Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  If the cat didn’t have a bleeding paw, he’d walk away. It might be easier for kitties to climb up trees than descend, but hunger motivated most of them to return to solid ground on their own.

  Unless they were hurt or scared.

  And the cowering cat above him was both.

  Ben eyed the limb-free lower trunk of the hardwood tree. No way could he climb that. Besides, an encroaching human might further freak out the cat.

  He could rouse the volunteer fire department—but asking them to rescue a kitty at this hour wouldn’t endear him to the locals.

  Stymied, Ben surveyed the yard. A weathered garden shed off to the side might hold some useful implement.

  He strode over to the structure and tested the door. Open.

  Aiming the flashlight inside, he poked his head in and swept the beam over the contents, taking a fast inventory. Six-foot ladder. Broom. Twine.

  Those would work.

  And if the occupants of the house didn’t like him borrowing their stuff? Tough. They’d surely heard the cat’s pitiful meows of distress. If they didn’t want to deal with the little critter, they should have called someone for assistance instead of letting a helpless creature suffer.

  Mouth tightening, he stripped off his knit hoodie, wrapped it around the bristles of the broom, and secured it with the twine. Ladder hooked over his shoulder, he returned to the tree.

  “Hang in, kitty. We’ll get you down and fix that hurt paw.” He used his most soothing tone as he set the ladder against the tree. The one he reserved for the hurting, frightened civilian children he’d treated, casualties of a vicious war that spared no one, who’d understood only his inflection, not his language.

  After testing the ladder, he ascended to the second-highest rung, lifted the broom above his head, and nudged the cat with the fleece-covered bristles. The mouser wobbled, clutching the hoodie to stabilize itself.

  Mirroring the rescue technique he’d seen a friend use, Ben eased the broom away from the tree. With its front claws locked into the fleece, the cat’s back claws lost their grip on the tree. As the distance between tree and broom widened, it scrabbled to snag the hoodie with all four claws.

  The instant the writhing cat latched onto the broom, Ben slid the handle down through his fingers and gripped the kitty gently by the scruff of its neck. Dropping the broom, he supported the cat in the crook of his arm while descending the ladder one careful rung at a time.

  Back on firm ground, he turned—only to be blinded by a piercing beam of light.

  “What the . . .” He released the cat’s scruff and lifted his hand to shade his eyes.

  Apparently the cat didn’t like the intense light any better than he did. With a banshee-like screech, it swiped a claw down his forearm, twisted free, leapt to the ground, and vanished into the darkness.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them while we have a little talk. I’m Officer Jim Gleason with the Hope Harbor Police Department.”

  The disembodied voice came from the blackness behind the light.

  Squinting against the glare, Ben watched a rivulet of blood run down his arm from the claw gouge as the theme song from The Twilight Zone began to play in the recesses of his mind.

  How could so much go so wrong so fast?

  From the moment the call had come in with the bad news about Skip, he’d known this trip would be difficult—but that word didn’t begin to describe his first eight hours in Hope Harbor.

  And if inheriting a lighthouse and being mauled by a cat weren’t bad enough, now he’d attracted the attention of the police.

  This visit was beginning to border on surreal.

  Even worse, it was going downhill fast.

  “His story checks out, Marci. We can cite him for trespassing if you want, but . . .” Officer Gleason lifted one shoulder.

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence for her to know what he was thinking.

  But it would be pretty low to punish a man who’s come to town to bury his grandfather and who just got mauled trying to do a kind deed.

  From the shadows inside the front door where she’d tucked herself, Marci peeked out at the tall, lean intruder.

  He was standing ramrod straight at the edges of the light cast by the lanterns on either side of her front door, a shredded hoodie clutched in his hands. His dark hair was beginning to glisten from the heavy mist descending on Pelican Point, and while his features were dim, his pallor was impossible to miss.

  The man’s face was as white—and tense—as her own had been when she’d glanced in the mirror after throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt while waiting for the police to arrive.

  He did not look like a troublemaker.

  He looked like someone who’d found himself caught in a nightmare.

  “So what’ll it be, Marci?” The law officer flipped up the collar of his jacket as the mist intensified.

  She hesitated. If the story the man had told Jim Gleason was true, he was more a cat rescuer than a cat burglar.

  “You’re certain he’s legit?”

  “I ran his ID, and Eric verified that the two of them met this afternoon. He also has a fresh scratch. I only caught a quick glimpse of the cat before it zipped into the darkness, but I heard it screech. The evidence supports his story.”

  Yes, it did. Annabelle got stuck in the same tree every few days. She’d rescued the feline herself after several similar incidents until she’d realized Mrs. Schroeder’s pet was perfectly capable of getting down herself, despite her yowls for assistance.

  But the stranger in her yard didn’t know that—and how could she punish a good Samaritan?

  “Okay. Let it go. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No bother at all. That’s what we’re here for.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll let him know he’s off the hook.”

  The officer started to turn away, but Marci stopped him with a touch on his arm. “Did he say why he was up here at this hour?”

  “Yep. He’s fighting a serious case of jet lag and couldn’t sleep, so he went for a walk. He flew in today from the Middle East. Can you imagine how many time zones he must have crossed?”

