Driftwood Bay

by Irene Hannon

  “Hi.” He raised his voice to be heard above the yapping. “Can I help you?”

  “Um . . . I’m your neighbor. Jeannette Mason.” She gave him and the dog a discreet once-over as she indicated the property to her left.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Logan West. I’d offer to shake hands, but as you can see, they’re occupied.” He conjured up a smile.

  She didn’t return it.

  “I noticed.” She hiked up her volume too. “Actually . . . your friend there is what prompted my visit.”

  The corners of his lips sagged. Based on her serious demeanor, the woman hadn’t stopped by to welcome him to the neighborhood.

  Not even close.

  “I hope he hasn’t caused any trouble.”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s been . . .” Her voice faltered, and twin creases appeared on her brow as she glanced past him.

  He swiveled around.

  Molly was hovering in the doorway at the end of the foyer, finger in mouth, the corner of the threadbare blanket wadded in her fist.

  And there was a scratch on her cheek, oozing red.

  His stomach knotted.

  Where had that come from?

  He started toward her. “Molly, what happened to—”

  As if sensing his opportunity for escape, Toby twisted in his arms and leapt free. He landed on all four feet . . . slid across the plank floor, leaving a streak of mud behind from the one remaining dirty paw . . . and tore into the kitchen.

  Mercifully, he stopped barking.

  Logan crossed to Molly and dropped to one knee in front of her. “Sweetie, what did you do to your cheek?”

  She shrugged and hung her head.

  “You have a scratch.” He tapped the smooth skin beside it. The scrape wasn’t deep. A thorough cleaning and an application of some antibiotic ointment would suffice. But it had happened on his watch, and he didn’t have a clue how.

  Another indication he was in over his head with this single-parent gig.

  She lifted her hand to her cheek.

  Mystery solved.

  All of her fingernails were too long . . . several were jagged . . . and one was streaked with crimson.

  Somehow, in the craziness of packing and moving, he’d forgotten about little-girl manicures.

  That chore zoomed up on his to-do list—right below rounding up Toby, finishing the canine cleanup job, and mopping the kitchen floor. Again.

  The woman behind him cleared her throat.

  Oh yeah.

  His neighbor was standing on his porch.

  “I’ll fix this up for you in a minute, sweetie.” He gave Molly’s arm a comforting squeeze.

  Her expression remained solemn as she transferred her attention to their visitor.

  Logan stood and returned to the front door. “Sorry. It’s been a bit crazy around here. You were saying?”

  The woman rubbed her palms down her jeans, a flash of uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “Look . . . I, uh, can see you have your hands full . . . and I hate to add to your problems . . . but your dog is digging up my plants. Two today, and several yesterday—including one that disappeared.”

  So the leggy thing with the weird foliage that Toby had hauled home and deposited on the back porch had been from his neighbor’s garden.

  Not the most attractive plant he’d ever seen—but insulting this woman’s garden wasn’t likely to earn him any brownie points.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll be happy to repair the damage or replace anything that was destroyed—and I’ll do my best to keep Toby from escaping again.”

  “I’d appreciate that. And I already took care of the damage. The purpose of my visit was to make sure the issue is addressed.” She sent Molly a quick smile and withdrew a step. “I, uh, have to get back to work. Welcome to Hope Harbor.”

  With that, she turned and retreated down the walk.

  He waited in the doorway until she disappeared around the hedge that separated their properties, but she never looked back.

  Just as well.

  Once upon a time, a beautiful neighbor would have been a major distraction. Especially if she was friendly.

  But he had plenty of other distractions that took precedence these days—and Jeannette Mason hadn’t exuded one ounce of friendliness.

  Expelling a breath, he shut the door as Toby galloped into the foyer, skidded to a stop beside Molly, and plopped on his haunches.

  The two of them watched him, as if they were waiting for the next act to begin in a three-ring circus.

  An apt analogy.

