Girl From the Tree House, стр. 46
“Aren’t we all?”
That’s all he says. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine the crazy things he must have gotten into after his wife died to end up living like Robinson Crusoe in the middle of nowhere, just without the man Friday.
“I’m afraid she’s still looking for me, that’s why we’re trying to stay away from people as much as possible.”
He shrugs. “What’s in it for her? She must have a good reason.”
“I don’t know. I’m here to find out. She sure doesn’t do it because she has our best interest at heart. There is a bit more to it. I might tell you later.”
“Let me know if I can help. You saved my life yesterday. I owe you.”
“I didn’t save your life. It wasn’t a big deal.” That’s a stretch. My back and leg muscles are still crying out in pain from the effort of pulling him from his car. But I don’t want him to feel he has to pay us back.
“At least let me have a look at your water tank.”
“No way. I’ll drive you home if you promise to rest for at least another day. After that, we’ll see how you are and help you get your truck to the garage.”
“You are pretty bossy for a young woman. I could be your father.”
I dip my head and eye him up over my imaginary reading glasses. “And in Africa, it’s Mother’s Day.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, yeah, right, and I don’t care.”
Chapter Seventeen
Elise: 25 November 2015, Afternoon, Port Somers
Since we reached the highway, Scott doesn’t moan as much as he had when we drove down the forest road. My neighbor is not doing too well. A quick sideways glance tells me he is staring out of the passenger window. I’m not sure what he sees on this rainy, gray day other than a rough coastline, moss studded trees with their crowns hidden in low hanging rain clouds, and the sea pounding on the cliffs.
Silent since we left his cabin, he still looks pretty beaten up. I should not have agreed to take him to the panel beater to pick up his truck. Three days have passed since his accident, and a large purple bruise blooms around the gash on his forehead. Together with the mouse-gray stubble that covers half his face, he looks miserable and pulls a face at every bump in the road.
I can afford to drive slowly because the road is almost empty aside from the occasional car overtaking us and fading into the foggy distance. I’m glad he isn’t in a chatty mood because I wouldn’t know what to talk to him about. I can’t remember the last time I sat in such close proximity to a stranger and it’s as comfortable as sitting on a bed of nails. It makes little sense, but still I’m uncomfortable. Not that I think he would try some hanky panky stuff. Not at all, but still, I can’t shake off the strange feeling.
“We are almost at the shops. Are you still okay to stop for groceries? If not, I can do my shopping on the way back home.”
He looks at me as if he has trouble deciding what to do. It’s too early. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to give him a ride into town. He needs rest, not me helping him gallivant around the country.
“No worries. I need stuff too. They might be closed when you go back.”
“You look bad. Can’t I convince you to see a doctor?”
“No.”
That was the end of that conversation. He’s gazing out of the window again and I try to avoid the mini ponds of rainwater collecting at the side of the road. Driven by the strong westerly, the rain is beating against the side windows. We are crawling along at a little over ten miles an hour and I can’t wait to get to the supermarket and off the road.
“Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For taking me to pick up my truck.”
“I’m not sure if it was a wise thing to do. You still look as if a few days rest would have been just the ticket.”
“I’m fine, Kiddo. Leave it.”
I refuse to argue. After all, he’s an adult and I’m not responsible for his actions.
“You were lucky when your friend came along with his tractor and pulled your truck up from the riverbed. I doubt my van would have been powerful enough.”
“Hm. That wasn’t luck.” He grunts and looks at me. “It’s the West Coast way. Neighbors help each other.”
I brace myself for a lecture about this is an unforgiving country, and no place for Sissies but he’s already looking out of his window again.
“This Martin guy, your friend, does he live close by?”
After another grunting noise, he says, “About a mile further on past our turnoff.”
“I give up attempting conversation with you.” I snort, annoyed at his short answers.
He lets out a sharp chuckle. “I forgot; you don’t know I’m not very sociable when I’m not 100%. Forgive me. It’s no accident I’m living alone in the middle of nowhere.”
By the time I spot the supermarket to the left I’ve forgiven him. The small wooden building is nothing compared to the large supermarkets in Auckland with acres of parking and shiny store fittings. Its windows are plastered with large, yellow on-sale signs for soft drinks, frozen chicken, apples, and ice cream. I grin. This is my kind of shop. None of that fancy stuff, just the basics. I’m sure I’ll feel right at home.
It’s a mission to park the van so that I’m not blocking the whole car park. Peak customer hours don’t seem to require more than two and a half parking spots. I lock up the van and follow Scott into the store. The shopping list I found this morning on