by Irene Hannon
A photo featuring a couple in their forties surrounded by three smiling children ranging in age from about eight to mid-teens hinted at a happy family life.
Two bookshelves displaying numerous medical titles along with volumes on sailing suggested he had a serious hobby.
And front and center on his desk, a small, lopsided box made of popsicle sticks—perhaps crafted by his youngest daughter?—and filled with Tootsie Rolls indicated the man had a sweet tooth.
That sweet tooth, however, wasn’t apparent when the doctor entered the office a few moments later and extended his hand. He was fit and trim, the brush of silver at his temples and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes the only indications he was on the cusp of middle age.
“Please.” He waved Ben back into his chair as he started to rise. After snagging a file off his desk, the man took the seat beside him rather than across the expanse of mahogany—a gesture that leveled the playing field by positioning them as colleagues.
Courteous touch.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” Ben settled back into his chair. “As I explained to your office manager on the phone, I’m an orthopedic surgeon too. Fresh out of the army. Since my grandfather didn’t tell me about his knee problems, I’d like to get a sense of what was going on.”
Empathy filled the man’s eyes. “Of course. I’d want to do the same in your place. And please accept my condolences on your loss. Ned was an exceptional person.”
“Thank you. He’ll be missed.” Ben indicated the folder in the man’s hands. “I’m sure you’re busy, and I don’t want to encroach too much on your day. If you could give me a quick briefing on his treatment and the issues that came up, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll be happy to.” Allen flipped open the folder and essentially repeated the story Eric Nash had relayed in his law office, embellished with more detail—including MRI scans and various other test results.
By the time he finished explaining the case and answering questions, Ben was satisfied. The protocols the man had followed, his thoroughness, and the reasons for his treatment decisions were beyond reproach. Infections did happen with knee replacements, and Allen had addressed the complications exactly as he would have done.
“I tried to avoid the intramedullary arthrodesis, because your grandfather was a vigorous man and I knew fusing the femur and tibia would restrict his activities.” The doctor’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “But we couldn’t get the infection under control—and that choice was better than the alternative.”
Yes, it had been. Skip would have hated the notion of amputation.
Kind of like his neighbor did.
“I agree with every treatment choice you made. I just wanted to review the case for my own peace of mind.”
“Understood.” Allen closed the file folder and laid it back on his desk. “If you’d like a copy of any of the records, we’ll be happy to provide them.”
“Not necessary.”
The man leaned back, as if he was in no hurry to end their conversation. “Are you in town to wrap up your grandfather’s affairs, or are you settling here?”
“The former. I’ll be joining a friend’s practice in Columbus, Ohio.”
“Given your credentials, I can understand the appeal of a big-city practice. I imagine you’ve amassed more experience than most doctors acquire in a lifetime.”
“A degree from Johns Hopkins would also provide entrée to an established, big-city practice.” Ben indicated the diploma on the wall. After everything he’d read and observed about this man, Allen could have aimed higher than a small practice in a town the size of Coos Bay.
“True—and that’s where I thought I’d end up while I was in medical school and during my residency. As a matter of fact, I had my eye on a practice in Chicago.”
“What happened—if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not at all. After I met my wife, who’s from Coos Bay and has strong family ties here, my priorities shifted.”
“Ah.” Ben smiled. “The power of love can be mighty.”
“Yes, it can. Besides, patients are patients wherever you treat them, and the needs here are as pressing as those in Chicago or Seattle or San Francisco. Plus, to quote that old movie, Field of Dreams, I’ve learned that if you build it, they will come—assuming you offer first-class care, which we do. The truth is, we can’t keep up with the demand.”
“So you never had any regrets about passing up the Chicago opportunity?”
“Not a one. I’m as busy as I want to be—too busy at the moment, as is my partner—a situation we need to address soon. I also live in one of the most beautiful spots on the planet surrounded by a wonderful family. What more could I ask?”
“That sounds like something my grandfather would have said.”
“Come to think of it, I may have stolen a few of those lines from him.” One side of Allen’s mouth hitched up. “He was a smart man—and quite the armchair philosopher.”
“Yes, he was.” Ben stood. He’d used up too much of this doctor’s busy day. “Thank you for all you did for him.”
Allen rose too and extended his hand. “It was a privilege to have him as a patient. Let me show you out the back way.”
As they walked down the hall toward a door that bypassed the waiting room, Ben asked a few polite questions about the other physician in the practice and the hospital facilities in the area.
Yet as he said goodbye and left the Coos Bay orthopedic surgeon’s office behind, one of Allen’s comments kept replaying in his mind.
“Patients are patients wherever you treat them, and the needs here are as pressing as those in Chicago or Seattle or San Francisco.”
That was true.
However . . . big-city practices had more resources available. More hospital options. Potentially a bigger variety of cases.
And that had been Allen’s first choice too—absent a strong personal incentive to make Coos Bay his base.
Ben stepped outside the medical building, into bright sunshine, and struck off for his truck.