  And unless he managed to get a handle on all the moving parts fast, the new life he’d hoped to create on the Oregon coast could end up being a total bust.

  “Jeannette! Wait up!”

  At the summons, Jeannette halted her trek to Charley’s wharfside taco stand and swiveled around.

  The Hope Harbor Herald editor jogged toward her from across the street, the sun glinting in her red hair.

  Jeannette tamed the twitch tugging at her lips. As long as Marci Weber—no, Garrison now, since her marriage five months ago—was around, the town would never have an energy shortage. Nor lack for a champion. A woman who’d relaunched a defunct newspaper and spearheaded a successful campaign to save the Pelican Point lighthouse was a formidable civic asset.

  The editor screeched to a stop beside her, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad I caught you. I have a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about, if you can spare a minute.”

  Jeannette braced. When Marci had that gleam in her eye, she was usually on some sort of quest—or soliciting volunteers for her latest project.

  And saying no to the vivacious redhead wasn’t easy.

  Which was why Jeannette had found herself attending the first lighthouse meeting last year—along with hordes of other Hope Harbor residents who’d succumbed to Marci’s earnest, eager enthusiasm.

  “I can give you two. Maybe even three.” She tried for a teasing tone—but hopefully Marci would pick up her underlying note of caution.

  “Wonderful. First, thank you for renewing your standing ad for the tearoom in the Herald. Without steady advertisers like you, we’d be in deep doo-doo.”

  “It’s my pleasure—and it’s a win/win situation. I can’t tell you the number of customers who say they found out about me from that ad.”

  “Glad to hear it. Will you be back at the farmer’s market in May when it opens for the season?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Excellent. I’m going to be doing a feature on a different vendor in each issue, and I’d love to showcase Bayview Lavender Farm.”

  “All publicity is accepted with thanks.”

  A savory whiff of grilling fish set off a rumble in Jeannette’s stomach, and she slid a glance toward the white truck with colorful letters above the serving window spelling out “Charley’s.” She needed to get over there before the taco-making artist’s muse beckoned and he closed up shop to hurry back to his studio north of town.

  “Smells good, doesn’t it?” Marci grinned and flapped a hand toward the truck that was a permanent fixture on the wharf.

  “Better than good—and that’s my next stop.”

  “I’m in the mood for tacos myself, but I have a standing Thursday lunch date with Ben that’s sacrosanct. Sort of like our local clerics’ Thursday golf game.”

  “Nice tradition.”

  “I agree—but it’s about to come to an end, now that my husband has managed to round up a doctor to replace him as director of our urgent care center.”

  Jeannette arched an eyebrow. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “I put a small item in the Herald two issues ago. Easy to miss. But I’ll be running a longer story once the new guy takes over. Ben’s enjoyed filling in there, but he’ll be happy to devote full-time to his orthopedic practice in Coos Bay.”

  “I can imagine.” Stitching up cuts and treating stomach viruses wouldn’t b
e much of a challenge for the former army surgeon who’d married Marci.

  “Actually, I thought you might have met the new doc. He bought the place next to yours. Logan West.”

  Jeannette blinked.

  Her new neighbor was Ben Garrison’s replacement?

  That was news.

  She did her best to feign nonchalance. “I’ve met him, but it was a brief conversation. We didn’t discuss our professions.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure myself, but Ben says he’s nice.” Marci gave her an expectant look, as if she was hoping for another take on the new man in town.

  Not happening.

  Jeannette had no opinion about her new neighbor.

  At least none she wanted to share.

  “As I said, we only exchanged a few words.” She fingered the edge of her shoulder purse. If anyone in town knew details about the man who shared his home with a demon dog and a sad-eyed little girl, it would be Marci.

  Like, say, his marital status.

  Jeannette frowned at the errant thought. Where had that come from? It wasn’t as if she had any romantic interest in the man, for heaven’s sake.

