by Irene Hannon
“But you could have walked away, without any strings.”
“Wrong.” She covered their clasped fingers with her free hand. “Our heartstrings were already entwined.”
Moisture spiked on his lashes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Man. How do you women deal with all this emotional stuff?”
“Lots of practice.” She grinned. “And you get bonus points for hanging in.”
“Good—especially if we can talk about food now.”
“I have those steaks I mentioned, if you’re hungry.”
“I’ll get the grill going.”
He attempted to rise, but she held fast to his hand. “I agree we need to reestablish a trust level and not jump back into the physical side of marriage—but how do you feel about hugs?”
In answer, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped those strong arms she remembered so well around her.
Tucking herself close, she nestled against the familiar broad chest.
And as his heart beat a steady, welcome rhythm beneath her ear, Rachel let out a slow, contented sigh.
They weren’t home free yet.
Not by a long shot.
But for the first time, the fleeting moments of hope that had sustained and encouraged her during the past eight months seemed poised to fulfill their promise.
17
Crimping the top of the white bag from Sweet Dreams Bakery, Ben shortened his stride . . . slowed his pace . . . and came to a halt a few doors down from Marci’s office.
There was no reason to bother her on this Wednesday morning.
Between her PR work, publishing the Herald, and coordinating the lighthouse project, she must be swamped.
But it had been three days since their lunch in her gazebo—and he was missing her.
Bad.
Bad enough to have invested some serious brainpower trying to figure out how their jobs and geographic situations could accommodate a relationship.
So far, he was batting zero.
Marci had been clear that she didn’t want a short-term or long-distance relationship—and neither did he.
That meant one of them would have to make some life-altering adjustments if they wanted to test the waters of romance.
And since Marci was only two years into her tenure in Hope Harbor—a town she loved—it appeared the onus for change was on him.
A huge challenge, given the plum slot waiting for him in Ohio.
“Morning, Ben.” Father Murphy called out the greeting from across Dockside Drive, swiveled his head to assess the traffic, and jogged over to join him. As usual, the jovial priest was all smiles.
Maybe he could absorb some of the padre’s upbeat mood through osmosis.
“Morning, Father.”
The priest sized up the white bag and sniffed. “Ah. A man after my own heart. That’s my destination too, on this beautiful morning. There’s nothing like a fresh cinnamon roll—or two”—he patted his sturdy midsection—“to launch the day on a happy note.”
“They beat Cheerios, that’s for sure.”
“Or oatmeal—my usual healthy fare.” He made a face, then brightened. “But today I’m succumbing to temptation.”
Ben hiked up an eyebrow. “Should a priest admit such a thing?”
“Clergymen are human too, you know—and I was born with a ferocious sweet tooth. It’s the bane of my existence.” He sighed and folded his hands in front of him. “However, in light of our conversation, I’ll temper my craving and just buy one today.”
“Sorry to ruin your fun.”
“I forgive you, my son.” Eyes twinkling, he gave him a mock blessing. “And now I’ll let you enjoy your own treat.” He inspected the bag. “It appears you have enough to share—unless you’re indulging your sweet tooth too.”
“No. I, uh, thought I’d drop into the Herald and exchange a roll for a cup of coffee.”
“An excellent plan. I saw Marci conferring with Eric at the crack of dawn in his office while I was taking my morning walk on the wharf. Lighthouse business, I expect. I wouldn’t be surprised if she skipped breakfast in order to fit that meeting in.” He shook his head. “It was a blessing for this town the day she moved here, but I suspect she works too hard.”
“I’ll try to convince her to take a short break.”
“You do that. She could use a little diversion in her life.” The padre tipped his head, his expression speculative. “It’s a shame you’ll be leaving soon.”
Uh-oh.
Was it possible the good father had matchmaker leanings?
“I wish I could stay longer—but I have a job waiting in Ohio.”
“Do you have family there? Friends?”
“No. Just a colleague from medical school.”
“I see.” Father Murphy linked his hands behind his back and rocked forward on his toes. “It’s a commentary on our society how people choose where they live these days. Jobs seem to take precedence over every other criterion.”
“That’s not quite true in my case. My friends are all scattered, and I have no family. One town is as good as another.”
“I’ll have to disagree with you on that point. A loving community—like Hope Harbor—can help compensate for a lack of family. You should ask Charley about that. Or Luis Dominguez . . . or Adam Stone . . . or Brenda Hutton, the wonderful cook and housekeeper Paul and I share, and her son . . . the list goes on. As for friends—you already have quite a few here. It’s a very welcoming place.”
“Are you implying I should stay?”
“Not at all. That’s your decision. I’m merely suggesting there are many factors to ponder when choosing a place of residence—and we have Sweet Dreams.” The priest winked and gave him an elbow nudge. “Enjoy your treat and tell Marci I’ll see her tonight at the lighthouse meeting.”
With a wave, he set off at a fast clip for the bakery.
