Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  So which was this—a God tide or a storm?

  Hard to say.

  But what did it matter? Marci Weber lived in Hope Harbor. He was heading east as soon as Skip’s estate was settled and his medical licensing paperwork went through in Ohio. There was no chance anything serious could develop between them during his short stay.

  As long as he was careful, spending a few minutes in her company on occasion wouldn’t be dangerous.

  And truth be told, having her along on this sad, final walk might help mitigate the surge of grief threatening to swamp him now that his jet-lag-induced fog was lifting and the harsh reality of his loss was setting in. It would be harder to succumb to melancholy in her animated, vivacious presence.

  Maybe her offer had been a blessing that would lessen the trauma of this last, most difficult chore.

  So for today, he’d go with the flow rather than fight the tide.

  Two minutes later, he found her waiting for him at the exit, her belted emerald green raincoat an exact match for her eyes. It was cinched at the waist with a sparkly belt that emphasized her trim figure—a touch of bling that would add shimmer and shine even to gray, rainy days.

  Kind of like the lady herself.

  Squelching that line of thought, he lengthened his stride.

  “Sorry.” He stopped beside her. “I got tied up with my goodbyes.”

  “No worries. My office schedule today is lighter than the rest of the week.”

  “You work on weekends?”

  “Half a day every other Saturday. A necessity with a paper that comes out on alternate Tuesdays. But I try to take some comp time on Wednesdays.”

  He pushed the door open and let her precede him, inhaling the whisper of jasmine that wafted toward him as she passed—the same sweet scent released by the flowers on the vine covering the arbor Skip had built for Gram at the house.

  How odd that her perfume—or perhaps shampoo—would remind him of the happy hours he’d spent here, and the TLC his grandparents had . . .

  “Ben?” Marci angled back toward him, eyebrows peaking.

  “Coming.” He put his feet in gear and followed her out, motioning toward the blue sky to divert her attention from the delay. “I got lucky on the weather. After all the mist this morning, I was afraid I might be doing this in the rain.”

  “It wouldn’t dare rain on Ned’s parade.” She fell in beside him as they left the church behind and started toward the curving path that rimmed the harbor.

  They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes in the salty breeze, until Marci spoke again.

  “Ned liked to stroll here. He never missed his daily walk along the wharf unless his knee was bothering him. I could see him from my office.” She waved across the wide street, where storefronts adorned with bright awnings and flower boxes faced the sea. “Sometimes he’d sit for a while and enjoy the view. It’s hard to beat, isn’t it?”

  Ben gave the scene a slow sweep.

  Above the sloping bank of boulders that led to the water, benches were spaced along the sidewalk between overflowing planters, offering a vista of boats anchored in the marina or tethered to a dock. The deep blue water, protected by the long jetty on the left and the pair of rocky islands on the right that tamed the turbulent waves, was placid. At the far end of the harbor, Charley’s taco truck was parked near the white gazebo in the tiny park.

  It was as picturesque as he remembered it.

  “Yes. I liked hanging around down here as a kid. In fact, I loved everything about Hope Harbor. My visits were the highlight of my year.”

  “Would you mind sharing some of those memories while we walk? I have my digital recorder with me.” She dug it out of her bag.

  “You came prepared.”

  “As any first-class reporter would.”

  He could buy that.

  But why would a first-class reporter spend her life running a podunk paper like the Herald?

  Major disconnect.

  Frowning, he took her arm and guided her around a pair of seagulls who’d planted themselves in the middle of the sidewalk.

  Marci appeared to be bright, smart, and personable. The kind of woman who would rise quickly in any field.

  So what had brought her here two years ago? Where had she lived before? What had she done in her previous life? Who had she left behind—or come to Oregon to be close to? Why wasn’t she working for a big-name publication? How could she make a living publishing the eight-page, every-other-week Herald?

  Why wasn’t she married?

  Most important, could he ask a few of those questions without getting her hackles up?

  “Being prepared is smart in any job.” He chose his words with care as the gulls fluttered along behind them—likely hoping for a handout. “But tell me about the Herald. I thought it went out of business six, eight years ago.”

  “It did. I revived it.”

  “So it’s been back in business for about two years.”

  Her step faltered, and she stiffened. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Officer Gleason mentioned your tenure here. Charley did, too, after the service. They’re staunch fans, by the way.”

  Her posture relaxed a hair. “Both are super guys. They’ve been very supportive of my attempt to get the paper going again. The whole town has been.”

  “It’s a risky venture, though. Papers are struggling everywhere these days.”

  “That’s why I do PR work on the side. Those clients provide my main income—but journalism is my first love. And every town deserves a newspaper. The Herald is small, but I like that I can be hands-on with every aspect.”

  “Do you do everything?”

  “Not quite. I have a part-time assistant at the office and a freelance designer who takes care of the layout.”

  “Still sounds busy.”

  “It is.”

  “Have you worked on larger publications?”

  “No. Newspaper slots are hard to come by for newly minted journalism majors. After college I took a job with a PR firm in Atlanta.”

