by Irene Hannon
But Ben wasn’t other people.
He was family.
And he owed Skip. Big time. Without those summer visits to look forward to after the acrimonious divorce that had rocked his childhood, who knew how he’d have ended up?
There was nothing he wouldn’t have done for the man who’d been his lifeline.
Ben took another sip of the cooling coffee, buying himself a few moments to rein in his wobbling emotions. “Tell me about the knee issues.”
“Your grandfather wasn’t one to dwell on unpleasant subjects, but I understand he had bad arthritis and opted for a knee replacement not long after he acquired the lighthouse. An infection set in, requiring revision surgery. When that didn’t work, a third surgery was done to insert a metal rod—which left him with a permanent limp and hampered his physical activities. He couldn’t do much on the lighthouse anymore, so four months ago he decided to sell.”
“Who was his surgeon?” Ben’s jaw tightened. If someone had botched this job, they were going to be held accountable.
And why hadn’t Skip taken advantage of his expertise? No, he hadn’t done a lot of battlefield knee replacements—but he was an orthopedic surgeon, for crying out loud. He could have consulted on the case, vetted the specialist his grandfather had chosen.
Eric riffled through the papers in front of him and extracted a sheet. “Jonathan Allen in Coos Bay. I don’t see a primary care doctor listed for your grandfather. He must have done what a lot of the locals do and simply visited the urgent care clinic in town for everyday medical needs. They may have recommended Dr. Allen.”
“Thanks.” Ben jotted down the man’s name. Before he left Oregon, he intended to pay the doctor a visit and review his grandfather’s medical records.
But it wasn’t likely the knee procedure had anything to do with the massive heart attack that had felled him.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he shifted gears. “If my grandfather put the lighthouse on the open market, I’m assuming the town still doesn’t have any interest in buying it.”
“Correct. A few residents tried to stir up some interest, but the effort petered out. Even if the structure was in pristine condition, Oregon has a lot of lighthouses already—many much more impressive than ours—so it’s not as if it would draw tourists who might contribute to the local economy.”
Hard to argue with that logic—or fault the town for passing on the purchase.
“So a private buyer is the answer.”
“If you can find one.” The attorney didn’t sound any more confident than Ben felt. “Your grandfather listed it with an agent, but I don’t believe there have been any inquiries.”
Of course not.
That would be too easy.
“I’ll go up and look it over after I arrange the memorial service for my grandfather. Is there anyone in town who might be able to do a structural assessment?”
“My wife’s an architect and runs a local construction firm.” Eric rose, crossed to his desk, and pulled a business card from a drawer. “She went out before your grandfather bought it to give him her thoughts. She won’t mind running up there again to reevaluate it.” He returned to his seat at the table and handed over the card.
“Thanks.” Eric pocketed it. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“No. Your grandfather’s estate was in order. Transitioning the assets will be simple. You have the keys to his house and car, and the paperwork’s been signed. You’re set.” Eric pushed an envelope across the table. “This is the key to the lighthouse.”
For a fraction of a second, Ben hesitated.
But there was no avoiding the truth.
He owned a lighthouse.
One apparently no one wanted.
Including him.
Heaving a resigned sigh, he picked up the envelope and rose.
Eric stood too and extended his hand. “My condolences again on your loss. Your grandfather was a wonderful man—and an asset to this town.”
“Thanks.” He returned the attorney’s firm clasp.
“If I can be of any other assistance while you’re here, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“I appreciate that. But I don’t plan to stay long.” Or he hadn’t, until he’d inherited a lighthouse. “Thank you for delaying our meeting a few hours.”
“No problem. I know how hard it can be to maintain a schedule on travel days. With all the ground you’ve covered, you must be operating on fumes.”
“I am.” Hard to believe he’d been in the Middle East thirty-six sleepless hours ago. “I’m going to crash at my grandfather’s house for a while until I feel more human.”
“Sounds like a plan. The Myrtle Café is open if you want to grab an early dinner first. Or you could swing by Charley’s on the wharf. You might have gone there with your grandfather as a kid.”
“I did. Often.” His mouth watered just thinking about the savory fish tacos the man concocted. A visit to Charley’s was on his Hope Harbor must-do list—but not until he got some z’s. He needed sleep more than food.
The attorney walked him to the door, and Ben exited into a steady drizzle typical of the Oregon coast in mid-April—or any month.
Tucking the paperwork the man had given him under his jacket, he hit the remote and jogged toward his rental car.
Fifteen seconds later, he put the key in the ignition. Hesitated.
Should he drive up to Pelican Point and pay Skip’s folly a quick visit, or save that disagreeable task for later?
No contest.
Later.
He was fading fast—and the lighthouse wasn’t going anywhere.
Unfortunately.
After checking for traffic, he pulled onto Dockside Drive. Maybe, as with the prophets of old, a solution to his dilemma would come to him in a dream.
