Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  “Excellent. Rose, you’re going to continue to solicit support from the garden club and also get in touch with the clubs in Bandon and Coos Bay to see if they’ll lend a hand until we have the foundation up and running.”

  “Yes. I know some of the members, and I expect they’ll be happy to supplement our ranks on a short-term basis.”

  “That would be much appreciated.” Marci moved to the next item on her list. “Michael, you’ve agreed to contact everyone on the Helping Hands call list about the project and ask them to contribute their time and expertise to the lighthouse as part of the charitable work they do for your organization.”

  “The town’s organization. I’m only the director.” He hitched up one side of his mouth. “And yes, I’ll email everyone the flyer you designed with the ‘See the Light’ logo.”

  “Actually, Greg designed it.” She smiled at the younger man. “In fact, we can thank him for all of the support materials—along with the bulk of the ideas we’re pursuing.”

  He doodled on the pad of paper in front of him, a slight flush tinting his cheeks. “Charley did the drawing on the flyer.”

  “True—but my artwork alone won’t save the lighthouse.” The taco-making painter folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “That will take an organized campaign and a coordinated effort. The whole town will have to get behind it . . . and your ideas will help make that happen.”

  “I agree.” Marci continued down her list, shifting the limelight off Greg. “BJ, I’m planning to run a feature article in this week’s Herald, asking for volunteers to help with the physical work of restoration. May I have them contact you directly?”

  “Yes. I’ll keep a running list and coordinate with any volunteers Michael rounds up through Helping Hands. I’m also going to call several of my suppliers this week and see if I can convince them to donate materials in exchange for some free, positive PR.”

  “Which I’ll be happy to provide.” Marci gave her a thumbs-up.

  She concluded with Father Murphy and Brent, who’d agreed to investigate potential private grants and government funding.

  After checking off the last item on her list, she set down her pen and paper. “I think we have a strong start here. I hate to pull you all in to too many meetings, but given our short timeframe, I think we should regroup on Wednesday, if that works for everyone.”

  “I’m in,” Charley said. “We need to keep this moving. I’ll even provide tacos for dinner that night if it will help convince everyone to give up a weeknight to work on this.”

  Following a chorus of assents, she linked her fingers on the table. “Everything we’ve discussed today is important, but two big issues remain. How will we come up with the purchase price—and how will we fund ongoing maintenance?”

  “I like the ideas Greg mentioned at the town meeting.” Charley smiled at the younger man.

  “I do too. I think all of them are worth further discussion. If everyone agrees—including you, Greg”—Marci refocused on the younger man—“I’d like for the two of us to huddle on this and bring some suggestions forward on Wednesday. And of course, additional input from anyone else is welcome . . . especially on how we might raise funds to cover the purchase price.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Charley closed the small notebook on the table in front of him and pocketed his pen. “Does that about wrap it up for today? My muse is calling.”

  “The painting muse or the taco muse?” Marci grinned at him.

  “Thank you for recognizing that cooking and painting are both creative endeavors.” He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “In this case, it’s the painting muse.”

  “You’re going to have some disappointed folks who want a tasty treat on a Sunday afternoon.” Father Murphy stood and stretched. “Including me.”

  “I thought you were having dinner with Reverend Baker?”

  “I am—but I could use a snack to tide me over.” He tipped his head. “How did you know about my dinner plans?”

  “Would you believe me if I said a little bird told me?” Charley stood too.

  “I might. You’re a regular Francis of Assisi with the animals around here.”

  Charley chuckled and clapped the priest on the back. “I’ll take that as the highest of compliments. See you all on Wednesday.”

  As he strolled out, the others said their goodbyes and followed suit until only she and Greg remained.

  “If you and Rachel have plans for the rest of the afternoon, we could do this tomorrow.” Marci joined Greg at the far end of the table, where he’d chosen to sit.

  “No. We don’t have anything special on the agenda for tonight.”

  Too bad.

  “In that case . . .” She pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “I was intrigued by the concept you mentioned at the town meeting about making the lighthouse pay for itself in the long run. I like the idea of turning it into a special events venue—for weddings in particular. What could be more romantic than getting married at a lighthouse?”

  “Rachel liked that idea too.”

  “There you go. Great minds think alike.” She winked at him. “Have you given any additional thought as to how we might implement that?”

  “Yes.” He opened the folder in front of him, which contained several typed pages clipped together and what appeared to be quite a bit of backup information. “I was going to give you this after the meeting. It’s not as urgent as the other items we discussed.”

  “It’s all part of the larger plan, though. I’ll be happy to take that and review it later, but why don’t you give me a verbal summary?”

  “Sure.”

  For the next ten minutes, she listened without saying a word as Greg walked her through his well-thought-out suggestions about how to generate income on the lighthouse grounds—tours, art fairs, concerts, weddings, rehearsal dinners, family reunion events, corporate functions, bus-tour stop, gift shop . . . the list went on.

  And every single item had merit.

