Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,91
tying off the last bowline to the cleat on the dock, Thomma looked over at Roark, who’d interrupted his conversation with today’s customers to toss him that accolade.
His boss didn’t say much, but he never failed to offer a few kind words at the end of a workday.
Thomma dipped his head in acknowledgment.
While Roark went back to conversing with the four men who’d chartered the boat for the day—with disappointing results—Thomma pulled out his cell phone, keeping one eye on the group in case Roark summoned him.
Not that there was much for him to do, other than clean the two fish the men had caught. An easy end to the day.
At least the customers didn’t appear to be upset by the poor return, despite the hefty fee they’d shelled out for the privilege of a private fishing guide. Nor should they be. Roark couldn’t make the fish bite—although some of their customers seemed to think he could coax them to do so at will and made no attempt to hide their displeasure if they returned without a large catch.
How could people worry about the number of fish they caught when that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things?
He shook his head in bewilderment and refocused on the screen.
There were four messages—all in the past hour. All from Logan’s home phone number.
He frowned.
His mother must be trying to contact him.
But she rarely bothered him at work.
Why today?
And why with such urgency?
Pulse accelerating, he swiveled away from the group on the boat and returned her call.
“Thomma?” The tear-laced, frantic voice that answered a mere half ring in bore only a faint resemblance to his mother’s usual in-control tone.
“What’s wrong?” His fingers tightened on the phone, and he gripped the railing beside him.
“Elisa is gone. She ran away with M-Molly.”
It took him a few moments to digest his mother’s news—and to work through the implications.
When they sank in, his lungs locked.
In Syria, he’d lost his whole family, except for his daughter and mother.
And now Elisa was gone too.
This couldn’t be happening.
“Thomma?”
“I’m here.” He managed to choke out the response. “What happened?”
He listened as she told him the story in halting phrases punctuated with sobs.
“The police chief is organizing search parties now. They’re meeting at the high school in town. I’m s-sorry, Thomma.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I was supposed to be taking care of them.”
“You were.” He watched a happy family stroll down the wharf side of Dockside Drive, the little girl’s hand tucked into her father’s, her laughter ringing across the water as the man bent low and made a comment that tickled her.
That was the kind of relationship a parent and child should have—and the vignette in front of him underscored his epic failure as a father.
“Not well enough.”
As his mother spoke again, he turned away from the family and looked toward the vast open sea that appeared empty but teemed with life below the surface. Life that would never see the light unless you fished deep and hauled it up.
Perhaps he should do the same with his emotions.
If he got another chance.
“The fault is mine, ’Ami.” His voice broke. “If I’d listened to you, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe . . . maybe God is punishing me by taking away the child he spared, who needed my love.”
“Don’t talk like that.” His mother’s pitch sharpened. “We will find them. You will get another chance.”
Would he?
“Thomma.” The weight of a hand rested on his shoulder.
“I’ll call you back after I get to the high school.” He ended the call and angled toward Roark.
“Is there a problem?”
His boss always used simple English with him and knew how to phrase questions and instructions so he would understand.