  She did the math.

  Middle East.

  Grandfather’s funeral.

  Compassion for an injured animal.

  Gaze fixed on the man, who was keeping his distance, Marci leaned closer to Jim and lowered her voice. “Is that Ned Garrison’s grandson?”

  “None other.”

  Her stomach bottomed out.

  She’d called the cops on the army surgeon Ned had loved to brag about. The one who’d won medals for heroism and spent years near the front lines patching America’s fighting men and women back together.

  Major Ben Garrison deserved far better than the homecoming she’d given him.

  “I, uh, think I owe him an apology.”

  Jim gave the man a dubious once-over. “You might want to wait on that. I think he’s had about all he can take today—and he’ll be soaked if he stands out here much longer. I’m going to run him back to Ned’s house.”

  Marci bit her lower lip. Jim was probably right about the timing—but if she didn’t try to make some initial amends she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.

  “I won’t delay him long.” She edged past the police officer. “Give me one minute.”

  The shadowy figure at the edge of the light stiffened as she approached, and her step faltered.

  Just do it, Marci. Say you’re sorry and get it off your conscience.

  Right.

  She straightened her shoulders and picked up her pace, stopping a few feet from the man. “I want to apologize for the hassle I caused you. I live alone, and I’m not used to callers at this hour. Officer Gleason explained what happened.”

  “You’re not going to file a complaint?”

  “No.”

  “That’s one bright spot in this day, anyway.”

  Weariness—and a hint of sarcasm—scored his words.

  Jim’s ass
essment had been correct. The man wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

  Time to retreat.

  “Well . . . I’ll let you go before this mist becomes a full-fledged rain.” She swiveled away.

  “In case you’re interested, the cat was hurt.”

  Stomach flip-flopping, Marci swung back.

  Ben Garrison’s arms were crossed tight against his broad chest, and though the murky light made it difficult to read his expression, disapproval oozed from his pores.

  “What happened to her?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is her paw was bleeding. Didn’t you hear her crying?”

  “I heard her meowing—but Annabelle gets stuck in that tree on a regular basis. She always manages to get herself down. How was I supposed to know she was injured?”

  “Would it have hurt to check?”

  “I don’t wander around outside at night.”

  “Or answer the door.”

  “Not for strangers.”

  “You could have called through a window, acknowledged I was there. I would have explained what I was doing and saved us both all this aggravation.”

  That was true.

  In hindsight, her lapse in judgment was obvious.

  But why did he have to be snippy about it? She’d apologized, hadn’t she? What more did he want? She couldn’t go back and restage the whole scene, for pity’s sake.

  “Look . . . I said I was sorry. That’s all I can do at this point.”

  “Does the cat belong to you?”

  “No. My neighbor. And I expect by now she’s receiving plenty of TLC for that hurt paw.”

  “Do you plan to verify that?”

  What did he think she was, some callous animal hater?

  Bristling, she glared at him. “I intend to call her as soon as you leave.”

  “Fine.”

  Sheesh.

  This guy had attitude with a capital A.

  Turning on her heel, she stomped back to the house, passing the police officer halfway.

  He gave her an I-warned-you shrug and continued toward the cruiser parked at the end of her drive.

  Fine.

  Maybe it would have been wiser to hold her apology for a day or two.

  But if she’d learned one thing over the past few years, it was to speak up and do what needed to be done instead of pussyfooting around until it was too late.

  Putting off the hard stuff was a recipe for trouble.

  However . . . not every situation required an immediate fix. Jumping into the fray too fast could cause problems too.

  Tonight was proof of that.

  Huffing out a breath, she climbed the two steps to her porch. Had she waited until Ned’s grandson logged some sleep and recovered from jet lag, he might have been more receptive to her apology—and less judgmental.

  Too late to fix that now, though.

  Behind her, car doors slammed and an engine rumbled to life. By the time she let herself into the house and peeked through the window, red taillights were disappearing down the road.

  Thank goodness the unpleasant episode was over—or it would be, as soon as she talked to Mrs. Schroeder and confirmed Annabelle was safe.

  Marci reset the dead bolt and secured the sliding lock on the front door, armed the security system again, and retreated upstairs.

  What a night.

  As for that story about Ned she’d planned to write for the Hope Harbor Herald, filled with quotes from his beloved grandson?

  She had a feeling it was toast.

  2

  The church was packed.

  From his front-row seat, Ben gave the standing-room-only crowd at Skip’s memorial service a quick sweep over his shoulder.

  What a fabulous tribute to the man who’d been part of Hope Harbor for seventy-eight years. As the minister had said in his sermon, Ned Garrison had embodied the spirit of this town, with his upbeat attitude, giving heart, passion for life, and abiding hope.

  Saying goodbye over the past three days as he’d wandered around his grandfather’s tidy bungalow, paging through photo albums and examining the well-worn books in the modest library, had been gut-wrenching.

  Yet the hardest task lay ahead.

  And it had nothing to do with the eulogy he was about to deliver, even though public speaking wasn’t high on his list of favorite activities.

  As if on cue, Reverend Baker called him to the pulpit.

