by Irene Hannon
“Where did you hear that?”
“Rachel’s boss told her yesterday afternoon.”
That made sense. His wife did come and go on a regular basis, suggesting she had some kind of job.
“It’s not easy to keep anything private in this town, is it?”
Greg’s lips quirked again. “Welcome to small-town America. Rachel’s not nosy, but when you work for a newspaper editor, you hear stuff.”
Newspaper editor?
Greg’s wife worked for Marci?
No wonder this guy and his wife were both in the loop about town happenings.
“I assume you’re talking about the Herald?”
“That’s the only paper we have. I heard you met Marci Weber.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s a firecracker.”
No kidding.
“Do you know her well?” Keep it conversational, Garrison.
“No, but Rachel told me how passionate she can be about causes she believes in. Like the lighthouse.”
Had Marci told Greg’s wife details about their volatile encounter on Monday—or was the man’s comment more generic?
A proceed-with-caution warning began to beep in his mind.
It might be best to tiptoe around this and approach from the side rather than head-on.
“What does your wife do at the Herald?”
“Whatever needs to be done. She’s only been there eight weeks.”
“She like it?”
“Yeah. She’s just a year short of her journalism degree, so the work is right up her alley. Having a great boss helps too.”
Marci the firecracker was a great boss?
“I take it the editor hasn’t blown up at your wife.”
“No. Rachel’s pretty easy to get along with. She has to be, to put up with me.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “So is it true about the buyer tearing down the light?”
“I think that’s his plan.”
“Bummer.”
“I agree. But no one else has come forward, and I can’t afford to turn down the offer. I want all the loose ends tied up before I leave in four or five weeks.”
The man traced a finger around the rim of his mug. “Would you consider putting off your buyer until then if there was a chance the town could come up with a way to buy the lighthouse?”
This guy was as pie-in-the-sky as Marci.
“Yes—but as I told your wife’s boss, I don’t see that happening.”
“I agree the odds are long, but Marci is putting together some sort of think tank to tackle the issue. They might come up with a plan that could be feasible.”
A think tank spearheaded by Marci.
Why was he not surprised?
“I don’t know how agreeable the buyer would be to me deferring my decision.”
“Would you be willing to ask? All he could do is say no.”
That was true.
And if there was even a remote possibility of saving the light Skip had loved, why not put the question on the table?
“Sure. I can do that. I’ll have my realtor contact him. But I’m curious. Why are you so interested in the light?”
“I used to hang around up there with my friends when I was a kid.” His features softened, and the corners of his lips rose a fraction. “Some of my happiest memories are the hours I spent there in the imaginary worlds we created, defending the place from pirates and rescuing ships in distress, or pretending it was a castle under siege. Going up there gives me a lift.”
It appeared everyone in town had a soft spot for Skip’s folly.
“I’ll call my agent this morning and let you know what the buyer has to say.”
“That’d be super.” He finished his coffee and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I wouldn’t want to keep you from that.” He waved at the dusty boxes from the basement lining one wall in the kitchen.
“Trust me, I’m in no rush to plunge back below deck.”
He followed his neighbor to the door, where the man shook his hand, apologized again for his prior rudeness, and thanked him for the coffee.
Yet as Greg walked down the path toward the street and Ben closed the door, he had a feeling the man’s visit had been prompted as much by his concern over the fate of Pelican Point light as by his apology.
And truth be told, he’d like to see a different outcome too.
In fact, if Marci had been willing to discuss the situation rationally on Monday, they might have been able to find some common ground.
But no.
She’d waved her hands in the air and spouted nonsense about miracles and accused him of betraying Skip’s legacy.
His mouth tightened as he strode back to the kitchen.
He hadn’t exactly been Mr. Congeniality himself—but anyone would have gotten defensive in the face of such an onslaught. Short of yelling back at her, walking away had been his only option.
However . . . he wasn’t an unreasonable man. While Greg’s idea might not lead anywhere, he was willing to ask the buyer to wait four weeks for an answer. If the nameless man with deep pockets said yes, Marci and her think tank would get their opportunity to come up with a viable alternative.
It was the least he could do for Skip.
And it will make Marci happy too.
He blew out a breath and set his mug down on the counter with more force than necessary.
So what?
He didn’t give a lick whether she was happy or not.
Liar, liar.
Ignoring the taunt from his conscience, he plunged back into Skip’s black hole of a basement that seemed to produce two new boxes for every one he hauled up the steps.
At this rate, it would take a full three weeks to empty the place.
In the meantime, he’d stay far away from the fiery redhead. Now that he and Greg were communicating, he could funnel any news about the light through him to his wife, who could in turn inform her boss.
It was a perfect plan.
Because while life might be more boring without Marci’s jade eyes flashing his direction and her sizzling energy setting off sparks to rival Fourth of July fireworks, his heart would be much, much safer.
