Pelican Point Read online

  So what if she’d ticked off Ben? That didn’t mean the cause was lost.

  If she could recruit some volunteers to form a think tank, they might be able to come up with a plan he could accept and the town would find financially palatable.

  It was possible.

  And if, in the end, they failed to stop the sale, at least she’d be able to sleep at night knowing she’d tried her best to preserve a treasured piece of Hope Harbor history.

  7

  What was that appetizing aroma?

  Pulling a bag of groceries from the back of her car, Rachel sniffed again.

  It smelled like Italian spices.

  Not pizza, though. That scent was all too familiar after the countless takeout they’d ordered over the past two months.

  Or rather, the ones Greg had ordered while she was at work, so he didn’t have to sit with her during a meal.

  He might never have admitted that was the reason for his sudden pizza craving, but why else would he eat while she was away unless it was to avoid her at the dinner table?

  And maybe this was no more than a continuation of that pattern. He could have found some other place with more than pizza on its takeout menu.

  Spirits sinking, she hefted the second bag out of the car and shut the door with a hip-check. If he’d ordered out again, she’d be eating another solitary dinner while he watched TV or played video games.

  At least she wouldn’t have to cook tonight—assuming he’d left a portion for her in the fridge, as usual.

  After setting one of the bags down at the door that led into the house, she inserted her key in the lock and shouldered into the kitchen.

  Stopped.

  Gaped.

  The small café table was set for two—sort of. A knife and fork rested on a paper napkin at each place, and a container of parmesan cheese was in the middle. Not fancy . . . but an effort.

  She glanced at the stove.

  Two pots were steaming—boiling water in one, and what appeared to be spaghetti sauce in the other. The kind Greg had made for her from his mother’s recipe on a few occasions during their courtship and in the early days of their marriage.

  There was also a bag of salad on the counter beside a large bowl.

  He’d been busy while she’d run up to Coos Bay to do some errands.

  But what in the world was going on?

  As if he’d heard her unspoken question, Greg appeared in the doorway from the living room. “Are you hungry?” He continued toward the stove without meeting her gaze.

  “Um . . . yeah. I am.”

  He stirred the sauce, then crossed to her and took one of the bags. After setting it on the counter, he opened one of the utensil drawers and poked around.

  Feet rooted to the spot, she studied his taut posture. “Greg?”

  “Yeah?” He pulled out a pair of scissors and cut open the bag of salad, his voice gruff.

  “Why are you cooking?”

  “I got hungry for Mom’s spaghetti sauce. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

  “No. That’s fine. I like your mom’s sauce.”

  She moved to the counter and deposited the other bag, keeping a surreptitious eye on her husband while she put away the groceries.

  He wasn’t just fixing dinner. He’d also combed his hair and shaved.

  Something was up.

  But what?

  If she got him talking, she might be able to find out—though that was a difficult-to-impossible chore most days.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . my boss asked me last week to pass along her thanks for your idea about the ad for Lou’s Bait and Tackle shop. He went for it hook, line, and sinker—pardon the pun.”

  She braced for a smart-aleck comeback.

  It never came.

  “Good.” He bent down to get the colander, keeping his face averted.

  It was a start—but one-word answers weren’t going to tell her why he was cooking dinner.

  She needed to ask more open-ended questions.

  “Do you remember any of the weird trivia Lou shared with you when you visited his shop as a kid?” Lame, but the best she could come up with on the fly.

  Several silent seconds ticked by, and her spirits dipped.

  He wasn’t going to respond.

  Whatever the reason he’d decided to clean up and prepare dinner, he wasn’t going to . . .

  “That the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock because they ran out of beer. As a teen beginning to sneak a few sips of alcohol here and there, that stuck with me.”

  She froze.

  He’d not only answered but offered a tiny personal insight.

  Stay cool, Rachel. Keep the conversation going.

  “Are you certain he wasn’t pulling your leg?”

  He stiffened—and she sucked in a sharp breath.

  How stupid could she be?

  Any reference to legs was bound to shut him up as tight as one of Oregon’s butter clams.

  So much for . . .

  “Yeah.” He resumed stirring. “I checked it out later. He had his facts straight. A few people tried to call him on trivia over the years, but he could always back up his claims.”

  Rachel slowly exhaled.

  He hadn’t closed down.

  Thank you, God!

  “I don’t know what fun nugget he’s going to share in the first ad, but the featured item is a copper hummingbird feeder.”

  “That should sell well. I saw quite a few of the birds darting among the flowers up by the lighthouse on Sunday.”

  She masked her dismay.

  He must have taken the car up there—again—while she walked to church.

  Lovely as the spot was, thinking about her brooding husband sitting on the edge of a cliff did not leave her feeling warm and fuzzy.

  But she wasn’t going to try and dissuade him from his solitary trips again tonight. That would only raise his ire and shut him down.

  “The lighthouse has an incredible view.” She tried for a pleasant tone as she crossed to the counter and began to toss the salad. “Sad to say, though, it may be off-limits soon.”

