by Irene Hannon
“No thanks necessary. Ned was a remarkable man—and a blessing in many lives. It was a privilege to know him.”
“I agree. Having him as a grandfather was a gift.”
“Indeed it was. You two had a special bond.”
“That’s because he saved my life—metaphorically speaking.”
“I know.”
Doubtful. Skip wasn’t the type to air dirty family laundry to friends and acquaintances.
Then again, Charley had always inspired confidences—and he had uncanny intuitive abilities. How else could he have picked up the turmoil in a young boy’s heart within minutes of their meeting all those years ago?
Apparently, his acuity hadn’t declined with age.
Nor had his appearance changed, come to think of it.
Ben sipped his lemonade and took a quick inventory.
Same weathered, latte-colored skin. Same long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Same keen, insightful eyes—now tinged with amusement.
“I feel like a bug under a microscope.”
Warmth crept up Ben’s neck. “I was thinking how nice it is to see some familiar faces in town.” Close enough. “But I have to admit that outfit threw me.” He swept a hand over the man’s dark suit, crisp white shirt, and string tie. “I’ve never seen you wear anything but jeans.”
“I do dress up on occasion if the event or the person warrants the effort. Ned did.”
“He’d be honored.”
“A tribute well deserved.” Charley nodded toward some empty chairs tucked into a corner against the far wall, away from the clusters of people chatting and eating. “I think one of those seats has your name on it. No one will mind if you take a break for a few minutes.”
“I don’t know . . .” Ben assessed the crowd. “There’s been a steady parade of people passing by, and I don’t want to be rude if someone wants to talk to me.”
“Everyone seems to be otherwise occupied for now.”
Ben took another survey of the hall. No one appeared to be in the least interested in approaching him.
Perfect.
“You’re right. Would you like to join me?”
“Thank you, but I need to get back to the stand. Weekends are busy, and I hate to disappoint customers. You’re planning to pay me a visit soon, aren’t you? I have a complimentary order of tacos with your name on it.”
“Trust me, you’re on my list. A trip to Hope Harbor wouldn’t be complete without a visit to Charley’s.”
The man smiled, displaying two rows of gleaming white teeth. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again soon. And now, I’ll leave you to chill for a few minutes.” He gestured to the chairs.
Except they were no longer empty.
Marci Weber had claimed one of them.
Ben sighed.
So much for his quick break.
“I think I’ll hang out here after all and hope people give me a little space.”
“Marci won’t bother you—and she doesn’t bite, despite that red hair.”
Right.
“That hasn’t been my experience.”
“You two have met?” Interest sparked in the man’s dark brown irises.
“The day I arrived. It wasn’t a pleasant encounter.”
“No?” Charley studied him. “That’s odd. Marci’s a very agreeable person. She’s only been here two years, but everyone likes her.”
He squinted at the man.
Was Charley suggesting he was at fault for their rough start?
No.
That would be ridiculous.
The man had no idea what had taken place on Pelican Point three days ago.
Yet truth be told, he hadn’t been as kind to her that night as he could have been.
Should have been.
Calling the police might have been overkill, but her reasons for ignoring the cat’s yowls were plausible—as was her caution about answering the door at that hour, especially with the nearest neighbor around a bend a couple of hundred yards away.
As Officer Gleason had pointed out in her defense during the drive back to town, a woman living alone needed to be careful, even in a town like Hope Harbor.
And she had apologized—or tried to.
Until he got snippy.
Ben kneaded his forehead.
Maybe he owed her an apology.
“Don’t overthink it, Ben.” Charley gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Claim a chair and put the rest in God’s hands.”
“She might not be happy if I invade her space, given our rocky beginning.”
“Rocky beginnings have a way of smoothing out. Ask Eric and BJ about that sometime—and come visit my stand soon.”
Before Ben could respond, Charley ambled away to join the small group clustered around Eleanor and a fortyish Latino man.
The buzz in the hall had subsided somewhat as the crowd began to thin, and Ben tossed his empty plastic cup in a nearby trash can.
Should he follow Charley’s advice—or walk a wide circle around the redhead and leave his apology for another day?
As if sensing his perusal, Marci looked up from her phone. Her eyes widened, and she dipped her chin, picked up her oversized purse, and stood.
Perfect.
If she left, he’d have the corner to himself.
But instead of waiting for her to vacate the spot, he found himself walking toward her.
What on earth . . . ?
He jolted to a stop.
What had prompted that impulsive move?
Could he blame it on Charley’s encouragement?
Or perhaps Marci’s flashing green eyes, which had sucked him in the other night despite his annoyance, were the culprit.
The sheen he’d seen on her cheeks during the service—and the compassion he’d felt emanating from her despite the distance separating them—could also have spurred his impulsive behavior.
Whatever the reason his feet had carried him toward her, he was going to have to follow Charley’s advice and put this in God’s hands.
Because she was standing frozen in place, cell clutched to her chest, waiting for him to approach.
It was too late to turn back.
