Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  Rose Marshall, the club president, jumped up. “I’d be more than happy to broach that with the group. Given the desperate situation, I’m confident we could find enough volunteers to handle the site for a few months—at the very least.”

  “That’s wonderful, Rose. Thank you.” Marci grinned at her, then looked back at Greg. “What about restoration?”

  “That could also be done by volunteers, as long as the work was supervised by a professional.”

  Eric’s wife stood. “I’d be happy to volunteer my services in an oversight capacity. I’ve done a couple of assessments of the light, and the good news is that it has no lead paint and only moderate water damage. There’s a lot of work to be done, but volunteers could handle the bulk of it. And some contractors might be willing to tackle the more dangerous exterior work pro bono if we can generate some positive PR for them.”

  “Thank you, BJ.” Marci continued jotting on her pad. “I can help on the PR front.”

  “Once the light is restored and the grounds are maintained, the biggest expense will be ongoing upkeep.” Greg shoved his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. “If we could make the lighthouse a paying proposition—perhaps create a venue for special events, like weddings—and market the property that way, the lighthouse upkeep might pay for itself in the end. It could even be profitable.”

  “Are you thinking the town would own the lighthouse?” Marci paused, pencil poised above her tablet.

  “That’s one option. Or we could form a nonprofit lighthouse foundation that would oversee the property, supported by various organizations in town—like the garden club.”

  “I’m liking this.” She scrawled a few more notes . . . weighed the odds of taking a risky plunge . . . decided to go for it. “I’m going to be assembling a committee later tonight that will pursue all these ideas, but I think you need to be a member.” She gave the assembled group a sweep. “How does everyone else feel about that?”

  Resounding applause echoed through the room.

  She smiled at him as his complexion reddened. “That sounds like a mandate to me. May I sign you up, Greg?”

  Putting the man on the spot might backfire—but if he agreed to assist in front of all these people, she was certain he’d honor the commitment.

  A few beats passed . . . a few more . . . and finally he gave a slow nod. “Sure.”

  In short order, Marci closed the meeting and flipped off the mic, mentally ticking off all the positive outcomes from this evening.

  The large turnout suggested the town was behind the campaign.

  Lots of innovative ideas had been put forward.

  Several people had volunteered their own services or the services of their organizations.

  And the icing on the cake?

  Greg Clark had not only come to the meeting but agreed to be part of her committee—surely a boon for both the lighthouse and his marriage.

  As she left the podium, Marci’s gaze landed on Charley, seated in the middle of the crowd.

  The corners of his mouth lifted . . . and he gave her a thumbs-up that felt like a stamp of approval.

  Did he, too, recognize that both Pelican Point light and a young man’s life—and marriage—might have been given a second chance this evening?

  Or was she reading too much into their quick, silent exchange?

  Hard to say.

  Yet both were true.

  And Marci wasn’t about to let either backslide in the days ahead.

  With one final scan of the stunning view from Pelican Point, Ben pulled out his keys and headed back to Skip’s truck.

  Taking a Saturday lunch break at the light while feasting on Charley’s tacos had been an inspired idea. Best seat in the house, no question about it—even if the place was wild and overgrown.

  Back behind the wheel, he wadded up his empty brown bag, downed the last swig of his soda, and stuck the key in the ignition.

  Some yard work, a trip to Grace Christian with all the boxes of quilting fabric he’d stacked in the kitchen, and a meeting with the realtor to discuss putting Skip’s house on the market would round out his afternoon.

  And tonight, maybe he’d treat himself to a movie in Bandon or Coos Bay. After more than two weeks without a break, he was ready for some R & R.

  As he approached Marci’s bungalow, which was tucked into a curve on the winding road that led to the headland, he frowned.

  Her bright blue Civic hadn’t been parked in the gravel drive when he’d passed by forty-five minutes ago. Nor had he expected it to be. Hadn’t she told him the day of Skip’s service that she often spent part of Saturday at the Herald?

  It was past noon now, though. She might have clocked out for the weekend.

  Just because she was home didn’t mean they had to cross paths, however. She was probably inside, doing laundry or cleaning the house or dealing with some other typical Saturday chore. He’d be willing to bet she wasn’t the outdoorsy type who might be puttering around in the . . .

  Whoops.

  She came around the side of the house, a ladder hooked over her shoulder—and he pressed on the brake.

  A futile attempt to avoid detection if ever there was one.

  There was only one driving route down from Pelican Point—and it went right past her house.

  Ben sighed.

  Too bad he hadn’t followed his first instinct an hour ago and hiked up.

  As it was, he’d have to tool on by. If she noticed him, he could offer a casual wave and keep going.

  Armed with that plan, he picked up speed again while she propped the ladder against the side of the house, pulled on a pair of gloves, and climbed up.

  All the way to the top.

  The very top.

  His foot shifted back to the brake.

  Was the woman crazy?

  Climbing that high up a ladder was dangerous.

  With one hand, she gripped the edge of the gutter, reached up into it with the other, and removed a handful of . . . stuff.

  She let the glob of nature’s castoffs fall to the ground and repeated the process.

