by Irene Hannon
It was kind of retro—but it suited her.
It suited him too.
Can it, Garrison. Keep your mind on business.
Check.
Still . . . he could appreciate Marci Weber’s charms without succumbing to them.
At least he was pretty certain he could.
She stopped a few feet away from him. “I’m glad I caught you up here while I was close by. It will save me another trip to Ned’s . . . although I would have called before my next attempt.”
“It’s a fluke I wasn’t at the house. I’m almost always there. Thanks for persisting.” He held out his hand.
She gave him a blank look—as if she’d forgotten why she’d tracked him down.
He leaned toward her and tapped the envelope.
“Oh. Sorry.” Her cheeks pinkened, and she passed it over. “I, uh, think you’ll be impressed. He was quite a writer. A number of the stories relate to this lighthouse.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
The two seagulls hopped off their rock and waddled closer.
“Friends of yours?” She nodded toward them.
“Hardly. They showed up a few minutes ago. I think they’re hoping for a handout.”
The first bird nudged his feathered companion, and the other gull gave a laugh-like cackle.
Marci’s brow puckered. “Those two remind me of the gulls I saw earlier at the wharf.”
“Yeah?” He gave them a dubious once-over. “They all look alike to me.”
“That sound was kind of unique, though.” After giving the birds one last wary perusal, she dug around in her shoulder bag and pulled out a folded white square of fabric, ziplocked into a plastic sandwich bag. “I owe you this too.”
“You didn’t have to bother. I have plenty of handkerchiefs.” He took the tidy packet she extended.
“I always return borrowed goods. So . . .” She shifted her weight. Like she was nervous. “I ran into Brent Davis, the city manager, an hour ago at Charley’s. He mentioned you’ve had an offer on the lighthouse.”
Wow.
News must travel super-fast in small towns.
Faster even than gossip at a forward operating base hospital.
His stomach clenched, and he took a steadying breath.
Don’t go there, Garrison. The lighthouse situation has nothing to do with your army career—and that incident is history.
“Yes.” Remarkable how calm and controlled he sounded despite the sudden surge of gut-churning memories. “The Hope Harbor grapevine must be major league. I only got the call yesterday afternoon.”
“I understand the buyer plans to tear down the lighthouse.”
Her tone was conversational, but the sudden tautness in her posture put him on alert.
“My contact didn’t say that, but based on how the buyer intends to use the site, I assume he does.”
“Ned would be devastated.”
He already knew that—but what choice did he have? No one else had come forward with an offer.
“I know Skip loved the light—and I’m sorry there isn’t a better option. But look at it.” He waved a hand toward the battered tower. “If someone doesn’t invest a sizable amount of time and money in it soon, the walls are going to crumble. And no one else wants it.”
“They might.”
“It’s been on the market for more than four months and there hasn’t been a single nibble, according to the real estate agent.”
“It wasn’t an emergency until now.”
He squinted at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I doubt anyone in Hope Harbor expected the light to be torn down. Now that we’re faced with that reality, the town might rally behind the cause and come up with a way to buy it.”
“From what I understand, they didn’t want it for free when the government offered it to them three years ago.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How much is this person paying you for it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“More than Skip paid.” As he gave her the number, she winced. “And that doesn’t take into account the cost of restoration and upkeep.”
“But . . . but what about Ned’s legacy? Don’t you care about preserving that?”
“It’s hardly a legacy. He only owned the light for two years.”
From somewhere on the rocks below the point, a seal belched.
“My sentiments exactly.” Marci dipped her chin in agreement as her mouth flattened into a taut line. “Ned cared about the light long before he bought it.”
She was right. The title might have been in Skip’s possession for a mere twenty-four months, but he’d loved that lighthouse his whole life.
Ben tried to ignore the latest prick on his conscience—one of dozens since he’d agreed to mull over the offer.
“And it is a legacy.” Fire ignited in Marci’s green irises as she continued without giving him a chance to respond. “He wanted to preserve this little piece of Hope Harbor history. That’s why he bought it rather than let it fall into the hands of an outsider. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish his dream, but I know this. He would never, ever have sold it to anyone who planned to tear it down.”
Man, this woman knew how to lay on the guilt.
He planted his fists on his hips and locked gazes with her. “Why do you care so much, anyway? You’re a newcomer. You have no history here.” Certainly no evening hikes to this spot with a beloved grandfather.
She bristled, sparks pinging off her as she straightened to her full five-foot-fourish height. “I might be new, but I love this town—from Charley’s taco stand to Sweet Dreams’s cinnamon rolls to the one-for-all mentality of the people who live here. We may not have the kind of funds your buyer has, but what this town lacks in money it more than makes up for in spirit and hope and a can-do attitude. And we stand together when the chips are down.”
“You don’t have to defend Hope Harbor to me. I have fond memories of this place.”
“Not fond enough to find a way to save the lighthouse.”
“That’s not fair. Skip would have—”
“Wanted you to at least try to save it.”
