Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  “That’s a relief.” Marci inspected the house. “How bad is the damage?”

  “Minor, according to the fire chief. With all the rain we’ve had, the wood is damp, and that inhibited the effectiveness of the accelerant she threw on the siding. You’ve got some serious scorching, but your smoke alarms picked up the fire fast. Other than minimal repairs in the kitchen, the house shouldn’t need much work on the inside.”

  “That’s a relief. Can I stay here tonight?”

  “It will take a while for the fire crew to finish. They’ll want to make certain nothing is smoldering. You might have a long wait.” At a summons from Officer Gleason, Lexie excused herself to join him.

  “There’s a guest room at Skip’s house with your name on it.” Ben twined his fingers with hers.

  “Sold. Let me collect a few essentials.”

  “I’ll wait for you in the living room. And bring those.” He motioned to her feet.

  She dipped her chin . . . and flushed. “Whoops. I usually keep these hidden—but they were the handiest footwear.”

  “They’re cute.”

  “Silly.”

  “I stand by cute—and whimsical and charming and fun and playful. In other words . . . they’re you.”

  “When you put it like that . . .” She grinned and started toward the house, holding tight to his hand. “Give me five minutes.”

  “No problem.”

  Because truth be told, he planned to give her far more than that.

  A fact he intended to make very clear before this night was over.

  “Mmm. That was perfect, Ben. I wouldn’t have expected you to have herbal tea on hand.” Marci took another sip of the soothing blend and appraised the man beside her on the couch. Now that she’d showered the smoke smell off her skin and out of her hair and was dressed in her most comfortable fleece sweats, she felt human again—even if it was close to two in the morning.

  But Ben had been awfully quiet during the drive to the house . . . and since their arrival.

  “Skip always kept some on hand.”

  Her companion was still too subdued.

  Maybe she could lighten the atmosphere.

  “I was going to call you first thing in the morning, but there’s no reason to wait to share the news. As of last night before I went to bed, we’ve officially exceeded our crowdfunding goal. Better yet, the money is continuing to come in. Pelican Point light will live on.”

  That earned her a small flex of the lips. “Skip would be pleased.”

  Drat.

  There could be only one explanation for his restraint—and she might as well address it head-on.

  “You’re mad about the trap I set for Nicole, aren’t you?”

  He toyed with a strand of her hair. “I’m not certain how I feel about it, to be honest. I admire your initiative—and your willingness to put yourself at risk to resolve the issue. I’m disappointed in myself that I didn’t come up with a solution first. I’m also worried you might go off on your own and pull another stunt like this in the future if a dicey situation arises—and that the outcome might not be as positive.”

  “I don’t expect us to face anything this dramatic again, do you?”

  “No. But life has a way of throwing curves and handing out surprises.”

  “Will it make you feel better if I promise never to implement a plan like this in the future without first talking it over with you?”

  His fingers stilled. “Never is a long time—if you’re assuming we’ll be together years down the road.”

  Her stomach knotted.

  Was he having second thoughts about them already, thanks to this escapade?

  Curses on the red hair that had gotten her into more scrapes than she cared to admit.

  “I am.” She swallowed, gripped her mug—and forced herself to ask the question preying on her mind. “I thought you were too. Have you changed your mind?”

  “No. After tonight, I’m more certain than ever we belong together. When Lexie called and told me about the fire, I couldn’t . . .” His voice broke, and he sucked in some air. “I couldn’t breathe. Losing you would be like losing a part of myself.”

  The tension in Marci’s stomach uncoiled.

  Ben wasn’t quiet because he was mad or had lost interest in her.

  He was quiet because his fears for her safety, however misplaced, had taken the wind out of his sails—to use one of Skip’s colloquial phrases.

  She set the mug on the coffee table and scooted closer to him. “For the record, I plan to stick around for a very long time. I have a lighthouse campaign to finish, a paper to publish, a PR business to run . . . and a handsome man who wants to woo me.” She looped her arms around his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yep. This girl is ready to be romanced. Think you’re up to the job?”

  A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I don’t know—but I’d like to give it a shot.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Roses, candlelight, picnics on the beach, impromptu lunches at Charley’s. How’s that for starters?”

  “Not bad. But you better add lighthouse rehab to that agenda. I told BJ to put both our names on her volunteer list.”

  “Without asking me?”

  “What? You don’t want to put some sweat equity into restoring your grandfather’s lighthouse?”

  “I’d rather romance you.”

  “What could be more romantic than scraping paint off a lighthouse?”

  He grimaced. “I can think of a few things.”

  “There’ll be time for those too.” She leaned in and waggled her eyebrows. “You want to practice one of them now?”

  His answering chuckle erupted into a full-fledged laugh. “Why do I think life with you will be a grand adventure?”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s very, very good. Skip told me once that marriage can be a beautiful adventure if you find the right woman—and that some feistiness can add tang to a marriage.”

  The air whooshed out of her lungs. “Is that . . . a proposal?”

