Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,29

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.

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