by Irene Hannon
“No thanks. The kids I teach are all the challenge I need.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Stop evading my question.”
“I have some news.”
“Did you by chance find some evidence to incriminate the Russians who paid us a visit last summer?”
“No.” His features tightened. “We’re still trying, though.”
But it wasn’t going to happen. If there’d been any way to pin Michael’s murder or her own trauma on them, this man and his colleagues would have found it by now.
She suspected Colin knew that as well—and that it would remain a thorn in his side. This was not a man who liked to admit defeat.
At some point, however, they were both going to have to make their peace with the frustrating reality and move on.
“Then what’s the news?”
He took her hand and led her toward the sofa in the living room. Once they were seated, he pulled out a single sheet of paper.
“During our investigation, we had some conversations with Matt Parker’s attorney. Once we were able to verify through DNA that both Parker brothers were dead, he executed Matt’s will. This letter from him was with his papers. His attorney gave us a copy, and I thought you’d like to read it.”
She took the single typed sheet he handed her and skimmed the contents.
The first section detailed the problems in Boston, which she already knew about.
But the last paragraph was news.
Based on our history and my brother’s avarice, I wouldn’t put it past him to come forward and try to claim my estate if anything should happen to me. For the reasons listed above, I want to be clear that he is not to get one penny of my assets. Every dime that remains after my estate is settled is to be donated to Habitat for Humanity. My father dedicated his life to building quality homes for people and giving them fair value for their money. I wish to continue his legacy by providing homes for people who might not otherwise be able to afford one.
Trish’s throat tightened. “This sounds like Matt. He might not have been the man for me, but he was very kind and generous.”
“The evidence certainly supports that. I thought you’d want to know that at least one positive result came out of the whole ordeal.”
“Thanks for sharing this.”
He took the letter, folded it, and slipped it back in his pocket. “Now let’s put all this behind us for the rest of the day.”
“I agree—but aren’t Kristin and Rick going to be mad at you for skipping the every-other-Saturday Treehouse Gang breakfast so we can go on a picnic?”
“No. They love you almost as much as I do.”
Love.
He’d begun tossing that word out casually in the past month, though he hadn’t yet strung together all three magic words. But that was coming.
She hoped.
“Well, tell them I’ll make it up to them. In fact, I’ll invite them for homemade lasagna one night next week.”
“Am I included?”
“What do you think?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He rose and held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
She let him pull her to her feet. “What’s the rush? It’s only ten o’clock. Isn’t this kind of early for a picnic?”
“No.” He tugged her toward the door.
“Okay, okay. I get the message you’re in a hurry. Are you certain you don’t want me to provide some of the food? I baked brownies last night.”
“Save them for later. This one’s on me.”
A sudden buzz of excitement zipped through the air, and she studied him out of the corner of her eye.
Colin was the steadiest guy she’d ever met—solid in the face of danger, a rock in turbulent seas.
But he seemed unsettled . . . jittery . . . nervous . . . today.
She could think of only one thing that might unnerve her handsome detective.
And as she joined him at the door, activated the security system, and returned Stan’s thumbs-up with a wave, a delicious trill of anticipation raced through her.
Maybe the day she had hoped would arrive sometime in the months ahead was going to come early.
The moment had arrived.
Colin crumpled the butcher paper his sandwich had been wrapped in, leaned back on his palms, and tried to rein in his galloping pulse.
No dice.
Despite the fact he’d been sitting on this blanket for more than half an hour, his heart was beating as hard as it did after an intense game of one-on-one basketball.
How nuts was that?
He carried a gun to work, for crying out loud. Put his life on the line day in and day out. Willingly walked into volatile situations that could—
“This is a beautiful spot.”
He looked over at Trish sitting beside him on their hillside perch. She was drinking in the view of the colorful trees, lips curved up. Contentment softened the planes of her face, and the golden highlights in her light brown hair glinted in the noonday sun.
“I agree. The scenery here is beautiful.”
She turned toward him, and he winked at her.
“Are you flirting with me?” Amusement twinkled in her eyes.
“Yep.”
“I bet you do that with all the girls.”
“Just the pretty ones—and you’re at the top of that list. That’s why you got lunch too.” He nodded toward the wicker picnic basket.
“And what a lunch it was. Cheese plate, spinach-artichoke dip, crackers, chicken salad sandwiches, strawberries. You can take me on a picnic anytime.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So what’s for dessert?”
His pulse picked up again. No matter how certain a guy might be about the signals a lady was sending, when he was getting ready to pop the question, it was best not to take too much for granted. After all, he was sort of rushing this. Four months of dating wasn’t all that long.
But at thirty-five, he knew what he was looking for in a woman.
And since Trish was it, why waste time?
He opened the basket, pulled out two gourmet chocolate cupcakes—each in its own plastic-domed container—and handed her one.
“Wow.” Her eyes lit up at the confection decorated with shaved white and dark chocolate curls. “You definitely know the way to this lady’s heart.”
