Pelican Point Page 5

  “He was an easy man to like.”

  “Yes, he was.” Giving her fingers a squeeze, he spoke to the captain. “We’re ready to go back.”

  The man disappeared inside, and a few seconds later the engine revved up.

  As the deck began to vibrate and the boat swung around in a slow arc, Marci lost her footing and groped for the railing.

  Ben’s grip on her fingers tightened, and he motioned to a small bench tucked beside the wheelhouse. “Why don’t we sit?”

  “I vote for that—although you don’t appear to be in the least bothered by the motion.”

  “I spent hours on this deck in all kinds of weather. I got my sea legs long ago. But there is a bit of a chop now. I think a storm may be brewing.” As he spoke, the sun disappeared behind a dark cloud and the wind picked up.

  He held tight to her hand as she lurched across the deck, then sat beside her on the bench.

  It was a tight fit—but cozy.

  Very cozy.

  Best of all, he didn’t let go of her fingers during the entire ride back to the wharf.

  Only after the boat nudged into the dock and the captain emerged did Ben relinquish his grip and stand to thank the man again.

  “I was glad to do it, Doctor. I could tell your grandfather loved crabbing as much as I did and hated to give it up. He sold me a gem of a boat, and being part of his final trip to sea would have been my privilege even if that hadn’t been part of our agreement.”

  Once they were on the dock, the captain lifted his hand in farewell, disappeared into the wheelhouse, and aimed the Suzy Q back toward the sea.

  With one last look at the boat, Ben focused on her. “I guess that wraps up today. Thank you for coming along. It helped.”

  “Thank you for inviting me. It was an honor to be there.”

  “Are you going to your office now?”

  “Yes.” Unless he made a better offer.

  Not happening, Marci. The man just buried his grandfather. He doesn’t have socializing on his mind—and you’re not interested anyway. Remember—caution is your operative word around men.

  “Do you need anything more from me for your article?”

  For a split second, she hesitated. If she said yes, she might be able to prolong this interlude.

  But that would be a lie—and given the persistent buzz in her nerve endings, it was far safer to say goodbye and be on her way.

  “I don’t think so. You gave me plenty. But if you don’t mind sharing your cell number, I’d appreciate having it on hand in case any follow-up questions arise.”

  “Sure.”

  She retrieved a pen and a small notebook, jotting down the numbers as he dictated them. “Thanks. Watch for the story on Tuesday.”

  “I will.”

  She extracted his soggy handkerchief from the pocket of her coat. “I’ll return this after I restore it to its original condition.”

  “Don’t bother. I have plenty.” A raindrop hit the tip of his nose, and he inspected the sky. “We better go our separate ways or Mother Nature will be laundering that handkerchief—and us too.”

  A raindrop bounced off her cheek, confirming his assessment.

  She forced herself to back off a few steps. “Well . . . maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “I wouldn’t rule out that possibility. Hope Harbor isn’t very big.”

  In other words, he wasn’t planning to seek her out. If they met again, it would be by chance.

  Her spirits nosedived—a reaction that was just plain dumb.

  She didn’t want him to have any interest in her. Romance would only complicate her life.

  Lifting her chin, she pasted on a smile. “Take care, Ben.”

  “You too.” With a lift of his hand, he strode away.

  She watched him surreptitiously as she crossed Dockside Drive and trudged toward her office.

  He didn’t look back once.

  Which was for the best. Even without her other issues, getting involved with a Hope Harbor short-termer would be a mistake.

  And if she ever did meet a charming, eligible man who was going to stick around town for more than a week or two, she still wasn’t going to let herself get carried away.

  She’d think the relationship through and do some due diligence instead of letting electricity short-circuit her brain.

  Because she was done making mistakes that led to trouble.

  4

  Skip’s neighbor needed help.

