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He pointed. “See that darker rock with the indentation.”
She followed his hand. He was going to show her the easy way to his camp. He stepped across to where he pointed and she followed.
“From here it’s up and across to go down.”
He reached for the tray and she gave it to him, then followed him up two giant rocky steps and down a curving slope, before three small graduated ledges that worked like steps cut in the rock appeared, an easy way to conquer the varying heights of the rock shelves.
This approach was less intuitive and less obtrusive than the full frontal assault she’d tried yesterday. If he’d been home then, he’d have heard her coming, and given most people would take the straightforward approach, she’d bet he’d never been surprised by an unwanted visitor. It meant something that he’d shown her the right path to his front door.
His camp was as neat this morning as it had been yesterday. The suitcase zipped, the sleeping bag rolled. There was a pile of books by the bed, beaten-up classics. A Hemmingway, a Kerouac. She could see the spines of To Kill a Mocking Bird and The Count of Monte Cristo. If he’d made breakfast, there was no evidence of it, other than the mug, left on the iron table.
He gestured to one of the chairs. “Please take a seat.” He put the tray on the table and walked to the bed, his broad, tanned back, slim hips and athlete’s calves accessible for her viewing pleasure. He picked up a t-shirt and put it on and she sat before he caught her staring, reached for a coffee cup and lifted the lid. The froth had disappeared but that distinctive coffee aroma was joyous. She watched him, standing a little away from the table, looking out to the horizon.
“I can’t drink two of these.” Her second lie of the morning, but this one was spoken aloud. “I brought it for you.”
He stepped up to the table and picked up the cup. “Thank you.”
She plucked up one of the white sandwich bags. “I can’t eat two rolls either.”
He sipped the coffee and looked away.
The handshake, the t-shirt, the please take a seat. She took a gamble on his good manners. “It feels rude to eat in front of you.”
He pulled out the other chair and sat.
She smiled and held out a sandwich bag. Eat my dust, Gabriella. He’d willingly brought her into his camp; if he accepted her food, she was one step closer to having him accept her help.
He took the bag, but put it down on the table and made no attempt to open it. Her own mouth was watering from the smell of the bacon.
“Why are you here, Foley?”
She’d made it this far on false pretences and while he looked perfectly calm and sane, he could still throw her over the cliff; looking at him, he could easily do that, and unlike yesterday, no one other than Nat knew she was here now. The Gabriella in her head stepped sideways, avoiding the dust plume and smiling prettily.
He didn’t smell of alcohol. He wasn’t twitchy. Would a dangerous man stop to help people when he might get hurt himself? Nothing about Drum alerted her to peril. “I’m from council.” She watched him carefully, expecting his hospitality to be withdrawn, if not some outright hostility to surface.
His eyes were on the table. He was very still. “You were on the beach last night.” He looked up briefly and turned his head away. “Hot water, not vinegar.”
She gagged on a bit of bread roll, coughing, and his head lifted. How had he managed to notice her? He had a screaming kid in his arms.
“Are you all right?”
She coughed again and took a sip of coffee. “I’m fine. Yes, that was me on the beach.”
“You tried to help.”
“You didn’t need any. You had it under control.”
He gave a tight nod then hovered a flattened hand over the sandwich bag. “So this is on an expense claim?”
She blinked at him in surprise. Good manners, language skills, neat homemaker, saver of stung tourists, he knew about claiming work expenses, and he looked liked he could model for a surfing magazine. He was not your average drunk, druggie, mentally ill, down on his luck, hairy, smelly, junk hoarding, homeless guy.
“Yes, I guess it is.”
He picked up the bag, the trace of a smile ticking up one corner of his mouth. Oh, if he smiled for real it would transform his face from classic carved cold marble to kissable chocolate fudge Sunday. Under her sunburn Foley blushed, her whole face feeling itchy with it.
They ate in silence but for the occasional wheeling, shrieking seagull. She’d rehearsed a bunch of lines in the car and at the deli, all of them revolving around the idea of introducing herself, showing her concern for his welfare and offering him help.
This man sitting in front of her didn’t fit any of the usual profiles where this strategy might work. He didn’t appear to be a substance abuser, though that was hard to tell. He clearly had an education. He looked better than healthy and he wasn’t talking nonsense. If he wasn’t overly friendly well, hell, she’d barged in on his morning, and she can’t have been welcome.