He hoped that was true.
“Before we eat these, I wanted to . . .”
All at once, the sun vanished, a rumble of thunder intruded on the bucolic tranquility, and a raindrop plopped onto his nose.
What the . . . ?
He checked out the sky behind him.
Dark clouds had encroached while they enjoyed their lunch . . . and unless he missed his guess, they were in for a serious deluge.
“When did that happen?” Trish assessed the heavens too. “I didn’t think it was supposed to rain today.”
“It wasn’t—according to all those meteorologists who get paid the big bucks.”
Another raindrop splashed onto his forehead.
This was so not how he’d planned this moment.
“We better gather up all this stuff and relocate to my friend’s porch.” He went into action as he talked, stuffing everything on the blanket back into the picnic basket with Trish’s help.
By the time they had it all stowed, the sky had blackened even more and the rain was beginning to fall in earnest.
“Let’s go.” He picked up the basket, grabbed her hand, and sprinted toward the cabin.
They reached the covered porch mere seconds before the skies opened.
“You know . . . we could be stuck here for a while.” Trish surveyed the downpour from under the sheltering eaves, then motioned toward the porch swing. “But that’s a fine spot to sit. Very cozy. And those cupcakes will taste wonderful wherever we eat them.”
“I like how you make lemonade out of lemons.”
“Better than going around with your face all puckered up.” She contorted her features into
a sourpuss expression and nudged him with her shoulder.
The corners of his mouth flexed at her comic antics. Trish’s ability to roll with the punches was one of the things he loved about her—and an ideal attribute in a future mate.
Time to get to the main item on today’s agenda—rain or no rain.
“Why don’t we swing for a few minutes before we dive into dessert?”
“You’re going to make me wait for my chocolate?” She pretended to pout.
“There are other ways to satisfy your sweet tooth.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Hmm.” She pretended to consider that. “Okay. You’re on.”
She crossed to the porch swing and sat.
Colin glanced again at the steady rain. Maybe he wouldn’t have the blue skies and beautiful panorama he’d envisioned as a backdrop for his proposal . . . but after working up his courage for the past two days, changing the program wasn’t an option.
He fingered the small box in his pocket, joined her on the seat, and set the swing in motion with his toe.
“Don’t worry about the rain.” She scooted closer to him. “The sun is always shining in my heart when I’m with you.”
“You stole my line.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“As a matter of fact . . .” His voice hoarsened, and he cleared his throat. “I’m hoping we’re also in the same book.”
She tipped her head, faint creases denting her brow. “What do you mean?”
“Stories are found in the pages of a book—and I’d like our stories to merge in the next chapter.” He pulled out the small jeweler’s box.
Her gaze dropped to it . . . and she went absolutely still.
“I know we only met a few months ago, but we’re not twenty years old.” He twined his fingers with hers and held on tight. “We’re mature adults who have our priorities in reasonable order and enough experience to be clear about what we like and don’t like. I knew almost from the day we met you were the kind of woman who comes along once in a lifetime—if a man is lucky.”
He flipped up the lid with his thumb to reveal the budget-straining oval diamond the sales clerk had assured him any woman would love.
Based on Trish’s gasp, the man’s advice had been sound.
“So here’s the bottom line. I could have waited a few more weeks—or months—to ask you this question . . . but I’m tired of going to bed every night wishing you were by my side and tired of waking up every morning alone. I want my days to start and end with you—the sooner the better.” He took a deep breath . . . and spoke the words he’d been saving all his life for the special woman he’d hoped someday to find. “I love you, Trish Bailey . . . and I’d be honored if you would be my wife.”
Her eyes began to shimmer, and when she spoke, a quiver rippled through her voice. “I love you too—and I can’t think of any role I’d rather play.” She held up her left hand.
It took him two tries to get the ring out of the box, and he fumbled it as he slipped the band on her finger.
But once it was securely in place, he rose and pulled her to her feet. “This calls for a kiss.”
“We could have done that on the swing.”
“Not like this.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
Very close.
“I see what you mean.” She looped her arms around his neck and smiled up at him. “Ready whenever you are.”
“On the count of three. One . . . two . . .”
Suddenly the sun peeked out from behind the dark clouds, bathing the rain-refreshed landscape in dazzling light.
“Perfect timing. This is the kind of ambiance I wanted for this moment.”
“It must have been a passing storm.” She locked her hands behind his neck like she never wanted to let go. “But I can weather any storm if you’re by my side.”
“Count on that . . . forever. Now—where were we?”
“Two.”
“You sure you don’t want to eat those chocolate cupcakes before I say the magic number?” He grinned. “We might be a little too distracted to eat after this.”
“Chocolate has its charm . . . but it doesn’t hold a candle to you, Detective Flynn. You can be my dessert any day. And I’ll prove it. Three!”
She stood on tiptoes and tugged his head down.