  He finished dumping the limp noodles from the pot into the colander and swiveled toward her, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  She told him what Marci had passed on yesterday after her encounter with the city manager at Charley’s—and with Ben later at the lighthouse.

  Frown deepening, Greg ladled sauce over the noodles while she put the salad on the table. “That stinks. Everyone in town loves Pelican Point light.”

  “That’s what Marci said. She’s planning to get some people together to brainstorm ideas about how to save it.”

  “When?”

  “She made some calls yesterday afternoon while I was at the office.” Rachel filled two glasses with water and set them on the table, homing in on the spark of interest in Greg’s eyes. “Would you like to get involved?”

  He carried their plates of spaghetti to the table. “I don’t know what I could offer.”

  “You’re very creative. You were the brains behind that successful charity fund-raising drive your unit had in Fort Hood, and you had a very creative idea for Lou’s ad.”

  “Your boss is a pro at this stuff.”

  “No, her background is journalism and PR, not marketing. She’s looking for help.”

  “I don’t have any training.” He opened the lid on the can of parmesan but weighed the container in his hand instead of sprinkling any cheese on his pasta.

  “You have excellent instincts—and you know this town. Better than Marci.”

  He refocused on the task at hand, dousing his spaghetti with the parmesan before handing her the can. “I’ll have to think about it. We better eat or this will get cold.”

  Rachel bowed her head, said a short blessing, and dug into the spaghetti.

  “I got some chocolate chip cookie dough at the grocery store.” An impulse purchase that for once might pay off. “I could bake
a few after dinner—if you’d like some dessert.”

  “Yeah. That’d be okay.” A moment of silence passed . . . and when he spoke again, his inflection was a tad too casual. “Dan would have enjoyed those if he’d stuck around for a couple of days, like he said he might. They’re his weakness.”

  She stopped eating. “Your brother was here?”

  A faint flush spread over Greg’s cheeks as he continued to chow down. “For a little while yesterday. He drove down to say hi.”

  All the way from Florence?

  Not likely.

  Dan was one of the most single-minded men she’d ever met—next to her husband. If he’d made the long, winding drive, he’d had an agenda.

  One that involved his younger sibling.

  And whatever he’d said must have hit its mark.

  Yet curious as she was about what they’d discussed, a different question was front and center in her mind as they chatted more than they had in months during the remainder of the meal.

  Was tonight the beginning of a permanent course correction—or no more than a blip on the radar that would disappear by morning?

  As the chime of the doorbell echoed through the house, Ben yawned, took a slug of coffee, and padded barefoot toward the front door.

  He’d need a gallon of caffeine to perk him up after the hours he’d spent tossing and turning for the past two nights, thanks to his less-than-pleasant encounter with Marci at the lighthouse on Monday.

  It was downright irritating to be that discombobulated by a woman.

  Even more annoying?

  He still found the Herald editor appealing despite her over-the-top emotions and penchant for poking her nose in other people’s business.

  His business, anyway.

  And it didn’t help that she’d been dead right about most of what she’d said.

  Trouble was, no matter how much he racked his brain, he couldn’t come up with a solution that would preserve Pelican Point light.

  Smoothing a hand down the hair he hadn’t yet bothered to comb, he pulled open the front door.

  His neighbor stood on the other side. The one he hadn’t seen since their less-than-pleasant encounter a week ago.

  Wonderful.

  If the man was as ill-tempered on this Wednesday morning as he’d been in his backyard, Ben might as well write this day off as a total loss.

  And it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

  “Good morning.” He managed a stiff smile, fingers tightening on his mug.

  “Morning.” The guy cleared his throat. “I, uh, wanted to stop by and thank you for planting the rosebush for my wife—and apologize for my bad manners.”

  A few beats ticked by while Ben absorbed the man’s words.

  Maybe the guy wasn’t a total jerk after all.

  Some of the tension in his shoulders evaporated.

  “No worries. We all have bad days.”

  “Or months. Eight of them, in my case.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I lost my leg in the Middle East, and the adjustment has been hard.”

  Ah.

  Stiff gait explained.

  Along with the man’s testy attitude.

  Given all the mangled limbs he’d seen, all the desperate please-save-my-leg/arm/foot/hand pleas he’d heard from soldiers, Ben knew as well as anyone could who still had both legs how devastating a loss like that was to a young person in their prime.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I just got back from my last tour over there myself, at a forward operating base hospital.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Yes. Orthopedic surgeon.”

  A muscle ticced in Greg’s jaw. “You cut off a lot of limbs while you were there?”

  “Some—but I saved every one I could. We all did.”

  “So I was told. But in Landstuhl they said mine was too far gone. You ever work there?”

  “For about a year.” He’d seen more trauma cases at the military hospital in Germany than most doctors saw in a lifetime. “Did you run into an IED?”

  “Yeah. After only six weeks.” Disgust flattened his features. “All that training for nothing. I didn’t have a chance to do anything worthwhile while I was over there.” He eyed the mug. “Except learn to like super-strong coffee.”

