Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  Hard to tell without a bit more probing.

  “I, uh, don’t know why you want to bother—aside from some sense of professional obligation. We didn’t exactly part on the best terms after our last conversation.”

  He shoved his free hand in his pocket. “I might have overreacted at the lighthouse that day.”

  He’d overreacted?

  Not even close.

  “The blame is all mine. I can get kind of emotional about causes I believe in.”

  “I figured that out.” A trace of amusement glinted in his blue irises as he urged her forward. “If we stand here talking any longer, we’re going to be soaked. We could have been halfway to your house already if we’d left five minutes ago.”

  Give it up, Marci. Whatever his reasons, let him take you home. It’s what you want him to do, anyway.

  “I bow to your logic. Let’s go.” She started walking again.

  He held her arm until they reached the truck, then gave her a boost up.

  Another whiff of the subtle masculine scent she’d first noticed on the Suzy Q, after the service for Ned, wafted her way.

  The one that had fixed itself in her memory like a barnacle to a boat hull.

  And it was very, very potent.

  She cracked her window and sucked in some cool air as her pulse stumbled.

  This was not good.

  Ben Garrison might have much to recommend him—but he wasn’t for her.

  Maybe, at another time, if their paths had been destined to intersect for more than a handful of weeks and her memories from Atlanta no longer had the ability to spook her, exploring the electricity zipping between them might have been an option.

  But this wasn’t that time.

  And letting herself get carried away would be a bad mistake.

  It was a shame, though. If their timing had been better, who knew where this might have led?

  She sighed as Ben circled around the front to the driver’s seat.

  Wishing the circumstances were different was foolish. She needed to accept reality and be strong.

  So when they got back to the house, she’d thank him for all his help today—and for his willingness to work with them on the lighthouse project—then send him on his way with a polite handshake and a goodbye at her front door.

  No matter how much she wanted to invite him in.

  11

  He didn’t want to say goodbye at her front door.

  As Ben rounded the last curve on Pelican Point Road, he slid a glance toward Marci.

  She’d been quiet on the short ride back from the urgent care center. Now, her lower lip was caught between her teeth, and parallel grooves scored her forehead.

  Not a promising sign that she was going to invite him in.

  In fact, she probably wanted to ditch him as fast as possible once they got back.

  And that would be a prudent move—for both their sakes—even if a different outcome held more appeal.

  But while his reasons for walking a wide circle around emotional women were sound, why was she reluctant to spend time with him?

  Could be she just didn’t want to form an attachment to a guy who was only passing through . . . yet that didn’t explain the flicker of fear in her eyes when they’d tumbled together onto the ground after the guttering gave way. Or all the security at her house.

  Was there a more disturbing reason she wanted to keep her distance? A bad experience somewhere in her history?

  If so, could he convince her to tell him about it?

  He risked another peek at her furrowed brow.

  Nope. Not based on that off-putting expression.

  And why should she?

  People didn’t share personal secrets with new acquaintances.

  “Annabelle’s back in the tree.”

  At Marci’s comment, he shifted mental gears and squinted through the mist. “She’s on her own this go-round.”

  “Unless she’s hurt.”

  “What are the odds that would happen twice in the space of two weeks?” He swung into the driveway.

  “Very low.” She gave him a slow smile. “But I bet you’re going to check anyway.”

  Maybe she knew him better than he thought, despite their short history.

  “I might take a quick look.”

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  Was that a compliment?

  “You approve of my compulsiveness?” He set the brake.

  “No. Your compassion.”

  His hand stilled.

  Okay.

  It was a compliment.

  And while mist might be obscuring the sun, his day inexplicably brightened.

  “Wait here while I scope out the situation. Then I’ll walk you to your door.”

  Without waiting for a response, he slid out of the truck and strode over to the base of the tree.

  As he approached, the amber-eyed feline gave a loud meow.

  She was in the exact same spot she’d occupied two weeks ago—but this afternoon she didn’t appear to be injured.

  “Sorry, Annabelle. You’ll have to find your own way down today.”

  She gave another plaintive yowl and extended a paw toward him.

  “I’m on to you, kitty. Marci clued me in. Enjoy the view up there—until you get hungry and decide to come back to earth for a meal.”

  With that, he pivoted, retraced his steps to the truck, and opened Marci’s door.

  “No rescue today?”

  “Nope. Fool me once and all that. Except the night I arrived in town she wasn’t fooling, so I’ll cut her some slack.”

  “You wised up faster than I did. She got me quite a few times with that trick until I figured out her scam. What some creatures won’t do for a little attention.”

  He stiffened as Marci scooted out of the truck, but he managed to mask his reaction before she looked up at him. No reason to let her know she’d touched a nerve with a remark meant in jest.

  Forcing up the corners of his lips, he waved a hand toward her door. “Better get inside. The mist is heavier up here.”

  “And it’s chillier.” She fished her keys out of her purse. “You must be cold.”

  While he was standing within touching distance of her, inhaling that distinctive whisper of jasmine?