  “Nope. Skip also told me to take my time, ask the Lord for guidance—and cross my fingers. That’s what I plan to do over the next few months. You okay with that plan?”

  “Sounds perfect to me.”

  “Glad to hear it. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. If I was a betting man, I’d lay money on the outcome. Now . . . about that romance.”

  He pulled her close—and Marci didn’t resist.

  Because Ben was irresistible.

  And as he offered some persuasive evidence to support the outcome of that bet he’d mentioned, she gave thanks for the winding path that had led her to Hope Harbor . . . for an abandoned lighthouse in desperate need of TLC that had brightened multiple lives . . . and for the special man in her arms who was destined to play a starring role in her future.

  Epilogue

  “Can I steal you away for a few minutes, Mrs. Garrison?”

  Mrs. Garrison.

  A delicious trill rippled through Marci as she turned toward her brand-new husband, movie-star handsome in his elegant black-tie wedding finery.

  She held out her hand. “You may—but they’ll need us for the first dance soon.”

  “I’ll have you back in time for that.”

  He twined his fingers with hers, and she followed as he led her out of the large white tent that had been erected on Pelican Point and down the gravel path toward the lighthouse, edging around a couple of seagulls huddled together.

  One of them cackled as they passed.

  Marci stared at the bird.

  Was it possible these could be the same two gulls that had hung around months ago when she and Ben had had a less-than-cordial exchange in this very spot?

  Ben slowed, and she glanced over at him. He, too, was eying the birds.

  “That sounded like . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “I k
now. Kind of weird, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But what are the odds?”

  “Slim to none—and I’m not going to waste another thought on laughing seagulls.” Marci lifted her face to the late-afternoon sun. “I’d rather give thanks for such a gorgeous day. November can be iffy, but this feels like summer.”

  “The sun wouldn’t dare play hooky on such a beautiful bride.” Ben smiled at her as he resumed walking, the love in his eyes as bright as the illumination from the Fresnel lens in the Pelican Point lighthouse that had once offered a ray of hope to storm-tossed ships.

  They continued past the neatly tended flower beds, kept weed-free by several area garden clubs, until he stopped at the base of the refurbished lighthouse.

  “I never get tired of this view.” She slipped her arm around his waist and scanned the vast blue sea.

  “And now it will be available for future generations to enjoy, thanks to a certain redhead I know.”

  “Thanks to a lot of people—including you.”

  “I was going to sell it.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “A lighthouse didn’t fit into your plans seven months ago.”

  “True. I thought it was a white elephant.”

  “Understandable. But you did have a change of heart. Not only did you sell it for a bargain price, you’re serving on the board. And look what’s been accomplished.” She swept a hand behind the lighthouse as she gave the scene a slow sweep.

  The white tent hosting their reception occupied the spot where construction would soon begin on a permanent banquet and hospitality facility featuring huge, vaulted windows that framed the lighthouse.

  In the background, half hidden behind shrubbery, a parking lot was situated on adjacent lots purchased with excess crowdfunding money . . . far more than they’d expected, thanks in part to the lower price Ben had accepted for the lighthouse.

  And closer at hand, a small structure designed in the style of traditional keeper’s quarters housed Greg’s office.

  “It’s hard to believe how much we’ve done in a handful of months.” Ben completed his own perusal and refocused on her.

  “I know. Greg told me a few days ago that he’s booking two years out.”

  “He was an inspired choice for the job.”

  “I agree. However . . . much as I’ve loved this project, I’m not in the mood to discuss business today.” She sidled closer. “I’m hoping you brought me out here to steal a kiss by the lighthouse that started it all.”

  “That’s on my agenda. But there’s another item I want to take care of first. Give me one minute.” He bent down, swept his lips across her forehead, and pulled a key out of his pocket. “I need to retrieve a package that has your name on it.”

  With a wink, he circled around to the front of the structure and disappeared from view—just as the band behind her launched into the classic strains of “Unforgettable.”

  The corners of her mouth tipped up.

  How appropriate.

  Because the man who’d stolen her heart fit that description.

  And no matter what surprise he was about to present to her, she already had the best gift of all.

  Ben himself—for always.

  Maybe every groom felt the same on his wedding day, but he really was the luckiest guy in the world.

  Throat tightening, Ben picked up the box Greg had stashed in the lighthouse for him earlier today, slipped back outside, and circled around in the opposite direction.

  His stunning bride was standing where he’d left her, gazing out to sea, her filmy veil floating on the breeze as it trailed from her upswept hair, the elegant, form-fitting lace gown that dipped into a deep V in the back showcasing her slender figure.

  She looked perfect.

  In fact, perfect was the ideal word to describe the woman he’d promised to love and cherish all the days of his life.

  Not perfect as in flawless, of course. Like him, she had her faults and peccadillos.

  But she was perfect for him.

  And that was all that mattered.

  As if sensing his scrutiny, she shifted toward him, the dipping sun casting a golden glow on her already radiant face. “Sneaking up on me, I see.”

  “No. Admiring the view.”

  “The view’s that way.” She motioned toward the sea.