  He slowed the truck to a crawl.

  After lobbing two more handfuls of gunk onto the grass, she descended the ladder, repositioned it, and climbed back up.

  It teetered, and his heart lurched as she grabbed the edge of the gutter to steady herself.

  Good grief.

  The woman needed someone to save her from herself.

  Since the closest neighbor was out of sight around the next bend in the road, and there was minimal car traffic on this winding, dead-end route, it appeared he was elected.

  Expelling a resigned breath, he parked on the shoulder and slid out from behind the wheel.

  Skip’s truck wasn’t the quietest-running vehicle he’d ever driven, and he was only a couple hundred feet from Marci, but she didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way.

  Odd.

  Unless she was concentrating so hard on her task she was oblivious to her surroundings.

  The best strategy might be to move close enough to assist if necessary and wait until she descended before announcing his presence. Startling her would only exacerbate an already dangerous situation.

  As he approached the ladder, however, a scampering squirrel suddenly appeared around the corner of the house—with Annabelle in hot pursuit. Both of the critters barreled straight toward him.

  Ben jolted to a stop.

  A second later, Marci noticed the racing duo. She jerked . . . tottered . . . clutched the edge of the guttering . . . and stabilized.

  Until she spotted him.

  Eyes widening, she jerked again . . . and the guttering wobbled.

  As Ben vaulted into a full-out sprint, the metal channel separated from the roof and Marci pitched sideways.

  He dove for her.

  Absorbed her weight.

  Fell to the grass in a tangle of arms, legs—and guttering.

  Once his lungs kicked back in, he turned his head .
. . and found a pair of wide green eyes less than twelve inches from his own.

  And for just a moment, he got lost in them.

  Totally.

  How had he never noticed the flecks of gold in those jade irises? Or the long sweep of her thick lashes? Or the fine sprinkling of freckles across her nose? Or the . . .

  “Oomph.” With a sudden shove, Marci extricated herself and scooted back on the grass, one earbud dangling. “What were you trying to do, make me fall and break my neck?”

  The scorching glare she lasered at him would ignite a fire better than a stack of dry kindling . . . but had there also been an infinitesimal flare of panic? Like she was afraid—of him?

  No.

  He must be mistaken.

  They might not be best buds, but she ought to know there was nothing to fear from him except a temporary hike in blood pressure thanks to their relentless sparring.

  He sat up. “You were standing on the top rung of a ladder!” Hiding behind righteous indignation would buy him a few seconds to get a grip on the unsettling emotions their close encounter had stirred up. “Nobody with any sense does that!”

  “They do when they have clogged gutters. Why did you sneak up on me, anyway?”

  “I didn’t sneak. How was I supposed to know you’d tuned out the world?” He waved at the hanging earbud. “And I had nothing to do with the cat-and-squirrel chase.”

  With one more withering look, she scrambled to her feet.

  But she left some blood behind.

  Ben stared at the bright red splashes staining the grass a few inches away and sprang up, doing a head-to-toe inspection as he spoke. “You’re bleeding.”

  “What?” She gave a slow blink.

  “You’re bleeding.” He motioned to the grass and closed the distance between them, homing in on a dark-edged tear in the arm of her purple sweatshirt. “There.” He took her cold hand. “Let me see.”

  Before she could protest, he gently peeled back the sleeve to reveal a three-inch-long gash on her left forearm.

  She gave a small gasp. “Yikes.”

  “It’s not long, but it could be deep. I need to wash it off and see. Let’s go in the house.”

  “Um . . .” She swayed.

  He grasped her shoulders, a surge of panic wicking away some of his professional composure. “What’s wrong? Did you hit your head?”

  “N-no. I just . . . I don’t do b-blood well.”

  The firecracker was squeamish?

  Not what he’d expected.

  “Don’t look at it. Lean on me and we’ll walk to the house together.”

  Without waiting for her to respond, he tucked her close to his side and urged her toward the Cape Cod structure—prepared to scoop her up into his arms if she showed any signs of doing a face-plant.

  At the back door, he tried the knob.

  It didn’t budge.

  Strange.

  “Did you lock this when you came out?”

  “Y-yeah.” She fished around in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a key ring. Fumbled through until she found the right one. Missed as she attempted to slide it into the slot, thanks to a bad case of the shakes.

  She hadn’t been kidding about being squeamish.

  “Let me.”

  He took the key from her icy fingers, inserted it, and pushed the door open.

  Once inside the kitchen, he guided her to the sink and twisted the faucet.

  “I think . . . I think I’m going to . . .” Her words faded out.

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, she leaned down and yanked open the cabinet door.

  She barely got the small trash can out before she lost her lunch. Breakfast too.

  He supported her while she retched, then snagged a dish towel that was draped over the adjacent oven handle, wet it, and did a fast cleanup job.

  If misery could be personified, Marci was it. Distress pooled in her irises, and the corners of her mouth sagged.

  “S-sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He tucked her hair behind her ear and gentled his voice. “I’ve seen worse. Now let’s get that arm cleaned up. I need to evaluate the cut. You might want to close your eyes.”