  Even if images of the tall, sandy-haired man with startling blue eyes had been popping up in her mind with annoying regularity since they’d met yesterday.

  Marci exhaled, her frustration evident. “I guess I’ll have to wait until I meet him myself. I have an interview scheduled next week for a personality piece, to introduce the residents to him.”

  Perfect. Marci was a first-rate reporter, and she’d cover all the bases in the Herald. No questions necessary today.

  “So”—Jeannette inclined her head toward the wharf—“I better get over there before Charley decides to go paint.”

  “I hear you. I’ve almost had the window shut in my face on a few occasions. But there’s someone in line today, and Charley never closes if people are waiting. I won’t keep you more than another minute or two, but I did have a favor to ask.”

  Jeannette tightened her grip on her purse.

  Here it came.

  “What did you need?”

  If Marci noticed the wariness in her voice, she gave no indication. “You know about the refugee family the town’s churches are sponsoring, right?”

  “Yes.” It was impossible not to know. Reverend Baker had been running information about the Syrian family in the Grace Christian bulletin ever since he and Father Murphy at St. Francis had cooked up the plan.

  “Well, they’re arriving next Tuesday, and some of us thought it would be hospitable to have a meet-and-greet for them. I ran the proposal by our clerics yesterday, and they loved it. Grace Christian is going to host the gathering in the fellowship hall a week from Saturday night, and members of both congregations will bring casseroles. But the highlight will be a ‘Taste of Hope Harbor’ sampling table to give them a literal flavor of the town.”

  Clever idea.

  No wonder the PR business Marci ran on the side was successful.

  “I like it—and we do have some fabulous local specialties.”

  “I agree. Sweet Dreams bakery is providing its famous cinnamon rolls, Charley is bringing mini tacos, Tracy and Michael at Harbor Point Cranberries offered cranberry nut cake, the Myrtle Café is supplying meat loaf bites, and Eleanor Cooper promised to whip up one or two of her fabulous chocolate fudge cakes. I was hoping you’d bake some of your wonderful lavender shortbread to add to the table.”

  The request was reasonable—except she wasn’t planning to attend the event. That would require socializing, and life was much more placid . . . and safe . . . when you kept to yourself.

  But how could she say no, after so many residents had already done more than their share to help the family? From what she could gather, volunteers had been hard at work for weeks renovating an apartment, soliciting furnishings and clothing, stocking the kitchen, helping line up a job for the young father, and holding fund-raisers to buy a used car that Marv at the body shop had fine-tuned into mint condition.

  The least she could do was provide some sweets.

  But perhaps she could beg off on showing up.

  “I’ll be happy to participate. I may drop my contribution off on Friday, though. Weekends are super busy at the tearoom. I’m always fully booked, and by the time the last person leaves on Saturday, I’m ready to fold.”

  Marci caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I can understand that—but we’d love it if you could stop by to say hello. We’re trying to do everything we can to make the family feel welcome, after all they’ve been through. They’ve had a really tough go of it.”

  Yes, they had.

  She’d read the information in the bulletin about the small, shattered family that was fleeing Christian persecution. A young man with a little girl, along with his mother—the sole survivors from their family after a church bombing. They’d left the country with nothing, spent months in a refugee camp, and only by the grace of God had they connected with the two Hope Harbor churches.

  Truly, it had been almost like a miracle.

  If Charley hadn’t heard about their plight from an acquaintance who volunteered with a humanitarian-aid organization in the Middle East, then planted the notion of rescuing them with the two clerics, the traumatized, homeless family would still be living in destitution, with no hope for a better future.

  Guilt nipped at her conscience.

  Everyone in town should to do their part to let these three wounded souls know that while they might be in a strange new land, they were among friends.

  “If I can manage it, I’ll drop in for a few minutes.” It was the best she could offer on the fly.

  “Awesome!” Marci beamed at her as if she’d agreed to come. “I won’t delay your lunch any longer. Enjoy those tacos.” With a wave, she hurried back toward the newspaper office.