  At the sudden turn in the conversation, Ben regarded his visitor.

  Was the guy angling for an invitation?

  Could be.

  He might want to talk about his experiences with someone who’d seen battlefield trauma up close and personal.

  “Same here. That’s the kind I brew now. Would you like a cup?” He lifted his mug and motioned toward the back of the house.

  “I wouldn’t mind. Thanks.”

  Ben eased aside to let him pass. “Straight back to the kitchen.”

  He followed as his neighbor walked with a not-quite-normal gait toward the rear of the house. At eight months out, it was possible he was still using a temporary prosthesis. Depending on the extent of any other IED-related injuries, his progress might have been delayed. Hopefully he was following whatever PT regimen had been recommended.

  Based on their previous encounter, however, the man had anger—and depression—issues.

  Marital ones, too, given his comments about his wife.

  Could he build some rapport with the guy, who seemed in need of a sympathetic ear?

  Might be worth a try.

  After all, if he couldn’t save the lighthouse for the town, he might be able to at least lend a hand to one of the town’s residents.

  “Have a seat.” Ben motioned toward the table and removed yet another box of fabric he’d dragged up from the basement. Thank goodness the quilting club at Grace Christian was willing to take them off his hands. “Cleaning out the house is taking longer than I expected. I had no idea my grandparents were such packrats. Cream or sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  He filled a mug for the man and joined him at the table. “I’d offer you a donut or Danish if I had either, but Cheerios are my breakfast staple.”

  “They were mine too, in my bachelor days.” One side of Greg’s mouth hitched up. “For lunch and dinner too.”

  “I hear you. Been there, done that.”

  “I eat better now, though. My wife made some kind of baked omelet before she left for work. Her cooking beats Cheerios and army grub any day.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah.” His smile faltered. “I’m definitely the lucky one in our relationship. She had no idea what she was in for when we got married a year and a half ago.”

  They were almost newlyweds?

  Ouch.

  “Tough break to be hit with a big challenge so early in a marriage.”

  “It wasn’t what we planned, that’s for sure.” He stared into the black depths of his coffee.

  “Are you both from Hope Harbor?” It would be helpful if they had a support system . . . but the lack of visitors to the house suggested otherwise.

  “I am. Rachel’s from Texas.”

  “So you have family in town?”

  “Not anymore. My mom and dad are gone, and my brother lives in Florence. I have some friends here . . . but I haven’t been in the mood to socialize.”

  Meaning the two of them were trying to muscle through on their own.

  Not the best idea.

  “How’s your wife settling in?”

  “Okay, I guess.” He took a slow sip of his brew. “But it isn’t the life we expected. After I got out of the service, she was going to finish her degree and I was going to be a firefighter. You know what they say, though. If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” A thread of bitterness curdled his words.

  His neighbor may have corralled his anger to some degree since the day in the garden, but it continued to lurk, as insidious as a staph infection.

  And potentially as lethal.

  Ben debated his next move.

  He could tell the man it was better to lose his leg than his life, th
at he was fortunate to have a supportive wife, that there might be opportunities out there he’d have missed if he’d stuck with his original plan.

  But platitudes or pep talks weren’t going to pull him out of his funk.

  Ben swigged his coffee.

  Too bad he hadn’t opted for a bit of psychiatric training in med school.

  As it was, he’d be safer to sympathize with the man’s plight and offer a few open-ended comments to get the guy talking rather than attempt any armchair counseling.

  “Life can definitely throw curves.”

  “Yeah.” Greg set his mug on the table and gave him an intent look. “I heard you got hit with one yourself when you arrived in town. Inheriting a lighthouse had to be a shock.”

  He tried to mask his surprise.

  That had come out of the blue.

  Given the active local grapevine, he wasn’t surprised his neighbor had heard about the lighthouse—but why bring it up?

  “That’s putting it mildly.” He took a slow sip of his joe, trying to figure out how to play this. “I can’t believe my grandfather never told me he bought it, given how close we were.”

  “Maybe he was afraid you’d think it was an impractical purchase.”

  “It was.”

  “Yeah—but it meant the world to him. I didn’t know him well, but after Rachel and I moved in next door, he’d stop in on occasion with a bag of donuts or some cinnamon rolls from Sweet Dreams to shoot the breeze.”

  That sounded like Skip. Always tuned in to the needs of others, always willing to lend a hand to help a lonely person.

  Or an abandoned lighthouse.

  “My grandfather did have a touch of Don Quixote in him.”

  “There are worse things, I suppose. My wife told me last night that you’re planning to sell the property to someone who intends to knock down the light.”

  Uh-oh.

  Unless his listening skills were failing him, there was a very slight undercurrent of censure in that comment.

  Was this guy going to reward him for his hospitality by jumping all over him too?

  And how did he and his wife know about that brand-new development? Hope Harbor might have a warp-speed grapevine, but you had to mingle to tap into it, and they didn’t seem to socialize.