  Juggling a box of his grandmother’s quilting fabric, Ben paused at the kitchen window. As far as he could tell, the twentysomething guy next door hadn’t made much progress on the hole he’d been trying to dig for the past fifteen minutes.

  A swirling cloud of dust motes rose from the box, and Ben waved them away as the younger man placed the shovel in the ground, steadied himself on what appeared to be a bum leg, and pressed down on the blade with the other.

  As had happened with his previous attempts, he lost his balance. Teetered. Attempted to right himself.

  But this time he failed.

  And he fell.

  Hard.

  Ben dropped the box on the kitchen table.

  Enough.

  If Skip were here, he’d have offered to help four-trips-from-the-basement ago.

  Pushing through the back door, he searched his memory for a fact or two about the next-door neighbor. Came up blank. Skip might have shared some tidbits—but with all the stuff going on overseas, Ben hadn’t always absorbed the details about his grandfather’s everyday life or the minutiae of the various Hope Harbor residents who peopled his world.

  For now, though, this was his world—and while in Rome, it was important to do as the Romans did.

  In a small town, that meant stepping up to the plate if someone needed help.

  The guy was still struggling to get back on his feet as Ben approached the weathered picket fence separating the yards, and he held back until the man was upright. No reason to embarrass him.

  Sixty seconds later, Ben strolled over to the fence. “Good morning.”

  The guy swung around . . . tottered again . . . but used the shovel to steady himself.

  “Morning.”

  Based on his clipped delivery and fierce scowl, there was nothing good about his morning—and the man didn’t seem receptive to chitchat . . . or an offer of help.

  Better proceed with caution.

  “I noticed you from the kitchen window. I’m Ben Garrison, Ned’s grandson.” He extended his hand over the pickets.

  Using the shovel almost as a crutch, the younger man closed the space between them with a not-quite-normal gait and returned his clasp.

  “Greg Clark. Sorry for your loss.” His voice was gruff, but a flicker of sympathy softened his angular features. “Your grandfather was a good man.”

  “Yeah, he was. Thanks.” Ben surveyed the potted rosebush and half-dug hole in the center of a small, well-tended plot that appeared to be under development. “You chose a perfect spot for your garden. You’ll be able to see it from the kitchen window.”

  Greg gave the bed a fast, annoyed sweep. “It’s not mine. This is my wife’s project.”

  “Looks like she recruited you to help, though.” He motioned to the rosebush.

  The corners of Greg’s lips dipped south. “She’s always finding some chore or other for me to do.” Bitterness soured his inflection.

  “I’ve heard about those never-ending honey-do lists.” Ben kept his tone light.

  “Yeah. She’s a master at that. But I’m not into gardening.”

  “In that case—could you use a little help? Two sets of hands might speed up a disagreeable chore.”

  A flush mottled Greg’s face. “I don’t need help.”

  At the defensive jut of the man’s jaw, Ben hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and hitched up one corner of his mouth. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind taking a break from cleaning out the basement. I can’t believe how many boxes
of quilting fabric my grandmother squirreled away. I’d be glad to have an excuse to get some fresh air for a few minutes and let the dust settle before I dive back in.”

  Greg hesitated . . . eyed the half-dug hole . . . shrugged. “If you want to help, fine. The sooner I can get this done, the sooner I can have the beer that’s waiting for me inside.”

  Beer at ten in the morning?

  Maybe there was more to the man’s surliness than anger at being recruited to do a distasteful job in the garden.

  Ben sighed.

  And maybe he should have stayed in the kitchen.

  Getting embroiled in someone else’s problems wasn’t part of his agenda for this visit.

  Too late now, though. He’d already stuck his nose in. His only option was to finish the task on the double and retreat to Skip’s house.

  “I’ll circle around the front and join you.”

  “Whatever.”

  Less than a minute later, as he approached the garden from the other side of the fence, the guy was once again trying to dig the hole for the rosebush.

  He didn’t appear to be any more stable now than he’d been before.