Good grief.
This woman had a runaway mouth.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do! I often come up here in the evening, like Ned used to, and we spent many a night sitting on that rock watching the sun go down.” She waved a hand toward the perch the two seagulls had abandoned. “I got to know him well. In fact, he lit such a fire in me for lighthouses in general and this lighthouse in particular that I logged quite a few hours inside, working alongside him on the restoration.”
Marci had invested sweat equity in Skip’s project?
No wonder she was riled about the sale.
“Listen . . . I’m not going to dispute anything you’ve said. But Skip’s gone—and without a person who shared his passion spearheading a project like this, the light wouldn’t survive anyway. The practical choice is to sell it and move on.”
Eyes thinning, she mimicked his confrontational pose. “Not every decision in life has to be based on practicalities.”
“What do you expect me to do? I’m leaving as soon as I wrap up Skip’s estate. Four or five weeks, max. If I turn down this sale, the light will just sit here and continue to deteriorate.”
“A lot can happen in a handful of weeks.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” She gave a vague flip of her hand. “Something that would help preserve the light.”
“That would take a miracle.”
“They do happen.”
“Oh, come on. Be realistic. That’s as crazy as”—he homed in on the two sets of unblinking avian eyes watching the exchange—“as thinking our seagull friends here might peck some gold pirate coins out of the sand that would cover all the lighthouse expenses.”
As if on cue, the two gulls rose in a flutter of wings and raucous squawks, circled close to his h
ead until he was forced to duck, then landed on the ground next to Marci, one on each side—like sentries.
Weird.
“I don’t understand how you can be so callous about this. Ned was your grandfather!”
If the weather were colder, Ben wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam coming out of Marci’s ears.
His own temper was heating up too. What right did this woman he barely knew have to throw a guilt trip on him?
“Don’t you think you’re being too emotional?”
“No!” The slight frizz in her red hair fairly quivered with indignation. “There’s nothing wrong with honest emotion. Sometimes a healthy dose of passion is what it takes to make a person see the light. I’m not going to apologize for how I feel. You need to do the right thing.”
Ben froze as another woman’s similar words echoed in his mind.
“I’m not sorry for how I feel, Ben. Just do the right thing. It can all be so simple.”
But it hadn’t been.
Nor was it now.
Selling a lighthouse might not have the same fallout as his previous dilemma, but it, too, was ripping a hole in his heart.
And he didn’t need another emotional woman compounding the problem.
He backed off a few steps and fished out his keys. “I’m doing what I have to do to wrap up all the loose ends before I leave for Ohio.”
“The lighthouse isn’t a loose end. It’s a legacy. A landmark.”
“Depends on your perspective. Thanks again for the clippings.”
Without waiting for a response, he circled toward his car, giving her and the birds a wide berth.
“Hey!”
He paused. Hesitated. Angled back.
She glared at him. “Walking away in the middle of a discussion is rude.”
So he’d been told.
But sticking around could be worse.
Even dangerous.
“The discussion is over.”
With that, he turned his back on her and strode toward his truck.
Only after he was speeding down Pelican Point Road, the lighthouse receding in his rearview mirror, did he venture a glance back.
Marci was standing where he’d left her, hands on hips, the gusty wind whipping her glorious hair.
He pressed harder on the gas.
No doubt her intentions were honorable. It was clear she cared about Hope Harbor and wanted what was best for the town.
But excitable women were also unpredictable. If he gave her an inch, she might take a mile.
So barring a better offer for the light, he’d stick with his plan—get Skip’s house ready to put on the market, sort through the rest of his grandparents’ personal belongings, and go as many rounds as necessary with his conscience to vanquish his doubts before he signed on the dotted line and ditched the lighthouse that had become one more unwanted complication in his life.
Gee.
That had gone well.
As Ben’s truck disappeared around the curve in the road, Marci exhaled and dropped onto the large rock that offered the best seat in the house for the daily sunset show.
The two gulls waddled over and settled at her heels.
“I guess I might have come on a little too strong, huh?”
They observed her in silence.
Too bad she didn’t have Charley’s skill at communicating with birds—and people.
Would she never learn to curb her tongue?
She tucked her windblown hair behind her ears, massaged her forehead, and admitted the truth.
Diplomacy was not her forte.
Yes, some positive passion would have been fine. Persuasive, even.
But angry, accusatory passion?
Different story.
It was hard to blame Ben for shutting down. Had the situation been reversed, she would have been livid if someone tried to ladle on guilt and dictate what she should do with a piece of property she owned.
Perhaps if she’d come to him with a constructive idea or two and funneled her passion into productive enthusiasm instead of antagonism, he might have been more receptive to exploring other options.
Considering the cold mask that had slipped over his face near the end of their heated exchange, however—and the speed with which he’d vacated the premises—there wasn’t much likelihood he’d be open to a second go-round, even if she extended an olive branch.