  Not one bit.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll give you your sweatshirt back once we get to the porch.”

  Suspicion confirmed.

  She wasn’t going to ask him in.

  Stifling a foolish surge of disappointment, he took her arm and guided her toward the door. “No hurry. You can give it to me tomorrow when I stop by to change the dressing on your arm.”

  As the words spilled out of his mouth, he frowned.

  What on earth had prompted that?

  She came to an abrupt halt at the steps to her front porch, looking as surprised as he felt. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know, but . . .” He scrambled to come up with a logical reason for his impromptu offer. “There, uh, will be some blood.”

  Some of the color leached from her face. “How much?”

  “Not a lot. How much does it take to make you queasy?”

  “Not a lot.”

  That’s what he’d assumed.

  “It’s up to you . . . but in light of what happened today, you might want to let me handle wound care tomorrow. After that, there should be minimal, if any, blood on the dressing.”

  Grimacing, she fingered her key ring. “At this rate, you’re going to be sorry you ever crossed paths with me. I’m becoming a pest.”

  “I wouldn’t use that term.”

  “Thanks for being diplomatic.”

  More like honest—but better to leave that unsaid.

  “What time would work best for you?”

  “Are you going to services in the morning?”

  Good question.

  He hadn’t attended any yet, other than the one for Skip—but he ought to get
back into the habit. Now that he was stateside again, with a more reasonable schedule, there was no excuse to skip a weekly visit with God.

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “I’ll be at the eight-thirty. We have donuts afterward, and I always help serve. I should be home by ten-thirty.”

  “Why don’t I meet you here about noon?”

  “Would you rather I come to Ned’s house?”

  “No.” He flashed her a grin. “And you wouldn’t offer if you could see the place. All the rooms are piled with boxes, and the dust bunnies have taken up permanent residence. I was planning to swing by the lighthouse tomorrow anyway. Skip and I used to do that every Sunday after church.”

  Another wave of mist swept in, and she moved up under the porch roof. “I’ll let you go before you get soaked . . . but I do want to thank you for asking your buyer to wait four weeks for an answer to his offer. I’ve formed a committee to work on ideas. Our first meeting is tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I heard about that from Greg. And for the record, I hope you succeed. You may not believe this after our last discussion at the lighthouse, but I’d like to save it too, if possible.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” More damp air coiled around them. “You’d better get going or you’ll be socked in. I’ll thank you properly tomorrow for the lighthouse reprieve.” She stuck a key in the knob and turned it. Fitted a second one into the dead bolt that was inches from a security system sticker.

  As she pushed open her door, the alarm began to beep.

  His cue to exit. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks again.”

  She closed the door, and as he stepped off the porch, a slider lock was pushed into place with a muffled snick.

  Marci had a serious hang-up about security.

  Perhaps tomorrow he could find out what was up with all her defensive measures.

  Curious as he was about her private Fort Knox, however, it was her parting comment that kept replaying in his mind while he jogged toward the truck.

  “I’ll thank you properly tomorrow for the lighthouse reprieve.”

  Of course she hadn’t meant anything personal with that remark.

  But the image running through his mind of what a proper thank-you from her could entail was very personal.

  And inappropriate.

  Ben slid behind the wheel and clamped his jaw together as the irony of his situation registered.

  Since the day they’d met, he’d been skittish about Marci’s volatile temperament. Out-of-control emotions were very, very scary.

  Yet he’d begun succumbing to the same affliction in her presence.

  Fingers gripping the wheel, he ticked off the evidence as he backed out of her driveway and accelerated toward town.

  The night she’d called the police on him, he’d been rude and terse. At the headland on Monday, he’d lost his usual cool. Earlier today, after she’d fallen off the ladder and tumbled into his arms, his emotions had been as tangled as their arms and legs.

  While he might hide his roiling feelings better than she did, they were there, no more than a microscopic layer below the surface.

  As for the electricity sparking between them—that, too, appeared to be short-circuiting the left side of his brain . . . and his common sense.

  It was almost as if Marci had infected his emotions with jumble-itis.

  Ben slowed to negotiate one of the trickier curves in the road, and the small, rustic wooden cross that had hung from Skip’s rearview mirror for as long as he could remember began to swing.

  Too bad his grandfather wasn’t around to offer some of the folksy, sage counsel he’d spouted each summer, some of it on this very road . . . and one particular piece on a misty day like this, not long after his parents separated during his tenth year.

  From the depths of his consciousness, the memory of that exchange surfaced.

  He and Skip had been driving through the fog, and during a lull in their conversation, he’d begun to think about the pending divorce. Tears had welled in his eyes—and much to his chagrin, one had spilled out.

  Naturally, Skip had noticed—and he’d reacted in his usual address-the-problem-rather-than-let-it-fester style.

  “It’s okay to have feelings, son. Good and bad. Never be ashamed to let them out.”

  “Grown-ups don’t c-cry.”

  “Who says?”

  “D-dad never cries.”