  Since Greg hadn’t mentioned his leg issue, however, it must be an off-limits subject—and it was hard to help a guy who didn’t want to admit he needed assistance.

  Ben wiped a hand down his face.

  His second attempt to do a good deed in Hope Harbor seemed fated to fail as dismally as his first.

  At least this guy didn’t have any visible claws.

  Psyching himself up for an awkward exchange, he crossed to the garden. “Why don’t I get this out of the pot while you finish the hole—or I could dig if you’d rather tackle the rosebush.”

  “I’ll dig.” The man ground out his reply as he jabbed at the soil.

  “Works for me.”

  Ben knelt on one knee while Greg continued to use the shovel for balance as he stepped on the edge of the blade.

  The technique wasn’t working. Every time the blade sank into the soil, he wobbled.

  Tension oozed off the man as Ben loosened the dirt in the pot around the root ball.

  This guy was seriously stressed.

  And Ben had a feeling his mood had little to do with the rosebush his wife had asked him to plant.

  All at once, after a particularly aggressive application of foot to shovel, he lost his balance and pitched sideways.

  Ben sprang to his feet and managed to grab him before he hit the dirt again.

  As he sagged and flailed for support, he let loose with a string of curses while Ben absorbed his weight.

  “I’ve got you, buddy. Give yourself a few seconds to get your legs under you.” Ben maintained his conversational, no-sweat tone.

  But the instant Greg regained his footing, he pushed away, bright splotches of color once again staining cheeks that were too pale even for a resident of the cloudy Oregon coast.

  “I’m done with this stupid project.” He spat out the words, hands fisted at his sides. “If Rachel wants a rosebush, she can plant it herself. Fiddling with flowers isn’t fit work for a real man.”

  Greg clumped back to the house, slamming the door behind him.

  In the silence that descended, Ben took a long, slow breath. Let it out.

  Wow.

  That was one angry dude.

  Shoving his fingers through his hair, he eyed the half-dug hole.

  He could walk away and leave the garden in disarray—or he could spare Greg’s wife the dirty work and complete the chore.

  Given that neither choice was likely to endear him to her husband, there was no reason to saddle her with the messy job. She had plenty to deal with already, if his brief encounter with Greg was any indication of the man’s temperament.

  Without further deliberation, Ben picked up the shovel, finished the hole, planted the rosebush, and went in search of a hose.

  Once he’d watered the plant in, he cleaned the shovel, placed it and the empty rose container beside the rear door, and hightailed it back to Skip’s.

  Playing good Samaritan was definitely not working for him on this trip.

  So from now on, he’d keep to himself, do what needed to be done to settle Skip’s affairs, and get out of town as fast as he could without creating any more trouble for anyone—including himself.

  “Here are all the columns Ned wrote, Marci. If you don’t need anything else for a few minutes, I’m going to take my lunch break.”

  Marci swiveled around in her chair as Rachel placed the newspaper clippings on her desk. “No problem. Is Greg joining you?”

  Her part-time assistant dipped her head and smoothed down the edge of her sweater. “No. He’s, uh, got other plans for today.”

  Based on the few insights about the man Marci had gleaned, that meant Rachel’s husband was either sulking in the shadowy house with all the shades drawn or sitting up at Pelican Point by the decrepit lighthouse, staring out to sea.

  Not much of a life for a bride of eighteen months.

  “How’s he doing?” She tapped the columns Rachel had given her into a neat stack. Careful, Marci. Don’t push too hard.

  “Okay.”

  “I haven’t seen him around town.”

  “He doesn’t socialize much.”

  Like not at all, as far as she could tell.

  “How are you doing? I know how hard it can be to move to a new town filled with strangers.”

  Not exactly true. Unlike Rachel, by her four-month anniversary in Hope Harbor, she’d already dived into town life and sent down deep roots.

  Of course, her time and energy hadn’t been sapped by a taciturn husband battling physical and emotional challenges.