  “One view is—but I’m enjoying the best view.”

  Laughter danced in her green irises. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He strolled toward her and held out the shoebox-sized package wrapped in shiny white paper and tied with a white satin bow.

  “You already gave me a wedding present.” She touched the string of luminous pearls clasped around her neck.

  “This is a bonus gift. One that has more sentimental than monetary value.”

  “Now I’m intrigued.”

  “Then I won’t keep you in suspense. I’ll hold it while you open.”

  She dispensed with the wrappings in quick order.

  “Oh . . .” She breathed the word as she gently touched the elaborate mother-of-pearl inlay on the lid of the mahogany box. “This is gorgeous.”

  “There’s a story that goes with it.”

  “I love stories.”

  “I know. That’s why I thought you’d appreciate this.” He stroked a thumb over the edge of the box. “This started life in the mid-1800s as a case for a sextant. It was owned by a Captain Jeremiah Masterson and went with him on numerous voyages all over the world. He passed it on to his sole heir, a daughter who used it to store jewelry and keepsakes.”

  “How did it end up in your hands?”

  “Patience, dear wife. I’m getting to that.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m still working on that virtue.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Ha-ha.” She elbowed him and grinned. “Go on.”

  “Masterson’s daughter married a fellow by the name of George Newton.”

  Her eyes widened. “The Pelican Point lighthouse keeper in the early 1900s?”

  “One and the same. After Skip bought the lighthouse and began renovating, he found this in a concealed storage area under a loose floorboard. I came across it in the closet in his spare bedroom, along with notes he’d made after researching its history.”

  “Was there anything inside when he found it?”

  “A few crumbling letters and some rusted, corroded costume jewelry. Nothing he could salvage—until he discovered the box had a false bottom.”

  “Ooh. A secret compartment. I love this!” Her face lit up and she clapped her hands. “Was there anything inside?”

  “A love letter Captain Masterson was in the process of penning to his wife, dated 1892—during his last voyage.”

  “Why didn’t he finish it?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Maybe a storm sidetracked him. Or he arrived home faster than expected. But the half-finished letter remained in the box. The daughter may not even have known about the secret compartment.” He opened the lid to reveal a folded piece of parchment paper. “Go ahead and read it.”

  Marci carefully lifted out the antique sheet of vellum and opened it.

  Over her shoulder, he skimmed the document again.

  My dearest Priscilla,

  I don’t know when I shall have a chance to send this letter on its way to you. Soon, I hope. I want to know that your fingers have held these same pages, and that we are connected if only through mutual touch. For as my years have lengthened, my days at sea have begun to grow long and wearisome. I wish now only to be with you, my love.

  You wondered when last we were together if I would miss the sea. I told you no, but I am not certain you believed me. My darling, it is true. I have loved the sea . . . but I have always loved you more, and my heart longs for you each day we are apart. Here on the ship, the sextant guides my course. But you have always guided my life with your sweetness and grace and kindness—and I miss you more than words can say. I long to feel your soft c
heek against mine, and to walk with you on the sand and watch the sun set. You are my everything, and one day soon we . . .

  The letter ended there.

  Marci looked up at him, eyes glistening. “This is beautiful.”

  “He did have a touch of the poet in him.”

  “Why would his daughter leave this in the lighthouse?”

  “According to Skip’s notes, in their later years she and her husband took a trip east to visit family, and while they were there, he died. She never returned here. Their belongings were boxed up and sent to her . . . but since this was hidden, it must have been overlooked.”

  “Well, now that it’s come to light again, it will have a place of honor in our home.”

  “You should put this inside too.” Balancing the box in one hand, Ben extracted a folded piece of paper from his tux jacket and handed it to her. “I can’t hope to compete with Jeremiah’s poetic language, but I thought it fitting to add a note of my own to the box.”

  She opened the sheet, but he didn’t have to read along on this one.

  The words he’d penned were etched in his mind.

  My dearest Marci,

  The sentiments Jeremiah wrote to Priscilla almost 125 years ago are timeless—and it would be hard to improve on them. Which goes to show that love isn’t bound by eras or social norms or chronological age. It’s universal and unchanging.

  I feel about you exactly as Jeremiah felt about Priscilla.

  Although this box once housed navigational tools, I don’t need a compass to find my destination—for I arrived at it a few hours ago when we exchanged vows and I became your husband. And every single morning from this day forward I will thank God for the gift of your kind, caring heart and contagious enthusiasm. You have brought me a joy I never knew existed, and my life is brighter because you fill it with laughter and love.

  When I came to Hope Harbor and discovered Skip had bequeathed me a lighthouse, I considered it a yoke around my neck. But today, as we stand man and wife in the shadow of this structure that for more than a century guided lost souls home, I recognize it for what it really was.

  A beacon of hope that led me home to you.

  I love you, Marci—and I always will.

  Sniffing, she refolded the letter and nestled it in the box beside its antique counterpart. “You’re ruining my mascara, you know. And I paid big bucks for this professional makeup job.”