The Man from Nowhere. Rachel Lee
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as if the strength had been sucked from her, she sank into the one chair beside the window.
Sweatshirt on, he dropped onto the end of the bed, facing her. “So,” he said. “Can I buy you a coffee or breakfast? I could use a cinnamon roll myself.”
“I want to talk.”
He nodded. “I figured that out. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. But wouldn’t it be better to talk somewhere public?”
“For you or for me?”
“For both of us, maybe.”
Thinking about what she had learned during her Internet search, she could understand that answer. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll meet you across the way.”
“Actually, I was thinking about the diner. Mahoney told me the food is fantastic.”
“It is if you’re not worried about the state of your arteries.”
At that he smiled faintly. “I’m not. Are you?”
“All right, I’ll drive you there. My car’s right out front.”
Outside she stopped to pull in a lungful of cold fresh air. How could she have forgotten how attractive a man could be or how good one could smell?
Shaking her head, she climbed into her car, switched on the ignition and turned up the heat. Grant Wolfe now posed a new kind of problem, one she felt less able to deal with than a stalker. She absolutely could not afford to feel attracted to him.
Five minutes later he emerged from his room, dressed for the weather now and quite a bit less distracting. He climbed into the passenger seat of her little four-wheel Suburu and smiled. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “I honestly don’t feel like walking this morning.”
She managed a smile in return. “Too cold,” she said. “In another few weeks I won’t even notice it, but this change was too sudden and too big. I’m freezing.”
“I come from near L.A. Nice climate. Moderate, most of the time.”
“That’s what I hear. But I think I’d miss the seasons.”
“I hear that all the time from people when they move to my area. The funny thing is, after a year or so they don’t seem inclined to move away.”
She gave a little laugh and nodded. “From what I’ve heard, it can be pretty seductive.”
“It can be.”
“I don’t know if I could handle the earthquakes.”
He cocked his head. “That’s another thing I hear a lot about. But if you really give it some thought, you realize that no place is totally safe from Mother Nature’s wrath.”
She nodded slowly as she pulled into a diagonal parking place in front of Maude’s. “You’re probably right about that.”
At this hour of the morning on a weekday, Maude’s diner was empty of all but a couple of knots of retirees and a couple of tables occupied by somewhat younger women—probably ranch wives who’d come to town to do the weekly shopping. Glances came their direction from everyone, but conversations barely stopped. Just enough noise and activity to make quiet conversation possible.
After the chill outside, Trish chose a table by the window where a bright sunbeam made its way inside. It was getting close to that time of year when, because it was too cold to stay long outside, she’d stand at a window just to feel the sun on her face.
Grant limped behind her and lowered himself gingerly into the chair.
“You really hurt,” she remarked.
“It’s worst when I first get up. Once I move around a bit, it eases.”
The inevitable cups of coffee arrived, slammed down by Maude herself, who regarded Grant with evident suspicion. “Know what you want?” she asked in her graceless way.
“Cinnamon roll, please,” Grant said.
“They’re big,” Maude warned. “‘Course, you look like you could use some fattening up.” Then she turned to Trish. “Don’t see much of you around here. Watching that tiny waistline?”
Trish almost blushed. “Actually,” she said carefully, “I just like to cook at home.”
Maude sniffed. “Well, you’re here now, so what’ll it be?”
“I already had breakfast, so the coffee will be fine.”
“Rude not to eat when you’re with somebody who’s trying to enjoy his breakfast. I’ll get you a roll, too. I figure that one—” she pointed at Grant “—will probably want whatever you don’t.”
As Maude stomped away, Grant cocked a brow at Trish. “You get a roll, too, even if you don’t want one?”
Trish grinned. “She’s an institution in this town. Maude’s way or don’t set foot in here.”
“I get that sense.”
An awkward silence fell. Understandable, Trish thought. She didn’t really know how to address what she’d learned about him, or where it was safe to start, or even how to frame an appropriate apology. She felt as if anything she said might break eggshells.
And, of course, Grant wouldn’t want to talk about some of it at all.
But at last the huge, hot, fresh cinnamon rolls occupied plates in front of them, along with butter for those who needed additional calories, and their coffee cups had been topped off. Impossible to avoid talking any longer.
It was Grant, however, who broke the silence. “I doubt,” he said, “that you found out anything about me that I don’t already know. I imagine you have questions.”
“Not questions, really,” she said, trying not to squirm. “More like a feeling I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t owe me one at all. I scared you.”
“I leaped to conclusions.”
“Maybe not such bad ones. Especially given that I’m a total stranger.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him and caught again that haunted, hunted look, but this time she knew where it came from. “I’m sorry about your family.”
He nodded, his lips compressing.
“But we don’t have to talk about that,” she said hastily. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about, anyway. I read the newspaper stories. It was awful. I can’t imagine surviving a plane crash that took your wife and daughter.”
Again he nodded, his face twisting a bit. “Some things you just have to live with.”
Words deserted her, leaving her with no other option than to return his nod and look down at the roll she now wanted even less than when Maude had slapped it down in front of her.
After a minute or so Grant sighed. He picked up his fork, cut off a bite-size piece and popped the sweetness into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then said, “There are still good things in life. And this must be one of the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever eaten.”
“Maude is without compare in the kitchen.”
“So it would seem.” Back to inconsequentials. She was happy to keep the conversation on safe ground. “You wrote a lot of papers.”
He almost smiled. “I think I was a little manic. I loved my work, and sharing the things I learned was one of the best parts. Working the ideas through in my head enough to actually express them cogently in papers.”
“Well, I couldn’t understand a thing you said, but I was impressed by the number of your publications.”
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