But his mind remained on the conversation with Allen rather than the buzz of activity around him on the busy street.
If his circumstances were similar to the other man’s, he might choose a different route too. Other than his med school buddy in Columbus, he didn’t know a soul in the city. And while the professional challenges might keep him busy during the workday, his after-hours life was liable to be lonely for the foreseeable future.
And Columbus would be nothing like Hope Harbor, where everyone knew everybody else’s business—and almost the entire population showed up to bid farewell to a beloved, longtime resident. Where people cared about their neighbors, and the pace of life felt slower . . . and more reasonable.
Small towns had much to recommend them.
Maybe someday, once he was ready to think about romance again, he might relocate to a place like Hope Harbor. With his credentials, he should be able to find a slot in a practice like Allen’s without any difficulty—and a small town would be an ideal place to raise a family.
Truth be told . . . with the right incentive, he might consider staying now.
An image of Marci’s face flashed through his mind, and he scowled as he thumbed the automatic door opener and strode across the parking lot toward Skip’s truck.
She was not an incentive.
Just the opposite.
The Hope Harbor Herald’s editor was the last woman on earth who should be on his radar screen.
If or when he fell in love, he intended to pick someone with a placid, even-keeled temperament who thought before she spoke and who knew how to present a calm, reasoned argument instead of going ballistic and hurling insults and accusations.
In other words, the polar opposite of Marci Weber.
He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and pointed the truck toward Hope Harbor.
Too bad about those flyaway emotions, though—because she did have some fine quali
ties. She cared deeply and wasn’t afraid to put herself on the line for people—and things—she loved. Her tears on the Suzy Q, her attempt to apologize the night she’d called the police on him, her efforts to save a town landmark were all admirable.
Not to mention that she was one gorgeous woman. Long after he left Hope Harbor, he had a feeling her sparkling green eyes, slender curves, and vibrant hair would continue to strobe through his mind.
But he’d had enough of volatile women to last a lifetime. Unruly emotions were a deal breaker, plain and simple.
He paused at a stoplight and leaned forward to switch stations on the radio. Halted mid-reach to squint across the street.
Was that Marci now? Coming out of what appeared to be a vintage clothing store?
She stopped and pivoted, as if someone had hailed her, and he followed her line of sight.
Charley was strolling toward her.
Suspicion confirmed.
It was Marci.
Odd that she’d show up while he was thinking about her.
He watched the two Hope Harbor residents chat until an impatient beep from behind forced him to accelerate through the now-green light.
With Marci’s hair glinting in the sun, it wasn’t difficult to keep tabs on the duo in his rearview mirror for a full block.
But at last they disappeared from view.
And that was just as well, based on the sudden jump in his pulse when she’d walked out the door of the shop.
At another time . . . with another woman . . . he might have let himself fall for a local resident and altered his career plans, as Jonathan Allen had done for the woman he loved.
Yet even if the perfect match came along, the timing in his case was just plain bad. He needed some distance from the last woman who’d complicated his life before he trusted himself to dip his toes into romance.
So he’d keep his eyes fixed on Columbus . . . and pray that when the day came for him to leave Hope Harbor, he could walk away and forget all about lighthouses, legacies—and the lovely Marci Weber.
9
Almost all hundred seats in the fellowship hall had been claimed, and the meeting wasn’t scheduled to start for fifteen minutes.
They needed more chairs.
Marci scanned the room, homing in on Reverend Baker, who was having what appeared to be a lively conversation with Father Murphy from St. Francis church.
Weaving through the clusters of people grouped around the edges of the rows, she approached the two clergymen.
“. . . and alternate the sessions between our churches.” Reverend Baker consulted his cell phone. “Would Wednesday night be a possibility?”
“No. Our men’s club meets then. What about Tuesday?”
“That should work.” Reverend Baker caught sight of her and lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello, Marci. You’ve got quite a turnout.”
“Of course she does. Saving the lighthouse is a worthy cause. We all love our landmark.” Father Murphy beamed at her. “I can’t recall the number of times I’ve used that icon in a homily.”
“Better you should use a biblical analogy.” The minister sniffed.
The priest narrowed his eyes. “I use plenty of those too. And speaking of the Bible . . .” He redirected his attention to her. “We have some news for the Herald.”
“No, we don’t.” Reverend Baker sent the padre an exasperated look. “Not yet, anyway. We only came up with the idea today. There are a host of details to work out.”
Father Murphy dismissed his objection with a wave. “We’ll get to those. But we’re in agreement on the concept, and since it’s never been done here, I think the idea is worthy of a small mention in the next issue of the Herald.”
“Why don’t we let Marci decide?”
Both clergymen turned to her—but before they could launch into their spiel, she held up a hand.
“I’m always interested in news, but I have a more immediate concern.” She swept a hand over the room as the last few seats were claimed. “We’re running out of chairs.”
The two clerics surveyed the hall.
“Indeed we are.” Reverend Baker slid his cell back into his pocket. “I’m afraid we got carried away with our discussion and lost track of what was going on around us.”
