As she rounded the corner and approached him, he shifted his gaze from the direction of the sea to her, his expression . . . vacant was the word that came to mind.
A niggle of unease crept up her spine, and she halted.
Whatever that look in his eyes, it wasn’t normal.
Maybe this hadn’t been her best idea. What if the man had mental issues?
Yet he didn’t move or display any threatening behavior.
So she’d do what she’d come to do—but keep her distance while doing it.
“Hi.” She forced up the corners of her lips. “I’m your neighbor from next door, Holly Miller. I noticed you sitting out here in the rain without a coat or umbrella, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
He blinked, as if rousing himself from a stupor, and his light blue irises cleared. With a bony finger, he plucked the fabric of his slacks away from his thin legs and examined it, as if he’d just realized his clothes were wet.
But he made no effort to rise or go inside. Nor did he speak.
As the silence lengthened, Holly transferred her weight from one foot to the other. “I, uh, have an extra umbrella at my house, if you’d like to borrow it.”
He fingered the wet material again. “Too late for that.” His voice was gravelly, as if he didn’t use it often. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
Yes, it did. While it was true the man couldn’t get any wetter, the longer he stayed out in the chilly air in soggy clothes, the higher the odds he’d get sick.
“It’s kind of cool today. You may want to go inside and change into dry clothes.” She maintained a friendly, conversational tone—but if the man took offense at her suggestion, she was out of here.
He lifted his chin, and at the sudden desolation in his eyes, her heart faltered. “I suppose I should, or my neighbors will think a lunatic has moved into their midst.”
After setting the cane against the chair, he grasped the arms and pushed himself to his feet as if he were weighed down with weariness.
The cane began to slide, and he fumbled for it—but it slipped to the ground.
Holly hurried to his side. If he bent to pick it up, he might pitch onto the stone patio face first and end up with far worse problems than a bad cold.
She scooped up the cane and held it out.
“Thank you.” His fingers brushed hers as he took it.
Wow.
Hands that icy had to be numb.
No wonder he’d lost his grip.
He needed dry clothes and a bowl of warm soup or a hot drink.
Fast.
But he hadn’t made a grocery run as far as she knew. His kitchen could be bare.
As he started toward the back door without so much as a good-bye, she hesitated—but compassion won out.
“Sir.”
He paused . . . then half turned her direction.
“I, uh, have a supply of soup at home. Canned, not homemade.” She flashed a smile.
No reaction.
She forged ahead anyway. “If you’d like me to bring a couple of cans over until you stock your kitchen, I’d be happy to do that. Soup is perfect on a day like this.”
“I’m fine.” He resumed his trek to the door but did toss a grudging thank-you over his shoulder.
She remained where she was, hands jammed in her pockets, until he disappeared inside.
The instant his door closed, however, she took the shortcut across his yard to her own house, suppressing a shiver.
That had certainly gone well.
Rolling her eyes, she pushed through her own door, hung her slicker on the hook by the door, and crossed to the fridge, doing her best to forget about the incident with her new neighbor. Why dither over a rude man who hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself?
But erasing the image of his forlorn expression—or ignoring a person who exuded such . . . defeat—proved difficult.
Dinner fixings in hand, she stopped by the window and surveyed the solitary chair on his rain-drenched patio. It looked lonely . . . and forsaken. Like its owner.
What was his story?
Why were no family members around to lend a hand and help him settle in?
What had brought him to the tiny town of Hope Harbor?
Was he the sole occupant of the house—or was there a wife inside who didn’t find dreary skies and cool temperatures as appealing as her spouse?
The questions tumbled through her mind, one after the other—but given the man’s reticence, odds were they’d remain unanswered.
Holly continued to the counter, set down the carton of eggs, gave the bottle of spicy vinaigrette a vigorous shake—and fought back a wave of discouragement.
Based on her strikeouts with both Steven Roark and her new neighbor, it would appear her social skills were lacking when it came to the male of the species.
Yet John Nash at the Seabird Inn had been cordial during her visit to request a donation.
So maybe it wasn’t her.
Maybe she’d simply run into two difficult men back to back.
She set the bottle on the counter and picked up an egg. Tapped the shell on the edge of a bowl.
It didn’t give.
She tried again, with more force.
This time it yielded.
Hmm.
Steven Roark and her neighbor seemed to have hard shells too—but would they crack if she exerted a bit more force?
Not her usual style—but hadn’t she come here to expose herself to new experiences, take some risks, be more adventuresome?
And what would be the harm in trying? Worst case, they’d shut her out and write her off—but since they’d already done that, she had nothing to lose.
She tapped another egg open and discarded the shell.
No reason to rush a decision, though. Why not think about it for a day—or two?
And by Wednesday, if she could gather up sufficient courage, perhaps she’d have another go at the two new men in her life who seemed as if they could use a hefty dose of TLC.
4
He needed a taco.
Bad.
Even worse than he needed a shower—which was saying a lot.
Steven stepped off the wharf and made a beeline for Charley’s stand. Since Patrick had never gotten back to him about setting up a meal with the family—and it was too late today to coordinate dinner plans—a taco would be the perfect comfort food.
Thank goodness the renowned artist had decided to cook instead of paint on this quiet Wednesday afternoon.
“Steven.” The man lifted a hand in greeting as he approached, his perennial upbeat nature on display as he flashed a smile. “You just caught me. The lunch rush is long over, and my muse was beginning to call. Five minutes later, you’d have found a closed window.”
“Are you willing to put your muse on hold long enough to make me tacos? I had more cleanup than usual after today’s trip and missed lunch. I’m starving.”
“Always. I never leave a hungry customer in the lurch. One order?”
Odd question, considering that in all the months he’d been here, he’d never varied his order.
“Yes—as usual.”
“Never hurts to check. Circumstances can change. How was the fishing today?”
“My clients were happy.”
“Glad to hear it.” Charley set a few fillets on the grill. “What do you think about all the excitement in town?”