  Skip gave a dismissive wave. “He cried plenty growing up—and I expect he’s crying this summer too. It’s rough when two people who stand before God and vow to love each other forever decide they can’t keep that promise anymore.”

  Funny how Skip always seemed to know what was on his mind.

  “Maybe they didn’t try hard enough.”

  “Maybe. Or it could be they should never have made the promise in the first place.”

  “I wish they hadn’t.” He kicked at a piece of gravel on the floorboard. “I wish they’d never gotten married!”

  “No, you don’t.” Skip’s voice was calm and measured. “You wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t—and I wouldn’t have the finest grandson in the whole country.”

  “But . . . but how can people just stop loving each other?” Hard as he’d wrestled with that thorny question since Mom and Dad had told him the news, the answer had eluded him.

  “They don’t—if the love is real. The trick is to do everything you can to be sure it is before you say ‘I do.’”

  “How do you do that?”

  Skip smiled as he negotiated a curve. “If I had a magic formula to guarantee happy endings, I could make a million bucks—or two. Best I can offer is take your time, ask the good Lord for guidance . . . and cross your fingers. But you have a while yet until you need to worry about that.”

  “I don’t ever have to worry about that. I’m never getting married.” He clamped his arms across his chest. “It’s too scary.”

  “Yes, it is—but it’s also a beautiful adventure if you find the right mate to share it with.”

  He sidled a look at Skip. “Do you think Gram was the right one for you?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “But I heard you arguing the other day, when she got mad because you wouldn’t go to that town council meeting with her.”

  “Well, I never said love was always smooth sailing. Your grandmother can be a spitfire if she gets riled. She has more spirit than any woman I’ve ever met. But as long as you agree on the fundamentals, some feistiness can add tang to a marriage, like a brisk sea breeze can spice up a trip on the Suzy Q. It’s all a matter of balance. Too much breeze, the ride is rough. Too little, the journey is boring.”

  Frowning, Ben stopped at the intersection of Pelican Point Road and Highway 101. Waited until he had a clear view of the pavement through the fog to confirm it was safe to turn. Hung a right, back toward town.

  He didn’t want a rough ride once he got married—but a boring one didn’t hold any appeal either.

  And boring might be what he’d get with the placid, even-keeled type of woman he’d decided would make the perfect mate.

  Marci, on the other hand, would add a heaping measure of spice to a marriage. Whoever exchanged vows with her would never be bored. She was, as Greg had declared, a firecracker.

  Trouble was, while firecrackers were fun, they could also burn.

  So would Marci lead her husband into rough seas . . . or simply add tang to a marriage with her vivaciousness and spirit?

  Hard to say, thanks to the skewed perspective that had been Nicole’s legacy to him.

  Ben shuddered as an image strobed through his mind of the blonde woman who’d come within an inch of ruining his life.

  Talk about a close call.

  And until the sting of that experience faded, he needed to be vigilant—and wary—around every female he encountered . . . especially ones who wore their emotions on their sleeves.

&nbs
p; Like Marci.

  Even if every encounter with her made it more difficult to think about the not-too-distant day he would leave her—and Hope Harbor—behind.

  12

  “It’s about time you came back for another taco. How’s it going?”

  As Charley greeted him, Greg circled around two seagulls camped on the sidewalk near the taco stand and continued toward the counter. “Hanging in.”

  “More than that, I’d say. You were a force to be reckoned with at the lighthouse meeting. I’m not surprised Marci signed you up on the spot for her committee. The first gathering tomorrow should be lively.”

  “Did she rope you in too?”

  Charley chuckled. “Yep. It’s not easy to say no to our Herald editor. She’s a dynamo.”

  “I’m finding that out. But given our short timeframe, it might take a miracle to save the light.”

  “They do happen.”

  Greg let out a slow breath. “Not in my life.”

  “You don’t think so?” Charley rested his forearms on the counter and leaned down, his manner conversational.

  “Saving my leg would have been a miracle. Losing it wasn’t.” Hard as he tried to rein it in, a thread of bitterness wove through his words.

  “I guess it’s one of those glass half full/glass half empty situations.” Charley’s tone remained mild. Nonjudgmental.

  But Greg wasn’t touching that comment. Plenty of people had already told him to be grateful his life had been spared. He didn’t need another pep talk.

  “Yeah. Listen . . . can I get two orders of tacos?”

  “Sure. Saturday dinner for you and Rachel?” Charley moved over to the cooler and pulled out some fish fillets.

  “Uh-huh. She’s been working in the garden most of the afternoon. I told her I’d pay you a visit so she didn’t have to cook.”

  “Very considerate.” He laid the fish on the grill. “How’s that new rosebush doing?”

  Charley knew about the bush he’d refused to plant?

  “Fine . . . I think.” He narrowed his eyes as he watched the man. “Did Rachel talk to you about her garden?”

  “Yes. We’ve had several conversations about it. I can tell she loves working with flowers—but she’s in new territory here in Oregon. She’ll have to adapt what she knows to suit a very different climate.”