“Sounds dangerous, if you ask me.” Lauren said.
“Well, the world is a dangerous place,” Joyce replied.
“Let’s go get those last quilts, shall we?” Harriet said and steered Lauren back toward the parking lot.
“I can’t believe they don’t have any vetting process to check people out before they let them move in,” Lauren said when she and Harriet were out of earshot of the others.
“What, exactly, would you have them do? Plug their laptop into a currant bush?”
“Ha. Ha. You’re such a wit. But really, this new guy could be anybody. Haven’t you been reading the news about the serial killer who has been dumping bodies along the interstate?”
“I have seen an article or two,” Harriet said. “But the ones I read said they think the killer is a truck driver, not a newly evicted homeless man.”
“Well, the killer isn’t going to go around with a sign saying ‘I’m a truck-driving killer.’ He probably masquerades as something completely different-like maybe a homeless guy.”
“So, he has a truck parked somewhere nearby and goes on periodic road trips?”
“I don’t know. Do I have to think of everything? I’m just saying you can’t be too careful these days.”
“I suppose. I have to say, what we’ve seen of the homeless camp so far is nothing like what I was expecting.”
They reached Harriet’s car, and Lauren flipped the hood to her jacket down, shaking her long blonde hair.
“I hate hoods,” she muttered.
“You picked the wrong place to live if that’s your problem,” Harriet said and handed her two folded quilts.
“Who said I had a choice?” Lauren shot back.
A black Ford Explorer pulled up beside Harriet’s car and parked, ending the discussion before she could grill Lauren about what she meant. The passenger side window slid down.
“Hey,” called a male voice.
Harriet bent to look into the car.
“Tom!” she said as she recognized Tom Bainbridge, who she’d met the previous spring when she and the other Loose Threads had attended a folk art school in Angel Harbor owned by his mother. “What brings you to town?”
“And here, of all places,” Lauren added.
“I’m working,” he said with a smile. “What are you two doing out here in the rain? It’s not really picnic weather.”
“We’re being do-gooders,” Lauren said.
“What Lauren means is we’re delivering some quilts and waterproof tarps we made to the homeless people who live in the forest behind Fogg Park.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” Tom said and got out of his car. “I’m here to interview the homeless residents for my new project. If everything works out, some if not all of them will be living in new housing by this time next year.”
“Where?” Harriet asked and picked up an armload of quilts.
“Who’s paying for it?” Lauren asked at the same time.
“A redevelopment group wants to build some multi-use apartments a couple of blocks from the docks. They’re still looking at sites, but the city has stipulated that some of the apartments be set aside for qualifying homeless people.”
“Qualifying?” Harriet said.
“Believe it or not, there are people of means who live without a permanent residence. Sometimes it’s just a minimal pension, but it’s enough that they could rent a room in low-income housing if they wanted to. Turns out they’d rather live outside in the park than in a room with cardboard walls and gun-toting, drug-using neighbors.”
“I can’t say I blame them,” Harriet said.
“Me, either,” Tom agreed. “Towns like Foggy Point are trying to provide another alternative. This proposed project will have space for homeless vets, very-low-income homeless and then lower-income and so on, up to and including luxury penthouse suites.”
“Sounds like some kind of utopian sci-fi mumbo-jumbo,” Lauren said. “I suppose they’re solar powered and reuse gray water, too.”
“Yes, they’ll be green buildings, if that’s what you’re trying to say.” Tom smiled at Harriet.
“Let’s get these back to the camp,” she said and turned back toward the park with her armload of quilts.
“Can I carry anything?” Tom asked.
Lauren paused as if she were going to hand off her quilts but then looked at Harriet and changed her mind.
“No, we’re good,” she said.
Robin and Connie were standing in the main clearing beside Joyce and a man who had to be the new resident she’d told them about. He was older, maybe mid-sixties, and was dressed in foul-weather hiking clothes, Danner boots, brand-name Gore-Tex jacket, and moleskin cargo pants. His tan was more Club Med than Fogg Park.
“Hi,” Joyce said when the trio reached them. “This is Ronald, the gentleman I was telling you about-the one with a tent. I think he could use one of your blankets.”
Lauren glared and clutched her quilts a little tighter. Harriet handed one to him.
“Nice to meet you,” Harriet said. “Enjoy your quilt.”
“I’m Tom Bainbridge,” Tom said and held his hand out to Joyce then Ronald. “I’m the architect hired to design a proposed housing project designed to provide alternatives to living in the park.”
“I like the sound of that,” Ronald said. “How can we help you?”
“I’d like to talk about space requirements. For instance, would people prefer studio-style apartments or small but separate rooms? And how about kitchen size? Is an under-counter refrigerator adequate, or do people need full-size? I guess I’m asking how much cooking do you envision doing? Will people live alone or with roommates?”
“Being indoors with a roof over our heads will be such a big step up I’m not sure the rest matters,” Joyce said.
“I’m sure that’s true initially,” Tom said, “but I’d like to build apartments people will stay in. I’d like people to be comfortable once they get beyond being warm and dry.”
Joyce looked him up and down without saying anything.
Duane came into the clearing from the trail and introduced himself.
“I heard you say you wanted to talk to people about the housing you’re going to design.”
“That’s right,” Tom said.
“A number of our group are at the Methodist church warming room waiting for lunch, and a couple more are at Annie’s, the coffee shop downtown. You can probably still catch them there if you hurry,” Duane said.
“You might be a bit more comfortable, too,” Joyce added. Rain dripped off her nose, chin and eyelashes.
Tom looked around.
“Okay, maybe you’re right,” he said. He looked at Harriet. “Want to meet for coffee later?”
“Sure, when?”
They agreed to give him an hour to talk to the people at the church and another half-hour to talk to the coffee shop crowd. Harriet suggested they meet at The Steaming Cup, Foggy Point’s other popular coffee shop, and he agreed.
“Well, aren’t you two just cozy,” Lauren said when Tom was out of earshot.
“We’re friends, Lauren. Don’t you have any male friends?”
“Yes, and they don’t look at me the way he looks at you.” She held her hands up in front of her. “Okay, fine. None of my business.”
“Can we leave quilts here for the people who are in town?” Connie asked.
“That would be nice, and we’d take an extra one, if you can spare it,” Joyce said, looking at the full armloads of quilts. “We like to keep a few extra supplies on hand for new people. There is no typical situation when someone becomes homeless, but not many are able to bring as much from their old life as Ronald here did.”
“I’ve always been a planner,” Ronald said. Harriet couldn’t tell if he was blushing, his face was so red from the cold, wet rain, but he looked embarrassed. “This was my fallback to the fallback plan.” He shook his head. “I just never imagined my family would turn me away when I lost my house.”