Last Chance Harbor

by Vickie McKeehan

  Wearing a mask over his nose to keep from breathing in flying paint chips, dust from wood and masonry, or any pesky insulation particles hanging in the air, he dropped the cloth down around his chin long enough so he could guzzle a full bottle of water.

  When Logan Donnelly and Troy Dayton sauntered up, Ryder sent them a nod in greeting. “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad for six weeks in,” Logan said, looking around at the organized chaos. Ryder knew Logan usually made his living as an artist, a sculptor. But since moving to Pelican Pointe and redoing the lighthouse on the bluffs, it was common knowledge Logan had turned into the town’s go-to contractor.

  Since Ryder first met him, the boss had cut his hair back. It still draped down to his shoulders, no longer curled around his ass as it had in the past.

  “We’re almost down to the brick and mortar and in some places the two-by-fours,” Ryder reported as he watched two of his team knock down ceiling tiles from the foyer.

  “Great progress,” Logan echoed again. “Like I said, I’m very pleased we’ve gutted this much.”

  “Hard not to make a dent in the crappy insides when there’s so much here that’s useless—rotting wood, peeling paint, a crumbling foundation,” Ryder said, pointing to the decades-old mortar. “Can’t believe this sat vacant for such a long time. Despite that though, it has a good shell, a good framework to work with.”

  “First thing to go was the asbestos around the old pipes,” Troy threw out. “Right after we got the permits, Logan hired a team to get that job out of the way.” Logan’s right-hand man scratched the back of his neck where his curly, white-blond hair had grown longer, enough to tie back into a stubby ponytail. The guy didn’t look much older than legal drinking age, but Ryder had to concede the young man was a go-getter. Troy would take on any job and not bitch about it.

  “The whole town would have chipped in to get it done ’cause they’re excited to see this place get a complete makeover,” Troy went on. “The kids get a new school and the parents don’t have to stick them on a bus every morning for a long trip out of town.”

  “You wait and see, as soon as we get around to hanging the drywall and the playground equipment comes in, we’ll have to fight off volunteers who want to be a part of it all,” Logan threw in. “Nick’s adamant he wants this place opened on time and ready to go by the last week in August.”

  Nick was the financial wizard. The man had a stake in the school opening on time since his oldest daughter started kindergarten in the fall. With men like Nick and Logan at the helm, with a town committed to seeing the project to the end, Ryder had no doubt they would pull it off.

  “It’s doable,” Ryder said when the group was joined by Zach Dennison. Zach lived right down the street with his sister, Bree. The two had grown up here in what he considered an idyllic little town. There had been a time he’d have given anything to have roots someplace else other than the Philadelphia row house where he’d grown up. But his childhood was a testament to what a person could do with a strong single mother steering the helm.

  “The wiring’s got to go. It’s outdated,” Zach informed them.

  “Which translates to fire hazard,” Ryder added.

  “Everything is scheduled to come out,” Logan reminded the team. “We don’t cut corners on things like wiring or plumbing. That’s nonnegotiable. The only things slated for recycling are materials we know will hold up over time.”

  Something about that had Ryder grinning. “Like those glass blocks in the entryway.”

  Logan grinned back. “Exactly. Those should work great in the bathrooms across the top, don’t you think?”

  “The blocks let in plenty of light while keeping the rooms aesthetic.”

  “Plus it adds a stylish, nostalgic flair. That’s what I’m thinking, too,” Logan said in agreement. “I like knowing we’re on the same page.”

  Down the hallway, Drake Boedecker and Paul Bonner were going at it over whether or not a wall in question was loadbearing. Hearing the argument heat up, the boss turned without preamble and headed that way.

  Ryder took one look at the amused faces on Zach and Troy and shook his head. “It’s Logan’s turn to walk into the middle of that. I’ve tried.”

  Troy guffawed with laughter. “We all have, depending on what day it is.”

