Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

Marci was nothing like the woman who’d made his life a living hell.

  Yet she was wary. Her over-the-top security precautions proved that.

  Was it due to some phobia, like the one she had about blood—or was there a more sinister explanation?

  Not a question she was likely to answer today, given her silence in response to his comment about locks.

  The door banged shut behind him, and he shifted toward it.

  “Dessert’s ready.”

  She descended the single step, balancing the tray, and he strode across the lawn to take it from her.

  “Your gazebo awaits. You’ve done an incredible job with the gardens, by the way.”

  “Thanks. My aunt kept detailed notes and diagrams about what she planted, what worked, what didn’t. It seemed like a nice tribute to her to restore them.”

  “So you’re not an avid gardener?”

  “I like flowers—but this”—she swept a hand over the beds—“was an ambitious undertaking. Hi, Harpo.” She wiggled her fingers at the pelican.

  From his spot on the lawn a dozen feet away, the bird regarded them with a doleful, mute stare and ruffled his feathers.

  “Did you know Rachel’s a gardener?” He set the tray on the small café table as the bird ambled off, then soared into the air.

  “Yes. I tried to entice her to go with me to a new native-plant nursery down near Sixes, with a stop at the lavender farm on the way home for tea, but I couldn’t tempt her.”

  “I wouldn’t take the refusal personally. Given the situation at home, I assume she has other priorities.” He waited until she took her chair, then sat.

  “True.” She indicated the sugar and cream. “Help yourself.”

  “I like it black.”

  “Not me. As a latecomer to coffee, I like it diluted and sweet. Straight up is too strong and bitter for me.” She added a hefty dose of cream and stirred in a generous teaspoonful of sugar.

  He broke off a piece of brownie with his fork. “You have a peaceful spot here.”

  “I agree . . . even if it’s a bit on the remote side.”

  Strange that she’d mention the isolation if she didn’t want to talk about her security setup.

  Or was she thinking about answering his unspoken question, after all?

  Best to play this by ear, let her take the lead.

  “I’m surprised this road is so undeveloped.”

  She blew on her coffee and took a sip. “From what I understand, a speculator bought most of this property decades ago. He sold a few lots here and there, like this one, but the location has its downsides.”

  “I imagine frequent fog is one of them.”

  “Yes. Not to mention the wind and the lack of sea views—except out by the light.”

  “What happened with his grandiose plans?”

  “They came to naught. Eventually he went bankrupt, and the property was tied up in litigation for years.”

  “Is that still the case?”

  “I don’t think so. Brent told me there’s a new house slated to be built down the road—and of course, the person who’s interested in the lighthouse is planning to buy a couple of the adjacent lots too. Are you really in the dark about his or her identity?”

  “Yes. The offer came through a law firm in Eugene.”

  Her retro-looking top slid off her shoulder, and he tried not to let the expanse of smooth skin distract him as she tugged it back into place.

  Failed.

  “Well . . . I wouldn’t mind having a few closer neighbors—the lighthouse buyer not included.”

  Focus, Garrison.

  He yanked his gaze back to her face. “Did you, um, ever think about selling the house and moving into town?”

  “Yes. I can get easily spooked out here.”

  “I know.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You were right the night you rescued Annabelle. I should have talked to you through the window instead of calling the police.”

  “I suppose being in a secluded area like this might be challenging for a big-city girl.”

  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she pressed the tines of her fork against some chocolate crumbs on her plate. “It wouldn’t have been, two years ago.”

  He took a measured sip of his coffee.

  Careful, Garrison. Don’t scare her off.

  “Any particular reason for the change?”

  “Yes.”

  She set her fork down, leaving the rest of her brownie uneaten, and wrapped her fingers around the oversized mug. “I had a rather frightening experience in Atlanta.”

  Based on the tight grip she had on her coffee and the flutter in the hollow of her throat, that was a gross understatement.

  Something very bad had happened to Marci.

  Tension coiled in his gut, even as he tried to maintain a calm façade.

  If someone had hurt this woman, he’d be sorely tempted to forget all about the Hippocratic Oath and beat the stuffing out of them.

  Not a very Christian inclination—but that was how he felt.

  And it was telling.

  He might not have wanted to have feelings for Marci . . . he might have convinced himself she would be all wrong for him . . . he might have career plans that would soon take him far away from Hope Harbor . . . but he couldn’t ignore reality.

  Like it or not, he was falling for her.

  Hard.

  When the silence between them lengthened, she peeked at him over the rim of her mug.

  Say something, Garrison, or she’s going to shut down.

  “I suspected there might be an incident in your background that would explain all the locks. Trauma can leave a lasting mark. I saw plenty of evidence overseas. And we have an example much closer to home with Greg.”

  With an emphatic shake of her head, she set her mug down and folded her hands in front of her on the table. “My situation is far less traumatic—and permanent—than his. In fact, meeting him and Rachel has helped give me some perspective on what happened in Atlanta.”