“A lady who takes the lead.” He could feel the whisper-warmth of her breath against his chin as he spoke.
“A lady who knows what she wants.”
“I like that.”
“Good. Because I’m done talking.”
With that, she pressed her lips against his.
And as the mood shifted from teasing to tender . . . as the skies changed to blue and the sun shone warm and bright . . . as birds chirped a joyous chorus overhead . . . Colin gave thanks.
For unexpected blessings.
For a future brimming with promise.
And for this special woman who would fill his world with love and laughter and hope all the days of his life.
He’d inherited a lighthouse?
Ben Garrison stared at the dark-haired attorney, inhaled a lungful of the tangy, salt-laced air drifting in through the open window, and wiped a hand down his face.
No way.
Skip wouldn’t do that to him.
It must be jet lag playing tricks on him. After all the flights he’d taken through multiple time zones to reach the Oregon coast, he was definitely in zombie land. And frequent changes in air pressure could mess with a person’s ears, distort words.
At least he hoped that was the explanation.
Otherwise, this say-good-bye-and-take-some-time-to-decompress trip was going to turn into one gigantic headache.
Gripping his mug of coffee, he gave the view from the window a sweep. Usually the peaceful scene of bobbing boats in Hope Harbor’s protected marina had a calming effect.
Not today.
Bracing, he refocused on the man across from him. “Tell me you didn’t say lighthouse.”
“Sorry.” Eric Nash folded his hands on the round conference table and gave him a commiserating grimace. “I wish I could.”
He closed his eyes and stifled a groan.
“I take it you weren’t aware of this . . . unique . . . asset in your grandfather’s estate.”
“No.” Ben took a long slug of his coffee, willing the caffeine to kick in.
Nada.
Too bad this brew wasn’t as potent as the stuff they chugged in the forward operating base hospitals where he’d spent his days for the past seven years. He could have used a high-octane boost about now.
“It’s the one on Pelican Point.” The man motioned toward the north. “You might remember it from your visits. Your grandfather said the two of you used to walk up there in the evening.”
An image of the fifty-foot-high weather-beaten lighthouse dating back to 1872 flashed through his mind—and despite the ache beginning to pulse in his temples, the corners of his lips rose.
Yeah, he remembered those walks. They’d been a nightly ritual during the summer visits of his youth. Fair skies or foul, they’d trekked from Skip’s small house in town up the winding, rocky path to the lighthouse after dinner. The view was amazing, and the stories Skip had told about shipwrecks and danger and the steady beacon of light that guided frightened sailors home on stormy nights had stirred his youthful imagination.
But his grandfather hadn’t owned the place.
And in the almost two decades since his last summer-break stay at age sixteen, Ben couldn’t recall Skip ever mentioning it. Nor had the subject come up during any of his whirlwind visits through the years.
So what was going on?
“I have clear memories of the lighthouse—but how did he end up owning it?” Ben held tight to the ceramic mug, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.
“After it was deactivated and decommissioned by the Coast Guard three years ago, the government offered it to Hope Harbor. But the cost of
restoring and maintaining the property was too high and the town declined. In the end, it was put up for auction.”
Ben knew where this was heading. Skip had loved that lighthouse—and all it symbolized. Light in the darkness. Guidance through turbulent waters. Salvation for the floundering. Hope for lost souls.
“I’m assuming my grandfather offered the highest bid.”
“He offered the only bid. It’s been his baby for the past two years. The price was reasonable—as lighthouses go—and from what I gathered, restoring it was a labor of love. However, it was also a money suck. I’m afraid there isn’t much of an estate left, other than his house and personal possessions.”
“I didn’t expect a lot, even without the lighthouse expenses.” No one who spent his life mining the sea for Dungeness crabs got rich—except the big operators. And if the cost of restoring and maintaining the structure was too high for a town, it was amazing Skip had anything left at all.
Other than the lighthouse.
An albatross that now belonged to him.
The throbbing in his temples intensified, giving the pounding bass beat of a rock concert serious competition.
What in tarnation was he supposed to do with the thing?
“I’m afraid the lighthouse isn’t in the best shape, either—despite your grandfather’s efforts to restore it. Since his knee issues began, he hasn’t been able to do much physical labor, and contractors charge a lot for that kind of work. Some people in town lent a hand on occasion, but progress was slow.”
Tucking away the bad news that the lighthouse might be crumbling, Ben homed in on the other piece of information the man had shared. “What knee issues?”
The attorney cocked his head. “You didn’t know?”
“No. In his emails, he always said everything was fine. We didn’t often talk by phone, but whenever we did, he was upbeat.”
“Maybe he didn’t want you to worry, given the demands of your job.”
Yeah. That sounded like Skip. His grandfather knew army surgeons working near the front lines had a high-stress, high-adrenaline, fast-paced lifestyle. They’d discussed it often. And Ned Garrison had never been the type to burden other people with his problems.