  Based on a quick flip through the detailed document he handed her at the end, he’d also put together a polished business plan supported with abundant documentation.

  After scanning his proposals and the backup data, she looked over at him. “This is impressive. Do you have a business background?”

  “No. I only went to junior college. I don’t have a degree.”

  She set the material in front of her. “Business aptitude can be fostered in many ways. Tell me about your work history.”

  “I was in the army.”

  “I know—and that suggests you have discipline and drive. What else have you done?”

  “You mean . . . like part-time jobs during school?”

  “Yes.” The idea beginning to percolate in her mind might not fly—but it was worth exploring. While Greg might not have a degree, practical business experience could be just as valuable.

  He ran a finger down the crease of the manila folder. “I didn’t have a conventional part-time job.”

  “I’d like to hear about it anyway.”

  “Well . . . when I was fifteen, I wanted some spending money. I was too young to get a real job like my brother, so I put together a ninety-minute walking tour of the town for tourists.”

  Enterprising.

  “How did you line up customers?”

  “I made signs to put up around town—at Sweet Dreams, the Gull Motel, the Myrtle Café . . . any place tourists hung out. Charley put one on his stand too. I usually had about ten people show up.”

  “How often did you run the tour?”

  “Once a day the first year. At ten bucks a head, I made pretty good money.”

  A hundred dollars a day for ninety minutes of work?

  That was way better than pretty good for a fifteen-year-old.

  “I also solicited coupons from businesses around town.” Greg doodled on the folder in front of him, a slight smile curving his lips, as if the memories of his youthful enterprise were sweet. “So tourists got
coupons worth more than the price of the tour—which helped promote sales.”

  Clever.

  The idea she was noodling on began to send down some roots.

  “You mentioned the first year. I take it you did this for a while?”

  “Yeah. The second year I ran two tours a day.”

  A sixteen-year-old who racked up two hundred dollars a day for three hours of work, doing a summer job he’d created.

  Amazing.

  And intriguing.

  “How did you find enough to talk about for an hour and a half?” Much as she loved Hope Harbor, as far as she knew there weren’t enough landmarks to fill out a ninety-minute walking tour.

  His eyebrows rose. “This town has some cool history. I found lots of stories after I dug into the research. In my spiel, I highlighted some of the historical characters who lived here—a sea captain, a woman who ran a logging operation, the town doctor who relocated here in 1917 after losing his son in the coyote war.”

  “Coyote war?” Where had Greg dug up that obscure bit of history?

  “Yeah. There was a bizarre rabies epidemic in eastern Oregon for a number of years. I found loads of stuff like that. More than I needed to create a script for every stop on the tour. And I talked about Pelican Point light too.”

  “How long did you run these tours?”

  “Until I went to junior college. The third and fourth year, I hired a buddy who did high school theater to help with extra tours. I wanted to keep the group size small, and the demand kept growing after the paper in Bandon did a story about me. We had people coming from all over the area for tours.”

  “Why did you stop doing them?”

  He shrugged. “I never intended it to be a career. My dad was a firefighter, and my brother is too. That’s all I ever wanted to be. It was a family tradition.”

  “But you enjoyed doing the tours, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. It was fun. Not like work at all.”

  “Those are the best kinds of jobs.”

  “Depends on your perspective, I guess. For me, the best kinds are the ones that make a difference in the world. Like being a soldier who fights terrorism, or a firefighter who saves lives.”

  “Creating happy memories for people can make a difference too. You gave visitors a pleasant experience to remember. That matters. Happy times like you provided are what people hold close to their hearts to measure the world against.”

  He frowned. “I suppose that could be true.”

  “I know it is. When I’m down, or I hit a bump in the road, thinking about a happy memory can help me get through the day. I bet you’ve got some special occasions you relive again and again. Like . . . like your first date with Rachel.”

  “Yeah.” The corners of his mouth rose. “That was a memorable night.”

  “But to an outsider observing your date, it would have seemed ordinary—right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like your tours looked to passersby. But for all you know, that was the highlight of somebody’s visit. It might have whetted a kid’s interest in history. Or been part of some couple’s honeymoon. Or given someone who was ill a ninety-minute respite from worry. There are probably people who still remember and talk about the fun they had on your tour. Creating special memories is a worthy occupation, Greg.”

  “I never thought of my little tour in such grandiose terms.”

  “Maybe you should start.” She let that sink in for a moment, then picked up the papers he’d given her and stood. “This is going to be my reading for the rest of the day. May I call you with any questions?”

  “Sure.” He rose, resting his fingertips on the tabletop to steady himself until his balance stabilized. “It was a productive meeting today.”

  “I agree. I’m going to put some more thought into finding the initial funding we need, but we’re off to a strong start.” She angled away, but when he touched her arm, she shifted back.

  “I’ve never thanked you for giving Rachel a job, but I want you to know I appreciate it. The change of scene is good for her, and she enjoys the work.”