Eyes narrowed, Ben watched him for a few moments.
Curious how the priest had brought up the very subject that was on his mind.
Turning back toward his destination, Ben spotted Charley strolling by on the wharf side of the street. Heading for the taco stand, perhaps.
The man smiled and gave him a thumbs-up—almost as if he was agreeing with everything Father Murphy had said.
Which was ridiculous.
There was no way Charley could have heard their conversation from that distance.
It was probably just one of the artist’s quirky greetings.
Ben waved in response and resumed his trek, for once oblivious to the relaxing harbor scene.
Everything the priest had said made sense—and if he wasn’t so far along in the process with the Ohio job, he might toy with the notion of retooling his career plans. But he was in deep already—and passing up an opportunity at such a coveted and well-respected practice would be crazy.
Besides, Hope Harbor had no need of an orthopedic surgeon.
But the practice in Coos Bay does.
Ben frowned.
And the urgent care center here needs a medical director or it’s going to fold.
Once again, his pace slowed.
Both of those opportunities were viable—and would be worth weighing, if he was inclined to stay.
In fact, he might be able to arrange to join the Coos Bay practice and step in at the urgent care center until a permanent director was found. Many residents used it for their health care needs—including Skip. Hadn’t the center recommended the outstanding surgeon in Coos Bay?
Yet much as he liked Hope Harbor . . . much as the notion of saving the urgent care center for the town was appealing . . . the real incentive to change plans was the woman in the office a few doors ahead.
Except there were two big problems.
It was too soon to know for certain where their friendship might lead—and the job in Ohio wasn’t going to wait around for him to find out.
Giving up that opportunity for a relationship this new would be a huge risk. What would he do if he and Ma
rci parted ways?
A billow of gray mist shuttered the sunlight, and out on the jetty, the foghorn issued a long, plaintive warning to harbor traffic.
Beeee. Carefulllll.
A caution he should heed as well. There was no need to make a life-changing decision today—or tomorrow.
But now that the seed had been planted, it might not be a bad idea to begin putting out some job feelers.
Just in case.
“Sweet Dreams delivery.”
As Ben’s baritone voice greeted her from the door, Marci swiveled away from her computer screen to face him.
Whoa.
Did this man ever have a bad hair day?
Not once in all the times she’d seen him had he looked anything but drop-dead handsome.
Suit and tie, jeans and T-shirt, dress slacks and button-down shirt—didn’t matter. He was swoon-worthy in any attire, every strand of his thick, dark-brown hair tamed despite the wind that often whipped through Hope Harbor.
If only her hair would behave half as well.
“Any takers?” He held up a white sack but remained by the door.
“Yes. Come in.” She stood and motioned to a small conference table off to the side, smoothing down her flyaway locks. “Would you like some coffee?”
“That would hit the spot.” He strolled in and glanced around the office.
Thank heaven she’d been born with the tidy gene. An ex-army officer wouldn’t appreciate clutter. Her desk might be full of papers, but they were all piled in neat stacks—and Rachel’s work space was pristine.
“What brings you here today? Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Anyone who comes bearing Sweet Dreams cinnamon rolls gets the red-carpet treatment.”
“I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop in. Is Rachel here?” He surveyed the empty desk.
“No. Her parents showed up so I gave her the rest of the week off.”
“Ah. That would explain the unfamiliar car I’ve seen parked in front of the house.”
“Apparently, they arrived on her doorstep without any warning. She sounded happy on the phone, though. They’ve been estranged, but I’m thinking they’ve worked out their differences.”
“That would be great—for everyone’s sake.” He set the bag on the small table while she grabbed some napkins and carried over their java.
“Black and strong.” She set his in front of him and took a seat.
He joined her, uncrimped the bag, and held it out. “Help yourself.”
She took one of the sweet confections, deposited it on a napkin, and licked the icing off her fingers.
At his amused expression, she gave a sheepish shrug. “Sorry. It’s too tasty to waste.”
“I like a woman who enjoys her food.”
“In that case, you’ve come to the right place.” She took a sip of coffee, eyeing him over the rim of her mug. Odd that he’d shown up just when she was thinking about calling him. But what she wanted to talk about was better done in person, anyway. “I’m glad you stopped by. I have an idea I wanted to run by you.”
“Shoot.” He dived into his roll.
“The lighthouse committee is working hard, and Greg’s come up with some inventive ideas about how to make the site pay for itself going forward. Our biggest problem is raising enough money to match the offer you’ve had from your anonymous buyer.”
“It’s a chunk of change.” He took a paper napkin and wiped some sticky icing off his hands . . . so much more genteel than her finger-lick method.
“I know. And while Hope Harbor is blessed in many ways, most of the residents aren’t wealthy in a material sense. Raising funds is a challenge.”