8
Rachel checked her watch.
Ten minutes until her workday ended . . . and another thirty before she got home after a quick detour to the local grocery store for the OJ she’d forgotten on her trip to Coos Bay yesterday.
Her nerves began to ping.
What would be waiting for her at the house tonight?
Would Greg be like he’d been last night, genial and communicative . . . or would he default to his previous ornery, taciturn behavior?
And if he did regress, what was she going to do about it?
Her stomach knotted.
Maybe she shouldn’t have issued the ultimatum that could hold dire consequences for both of them.
But if she hadn’t, would whatever Dan had said to his brother have had as much impact?
Closing the document on the screen in front of her, she massaged her temple.
It was so hard to know what to do.
Counseling might help them sort through the mess, but Greg had been clear that he’d had his fill of what he called psychobabble before he mustered out of the service.
And she doubted whether a solo trip on her part would resolve their issues.
Her phone began to vibrate, and she pulled it out, keeping an eye on Marci, who was frowning at her laptop screen and typing at a furious pace. She must be working on next week’s editorial about the proposed commercial building code revision that would clean up the disreputable Sea Haven Apartment complex on the outskirts of town.
A short, quiet conversation shouldn’t distract Marci while she was in passionate prose mode.
Rachel scanned her cell—and her breath hitched.
Uh-oh.
Greg never called her at work. All phone communication originated with her.
Pulse accelerating, she put the
phone to her ear and angled away from Marci. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Sorry to bother you at the office, but I have some information you might want to share with your boss.”
As she listened to him recount his visit with their neighbor this morning, her eyebrows rose.
She definitely owed Dan a thank-you call.
Whatever he’d said during his visit on Monday appeared to be having a domino effect. A shared spaghetti dinner last night, evidence in the spare bedroom that Greg was buckling down on his PT, and now an impromptu social visit with a neighbor.
Her spirits began to lift, like one of Hope Harbor’s whimsical mists.
“. . . defer for four weeks.”
Drat.
She’d lost the thread of the conversation.
“I’m sorry . . . I missed the last couple of sentences.”
“I said, Ben checked, and the lighthouse buyer agreed to give him four weeks to consider the offer. That should buy your boss and her think tank some breathing room.”
Rachel stared at the poster on the wall across from her.
“Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.”
The words were pretty . . . and they summed up how Marci approached life . . . but the sentiment had never resonated with her.
Until now.
Maybe she needed to shoot for the moon . . . with Greg. Push him to build on whatever Dan had started during his visit and the ultimatum she’d issued. She might not manage to fully restore the relationship they’d enjoyed during their courtship and early days of marriage—but they’d have to end up in a better place than they were now.
It was worth a try, anyway.
“I’ll let her know. Thanks for asking him to do that.” She curled her fingers tighter around the phone and dropped her volume yet again. “By the way, Marci’s having an open meeting about the lighthouse tomorrow night. She sent an email to the Herald mailing list and I put up a few flyers around town for her. After that, she’ll form her think tank committee. Why don’t you attend?”
Please, Lord, let this project pique his interest so he has something to do all day besides sit in the dark house or up on the cliff lamenting over everything he’s lost.
A few silent seconds passed, and her heart sank.
He was going to refuse.
Without giving him a chance to reject her suggestion, she jumped back in. “It’s going to be in the fellowship hall at Grace Christian. I think she’s expecting a large group. You could sit in the back and listen in if you want to. You don’t have to participate.”
“I haven’t been inside a church in months, Marci.”
“This is the hall, not the sanctuary. And Reverend Baker is very laid-back. I don’t know if he’ll attend, but you don’t have to worry if he does. He welcomes everyone. He won’t make you feel uncomfortable for not coming to services with me.”
“I know him. He came to Grace Christian when I was thirteen.” A beat ticked by. “Have you talked to him about our . . . situation?”
As his voice took on a harder edge, she lifted her chin. “No. That’s between us—and God.”
“You wanted us to go to a counselor.”
“I still think that might be helpful—but I wouldn’t share our history with anyone without talking to you first.”
“Okay.” He exhaled. “I’ll think about the meeting. Are you coming home soon?”
“After I pass on the news about the reprieve to Marci and swing by the grocery store.”
“I put a chicken in the oven. It’ll be ready at five-thirty.”
He was fixing dinner again? The man whose entire culinary repertoire included his mom’s spaghetti sauce and throwing some meat on the grill?
“I . . . uh . . . didn’t know you knew how to cook chicken.”
“I didn’t—until about three hours ago. I found a recipe for beer-can chicken online that sounded . . . unique. But I’ve got the pizza place’s number on hand if this is a bust.”
Beer-can chicken.
Yeah, they could end up eating pizza.
But hey, he was making an effort.