  “I was glad to get her. She’s been a huge help—and she’s an exceptional writer.”

  “I know. I’ve read some of her stuff. I’m hoping that once we . . .” He gripped the back of the chair, and a muscle flexed in his cheek. “That at some point she’ll finish her degree. She only needs twenty-eight more hours.”

  “I don’t see why that couldn’t happen. More and more universities are offering online programs.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” He picked up the empty manila folder and handed it to her. “Thanks for listening to my ideas.”

  “Thanks for coming up with them. I’ll see you Wednesday . . . and I may be in touch before that.”

  With a lift of his hand, he walked toward the door.

  Though his gait wasn’t quite normal, no one would suspect he had a prosthesis. His disability wouldn’t stop him from doing much.

  Except be a firefighter.

  But there were other career options that would dovetail with his innate entrepreneurial skills.

  One in particular, based on all he’d told her about his creative town tour and the ideas he’d come up with for the lighthouse campaign.

  That was why she’d laid the groundwork for it today.

  A lot of pieces would have to fall into place for her notion to work—but that was beginning to happen.

  And if it did, Greg might discover that Pelican Point light would end up playing a far more important role in his life than he’d ever suspected when he’d made it part of his town tour spiel as a teenage entrepreneur.

  16

  A bag of groceries clutched in each hand, Rachel pushed through the door from the garage into the quiet house.

  Different.

  Usually Greg played music when he was home alone.

  Maybe he was on the computer again, doing more research for the lighthouse project. Since the meeting at church two days ago, he’d been burning up the browser.

  And that was fine.

  He might not have told her in detail about what transpired during the gathering, but Marci had sung his praises at work yesterday, raving about how he’d taken ownership of the project and offered some stellar suggestions.

  It was a prayer answered—if his interest lasted . . . and if it lifted him out of the funk that had darkened their lives for the past eight months.

  “Greg? Are you here?” She dropped the bags on the kitchen table and began unpacking them.

  Her husband appeared in the doorway, and she smiled as she held up her splurge item. “I got us steaks for dinner. We haven’t used the grill on the patio very much, and I thought—”

  “Rachel.”

  At his quiet tone and serious demeanor, her lungs deflated. “What’s wrong?”

  He moved closer. “Your mom and dad are here.”

  She froze. “What do you mean . . . here?”

  “They’re in the living room.”

  Her stomach bottomed out.

  No wonder there was an unfamiliar car parked in front of their house.

  But what was going on? Why hadn’t they called first? What had prompted this out-of-the-blue trip?

  And how much had they picked up about the state of the hasty marriage they’d warned against?

  As if he’d read her mind, Greg spoke again, his volume so low she had to lean closer to hear him.

  “I figured out pretty quick they aren’t clued in to what’s been going on in our lives. I just tried to make small talk. We were all very polite, but it’s been . . . awkward.”

  That had to be the understatement of the century.

  “When did they get here?”

  “Twenty minutes ago based on the clock—but every minute felt like an hour. I tried your cell, but you didn’t answer.”

  “I left it in the car while I was in the grocery store.” A bad habit she needed to break.

  Would break after this incident.


  “You need to tell me how much they know . . . and we need to decide how to play this.”

  “They don’t know anything.” She leaned back against the counter and massaged her temple. This was a conversation that required strong cups of coffee and an open-ended timeframe.

  Instead, they’d have to cover a large swath of ground fast and plan a strategy on the fly.

  “What do you mean by anything?” Twin creases appeared on her husband’s forehead.

  “I haven’t talked to them since I called the day after we eloped. All my communication has been through email, and then only to provide mailing addresses. My mom’s the one who started phoning, like I told you the night we had dinner on the patio. All she knows is that an injury sidelined you and we relocated here.”

  “You didn’t tell them I lost my leg?”

  “No.”

  “Do they know we’ve been having . . . issues?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want them to know?” He fisted his hands at his sides.

  “No. I . . . I hoped we could fix them before they found out.”

  He exhaled, and the taut line of his shoulders eased a hair. “Okay.” He scrubbed his palm on his jeans and reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “Let’s see why they’re here.”

  “This might not be pleasant.”

  “I didn’t pick up any antagonism—but if the discussion goes south, it’s two against two . . . and I’m putting the odds on us.” He winked and gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. Like he used to do in the early days of their courtship and marriage, when all their tomorrows seemed to be bright and filled with promise.

  Back then he’d had an uncanny ability to make her believe that together, they could conquer the world.

  He still did.

  Her throat clogged, and she sniffed as her vision misted.

  “Hey.” He again exerted gentle pressure on her fingers. “We’ll get through this, and after they’re gone, we’ll talk. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” Her response sounded as shaky—and uncertain—as she felt.

  What if the arrival of her disapproving parents somehow jinxed the positive turn they’d begun to make in their relationship?

  Why couldn’t they have worked through their difficulties before her mom and dad decided to show up unannounced and add more stress to their lives?