  “Might as well get used to the fact that those two will argue about anything,” Zach grumbled.

  Troy bobbed his head in agreement. “Which beer is better? Which hockey player will score first in the next game? Pepsi or Coke? For the last week they’ve even been taking bets as to when Brent Cody and River are gonna have a kid together.”

  “Sounds like Drake and Paul just like to hear each other talk,” Ryder noted.

  “There you go. By the way, we should probably call around and get a gaggin’ wagon out of San Sebastian to put us on their stop for breakfast and lunch,” Zach suggested. “The men need a quick source of food.”

  Ryder cocked his head. “Not a bad idea. But until that happens they’ll either have to pack a sandwich from home or walk down to the Hilltop Diner.”

  “To hell with that, I’m close enough to walk home and heat up some of Bree’s leftover lasagna,” Zach said.

  At the mention of Zach’s sister, Bree, Troy’s head jerked up. “How is she? I’ve been meaning to stop in at McCready’s and say hi.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like it that she has to work at a bar, slinging drinks. But since it’s only part-time and jobs are hard to come by and we need the money—”

  “It takes every penny to scrape by these days. I get it,” Troy said bobbing his head. “Quite a few of us are in the same boat.”

  Ryder watched as the younger man hemmed and hawed as he always seemed to do around Zach until finally Troy found the courage to speak up.

  “I’d like to take Bree out sometime.”

  That explained a lot, thought Ryder as he watched a frown break out across Zach’s forehead.

  “Are you asking me for my permission to date my kid sister?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “I don’t like that business with Gina Purvis,” Zach admitted.

  That statement kicked up Troy’s anger.

  “I didn’t do a damn thing to Gina,” Troy reminded Zach, nose to nose. “It’s common knowledge that Carl Knudsen killed her. Even if it did happen while you were out of town, you don’t have the right to throw that up to me. You should know that by now.”

  A measure of respect for Troy moved over Ryder. While he listened to the byplay between the two men he decided construction sites were often like little soap operas and mini-dramas. This was just one of them. During the few months he’d been here, he’d come to terms with small-town dynamics. They weren’t all that much different from what happened in the old neighborhood back home—particularly when the summer heat brought out temperamental moods.

  Zach grudgingly came to terms with Troy wanting to ask out his sister just as Ryder’s stomach told him it was time to break for lunch.

  Walking out to his copper-colored Ford F-150 pickup, he snatched up a small cooler off the bench seat that held the egg sandwich he’d packed himself, and started down the block.

  Crossing Ocean Street, he left behind the undercurrents at the site for the peaceful allure of Smuggler’s Bay.

  He waved to River. The archaeologist was still overseeing the workers at the active dig site that had grown wider in scope and depth since bringing a Chumash canoe out of the ground intact. The hundreds-of-years-old planked tomol would be the focal point to the museum she planned.

  Bypassing the pier, he made his way down to the sandy beach where he found a place to sit on a mound of boulders to watch the surf roll in.

  At thirty-three, he’d spent his share of time seeing the world on the government’s dime. There had been all those years spent overseas in lonely places, scattered bases, he’d seen for the first time when he’d left home at eighteen, right out of high school.

&
nbsp; Like many a young kid had done, he’d craved adventure, longed to see somewhere else other than the East Falls section of Philly where he’d grown up. He’d found it. Just not the fun kind he’d expected. Instead of fulfillment, he’d mostly found a dose of desolation and solitude that he’d carry the rest of his life. Not exactly something the Army recruiters mentioned when he’d signed up as a teen.

  He’d fought in countries like Iraq and Afghanistan and he’d come back with his body intact. He supposed he couldn’t ask for more than that.

  But life outside war had a way of bringing humility to the forefront without taking a limb. He’d planned a life with Bethany. That had evaporated along with everything he owned. The woman he’d trusted with his home, his bank account, didn’t exist. She never had. The scam artist he’d fallen for had stolen his money, had taken every dime out of his checking and savings accounts and cleaned him out, left him broke and feeling like a fool. Zero balances had incurred charges, charges that had racked up over months. By the time he’d gotten back stateside, she’d even thrown away all his clothes.