And if it didn’t?
He was going to be beating the bushes to find a buyer for his unexpected—and unwanted—legacy.
At the sudden peal of her doorbell, Marci Weber’s fingers tightened on the tube of toothpaste, sending a minty-striped squirt arcing toward the mirror over her bathroom sink.
Who could be on her front porch at this hour of the night? No one in Hope Harbor came calling after eight o’clock, let alone ten fifteen.
Pulse accelerating, she dropped the tube onto the vanity, ignoring the sinuous line of goo draped over her faucet and coiled in her sink.
Rubbing her palms down her sleep shirt, she crept into the hall, sidled up to the window in her dark bedroom, and peered down into the night.
Drat.
The tiny arched roof over her small front porch hid the caller from her sight, despite the dusk-to-dawn lights flanking the front door.
And the notion of going downstairs to get a better view from one of the front windows goosed the speed of the blender in her stomach from stir to puree.
No surprise there, given her history.
The bell pealed again, jolting her into action. She scurried over to the nightstand, snatched her pepper gel out of the drawer, and yanked her cell from the charger. Finger poised to tap in 911, she tiptoed back to the window, heart banging against her ribs.
Breathe, Marci. This is Hope Harbor. Bad stuff rarely happens here. They caught that teenage vandal who was getting his jollies destroying other people’s property, and there haven’t been any serious incidents since. You’re overreacting.
True.
Nevertheless, she kept a tight grip on the phone while she waited for her visitor to vacate the porch and walk away.
But if he or she didn’t leave . . . if her uninvited caller did have malice in mind . . . she had a first-rate alarm system that was already armed for the night, the Hope Harbor police would be here in minutes, and a faceful of pepper gel would stop anyone in their tracks.
She’d be fine.
Still . . . why couldn’t Great Aunt Edith have chosen to live in the middle of town rather than on the fringes? The Pelican Point cottage might be charming, but the old sa
ying was true.
There was safety in numbers.
Author’s Note
Launching a brand-new series is always exciting. I love introducing readers to a whole new cast of characters—in this case, three childhood friends whose bond has been strengthened by time . . . and danger.
I’d like to offer my deepest thanks to the following people who assisted me during the writing and production of this book:
Tom Larkin, former Commander of the St. Louis County Police Department’s Bureau of Crimes Against Persons, who answered my many law-enforcement questions with promptness, thoroughness, and seasoned expertise. When it comes to expert sources, Tom is top-tier, and his input has always been invaluable.
The polished professionals at my publishing house, Revell, who are a joy to work with. Special thanks to Kristin Kornoelje, Jennifer Leep, Michele Misiak, Karen Steele, and Cheryl Van Andel.
My husband, Tom, who keeps our life running smoothly while I’m lost in my fictional worlds.
James and Dorothy Hannon, my mom and dad . . . and the world’s best parents. Even though I lost my mom very suddenly a year ago, she is always in my heart.
And all the loyal readers who let me live my dream.
I hope you’ll return for book 2 in the series, coming in October 2018. I guarantee Kristin’s story will keep you up late at night! And next April, please return with me to my charming Oregon seaside town of Hope Harbor—where hearts heal . . . and love blooms. Pelican Point features an endangered lighthouse, Charley’s famous fish tacos, and a memorable love story (or two!).
Irene Hannon is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than fifty contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. She is also a seven-time finalist and three-time winner of the RITA award—the “Oscar” of romance fiction—from Romance Writers of America, and is a member of that organization’s elite Hall of Fame.
Her many other awards include National Readers’ Choice, Daphne du Maurier, Retailers’ Choice, Booksellers’ Best, Carol, and Reviewers’ Choice from RT Book Reviews magazine, which also honored her with a Career Achievement award for her entire body of work. In addition, she is a two-time Christy award finalist.
Irene, who holds a BA in psychology and an MA in journalism, juggled two careers for many years until she gave up her executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company to write full-time. She is happy to say she has no regrets.
A trained vocalist, Irene has sung the leading role in numerous community theater productions and is also a soloist at her church. She and her husband enjoy traveling, long hikes, Saturday mornings at their favorite coffee shop, and spending time with family. They make their home in Missouri.
To learn more about Irene and her books, visit www.irenehannon.com. She is also active on Facebook and Twitter.
Books by Irene Hannon
HEROES OF QUANTICO
Against All Odds
An Eye for an Eye
In Harm’s Way
GUARDIANS OF JUSTICE
Fatal Judgment
Deadly Pursuit
Lethal Legacy
PRIVATE JUSTICE
Vanished
Trapped
Deceived
MEN OF VALOR
Buried Secrets
Thin Ice
Tangled Webs
CODE OF HONOR
Dangerous Illusions
That Certain Summer
One Perfect Spring
Hope Harbor
Sea Rose Lane
Sandpiper Cove
www.IreneHannon.com
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