  Inhaling a lungful of the salt-laced air, Jeannette surveyed the picture-perfect scene as she resumed her trek to Charley’s truck.

  The white gazebo in the small park behind Charley’s stand.

  The planters separating the sidewalk from the sloping boulders that led to the water, newly filled with spring flowers.

  The colorful awnings on the storefronts that faced the sea on the other side of Dockside Drive.

  She paused beside one of the benches spaced along the wharf and gazed out over the deep blue water, past the boats bobbing in the placid marina, to the long jetty on the left and the two rocky islands on the right that served as a natural buffer for the protected harbor.

  It was a beautiful spot.

  In fact, it was this very view that had sold her on the town when she’d come west in search of refuge and a new life.

  But as she’d learned, Oregon storms could be fierce. Ferocious waves could batter the rugged coast. And even in sheltered harbors like this, boats could rock dangerously if sufficient turbulence agitated the waters.

  The kind produced by the type of low-hanging gray clouds massing on the horizon that suggested some rough weather could blow into town in the not-too-distant future.

  “Hi, Jeannette. May I join you for a moment to admire the view?”

  Stifling her disquieting thoughts, she angled toward Charley Lopez.

  Behind him, the wharfside stand was shuttered.

  Drat.

  She’d missed her opportunity for a taco lunch.

  “Of course—although I have to admit my taste buds were clamoring for fish tacos. Can I cajole you into reopening for one more customer?”

  “No cajoling necessary.” Hefting a brown sack, he gave her his trademark smile, his gleaming white teeth a contrast to his sun-burnished, weathered skin. “I saw you over here and assumed you were coming my way.”

  “You’re the best.” She opened her purse to dig for her wallet.

  “We can settle up on your next visit. The cash box is closed for the day.”

  After a brief hesitation, she re-zipped her purse. This was another thing she loved about Hope Harbor. E
veryone trusted everyone else.

  “Thanks.” She took the bag he held out.

  “My pleasure. Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong—and I could see you were desperate for a taco fix.” He winked at her, adjusted the Ducks cap over the long gray hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and shifted toward the sea to give it a long, slow sweep.

  Jeannette slanted a look at him. Was that comment about ignoring obvious needs referring to more than tacos? Was he suggesting she should do her part for the immigrant family?

  Crimping the top of the bag in her fingers, she rolled her eyes.

  What a ridiculous stretch.

  From his perch in the taco truck, there was no chance Charley could have overheard her conversation with Marci.

  Her conscience was just working overtime.

  Charley picked up the conversation. “I never get tired of this view. It’s a balm for the soul.”

  She studied the scene again.

  Yes, it was—most days.

  But this afternoon, it did nothing to mitigate the subtle unease that had been gnawing at her since her encounter with her neighbor yesterday.

  “Don’t you think so?” Charley focused on her with those keen, dark eyes that seemed to have an uncanny ability to delve beneath the surface.

  She had to scramble to recall his last comment.

  View . . . balm . . . soul. That was it.

  “I love this vista too. Although I have to admit it’s not working its usual soothing magic on me today.”

  “I wonder why?”

  She was saved from having to respond by two seagulls that waddled over and settled at Charley’s feet with a few squawks.

  “Friends of yours?” She indicated the pair.

  “Yes. Floyd and Gladys.”

  “Seriously? You name the seagulls?”

  “These two are special. We go way back.”

  They let loose with a few more squawks.

  “I think they’re trying to talk to you.”

  “A distinct possibility.” His expression grew speculative. “Curious that they’d show up now.”

  “How so?”

  “Long story.” After giving the scene another scan, he transferred his attention to her, his usual placid, pleasant demeanor back in place. “Better go eat those tacos or they’ll get cold. And have some of your delicious lavender shortbread for dessert.” With a jaunty salute, he ambled off.