Why, oh why, had she been cursed with fiery hair—and a disposition to match?
The upbeat strains of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” drifted from her purse, and Marci dug out her cell. Smiled at the screen.
Perfect timing.
A quick chat with her mother always gave her spirits a boost.
“Hi, Mom.” She leaned back on one hand and filled her lungs with the fresh, salty air. “I’ve missed talking with you. How was the fortieth anniversary cruise?”
“Fantastic. Your dad and I felt like honeymooners.”
Marci grinned. Her mom sounded like a honeymooner. Sort of giddy and girly.
Hard—and kind of disconcerting—to picture a parent in that role, though.
“I’m glad you had fun. Did you and Dad boogie the nights away?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it boogying, but those ballroom dancing lessons we’ve taken for years came in handy. I wish we could have convinced you to sign up for a few.”
“Dad taught me enough to get by—not that I need those skills very often. Most guys in my generation wouldn’t know a foxtrot from a tango.”
“More’s the pity. They have no idea what they’re missing. There’s nothing more romantic than dancing to a classic tune. Maybe if you beat the bushes, you’ll find a few men who know a step or two.”
An image of Ben flashed through her mind.
Did he know how to dance? And if he did, what would it be like to sway in his arms to a slow, romantic melody?
A soft sigh escaped her.
“Marci? Are you there?”
“Uh, yeah.” She shot to her feet, and the gulls scuttled back with an accusatory glower. Focus, Marci. “I haven’t run into any Fred Astaires out here.”
“Have you been looking?”
She stifled a groan.
Of course her mother would bring up her love life—or lack thereof.
“I’m occupied with the Herald and getting my business established. That doesn’t leave me much free time.”
“You’ve been there two years, honey. I know you’re busy, but don’t you think it might be healthy to carve out a few hours for a social life? We all need balance to thrive.” Unlike her daughter, Laura Weber knew how to tactfully discuss a sensitive subject.
Why couldn’t she have inherited her mom’s ash-blonde hair and calm temperament instead of her grandmother’s ginger mane and unruly tongue?
“I’ll get there at some point, Mom.”
“Are there many eligible men in that small town?”
Again, Ben’s image strobed across her mind.
How ridiculous was that?
The man didn’t like her, she wasn’t altogether sure about him, and he was leaving in a handful of weeks.
That was not the definition of eligible.
She erased his face from her mind.
“A few.”
“Not as many as in Atlanta, though. You had an active social life there. I bet you miss that.”
Her stomach kinked.
No, she didn’t.
Not one bit.
Thanks to Jack.
The moratorium she’d declared on dating suited her fine.
But she’d never shared that bit of her history with her parents—and she had no intention of starting now.
“Believe it or not, my life has been too full to think much about dating. Hope Harbor may be small, but there’s always interesting stuff happening here. Wait till you hear the news about the lighthouse.”
She proceeded to fill her mother in on the impending sale, downplaying her involvement with the cat-rescuing army surge
on who now owned the property.
“I can see why the town would be upset about that.” Her mother’s comforting empathy filtered over the line—another trait Marci wished she’d inherited. “Since you run the newspaper, is there anything you could do to rally support for a save-the-lighthouse campaign?”
“That might be a possibility if we had more time—but the owner has an offer on the table, and he wants to close the deal before he leaves town in four or five weeks.”
“Ouch. That’s a tiny window. Still . . . it couldn’t hurt to talk to a few people, generate some ideas, could it? When you’re all fired up, you’re a force to be reckoned with. Your zeal could create a lot of enthusiasm.”
Not with Ben—but in all fairness, she hadn’t applied it very well, either.
“It’s worth thinking about.”
“Seems like the only reasonable option, short of finding a wealthy benefactor.”
“Not likely in this area. Hope Harbor is rich in many ways, but money isn’t one of them.”
“Why don’t you sleep on it? Give the situation some thought—and prayer. God’s help desk is always open.”
The corners of Marci’s mouth twitched. “Cute analogy.”
“Also true. Will you keep me informed?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll say a few prayers myself. I remember the light from our visit last summer. It would be a shame if it disappeared.”
“I agree—and I appreciate the prayers. Tell Dad I said hi.”
“Will do. Take care, sweetie. We love you.”
The line went dead, and Marci tucked the phone back into her purse.
“It’s always comforting to talk to your mom, you know?” She addressed her comment to the two seagulls.
One of them made a purring noise that sounded like an affirmation.
Or had that come from Annabelle? Maybe the feline was prowling around nearby, in search of another tree to climb.
She scanned the windswept terrain.
Nope. Her neighbor’s cat was nowhere in sight.
Marci checked out the seagulls again. They appeared to be grinning at her.
Rolling her eyes, she strode toward her car. She was as bad as Charley, talking to seagulls.
Yet somehow she felt better.
Go figure.
In any case, her mother was right about the light. She did have tons of enthusiasm, and she’d always believed that old saying about obstacles being nothing more than stepping-stones.