  “Is that experience the reason you moved here?”

  “No.” Her tone was firm. “I wasn’t running away. I liked my job, but doing PR wasn’t why I’d majored in journalism. After I came here, I fell in love with the town—and once I found out about the Herald, I saw an opportunity to create a life closer to the kind I’d always wanted. Run a newspaper, be my own boss . . . it was more providential timing than escapism.”

  She still hadn’t told him what had happened.

  How much could he ask before she backed off?

  “Have you had any regrets about relocating?” That should be a safe question.

  “No. Not one. I knew almost immediately this was where I belonged.”

  “And you never miss big-city life?”

  “Not much. The few conveniences I do miss are more than offset by living in a beautiful setting where your neighbors know and care about you.”

  A few beats of silence passed.

  Looked like he was going to have to take a chance and ask the key question.

  “May I ask what happened in Atlanta?”

  She studied her knitted fingers.

  Somewhere in the distance, a sandpiper trilled while ten otherwise silent seconds ticked by.

  She was going to deflect the question.

  No surprise, given . . .

  “I had a stalker.”

  It took him a moment to absorb her quiet comment—and as the ugly word hung between them, he gritted his teeth.

  “Did he hurt you?” The question was out before he could second-guess whether it was too personal.

  “Not physically.”

  That, at least, was a relief.

  “Do you want to tell me about him?”

  She massaged the bridge of her nose. “He was the son of one of my firm’s biggest clients—and he worked in his dad’s company. I met him at a client party. He seemed charming and fun and smart, so when he asked me out, I agreed. Since I didn’t deal with tha
t account, there was no conflict of interest. The first date was fun, and I was flattered he wanted to get together again a few days later. That date was fine too. But then he became obsessive—and possessive.”

  Ben took a sip of his cooling coffee, trying to control the flames of anger licking at his composure. “What happened?”

  “He sent a constant stream of letters and cards, along with flowers and gifts. Extravagant stuff, like three dozen roses or a new big-screen TV I’d mentioned was on my wish list. And he’d call a dozen times a day. After work, I’d find him waiting on my doorstep. He started hanging out at the coffee shop I went to every Saturday. He even showed up at my church on Sunday.”

  She wasn’t exaggerating about the guy’s obsession.

  That was very scary behavior.

  “He must have had psychological issues.”

  “I came to the same conclusion after our second date.”

  “Did you tell him to back off?”

  “Over and over again. On the phone, in person, by email. Nothing worked. I talked to my boss about it, and he had a conversation with the guy’s father. That didn’t help, either. In the end, I had to get a protection order against him.”

  Ben frowned.

  He was no lawyer, but as far as he knew, an unrelated victim usually had to have a reasonable concern she was in physical danger—not just trying to stop unwanted attention—to get an order like that.

  “Did he threaten you with physical violence, Marci?”

  Her throat worked. “Not in words. But whenever he showed up, he’d get close. Too close. Sometimes he’d touch me. And he was tall and strong and . . .” She swallowed again. “I was afraid he might get violent.”

  No wonder her house was under lock and key.

  “Did he bother you after the order?”

  “Not that I could prove. I did get hang-up calls and a handful of hateful notes, but the police couldn’t trace any of them to him.”

  “What did your family say about all this?”

  “I never told them. My sister’s lived overseas for years, and we’ve never been that close. The age difference is too big. My parents are retired in Florida, and they would have been freaked out by the situation. I didn’t see any reason to make them worry. There was nothing they could have done to help.”

  “Except offer moral support.”

  She shrugged. “At the expense of their peace of mind.”

  Another example of how this woman put the well-being of others ahead of her own needs.

  He stifled the urge to reach over and weave his fingers through hers. “What happened to this jerk?”

  “He’s still out there, as far as I know.”

  “Has he bothered you since you came here?”

  “No. I suspect he’s moved on to his next victim. I found out later he’d had a similar issue during his college days, in another state.”

  A serial stalker.

  Why, oh why, had this man’s life intersected with Marci’s?

  “How did your firm react?” If the guy was the son of a big client, that could have been dicey.

  “They were behind me 100 percent—even though they lost his father as a client. And it was a big account. But my boss had no tolerance for that kind of behavior. When the inheritance came up not long after the incident, he didn’t balk at my request for a three-month leave of absence to come out here. He promised my job would be waiting for me.”

  “But you decided to stay.”

  “Yes. He was concerned I was making a rash decision based on what had happened, but I wasn’t. The truth was, I felt at home here right away.”

  “Not necessarily safe, though. Officer Gleason told me about the vandalism incident last year.”

  Her brow puckered. “Yeah. That was a little scary. But it was just a local teen who got his kicks destroying people’s property. I was a random victim in that case.”

  “Unsettling nonetheless.”

  “Yes—but the fear has receded over the past few months. I might have overreacted the night I called the police on you, but in general I’m not as skittish as I used to be. About my stalker showing up, anyway.”

  “Why the caveat? What else are you skittish about?”