  “That’s a long way from Hope Harbor. What brought you here—aside from the beautiful setting?”

  She watched a black oystercatcher dip low over the harbor, its distinctive yellow-tipped, orange-red bill a blaze of color against the blue sky. “My sister and I inherited our great-aunt’s cottage on Pelican Point. I came to clean it out and put it on the market, but I fell in love with the town. Since I was ready for a change of job and lifestyle, I bought my sister’s share of the cottage and stayed.”

  Her straightforward explanation covered all the basics, and she’d delivered it in a casual, relaxed tone.

  Except she wasn’t relaxed.

  A thrum of tension radiated off her, and her response came across as too glib and practiced—as if she’d expected to be queried on this subject and had written out and memorized her answer.

  Suggesting this wasn’t a topic she liked to discuss.

  Why?

  Before he could figure out how to finagle an answer to that question, she held up the recorder. “Let’s talk about Ned. We’re going to be at the boat soon, and you haven’t told me a thing yet. Why don’t you share a story or two about your visits here, and what you most remember about him?”

  Her request was reasonable. She’d joined him on this walk to hear about Skip. But they’d be at the boat in less than three minutes, and that wasn’t long enough to do justice to any story about his grandfather.

  “I have a better idea.”

  Marci slanted him a cautious look. “What?”

  He hesitated, already besieged by second thoughts about the suggestion that had popped into his mind. After all, he’d planned to use his time on the boat to reminisce about the happy days he’d spent with Skip, not entertain a passenger.

  But he wasn’t yet ready to let Marci go—leaving him just one option.

  Dismissing his qualms, he plunged in. “Why don’t you come out on the boat with me? That’s
where Skip spent his happiest hours . . . and I have a lot of memories of the Q too. I could share a few of them while we’re on the way to the spot he chose as his resting place.”

  She jolted to a stop. “I’m, uh, not exactly dressed to go out on a crab boat.”

  “You’re wearing flat shoes, the weather’s fine, and we can stay inside the cabin if you prefer that to the open deck. It’s a beautiful day to be on the water . . . and I have a feeling Skip wouldn’t mind if I brought one of his friends along. Besides, don’t first-class reporters go where the stories are?” He gave her his most persuasive grin and tapped the recorder clutched in her fingers.

  “Yes, but . . . but we could also meet after you get back. I’ll be in my office for a while.”

  That was true.

  Yet the idea of concluding the funeral ritual accompanied only by a complete stranger—accommodating though the captain might be—was quickly losing its appeal.

  “Are you certain you want to pass up a ride on the Suzy Q?” He conjured up another charming smile. “She’s a great boat . . . and that’s where my grandfather spent a significant portion of his life. It would give you some—is color the right word?—for your story.”

  The wry tug at the corners of her lips told him he’d convinced her to come even before she responded.

  “You win. I’m in.”

  “You won’t be sorry.”

  But as they continued down the wharf and the captain welcomed them on board, Ben wasn’t as certain about his own feelings.

  It was very possible he might live to regret this.

  Because the more he talked to Marci, the more intrigued he became . . . and he’d had enough intrigue to last a lifetime.

  Hope Harbor was as beautiful from the sea as it was from the land.

  As the Suzy Q left the protected harbor and picked up speed toward open water, Marci held on to the corner of the wheelhouse and surveyed the town nestled at the base of low hills.

  Strange that in all these months here, she’d never ventured out to sea. Any number of her friends and acquaintances had connections to boats and would have been happy to arrange for her to take a spin.

  But perhaps it was fitting that her first trip on the water was in honor of Ned.

  “Beautiful view.” Ben spoke close to her ear, raising his volume to be heard above the rumble of the engine.

  “Very.”

  “The only thing that made Skip happier than standing behind the wheel of this boat and setting off in search of crabs was coming back with a huge catch on a beautiful day like this. But more often than not, the weather during peak crabbing season was dismal.”

  “He told me once that crabbing was a family tradition.”

  “It was—until my dad became an engineer and took a job in San Francisco.”

  “That’s what he said. He must have been disappointed.”

  “I’m sure he was. Dad was an only child, so that was the end of a three-generation crabbing business. But Skip understood that people need to follow their own dreams.”

  “Are your parents still in California?”

  “No. Dad died twelve years ago of a stroke.”

  It was difficult to read Ben’s expression under the dark sunglasses he’d put on, but she had no difficulty picking up a trace of melancholy.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His forehead knotted. “Thanks. The two of us had drifted apart, but losing him was still a shock.”

  He didn’t offer more—and for once she reined in her unruly tongue and moved on to a safer subject.

  “Since you were alone at the service, I assume there are no brothers or sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Did your mother stay in California?”

  The bunching muscle in his jaw told her she’d miscalculated.

  Apparently family in general wasn’t a safe subject—other than Skip.

  “No. She and Dad divorced when I was ten. A few years later, she remarried and moved to the East Coast.”

  If his tone was any indication, he didn’t much care where she was.

  Not the best family situation.

  He offered nothing else, and save for the powerful throb of the engine and the caw of a gull following in their wake, silence fell between them.