He could only hope their second meeting was a whole lot more civil than the first.
He was coming over.
Marci’s heart skipped a beat as Ben started toward her again, looking very GQ in his dark suit, crisp white shirt, and a subtly patterned tie that matched the cobalt blue of his eyes.
Whew.
She’d known he was handsome the night of the cat incident. Despite his mist-dampened hair, casual attire, and dour demeanor, he’d radiated a potent masculinity no woman would fail to notice.
But today?
It was everything she could do not to fan herself while he approached.
He stopped a few feet away from her, a heady hint of sandalwood tickling her nose as he offered a tentative smile. “I don’t mean to intrude if you’re busy”—he motioned to her phone—“but I wanted to thank you for coming today, introduce myself more formally, and ask if we could start over.”
“I’m not busy.” She attempted to shove the phone into a pocket on her purse. Fumbled it. Tried again while heat crept across her cheeks.
Good grief.
She was acting like a besotted schoolgirl!
“I, uh, liked Ned a lot. Coming to the service was a no-brainer.” She finally managed to jam the phone into its slot. “He wrote a history column for the paper . . . the Herald . . . and he liked to stop in at the office and chat. We had some fascinating conversations, and along the way we got to be friends. Sometimes we even met at Charley’s for lunch and ate on a bench by the wharf. I’m the editor of the paper, by the way. Well, editor, owner, publisher, reporter—in other words, jack-of-all-trades. It’s a very small operation.”
Enough already, Marci! You’re running off at the mouth like a politician who likes to hear herself talk whether or not she has anything worthwhile to say.
She clamped he
r jaw shut.
If the man across from her thought her rambling discourse odd, however, he gave no indication of it.
“I didn’t know about the column for the paper—but I did know Skip was a history buff. I’d enjoy reading some of his write-ups. I’ll have to look around the house. He must have them stashed somewhere.”
“I’ll be happy to give you copies.”
“I don’t want to create work for you.”
“It won’t take but a few minutes—and I’d like to make amends for the cat incident.”
“Actually, I think I’m the one who needs to say I’m sorry.”
She blinked at him. “But . . . I called the police.”
“And I’m the one who wasn’t very receptive when you tried to apologize.”
“Forget it.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Jim Gleason told me you’d been in the air all day. You had to be seriously jet-lagged. Not to mention the fact you were grappling with the bad news about Ned.”
“That doesn’t excuse bad manners.”
“It does in my book.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to start over?”
“Yes.”
“In that case . . .” He extended his hand. “Ben Garrison.”
Not Dr. Ben Garrison. Not Major Ben Garrison. Just Ben Garrison.
Nice.
She took his hand and found her fingers enfolded in a firm, steady grip. “Marci Weber.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise. The cat’s fine, by the way. I called her owner, who lives down the road. It wasn’t a bad cut. Not close to being worthy of a trip to the vet.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“It was kind of you to try and help her, though—and it fits with how Ned described you. He told me you were born with the healing gene.”
“Sometimes that can be more of a curse than a blessing.” A flicker of pain darted across his features, gone so fast Marci wondered if she’d imagined it. “Wednesday was one of those times—and I have the scar to prove it.” He tapped his forearm.
She winced. “Annabelle can be prickly if she gets spooked or annoyed.”
“She’s not the only one.”
Marci squinted and tipped her head. “Is that a dig?”
“I was referring to myself, but if the shoe fits . . .” His eyes began to twinkle.
Whoa.
The man had breathtaking baby blues.
“Sad to say, it does.” She did her best to maintain a conversational tone, but her response came out a bit breathy. “I do have a few stereotypical characteristics of redheads. On the positive side, my temper dies as fast as it flares.”
“Good to know. Being friends with Skip is also a check in your plus column. He was an exceptional judge of character.”
“He had many fine qualities—as you communicated so well in your comments at the end of the service. There wasn’t a spare tissue in the house.”
“Thanks. I wanted to give him a memorable send-off, and I had a lot of hours in the air to work on the eulogy.”
“Jim Gleason said you came straight from the Middle East. That’s a long haul for a short trip. How much leave did they give you?”
“Unlimited. I was a week away from mustering out, and they expedited the paperwork.”
So he was ex-army now.
For some reason that pleased her.
“At least you don’t have to rush back. How long do you plan to stay?”
“Until I wrap up Skip’s affairs.”
“I assume that includes dealing with the lighthouse.”
“Unfortunately, yes—and that glitch could slow things down. I understand there isn’t much of a market for lighthouses. Even Hope Harbor doesn’t want it.”
“I know, and it’s a shame. The light is such a town landmark. But maintenance costs are high, and that’s a hard sell in this tough economy.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“It would be terrific if you could find a buyer who would finish the restoration job Ned started.” As far as she could see, that was the best possible outcome at this stage.
“I can try. Well . . .” He glanced around at the dwindling crowd, then at his watch. “I need to move on to the final goodbye.”
