Should he go ahead and eat the cinnamon roll that had jump-started his salivary glands, or wait until—
Roark pivoted around and closed the distance between them, a jacket thrown over his arm, a travel mug in each hand. He extended one.
As he took it, Thomma surveyed the dark brew. If this was anything like the weak coffee they’d served at the party Saturday night, he might not be able to stomach it.
Roark sipped from his mug, watching him.
There was only one polite response to the hospitable gesture.
Bracing, he took a tentative swallow.
Blinked.
Now this was coffee—thick, strong, and straight, with a hint of cardamom.
It was a taste of home.
This fisherman’s usual drink—or a special treat for his new employee?
Before he could try to pose that question in sign language, Roark handed him the lined, waterproof jacket that was draped over his arm.
The man thought he needed a heavier coat?
Why, on such a warm, sunny day?
But he took it.
“Thank you.”
The smell of cinnamon wafted up to him from the box, and he set down the coffee and coat. Balancing the treat in one hand, he made a motion of cutting it in half.
Roark hesitated—but after a moment he walked to the back of the boat again, flipped up the lid of a storage compartment, and returned with a knife and some paper napkins.
Thomma cut Charley’s gift in half and passed a portion to the man across from him.
Roark took it and lifted his mug. “Marhabaan bikum fi ’amrika.”
His boss wasn’t the first person to welcome him to America.
But for some reason, hearing the words from this man who’d given a stranger a job . . . holding the gift of a warm cinnamon roll in his hands . . . picturing Elisa sleeping safely in her bed, thanks to the generous people from the two churches in this town . . . brought him a measure of peace that had long been absent from his life.
And as he drank his coffee under the brilliant blue sky on this May morning . . . as he inhaled the salt-laced air . . . a tiny flicker ignited in his heart.
It felt a lot like hope.
Which was dangerous.
After everything they’d been through, it was too soon to lower his guard. To allow himself to believe their troubles were over. Healing would be a long process—and there would surely be many struggles ahead.
Yet the tiny flame continued to burn, despite his efforts to extinguish it.
He focused on the horizon, where the pink glow of morning sky met the indigo hue of the sea, and took a long, slow breath.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . . his mother was right.
Perhaps in time the hurt would diminish and he would appreciate the second chance the three of them had been given.
Right now, that seemed like a remote possibility—and he wasn’t going to count on it. His grief was too raw, his loss too fresh.
But if he was meant to thrive in this new country of his, where better for that to happen than in a town whose first name was hope?
This was going to be a challenge.
Jeannette studied her three pupils seated around the kitchen table in the Shabos’ apartment.
Mariam was leaning forward, face animated, hands clasped on the polished oak in front of her.
Thomma was slouched in his chair, eyes hooded, shoulders hunched forward.
Elisa was biting her lower lip and holding tight to a Raggedy Ann doll.
The age difference among her students was significant—as was their interest level.
In hindsight, she should have asked Susan to linger at this first lesson instead of assuring the translator she’d be fine. With just forty-eight hours of preparation, she felt as uncertain as she had during her early days of student teaching.
What if Father Murphy was wrong?
What if this wasn’t like riding a bicycle?
But she was here, and she had to give it her best shot.
Propping up the corners of her mouth, she began with the little girl. “Elisa.” She touched the child’s arm, then pointed to herself. “Jeannette.” She repeated her name and motioned for Elisa to say it.
The girl dipped her chin.
Mariam spoke in Arabic. Elisa peeked at her grandmother as the woman repeated Jeannette’s name before reverting to their native language.
Gaze downcast, Elisa played with the ruffle on Raggedy Ann’s white apron. “Jeannette.”
“Good.” Jeannette touched the girl’s hand and clapped. “Thomma?”
He sighed and said her name.
Not the most promising start—but even if she only managed to teach them some basic language skills, they’d be better off than they were now.
She pulled out her old laptop. Thank heaven the apartment had Wi-Fi.
After booting it up, she opened the document she’d prepared for them containing links to photos and audio clips with the pronunciation of some common words and phrases that would help them cope with their new life.
Their first session ran for an hour. Elisa lasted longer than she’d expected, but halfway through the youngster’s eyes began to glaze. Mariam remained fully engaged until the end, and Thomma appeared to be paying attention despite his reserve.
As she began to wrap up, Jeannette was as exhausted as if she’d spent an entire day on her feet teaching a roomful of rambunctious ten-year-olds.
To signal the end of the session, she closed the lid of the laptop halfway.
Mariam smiled and touched her arm. “Thank you. Good Thursday.”
So the woman had retained part of today’s lesson from the calendar she’d gone over with them.
Jeannette nodded her approval and motioned for Mariam and Thomma to observe how to shut down the laptop. She repeated the start-up and shutdown, and signaled for Thomma to try.
For the first time, he appeared to be completely engaged.
It didn’t take him long to master the procedure—suggesting he’d had some exposure to computers.
Jeannette showed him how to open the document she’d prepared with the links to photos and pronunciation clips. “Ealayk mumarasa.”
Surprise registered on their faces—as if they hadn’t expected her to make the effort to learn a phrase in their language.
Truth be told, she wasn’t certain she’d mastered the pronunciation, but they seemed to understand her request that they practice.
“Okay.” Mariam rested her fingers on the computer. “Monday? English?”
“Yes.”
She would, indeed, be back on Monday. The three one-hour sessions a week she’d committed to was the bare minimum for a family who could benefit from much more intensive language training.
Digging deeper in her satchel, she pulled out the information she’d gotten from the license bureau. Thankfully, an Arabic version of the written test for a driver’s license was available in Oregon, along with some basic study aids. The sooner Thomma could get a license, the sooner the family could stop relying on others for transport.
She handed them to Elisa’s father.
He skimmed the heading, flipped through the pages, and gave her a small smile. His first since she’d arrived. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She rose, tucked her purse under her arm, and walked toward the door.
Mariam followed her and pulled it open. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” She gave the woman’s arm a quick, encouraging squeeze and exited.