“We might be surprised.” She tried for an optimistic tone.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. See you soon.”
The line went dead . . . but a surge of new life infused Rachel’s heart.
For the past two days, a glimmer of the old Greg was back. And now, a touch of humor.
Meaning that maybe . . . just maybe . . . her newly adopted town might live up to its name after all.
Was it possible life at home was improving for her assistant?
As she continued to type, Marci peeked at the woman.
Rachel was still sitting at her desk, phone in hand. But in the past, a conversation with her husband often left a glimmer of tears in her eyes.
Today, however, she looked happy—and a distinctly positive emotion was wafting across the room.
It felt a lot like hope.
Rachel swiveled in her chair and faced her, too quick for Marci to avert her gaze.
Whoops.
No way to hide the fact she’d been watching her.
Marci stopped typing. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. Fine. And I have some news I think you’ll be happy to hear.”
As her assistant told her about the lighthouse sale reprieve Greg had negotiated with his next-door neighbor—none other than Ben Garrison—Marci’s mouth dropped open.
The man who’d cut her off cold on Monday and walked away after she’d asked him to do the right thing . . . well, okay, demanded might be a more accurate word . . . was having second thoughts?
“Your husband must have powerful persuasion skills.”
“He does. Greg can be calm, rational, and diplomatic if he chooses to be.”
Yeah, those would be handy skills to have instead of getting all worked up and flying off the handle. It was always better to cool off before flinging yourself headfirst into a potentially volatile discussion.
She’d have to work on that one of these days.
But for now . . . she had a four-week grace period to come up with a solution for the lighthouse.
Hallelujah!
“This is huge, Rachel. When I tell the group tomorrow night that Ben’s receptive to ideas to save the light and won’t finalize the sale for a month, everyone will be pumped. Is Greg coming to the meeting?”
“I’m going to try to persuade him, but he doesn’t think he’d have much to offer.”
“That’s crazy! He has a history in this town, he loves the lighthouse, and I know he’s creative. He came up with the idea that sold Lou on a regular ad, didn’t he? I got nowhere with the man for two years. Please tell him I’d appreciate it if he’d attend.”
“I will—but I can’t make any promises.” She stood. “Do you need me to do anything else today?”
“No. Go on home and enjoy your evening.”
“You know . . . I think I will.” She grinned, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked out with a new bounce in her step.
As Rachel exited, Marci sank back in her chair, swiveled toward the window, and watched her assistant pass by.
Life sure could take some curious twists.
She might not be happy with how she’d handled her last encounter with Ben, but if they’d parted on more pleasant terms—perhaps even arrived at a compromise—Greg might not have come out of his cave and gotten involved.
Whatever the reason for this hopeful development, if he showed up for the meeting tomorrow night, she wasn’t going to let him get away until she had a commitment from him to serve on the think tank. Working on a project like this could offer him a new perspective . . . which in turn might help bolster his marriage.
She tapped her fingers on her desk and watched two seagulls circle over Rachel as she crossed the street toward her car.
All these weeks, her efforts to offer her assistant a sympathetic ear had met with zero success. But now—thanks to an
endangered lighthouse—the tide might be turning for both her and her husband.
Could this be the opportunity to help that Charley had suggested might come her way—albeit in a form she’d never expected?
It was possible.
All she knew was that she was going to run with it—for the sake of Pelican Point light, for Ned’s dream, and for a young couple who were in desperate need of a fresh start.
“Dr. Garrison? I’ll show you back to Dr. Allen’s office now.”
Ben closed his email, stowed his cell, and rose from his chair in the Coos Bay orthopedic surgeon’s tastefully decorated waiting room that was as warm and inviting as a space like this could be.
At least the man hadn’t left him to cool his heels for an hour.
One mark in his plus column.
But he was more interested in the physician’s skill than his punctuality.
Ben followed the scrubs-clad woman down the corridor in the office Allen shared with another orthopedic surgeon. The place appeared to be white-glove clean, and the equipment he glimpsed through a couple of doors was state of the art. The office staff also came across as professional and buttoned up.
All of which fit with the research he’d done online—as well as the brief chats he’d had with two patients in the waiting room.
Unless everything he’d discovered was off base, Jonathan Allen hadn’t made any missteps with Skip’s treatment.
But he needed to be certain about that.
“He’ll join you as soon as he finishes with his current patient, Doctor.” The woman stopped at an office doorway. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He crossed the room, claimed a cushioned chair in front of the desk, and gave the room a methodical survey.
The diplomas on the walls matched his research, including one from Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, which boasted a top-ranked orthopedic program. There were also a number of Best Doc certificates from national magazines and organizations. And the framed letters thanking Allen for his service on the board of the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons and the editorial board of the American Journal of Orthopedics were impressive.
Allen had some prestigious professional credentials.
The personal items in the office were also instructive.
