on the way out, he’d seen her once more. She’d waved at him and there’d been an instant when he contemplated jogging over to her car and asking for her phone number. But he didn’t, and a moment later, she was pulling out of the parking lot. He never saw her again.

That night, he waited for the wave of self-reproach and regret to come, but strangely, it didn’t. Nor did it feel wrong. Instead, it felt… okay. Not affirming, not exhilarating, but okay, and he somehow knew it meant he was finally beginning to heal. That didn’t mean, of course, that he was ready to rush headlong into the single life. If it happened, it happened. And if it didn’t? He figured he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He was willing to wait until he met the right person, someone who not only brought joy back into his life, but who loved his kids as much as he did. He recognized, however, that in this town, the odds of finding that person were tiny. Southport was too small. Nearly everyone he knew was either married or retired or attending one of the local schools. There weren’t a lot of single women around, let alone women who wanted a package deal, kids included. And that, of course, was the deal breaker. He might be lonely, he might want companionship, but he wasn’t about to sacrifice his kids to get it. They’d been through enough and would always be his first priority.

Still… there was one possibility, he supposed. Another woman interested him, though he knew almost nothing about her, aside from the fact that she was single. She’d been coming to the store once or twice a week since early March. The first time he’d seen her, she was pale and gaunt, almost desperately thin. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. People passing through town often stopped at the store for sodas or gasoline or junk food; he seldom saw such people again. But she wanted none of those things; instead, she kept her head down as she walked toward the grocery aisles, as if trying to remain unseen, a ghost in human form. Unfortunately for her, it wasn’t working. She was too attractive to go unnoticed. She was in her late twenties, he guessed, with brown hair cut a little unevenly above her shoulder. She wore no makeup and her high cheekbones and round, wide-set eyes gave her an elegant if slightly fragile appearance.

At the register, he realized that up close she was even prettier than she’d been from a distance. Her eyes were a greenish-hazel color and flecked with gold, and her brief, distracted smile vanished as quickly as it had come. On the counter, she placed nothing but staples: coffee, rice, oatmeal, pasta, peanut butter, and toiletries. He sensed that conversation would make her uncomfortable so he began to ring her up in silence. As he did, he heard her voice for the first time.

“Do you have any dry beans?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” he’d answered. “I don’t normally keep those in stock.”

As he bagged her items after his answer, he noticed her staring out the window, absently chewing her lower lip. For some reason, he had the strange impression that she was about to cry.

He cleared his throat. “If it’s something you’re going to need regularly, I’d be happy to stock them. I just need to know what kind you want.”

“I don’t want to bother you.” When she answered, her voice barely registered above a whisper.

She paid him in small bills, and after taking the bag, she left the store. Surprising him, she kept walking out of the lot, and it was only then he realized she hadn’t driven, which only added to his curiosity.

The following week, there were dry beans in the store. He’d stocked three types: pinto, kidney, and lima, though only a single bag of each, and the next time she came in, he made a point of mentioning that they could be found on the bottom shelf in the corner, near the rice. Bringing all three bags to the register, she’d asked him if he happened to have an onion. He pointed to a small bag he kept in a bushel basket near the door, but she’d shaken her head. “I only need one,” she murmured, her smile hesitant and apologetic. Her hands shook as she counted out her bills, and again, she left on foot.

Since then, the beans were always in stock, there was a single onion available, and in the weeks that followed her first two visits to the store, she’d become something of a regular. Though still quiet, she seemed less fragile, less nervous, as time had gone on. The dark circles under her eyes were gradually fading, and she’d picked up some color during the recent spate of good weather. She’d put on some weight — not much, but enough to soften her delicate features. Her voice was stronger, too, and though it didn’t signal any interest in him, she could hold his gaze a little longer before finally turning away. They hadn’t proceeded much beyond the Did you find everything you needed? followed by the Yes, I did. Thank you type of conversation, but instead of fleeing the store like a hunted deer, she sometimes wandered the aisles a bit, and had even begun to talk to Kristen when the two of them were alone. It was the first time he’d seen the woman’s defenses drop. Her easy demeanor and open expression spoke of an affection for children, and his first thought was that he’d glimpsed the woman she once had been and could be again, given the right circumstances. Kristen, too, seemed to notice something different about the woman, because after she left, Kristen had told him that she’d made a new friend and that her name was Miss Katie.

That didn’t mean, however, that Katie was comfortable with him. Last week, after she’d chatted easily with Kristen, he’d seen her reading the back covers of the novels he kept in stock. She didn’t buy any of the titles, and when he offhandedly asked as she was checking out if she had a favorite author, he’d seen a flash of the old nervousness. He was struck by the notion that he shouldn’t have let slip that he’d been watching her. “Never mind,” he added quickly. “It’s not important.” On her way out the door, however, she’d paused for a moment, her bag tucked in the crook of her arm. She half-turned in his direction and mumbled, I like Dickens. With that, she opened the door and was gone, walking up the road.

He’d thought about her with greater frequency since then, but they were vague thoughts, edged with mystery and colored by the knowledge that he wanted to get to know her better. Not that he knew how to go about it. Aside from the year he courted Carly, he’d never been good at dating. In college, between swimming and his classes, he had little time to go out. In the military, he’d thrown himself into his career, working long hours and transferring from post to post with every promotion. While he’d gone out with a few women, they were fleeting romances that for the most part began and ended in the bedroom. Sometimes, when thinking back on his life, he barely recognized the man he used to be, and Carly, he knew, was responsible for those changes. Yes, it was sometimes hard, and yes, he was lonely. He missed his wife, and though he never told anyone, there were still moments when he could swear he felt her presence nearby, watching over him, trying to make sure he was going to be all right.

Because of the glorious weather, the store was busier than usual for a Sunday. By the time Alex unlocked the door at seven, there were already three boats tied at the dock waiting for the pump to be turned on. As was typical, while paying for the gas, the boat owners loaded up on snacks and drinks and bags of ice to stow in their boats. Roger — who was working the grill, as always — hadn’t had a break since he’d put on his apron, and the tables