  Time to change the subject.

  “Why don’t you share one of those stories you promised?” She dug out her recorder again. “Readers would enjoy hearing about an adventure the two of you had that can still brighten your day when you think about it.”

  His mouth curved up, erasing some of the tension in his features. “There are dozens of those.”

  “I’m ready whenever you are.” She held up the recorder.

  He launched into a story about his first crabbing excursion with Ned, who’d taught him to distinguish between keepers and throwbacks, adding touches of humor as well as details that illustrated his grandfather’s patience and deep love for the sea.

  From there, he went on to reminisce about their evening treks to the lighthouse and the tales Ned had told about the seafaring life, their walks on the beach that were filled with folksy wisdom, and the summer the two of them had surprised his grandmother by baking her a lopsided birthday cake and preparing her favorite meal while she was at a garden club meeting.

  By the time the boat slowed, Marci had plenty of memorable quotes and stories to flesh out the article she’d already drafted.

  The captain cut the engine and opened the door to the wheelhouse. “This about the spot you had in mind?”

  Ben scanned the scene, and Marci followed his lead. To the right, part of the Hope Harbor wharf was visible in the gap between Gull Island and the jetty. On the left, the lighthouse on Pelican Point soared above the sea.

  “Yes. This is perfect.” Ben retrieved a small New Testament from the inside pocket of his jacket and picked up the simple, sand-colored urn that held Ned’s ashes.

  The captain removed his hat. “I rigged up a net so you can lower that over the side, if you like. It seemed more respectful than dropping it into the water.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  The captain dipped his head, ducked back into the wheelhouse, and returned with a small net attached to two ropes.

  “Would you hold this?” Ben extended the Bible to her with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.

  Marci took it in silence.

  With the help of the captain, he nestled the container in the net. “For the record, Skip was an environmentalist to the end.” His voice rasped as he rested a hand on the urn. “Just like crab pots have biodegradable panels to let crabs escape from lost traps, this is ecofriendly. It will float for several minutes, then sink to the bottom and dissolve within twenty-four hours—and Skip will become part of the sea he loved.”

  Marci’s lower lip began to quiver, and her vision misted.

  Shoot.

  Weepy Weber was back.

  Struggling to stem her tears, she surreptitiously felt around in the pockets of her coat for a tissue.

  Zilch.

  So much for her claim to Ben that she was always prepared.

  Stifling her sniffles as best she could, she watched as the captain eased back and Ben lowered the urn to the sea.

  Less than a minute later, he retracted the ropes and the empty net, set the makeshift contraption on the deck, and turned to her, his gaze on the New Testament clutched against her chest.

  Her cue.

  She walked toward him, doing her best to maintain her balance on the undulating deck. Falling flat on her face at his feet in the midst of this solemn moment would rank right up there with calling the police on him.

  He met her halfway . . . gave her a fast scrutiny . . . then fished out a neatly folded pristine handkerchief and traded her the white square for the compact volume.

  Despite his sorrow, he’d noticed her tattered emotions.

  Which only made her more weepy.

  Back at the railing, he read the twenty-third psalm in a quie
t, choked voice as the urn floated away from the boat, rocking gently in the waves.

  After he finished, he slid the book back inside his jacket but remained at the railing, back ramrod straight, watching the urn.

  When it at last sank beneath the waves, he gripped the railing and bowed his head. A few moments later, his shoulders began to shake.

  Sweet mercy.

  He was weeping.

  As her own eyes filled again, Marci pressed the handkerchief against her lips to smother the sob threatening to erupt.

  Of course she’d feel compassion for anyone mourning a loss—but somehow it went deeper than that with Ben, despite their short acquaintance.

  Maybe because she’d known Ned and grieved his death too.

  Maybe because Ben had touched her heart by inviting her to share in this final, personal farewell.

  Maybe because it had been a long while since she’d felt such an instant connection to another person.

  Maybe because she couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be to say goodbye to the last person in the world who mattered to you.

  Whatever the reason, his almost palpable sorrow infiltrated her soul—and she didn’t want him to feel alone.

  Following her instincts, she crossed the deck, stood behind him, and rested her hand against his back.

  He froze—and she held her breath. Then, ever so slightly, he leaned back into her touch.

  The air whooshed out of her lungs.

  He hadn’t rejected her overture.

  Two long, emotion-laden minutes later, after swiping the arm of his suitcoat across his eyes, he turned.

  The pain of loss was carved into his features, grooves bracketing his mouth, lashes spiky with moisture.

  Once again, the waterworks erupted, and she dabbed at her tears with his handkerchief.

  “Hey.” He took her hand, his voice husky as he wove his fingers through hers. “As Skip used to say when I was down, dry your tears, lift your face to the sun, and trust that God will give you a better tomorrow.”

  “That’s a b-beautiful thought.” The last word came out in a hiccup. “But I should be the one c-comforting you.”

  “You’ve already done that. It’s amazing how one caring touch can make a person feel less alone. Thank you for that—and for being Skip’s friend.”