  He didn’t have to repeat the suggestion. She instantly squeezed them shut.

  Keeping one arm around her, he adjusted the water temperature and guided her arm under the flow.

  “H-how bad is it?” Her eyes were still clamped shut as she propped herself against him. Like she was afraid her legs might give out.

  “Not terrible. But it will need a few stitches.”

  She emitted a small groan. “This was so not on my agenda for today.”

  His either.

  But he couldn’t leave her in the lurch. Any other woman, he might be able to bandage up and send off to the nearest medical facility.

  That wasn’t an option with a fainter.

  “It shouldn’t take long to get this fixed up.” He shut off the water, pulled a bunch of paper towels off the roll, and guided her toward a chair. After padding the kitchen table with most of the towels, he set her arm down and draped a few loosely over the gash. “Do you have any first-aid supplies?”

  “In the linen closet. End of the hall on the left.”

  “Got it. I’ll be right back.”

  He passed through the kitchen, giving the adjoining open eating area and living room a fast survey.

  Smiled.

  The place felt like Marci.

  She may have inherited a furnished house, but unless she and her great-aunt had the exact same taste, she’d infused it with her personality.

  Bright cushions and wall hangings steeped the rooms with energy, while the open-hearth fireplace added a touch of warmth. None of the furnishings matched, yet somehow the overstuffed sofa draped with a quilt, a crammed bookcase, a crab pot topped with a piece of glass that served as a coffee table, and a collection of beach flotsam on a side table that had begun life as a large wooden industrial spool, all worked together to create a comfortable, inviting vibe.

  The house was also neat as the proverbial pin.

  Her emotions might be messy, but Marci’s living space was well-ordered.

  A charming dichotomy.

  He continued to the end of the hall, passing a guest bath that was also pristine, and quickly located the supplies in a box labeled First Aid beside neat stacks of towels, sheets, and extra blankets.

  The lady was more organized than he’d expected.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, blood was seeping through the draped paper towel—and Marci’s complexion was pasty.

  She shouldn’t have opened her eyes.

  “Do you have a pair of scissors?” He picked up his pace.

  No response.

  “Marci.” He firmed his tone.

  She lifted her chin, her eyes slightly glazed, and he repeated the question.

  “Y-yes. First drawer. There.” She waved toward a kitchen cabinet.

  He found them and rejoined her. “You might want to close your eyes again.”

  She didn’t argue.

  As he put some antiseptic ointment on the wound, applied a sterile pad, and secured it with gauze, he assessed her.

  She was as white as a sun-bleached bone—and he doubted her color would improve until the laceration was sewn up and the bleeding stopped.

  His next order of business.

  “Where’s the closest medical facility that can handle stitches?”

  “The urgent care clinic in t-town. I think they’re open on Saturday. If not, I’ll google Bandon or Coos Bay.”

  “Let me check the local place first.” He pulled out his cell and found the clinic website in less than a minute. “They’re open until two. Let’s go.”

  Twin furrows creased her brow as he stood. “You don’t need to take me. I can drive myself.”

  He hesitated.

  If he dug in his heels, she’d probably blow her top—as usual.

  Better to set this up so she was forced to a
dmit she needed help.

  If that didn’t work—he’d dig in his heels.

  “Fine. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Um . . . I think I’ll sit here for a few minutes first.”

  Ah.

  First step accomplished.

  She knew she was too shaky to get to her car.

  “I’ll wait until you’re ready to go.” He sat again.

  A tiny bit of color stole onto her cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. I take the Hippocratic Oath seriously. Walking away from a patient who needs treatment isn’t in my playbook.”

  “I don’t want to hold you up.” She fiddled with the edge of the temporary bandage. “I guess I’ll go now.”

  “Okay.” He stood again. “Is that your purse?” He indicated a shoulder bag on the counter.

  “Yes.”

  He snagged it as she sucked in some air. Stood. Held on to the back of her chair until her knuckles whitened.

  “Ready?” He indicated the back door.

  “Uh-huh.” She peeled her fingers off the chair and managed to cross the kitchen without swaying.

  At the door, she stopped at a security system keypad.

  He frowned.

  That was a first in Hope Harbor—as was all the defensive hardware on the back door.

  Sliding lock.

  Dead bolt.

  Knob lock.

  There was more security in this place than a government office building. Far more than the average citizen of this town would need.

  What was the story behind it?

  “We have thirty seconds to get out.” Key in hand, she opened the door, twisted the lock in the knob, and exited onto the small landing.

  He followed her out and took the key. “I’ve got this.”

  Alarm system still beeping, he secured the door and turned to her. If she were any other woman, he’d take her arm and help her down the one step to the path that led to the gravel driveway.

  With Marci, though, he needed to stick with his plan. Let her realize on her own that she wasn’t in any shape to get behind the wheel of a car.

  But Lord, she was stubborn as she plodded toward her car, one careful step after another, obviously determined to do this on her own.

  And he was running out of time.

  He’d wait until the last possible moment to intervene—but no way was he letting her drive to the clinic, even if that meant he was in for another argument.