Safe Harbour Page 0,2
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.