“No,” he said gently. “The goose bumps I’m talking about have an emotional cause. Big and solid don’t necessarily mean unfeeling.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” His point made, he left it at that.
They lapsed into silence, watching as the gangplank was drawn up and the boat inched away from the dock. Soon the engines growled louder. The boat made a laborious turn, then picked up speed and entered the main body of the harbor, moving at a steady, if chugging, pace.
“Would you like a drink?” Matt asked.
Lauren drew herself back from her immersion in the scenery. “No—uh, make that yes. A wine spritzer, if they can handle it, or lemonade. Something cool.”
With a nod, he made his way back across the deck and disappeared down the stairs leading to the lower level. Following his progress, Lauren had to admit that he was as attractive as any other man in sight. It wasn’t that he was beautiful in the classic sense; his chin was too square, his nose a shade crooked, his skin too weathered. But he exuded good health and strength and competence. He’d crossed the shimmying deck without faltering.
The wind whipped through her hair as she turned to face the sea once more. She concentrated on the sights—the Aquarium, the Harbor Towers, the piers with their assortment of fishing boats and tankers, the waterfront restaurants. Only when Matt returned and she smiled did she realize how much nicer the setting seemed with him by her side.
“Two lemonades.” He handed her one. “The spritzer was beyond the bartender, and the other drinks were heavier. There were some hot dogs down there, but they looked pretty sad.” He took a bag of potato chips from under his arm, opened it and held it out. She munched one, then washed it down with a drink.
“Tell me about Brad,” she surprised herself by saying.
Somber-eyed, he studied her expression. “I’m not sure you really want to know.”
She attributed his hesitancy to her own obvious ambivalence. “You may be right. But … I guess I really am curious. I’ve never met anyone who knew him after he left. I’m not sure I should pass the opportunity by.”
Matt tossed several chips into his mouth. “What do you want to know?” he asked between stilted bites.
“Did he work for your company?”
“No.”
“Had he always been in San Francisco?” She knew that was where he’d died.
“He started out in Sacramento.”
“As a carpenter.”
“That’s right. By the time he came to San Francisco, though, he was doing a lot of designing.”
“Designing what?”
Matt hesitated for an instant. “Houses, mostly. Some office parks. As an architect, he was a natural.”
“Is that how he was viewed—as an architect?”
“No. He didn’t have the credentials. He was like a ghost-writer, presenting rough sketches to the company’s architect, who then embellished and formalized the sketches.”
“Were you familiar with his company?”
“We were competitors.”
The words were simple and straightforward, yet something about the way they’d been offered gave Lauren the impression that Matt hadn’t particularly cared for Brad’s outfit. “But still, you were friends. How did that work?”
Matt seemed to relax somewhat. “Very comfortably. Our respective superiors held the patent on rivalry. Brad and I rather enjoyed fraternizing with the enemy.”
“How did you meet?”
“In a bowling league.”
Her expression grew distant. “Funny, I can’t picture Brad bowling. But then, I can’t picture him sweating on the roof of a house, either.” She tore herself from her musings. “What else did you do together?”