  Bethany Davis or whoever the hell she really was had disappeared to parts unknown. He still wasn’t sure where the bitch had ended up. All he knew for certain, he’d had to start over with nothing.

  So when he’d received the invitation to Cord Bennett’s wedding taking place out west in some hole-in-the-wall called Pelican Pointe, California, he’d packed up his few clothes. Without too much thought or worry, all he’d known for certain was that it put distance between the last place he’d spent with Bethany and his bad luck. Three-thousand miles away from the City of Brotherly Love, he’d rolled the dice and made the decision to stay here. There hadn’t been a lot to lose—except for leaving his mom behind—he’d been ready to make a fresh start.

  Peeling back the cellophane on his egg and cheese sandwich, he took a bite as the waves crashed up against the rocks with a roar. The sun was out, the temperature in the high seventies, the February wind off the water, cool and crisp.

  Three months ago Ryder had chosen to make the best of his brand-new situation—because it sure as hell beat spending his winter back in Philadelphia.

  Julianne Dickinson drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Keeping time to the beat, she hit the Pelican Pointe city limits about the same time Tom Petty’s Runnin’ Down a Dream blasted through the car speakers. The song fit the situation.

  Since Nick Harris and Murphy had given her the opportunity of a lifetime, Julianne had been running down her own dream. Come September, at the age of twenty-nine, she’d become principal of her own school.

  It was a big responsibility for someone who’d spent the last seven years teaching first graders to sound out their letters, grasp symbols and concepts, and pen their own names without getting a letter backwards.

  The job might’ve seemed daunting to anyone else, but not to Julianne. Somehow Nick and Murphy thought she was up to the task and she didn’t intend to let them down. She’d always been willing to take a risk. Even though others saw her as nothing more than the dependable, boring schoolteacher, Julianne Dickinson knew better. That’s what made it a dream come true for her.

  When she came to the intersection at Main Street and Cape May, she took a left toward the ocean. Her eyes drifted to the rows of houses along the street. She noticed the tricycles in the driveways, the toys littering the yards, indications there were plenty of young families sprouting up. In her mind it made for the perfect place to start a new school. Maybe one day the town would flourish enough so they could build a middle school for these same eager students.

  Looking at the Craftsman bungalows on either side of the street, she couldn’t wait to find her place and move here. Her lease on the house she rented in Santa Cruz was up at the end of May. Perfect timing translated to good karma. She wanted to be settled here by the end of the school year. That’s why she’d already given the landlord her notice. She’d already started cleaning out closets, tossing away old clothes she hadn’t had on since college, and boxing up things she didn’t use every day.

  The things she couldn’t part with though were what she considered her thrift store finds. The pieces she called her trash to treasures. The ones she recycled for cash that provided her with a much-needed second income—like the dining chairs she’d found sitting outside a dumpster. All they’d needed was a little TLC. She’d cleaned them up, brushed on a new coat of stain, added new fabric to the seats—a cute apple-red material she’d had on hand—and sold them for a tidy sum. Whatever profit she made went into her “house fund.” After all, a teacher had to make ends meet in creative, sometimes very distinctive ways.

  Growing up the way she had with her dad, a carpenter, she’d picked up a few skills over the years. Enough that she could spot a quality piece worth fixing up. In fact, she’d managed to save enough to buy a house. And now, with a better paying job in her future, she’d take the time to find the right house, plunk down her hard-earned savings on one where she could let her imagination and sense of style run wild.

  No more rentals for Julianne Dickinson. She was more than ready to become a property owner.

  Yes, she was making plans—big ones—starting over in this little town with new people, she looked forward to beginning her thirtieth year with a change of scenery.