  Taking a deep breath, Ben moved forward and stepped behind the microphone.

  From up front, he had a much more expansive view of the congregation. Pressure built behind his eyes as he scanned the people who’d given up their Saturday morning to honor the man he’d loved. Most of them were strangers, but he did recognize a few faces.

  White-haired Eleanor Cooper, who’d always plied him with her famous fudge cake when he and Skip had dropped in to say hello during his summer visits.

  Charley Lopez, resident taco maker and renowned artist, who dished up philosophy along with his mouth-watering tacos.

  Eric Nash and his wife, BJ, who’d visited the lighthouse and confirmed Skip had put no more than a small dent in the work that needed to be done.

  And in a pew near the back, sitting beside the older man from the cranberry farm he’d loved to visit as a kid, was the red-haired woman who’d sicced the police on him Wednesday night.

  A woman whose generous lips and heart-shaped face had been popping up far too often in his mind since their inauspicious meeting.

  Marci Weber.

  Not that she’d introduced herself that evening. She’d been too busy morphing from penitent to piqued once he’d lit into her about leaving the cat in the lurch.

  But on the drive home, Officer Gleason had offered a few details about her, including her name and profession.

  So was she here to pay her respects to Skip—or to cover the memorial service of a lifelong resident for the Herald?

  Not that it mattered. Their paths weren’t likely to cross much during his brief stay. And that was fine by him. He didn’t need any more grief, and she appeared to be capable of dishing out plenty.

  Redirecting his attention to the sheet of paper he’d placed on the podium, Ben launched into his eulogy, keeping it brief—as Skip had requested in the directions he’d left behind.

  How like his grandfather to plan the whole service and tie up all the loose ends with his estate so his sole heir wouldn’t have to deal with an overwhelming amount of hard stuff.

  Other than a lighthouse.

  But Skip had been trying to sell the thing. No one—least of all the man himself—could have envisioned his shockingly sudden end.

  Ben’s voice wavered, and he paused. Dipped his head. Cleared his throat.

  Hold it together, Garrison. You can get through this if you stay the course and keep your eye on the horizon, like Skip always counseled.

  He lifted his chin . . . and his gaze landed on Marci.

  Compassion had softened her features, and the sheen on her cheeks gave him the answer to his earlier question.

  She was here to pay her respects as a friend of Skip’s, not as a reporter.

  For some reason, that comforted him.

  Grasping the edges of the podium, Ben held on tight as he wound down.

  “I know my grandfather would have been touched—and taken aback—by the large turnout here today—but it doesn’t surprise me. He was a very special man.” He glanced toward the photo of Skip on the deck of the Suzy Q, which rested on an easel next to the urn holding the ashes of the man who’d loved the sea almost as much as he’d loved the woman he’d exchanged vows with more than fifty-five years ago.

  “I’ll close by sharing a piece of wisdom he offered me during one of my visits here two decades ago. Not much sticks in a teenage boy’s mind, but as most of you know, Skip knew how to turn a phrase. He said, ‘Always remember that life moves as fast as a mole crab—and it can disappear just as fast. Live every day. Plans are fine and dandy, but if all we do i
s think about the future, we throw away the gift of today for a tomorrow that might never be.’”

  Ben folded his notes with hands that weren’t quite steady. “Thank you all for coming this morning. I know each of us will miss my grandfather in our own way, but we can take comfort in the assurance that he’s home—and happy. While he always called Hope Harbor a little piece of heaven, he knew this special town was only a tiny preview of what God has in store for those who love him. So I’ll repeat to him now what he always said to me when my visit ended each summer.” He angled toward the urn. Swallowed. “Godspeed, Skip—and God bless.”

  The last word scraped past his throat, and the room blurred.

  Before he lost it completely, Ben tucked the notes in his jacket pocket and escaped back to his seat.

  Reverend Baker took his place at the podium. “Thank you, Ben, for that beautiful send-off for your grandfather. He was a man of firm beliefs who lived his faith every single day. And he has, indeed, gone home.” The minister then addressed the whole assembly. “Following the service, please join Ben in the fellowship hall for refreshments. Now let us join together in song as we conclude with Ned’s favorite hymn.”

  The organ launched into the introduction for “Amazing Grace,” but Ben didn’t attempt to sing. Instead, he closed his eyes and let the comforting lyrics wash over him, soaking up the much-needed interlude of contemplation and peace.

  Unfortunately, his serenity was short-lived—because for the next ninety minutes, it seemed everyone in town wanted to talk to him and share their memories of Skip.

  If he wasn’t still jet-lagged, Ben would have enjoyed their humorous and heartwarming stories. But even the full plate of food someone pressed into his hands and the piece of Eleanor’s sugar-packed fudge cake he wolfed down weren’t sufficient to restore his flagging energy.

  When he was at last left alone for a moment, he skimmed the hall. If he could sit for five minutes, he might be able to . . .

  “You look like you’re ready to fold.”

  The mellow baritone voice transported him back twenty-plus years, to a sunny day on the Hope Harbor wharf.

  Summoning up a weary smile, he swiveled around. “Hello, Charley. Thank you for coming.”