Marci frowned. “I thought we did that in church.”
“That was the public farewell. This is the private one. Skip wanted his ashes buried at sea. He made arrangements with the man who bought the Suzy Q—his crab boat—to provide the transportation. It was a condition of the sale. In fifteen minutes the captain will be waiting for me at the wharf, and I want to walk rather than drive.”
The sentimental streak that had earned her the Weepy Weber nickname in grade school reared its head, and Marci mashed her lips together. She was not going to get emotional again. She’d already spent half the service blubbering, and her tissues were gone. “A perfect resting place for a man who loved the sea as much as Ned did.” Somehow she managed to get the comment out without a quiver.
“I agree. Some of my happiest hours were spent with him on the deck of the Q, and his love of the ocean was infectious.” Ben swallowed, the corners of his mouth flexing up a hair. “I better get going. I don’t want to keep the captain waiting. I’m glad we had a chance to mend our fences today.”
“Me too. Is, uh, anyone going with you on the boat?” Ned had always said Ben was his only family, but surely the man standing in front of her had a relative or two on his mother’s side. Someone . . . anyone . . . who could have met him here and offered some moral support.
Yet he’d been the solitary occupant of the front pew at the service.
Meaning if he did have any other family, they hadn’t bothered to come.
How sad was that?
“No. Just me and the captain.”
“You know . . . I was getting ready to leave myself. Would you like some company on your walk?” The question spilled out before she could corral it.
He narrowed his eyes . . . and her stomach clenched.
Would she never learn to curb her impetuous streak?
“Sorry.” She flashed him a grin. “I tend to rush in where angels fear to tread. It’s a bad habit of mine. I walked over from my office on Dockside Drive, and I’m going that direction anyway, but I totally understand why you’d want to be alone.”
As Eric and his wife stopped to say goodbye, she dug a card out of her purse. As soon as he refocused on her, she held it out. “If you have a few spare minutes later today or tomorrow, I’d love to talk with you more about Ned. I’m working on a feature about him for the next issue, and having a few quotes from you would give it a more personal touch.”
He took the card and slipped it in his pocket. “I’ll be happy to call you.” A few seconds of silence ticked by, his expression unreadable. “Listen . . . if you’d like to walk with me to the wharf, that’s fine.”
She bit her lip.
Was he trying to alleviate her embarrassment for putting him on the spot, or did he want her company?
He spoke as if he’d read her mind. “I’ve been by myself most of the past couple of days. Much more than I’m used to. I could answer a few of your questions for the article between here and the wharf.”
Unless her people-reading skills were failing her, he was sincere.
“If you’re certain . . .”
“I am.”
“Okay. Let me get my coat from the rack.”
“No hurry. I need to say a few goodbyes and go collect Skip. Why don’t I meet you at the exit in five or ten minutes?”
“That works.”
While he walked back toward the small group hovering around the food table, Marci went to claim her jacket—and tried to ignore the tiny buzz vibrating in her nerve endings.
The kind she felt whenever an attractive man caught her attention.
The kind that intensified when said man noticed her in return.
The kind that had gotten her into big trouble back in Atlanta.
But this wasn’t Georgia.
And Ben wasn’t . . . him.
The ex-army officer was a skilled and courageous doctor. The grandson of a man she’d admired and respected. A good Samaritan who rescued cats and wrote touching tributes.
He was the real deal.
Or he seemed to be.
And there was the rub.
Three years ago, she would have taken him at face value—and the buzz of attraction would have been exciting rather than unsettling.
But despite Ben’s stellar credentials and Ned’s glowing comments about his grandson, guys who came with first-class recommendations and looked superlative on paper weren’t always what they seemed.
3
Skip’s urn cradled in the crook of his arm, Ben paused in the back of the church and leaned against the wall.
Letting Marci accompany him to the wharf was a mistake.
A big one.
He hadn’t planned to have any company on his walk.
Hadn’t wanted any company.
Yet he’d hesitated no more than a few heartbeats before accepting her offer, despite the out she’d given him.
It didn’t make sense.
Hadn’t he decided nine months ago to walk a wide circle around women for a year or two? To focus on settling into his buddy’s practice in Ohio and getting reestablished in civilian life without taking on any other complications or obligations?
Yes and yes.
However . . . a two-block walk to the wharf didn’t break any of those rules. So what was the big deal?
You know what it is, Garrison. Stop playing dumb.
He huffed out a breath.
Fine.
The big deal was that he liked Marci Weber.
Too much.
Too fast.
Despite their rough start, something had clicked between them—and unless he was reading her all wrong, she’d felt the electricity too.
Then again, in light of recent experience, his instincts could be dangerously off.
He shifted toward the deserted sanctuary and examined the photo on the easel.
If Skip were here now, he’d no doubt have some witty advice to offer, all wrapped up in a sea analogy. Like, Go with the flow—because you can’t fight a tide God sets in motion.
Yet as his grandfather had also once warned, setting sail toward stormy waters was foolish.