  She pulled her lime-green Volkswagen van to the curb behind a row of pickup trucks and heard the sounds of a construction crew. Jackhammers blasted concrete. Drills whirled while sledge hammers met up with drywall and wood.

  Music to her ears, she thought now, as she closed the door on the car and stood at the curb staring at the renovation—the sooner the ugly duckling phase was behind them, the sooner the gorgeous swan could emerge. Julianne understood that, understood transformations.

  Stepping through the main entrance, ever mindful of the school’s long history, she took the time to consider how many students had walked through these same doors. Her breath hitched at the realization of the huge job she’d taken on.

  Bawdy language sailed down the hallway and mingled with eardrum-busting grunge rock. Conversations flew back and forth about how to get rid of a block of concrete. The men were in the process of knocking down walls and destroying the floors. To her, they seemed to be having the time of their lives. Much like her students did at recess.

  She went in search of Logan and found him in the auditorium along with several of his crewmembers. But as she stood there looking around at the powder of dust coating what had once been a large stage, she couldn’t help but marvel at what a tremendous space it was. She pictured the amphitheater crammed to capacity. Parents and teachers would come to watch the cast of A Christmas Carol recite their lines. Going over a list of all the plays and programs in her head that they could put on here, she saw potential, even among the mess. It would be a perfect place for years to come where they could hold band concerts and talent shows and savor the community spirit she yearned to foster.

  Daydreaming, Julianne had no idea she’d drawn the attention of every male on site. When she finally realized she was the center of attention and that every eye had landed on her, she suddenly felt self-conscious. She had the presence of mind to stick out a hand in greeting.

  Every one of them grinned and waved back, but it was Logan who joined her below what used to be the orchestra pit.

  “This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

  Julianne beamed at him. “I stayed away until now. But I just had to see what you’d done so far. I know it seems I’m anxious but I couldn’t come to Pelican Pointe without checking it out.”

  Logan threw his arms out wide. “What did I tell you guys? Expect visitors to drop by on a daily basis just to check up on our progress. Unannounced.”

  “Oops,” Julianne said in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. Before you got here I was just explaining to the guys how we’d likely have to beat off volunteers with a stick once we get down to refinishing this place. I’m
glad you’re here. You can provide your input now or whenever you want to drop by. Let us know how best to recycle what was here.”

  “You mean like desks? That sounds perfect.”

  “Desks and other things like light fixtures, tables and chairs. I tracked down the man who salvaged most of the inner furnishings, still lives on the outskirts of town. Cleef Atkins is his name, has to be in his eighties. Anyway, the man has most of the original stuff in his barn collecting cobwebs.”

  “Oh Logan, you’re a wonder. Leave it to you to find out what happened to what was here. I would love to be a part of that. Count me in.”

  “Hey, it’s all about upcycling what we can to keep costs down.”

  “I also wanted to see if there’s any word yet on the accreditation while I’m here.”

  “Nick obtained a temporary accreditation from the state board of education. They’ll audit us throughout the school year to see how we adhere to the curriculum and standards they set.” Logan glanced around. “Sorry about all the dust. But you’d better get used to it or grab one of those masks we keep by the main door to prevent breathing in so much of it. We need to get you a hardhat.”

  “Oh. Well.”

  All at once she felt a plastic helmet shoved into her belly. Her head turned to see one of the men, tall and lean, standing next to her.

  “It’s heavier than it looks,” Julianne commented after gripping the bump cap in her hand and awkwardly plunking the thing on top of her head.

  “Heavy, but necessary,” Ryder stressed to their visitor as he adjusted the hat down over her mahogany-colored hair. “Especially since you’re standing where the plaster may come down on your head at any moment,” he added.

  “This is Ryder McLachlan, one of the talented guys who’ll be turning this place into your state-of-the-art school. Ryder this is Julianne Dickinson, the soon-to-be principal,” Logan explained.

  “The principal?” Ryder’s eyebrows raised a good inch or two.