Ben took a swig of coffee, faint furrows creasing his brow. “I understand about money being tight. Army doctor isn’t the highest-paying job in the world—and buying into a prestigious practice is expensive. Even though I’ll work for them for two years before I have to fork over the cash to become an official partner, I won’t have saved anywhere near the full price.”
“So the anonymous lighthouse offer is a godsend.”
“Yes. I’ll still have to go into debt, but at least I won’t have to start out as much in the hole.” He exhaled. “If I could donate the light to the town, I would.”
“No one expects you to do that.”
“Maybe not—but I wish I could.”
“You have to be practical about this. We all get that.” She swiped a finger over her roll and sampled a little more icing. Why be couth now? “We’re hoping we can come up with a grant or two, but that’s not likely to happen in time to give us the funds to purchase the lighthouse. So I’m working on two ideas that would have a quicker impact. I’m planning to discuss them with the committee tonight, but it would be helpful to hear your thoughts first. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yes. I’m meeting with a realtor at noon to discuss listing Skip’s house, but I’m free until then.”
“I won’t keep you anywhere near that long.” Taking a steadying breath, she crossed her fingers under the table and sent a silent prayer heavenward. “You’ve heard of crowdfunding, I assume.”
“I’ve read about it, but I don’t know any details about how it works.”
“It’s a simple premise—and for certain types of enterprises, it can be very effective. I have a couple of PR clients who’ve used it successfully. One was a nonprofit organization, the other a start-up business. In the case of the nonprofit, we used a donation approach. With the start-up business, we did rewards—coupons for free and discounted products once the company was up and running.”
Ben’s eyebrows rose. “It’s hard to believe people would contribute based on an online solicitation.”
“You’d be surprised. We live in a wired world—and despite what the media might have us believe, generosity and charity are alive and well . . . especially when it comes to good causes. An endangered lighthouse falls into that category.”
“So how do you tap into all this goodwill?”
“I design a social media campaign, and once Eric files all the paperwork for the 501(c)(3) foundation, I launch it on a crowdfunding platform. Some of those have tremendous reach. All donations would be sent directly to the foundation, so they’d be tax deductible from the date the organization is created—assuming the IRS application is approved. I don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be.”
“You’ve done your homework on this—and the concept is intriguing.” He polished off the first half of his cinnamon roll. “What about the second idea you mentioned?”
She shifted in her chair. This was where it could get awkward.
“Actually, Greg gets the credit for this one. But I hate to bring it up, after what you told me about the expense of buying into the practice in Ohio. This could have a direct impact on your wallet.”
“You have a receptive audience here. If I can work with you, I will.”
“Well . . .” She stirred her coffee again, even though the generous spoonful of sugar she’d added had already dissolved. “It’s possible we’ll have an overwhelming response to the crowdfunding campaign. It wouldn’t be unheard of, and a lighthouse should be an easy sell. A lot of people have a soft spot in their hearts for them. But we may still be short by your deadline.”
“Then what?”
“We have two options. If you gave us an extension, we could continue the campaign and hope more funds would come in—or you could take the difference between what we raise and the offer you have on the table as a charitable deduction on your taxes. Any additional donations that came in after you sell the lighthouse to the foundation could be used for restoration or to buy adjacent property to accommodate parking or other needs. The lighthouse footprint isn’t that big.”
He sipped his coffee as he considered her proposal. “That’s an interesting idea.”
She squinted at him. “Interesting as in worth some serious deliberation or interesting as in nice try?”
The corners of his lips rose, and a
dimple appeared in his right cheek. “Interesting as in it deserves further investigation. Let me talk to my accountant, get his take. It might be a reasonable compromise—assuming the difference between the two amounts isn’t huge.”
She yanked her gaze away from that distracting dimple. “Define huge.”
“I’ll have to discuss that with my accountant before I can give you a definitive answer . . . but I could offer a guess.”
“That would be helpful.” She held her breath.
When he gave her a number, she exhaled.
The amount he’d suggested would leave them with a challenging fund-raising goal—but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
“Considering how hard everyone in town is working to save the light and how much it meant to Skip—not to mention the happy memories I have of it—I’d like to contribute to the effort too. This would be one way to do that.” Ben took another bite of his almost-gone roll and motioned toward hers. “You’re not making much progress.”
She inspected it.
No, she wasn’t.
“I tend to get distracted when I’m in the middle of a project. Food falls off my radar screen.” She tore off a large piece of the roll.
“No wonder you’re slender.”
“Oh, trust me. I make up for it between projects.” She took a big bite.
“Are you ever between projects?”
At the teasing light in his eyes, she grinned. “Once in a while—but not lately.”
He popped the last section of his roll into his mouth and picked up his coffee. “What happens with the lighthouse once the foundation owns it?”
“That’s where Greg’s ideas take center stage.”
While she gave him a topline of the thorough business plan Rachel’s husband had developed—and told him the story of Greg’s teenage tour venture—Ben leaned back, listening in silence until she finished.
“It sounds like he’s not only creative but a go-getter.”
