Instantly she groped for his hand, and her eyelids fluttered open. “Don’t go.”
Her request was sleep-garbled, more instinctive than intentional, but pressure built in his throat anyway.
All these months, he’d been waiting for her to say something—anything—to suggest she wanted him in her life.
This plea may have been subliminal—but he’d take it. The subconscious was often a truer barometer of emotions than conscious behavior.
From a practical standpoint, though, he couldn’t sit up all night.
He eyed the twin bed. It wasn’t designed to accommodate his large frame—but Molly took up only a small part of it, and he could cope with cramped quarters for what was left of this night.
“Can I lay next to you, sweetie? It’s kind of lonely in my room.”
“’Kay.” She scooted over.
Another step forward.
If she let him stay with her tonight, maybe she’d be willing to sit on his lap tomorrow—or initiate some sort of physical affection.
After the past four tense months, any signs of encouragement were welcome.
He released her hand, circled around to the other side of the bed, and climbed in next to her. After a few moments, she scooted a tad closer to him. Not touching, but near enough that he could feel the tiny dent she made in the bed.
Within ten minutes, she was sound asleep.
He wasn’t as lucky.
Half an hour later, he was still staring at the dark ceiling. Still trying to determine where to go from here.
Especially if their relationship reverted to the status quo once the sun rose on a new day.
What to do should that happen?
He was clueless.
All he knew with absolute certainty was that he was in over his head—and until he and Molly turned a definite corner, he wouldn’t be able to shake the fear that he was sinking fast.
9
He was a miner, not a fisherman.
But when you were brand new in a place that had no phosphate rock to excavate, you took whatever job was offered—at least until you had a chance to get the lay of the land and decide what you wanted to do with the rest of your life.
Such as it was.
Shoulders sagging, Thomma shoved his hands in his pockets as he trod down Dockside Drive. Fortunately, the wharf wasn’t far from their apartment, and he’d allowed plenty of time for the walk.
However, if all went well with the new tutor Father Murphy had lined up, he might soon be ready to take his driver’s test and put the car the town had given them to use.
The sweet smell of cinnamon tickled his nose, and Thomma slowed to peer into the window of a shop with a striped awning.
It didn’t take him long to spot the large tray of buns dripping with icing that was sitting on the counter.
This must be the bakery that had supplied those samples at the welcome party Saturday night.
Two customers were waiting in line as the clerk slid a spatula under one of the rolls and deposited it into a box.
His taste buds began to tingle.
If he had the money . . . and knew the language . . . and could spare a few minutes . . . he’d buy himself one of those. The small taste he’d had Saturday night had been delicious.
But the bread and hummus and cheese he’d had for breakfast was sufficient. Lingering here was a waste of . . .
“Good morning, my friend.”
He turned.
The guy with the gray ponytail who’d provided some of the food on Saturday smiled at him.
“Hello.” A recent addition to his vocabulary, courtesy of his mother.
“Tempting, isn’t it?” The man indicated the bakery.
Thomma furrowed his brow.
Strange.
The man was speaking English, but he got the gist of the question.
“Yes.” That about used up his repertoire of English words.
“Wait here.” The man held up one finger, pointed to the sidewalk, and joined the line inside.
The sounds were gibberish—but again, he understood the message.
A minute passed. Two. Thomma scanned the wharf across the street. He had to get going. Being late the first day on the job would make a bad impression—and it could take a while to connect with the man who owned the fishing boat that was now his place of employment.
“There’s always a line at Sweet Dreams in the morning.” The taco guy was back, holding out a white box. “Good luck—and enjoy that.” He crossed his fingers and motioned toward the wharf.
Again, Thomma got the gist of what the man had said.
Must be due to the body language his mother put such stock in.
“Thank you”—he struggled to remember the man’s name—“Charley.”
The guy tipped his duck-bedecked cap and continued toward the stand at the end of the wharf.
Box in hand, Thomma crossed the street and gave the waterfront a sweep. Susan had said Steven Roark would be watching for him—but they’d never met, and with all the activity down here at this hour of the morning, they could— “Thomma?”
He swiveled around.
A tall, thirtysomething man with dark brown hair had come up behind him, silent as a ghost.
“Yes.”
The guy gave him a once-over, then stuck out his hand and confirmed his identity, his grip firm. “Aftark?” He tapped the box.
“No.” This wasn’t his breakfast. He pointed toward the taco truck and hoped this man would understand it had been a gift. “Charley.”
One side of his boss’s mouth rose a fraction as he glanced that direction before striding down the wharf. “Tueal maei.”
Following the broad-shouldered man’s instruction, Thomma fell in behind him. His boss didn’t seem like he’d be much of a talker, even if his Arabic was fluent rather than spotty—which was fine. Still, it was helpful he knew a few words.
But where had he picked them up?
Given the difficulty Susan said Father Murphy had encountered trying to find someone to translate for them, not many Americans knew his native language.
Could this man have spent time in the Middle East?
As a soldier, perhaps?
Thomma sized up Roark’s confident stride.
Possible.
He had a military bearing and demeanor—and he radiated assertiveness, confidence, and decisiveness. His eyes were sharp too. Intense and discerning.
Whatever his story, Thomma should be grateful he’d been willing to give an inexperienced stranger a job—as his mother had reminded him this morning. The sole required skill, according to Father Murphy, had been the ability to swim.
Roark stopped beside a slip where a boat about twenty-five feet long was moored. With one lithe movement, he jumped aboard.
That was not a skill Thomma possessed.
As if sensing his hesitation, Roark turned back and held out his hand for the box.
Thomma passed it over. With two hands, he should be able to board without falling on his face.
He managed the maneuver, if not with grace, at least with competence. Once he was on deck, the man handed him the box, moved to the front of the boat, and picked up a large thermos.
Now what?
He stayed where he was, letting his equilibrium adjust to the gentle rocking motion of the craft. It would take some getting used to, but as far as he knew he didn’t have an issue with motion sickness—and the slight undulation wasn’t hurting his appetite.