  “I’m fine.” Rachel pulled her sweater tighter around her and averted her gaze—as if she was afraid her boss would see through her lie.

  Marci reined in a surge of frustration.

  Every overture she’d made in the eight weeks they’d worked together had been rebuffed.

  But Rachel needed a friend. Someone she could vent to, who would listen without judging.

  Too bad her assistant wasn’t on better terms with her parents. Texas wasn’t easy commuting distance, but surely they’d offer moral support if she worked up the gumption to let them know what was going on here.

  Or perhaps not, if they’d been less than thrilled about their daughter’s elopement—as Rachel had hinted.

  Meaning she had to keep offering a hand of friendship.

  “You know . . . I’ve been thinking about running down to the new native-plant nursery near Sixes. Would you like to come along?”

  A spark of interest brightened the other woman’s face—just as Marci had hoped. The one subject Rachel talked about freely was gardening.

  But the tiny glimmer of animation flickered . . . and died.

  “Thank you for asking, but I need to be available for Greg when I’m not working.”

  “You also need some time for yourself—and your own interests. There’s nothing wrong with setting aside a few hours here and there for fun.” She tried to infuse her comment with caring rather than criticism.

  Rachel’s throat worked. “Fun hasn’t been part of my life for a while.”

  That was the closest the woman had come to a direct confidence—although the admission was no big revelation. Based on the sheen in her eyes after most of the hushed phone conversations she held with her husband in this office, laughter and joy weren’t part of her standard fare.

  Thank goodness she’d applied for the job here. At least it got her out of that depressing atmosphere for fifteen hours a week.

  “Why don’t you think about that trip south? We could stop for tea at the lavender farm too. It’s charming.”

  Rachel hesitated—but in the end she shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but this isn’t the best time. Maybe down the road?”

  So much for her powers of persuasion.

  “Sure. And don’t worry about hurrying back. I’m going to
review the ads for the next issue of the Herald. I can’t believe you convinced Lou Jackson to commit to a regular slot for the bait and tackle shop—but I’m thrilled. We can always use another steady revenue stream.”

  “It wasn’t a hard sell after I suggested he use the ad space to not only promote his shop but indulge his penchant for trivia. To be honest, it was Greg’s idea.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I mentioned at dinner one night that you’d asked me to contact a few businesses about buying an ad. Greg knows Lou from way back and remembered how he likes to entertain customers with obscure facts. He said including a trivia tidbit in ads would attract readers—and potential customers—especially if Lou ran a special on one of his more eclectic items.”

  “Well, it’s a very creative idea. I love the copper hummingbird feeder he’s featuring in the first ad. Who’d expect to find such an item in a bait and tackle shop? Tell Greg I said thanks for the suggestion.”

  “I will.” She retreated to her desk and picked up her purse. “Be back soon.”

  As Rachel pushed through the door, Marci exhaled and sank back in her chair.

  Such a sad situation.

  At twenty-two and twenty-three, Rachel and Greg had their whole life ahead of them.

  Yes, they’d had a serious setback.

  Yes, they’d need to alter the plans they’d made.

  Yes, they’d been given a tough row to hoe.

  But if they stuck together—and accepted the help that was available—they could weather this storm.

  Unfortunately, as far as she could tell, neither of them was ready to admit they needed outside assistance. Pride, embarrassment, insecurity—whatever their reasons, they were hunkering down and trying to get through this alone.

  Or Rachel was.

  Greg appeared to be on the verge of giving up.

  What a mess.

  And despite the save-the-world gene her mother always claimed was embedded in her DNA, there was nothing she could do about it except pray—and watch for any opportunity that came along to offer a helping hand.

  With a quick glance at her watch, Rachel pulled into the driveway of the tiny bungalow she now called home.

  She had twenty-two minutes left on her lunch break—even if lunch wasn’t on her noon agenda. Checking on Greg was more important than food.