“Evening, everyone.” Charley materialized at her elbow, dressed in his usual jeans, T-shirt, and a Ducks cap. “I think we need more seats. Why don’t I round up a few men to set up some more chairs?”
“Would you, Charley? That would be a huge help!” She smiled her thanks.
“No problem. I’m glad to see such a big turnout for the meeting.” He touched the brim of his cap and moseyed back toward the crowd.
“Now that we’ve solved the seating issue, we’ll tell you about the brainstorm we had today—on the golf course, no less. And they claim nothing productive happens on the links.” Father Murphy grinned and nudged her arm with his elbow. “Now for the big news—St. Francis and Grace Christian are going to sponsor a joint adult Bible study class this summer. Isn’t that an inspired idea?”
“Yes. Inspired.” She peeked at her watch. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I get with you both tomorrow to talk about it some more?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Of course, your parishioners will have to do some remedial work before the first session.” Reverend Baker’s tone was serious, but the twinkle in his eye tipped Marci off that she was about to witness some of the clergymen’s good-natured jibing.
“Hmph.” Father Murphy adjusted his clerical collar. “Despite your misguided notions, Catholics are not Bible illiterates.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“This is supposed to be a learning session for everyone, not a contest.”
“True. I don’t plan to keep score—do you?”
“Certainly not. I only keep score between the two of us.”
Reverend Baker tut-tutted. “That must be a very depressing exercise. Remind me how far you are in the hole.”
“Hey!” Father Murphy bristled with mock indignation. “I’ve bested you the last two out of three.”
“I do have to admit your game is improving.” The minister’s lips twitched.
“More than your golf score is.” Father Murphy winked at Marci as he delivered his zinger.
She covered her chuckle with a cough. “I’ll let you two finish this discussion in private. I have a meeting to start.”
Leaving them to their friendly sparring, she moved to the front of the room, collected her notes, and took her place behind the microphone.
As the crowd settled down, she gave the attendees a quick once-over. After two years here, she recognized many of the faces.
Michael and Tracy from the cranberry farm. Eric Nash and his wife, BJ. Sheriff Lexie Graham Stone and her new husband, Adam. Eleanor Cooper, seated beside Luis Dominguez, the Cuban immigrant who’d lost so much in his flight to freedom. Anna Williams, who had apparently once been a recluse but was now front and center at every civic event. Charley. Brent Davis.
Even Jeannette Mason from Bayview Lavender Farm had come. She might not be an official Hope Harbor resident, but she was a regular at the weekly farmers’ market in the summer and a familiar face around town.
But the one person she’d most hoped would attend was nowhere to be seen.
Greg Clark.
Stifling her disappointment, she forced herself to focus on the agenda in front of her. She could always make a personal pitch later for his involvement.
After welcoming everyone, sharing the news that they had close to four weeks to come up with a solution, and explaining the think tank she’d be forming after the meeting, she opened the floor to discussion.
As the first person walked toward the microphone in the center aisle, the rear door opened. Greg Clark slipped inside and claimed a seat near the back.
Yes!
Even if he didn’t contribute, he was here.
That was huge.
&n
bsp; For the next twenty minutes, a number of people claimed the mic to reminisce about Pelican Point light or offer suggestions to save it while Marci took copious notes.
Only after the comments waned did Greg rise and approach the microphone.
He introduced himself, and Marci smiled her encouragement.
“I arrived a little late, but I did hear all the input. I’m not an expert on this sort of thing, but I do have a few thoughts that might be worth considering.”
“All ideas are welcome.” Marci held up her pad of paper. “I’m recording every one, and the think tank committee will review each of them over the next few days.”
“Well . . .” He rubbed his palms down his jeans. “It seems to me we need a rallying cry. A slogan people can latch on to. Something like ‘See the Light.’”
A smattering of applause and “hear, hears” echoed throughout the room.
“I like that.” Marci wrote it in the notebook. “Much catchier than ‘Save the Lighthouse.’ Please, go on.”
“Even with serious effort over the next four weeks, I don’t know if it’s possible for us to match in one fell swoop the price offered by the anonymous person who wants to buy the property.”
When he relayed the amount, a collective groan rippled through the group.
“But . . .”—he held up his hand—“if we can generate sufficient interest in the project and lock in some longer-term commitments to assure funds will continue to come in, we might be able to work out a payment plan with Ben Garrison.”
Ha.
Maybe Greg could do that—but she doubted the army doctor would be amenable to anything she proposed.
“It’s still a pile of money.” The callout came from someone sitting near the back.
Greg angled that direction. “We could also ask him if he might be willing to take part of the value as a tax write-off, which would reduce the price.”
“I like it. That could have possibilities.” Marci continued to scribble. “Any thoughts on how to deal with the costs of restoration and ongoing maintenance?”
“There are resources in town we could tap for some of that. For example, the Hope Harbor garden club might be willing to take care of the grounds, at least initially.”