  She moistened her lips . . . and looked straight at him. “Men I find attractive. Like you.”

  He blinked.

  That was direct.

  “The trouble is,” she continued without giving him a chance to react, “after so badly misjudging that client’s son, I’m not confident in my ability to distinguish between normal interest from the opposite sex and some kind of psychotic fixation. I thought this guy was fine the first couple of times I was with him. Either I’m too gullible or he was a master manipulator.”

  “My money’s on the latter. From everything I’ve seen, your judgment is spot-on.”

  “I wish I was as certain of that as you.”

  “Are you concerned about me?”

  “Not as much anymore.”

  “Good. Because you have no reason to be. But I understand your caution. Anyone can be fooled by a person who thinks outside the normal bounds and is an adept actor.” As his voice hardened, Marci cocked her head and inspected him—but he rushed on before she could ask the question that had to be forming in her mind. “And for the record, the attraction is mutual.”

  That was true—but it was also a diversionary tactic . . . and based on the sudden rounding of her eyes, it worked.

  Her reply confirmed that.

  “Part of me is happy to hear that—but another part is worried. I’m not interested in a short-term or long-distance relationship.”

  “Me, neither. Nor do I think it’s wise to rush relationships.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  She picked up her fork and played with her brownie. “Too bad your grandfather isn’t here. I bet he’d have some words of wisdom to offer.”

  “No question about it—but since he’s not, I think we’re on our own with this.”

  “Not entirely. I, for one, intend to bend the Lord’s ear about the situation.”

  “I’ll join you.” Maybe reinstituting Sunday church attendance this morning had been smart—for a number of reasons.

  “In the meantime, I guess we’ll have to take this a day at a time.”

  “That works for me.” He angled his wrist. “Don’t you have a lighthouse meeting this afternoon?”

  She checked her own watch, and her eyebrows rose. “Yes. In half an hour.”

  “Let me help you take everything back inside and clean up, then I’ll be on my way.”

  “I can handle the cleanup.”

  “Nope. I never leave messes behind.”

  Well, not by choice.

  But he wasn’t going to think about that now. Not while he was with Marci.

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn?” The twinkle in her eyes tempered the criticism.

  “That has a familiar ring—but two hands will speed up the work, and you don’t want to be late for the first meeting.”

  He kept the conversation light while they put the kitchen back in order, but his mind was working at warp speed on a more serious issue.

  After the personal conversation they’d had over brownies, a simple goodbye or handshake didn’t seem sufficient.

  Yet neither of them wanted to turn up the wattage yet.

  Once they finished, he followed her to the door, where she unlatched all the locks and twisted the knob.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as we have some ideas about the lighthouse.” She pulled the door wide.

  “I like how you said when, not if.”

  She grinned. “I’m kind of like Nellie Forbush from South Pacific—a cockeyed optimist.”

  “The world could use more optimism. My world could use more optimism.” He reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers.

  Her breath hitched—but she didn’t say a word.

  “I th
ink we’re past a goodbye handshake at the door, don’t you?” He stroked the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand.

  She nodded.

  “So let’s move on to this.”

  Slow and easy, he leaned down, brushed his lips over her forehead—and inhaled.

  Up close, the subtle scent of jasmine surrounded him . . . invaded his pores . . . and made him want much, much more than this simple kiss.

  Before he succumbed to the temptation to dip lower and claim her mouth, he forced himself to pull back.

  Her wide eyes, hazy with yearning, told him she wanted more as much as he did.

  Oh, man.

  If she kept looking at him like that, his good intentions were going to be swept away as fast as a beach umbrella during one of Oregon’s legendary storms.

  But one of them needed to be sensible. To keep their emotions under control.

  And Marci wasn’t the best candidate for that.

  He released her hand and backed up. “Thank you . . .” His voice scraped, and he cleared his throat. “Thank you for lunch.”

  “You’re welcome.” She was as breathless as if she’d run a hundred-yard sprint. “Drive safe.”

  Only after he descended the steps from her porch did he turn.

  Marci’s tunic top had slipped down her shoulder again, and she was holding on to the doorframe as if she needed it for support.

  He could relate.

  With a wave, he continued toward Skip’s truck, her final comment ringing in his ears.

  Driving safe wasn’t a problem.

  But exploring the new territory they’d entered today?

  Not so safe.

  And until he could figure out how the sparks between them could—and should—play out, he was going to have to be as careful and cautious as those elusive mole crabs he’d never managed to catch during the summers of his youth here in Hope Harbor.

  15

  “I think that’s a wrap.” Marci skimmed her sheet of notes again, then surveyed the eight people sitting around her at the table in the Grace Christian conference room. “Let me sum up where we are to verify I got everything. Eric, you’re going to handle the legalities of setting up a nonprofit foundation that would own and manage the lighthouse.”

  The attorney nodded. “Correct. I’ll take care of all the paperwork, so we can make it happen fast once we pull the trigger.”