Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  Offering the man lunch was the least she could do to thank him for his help yesterday and for his willingness to hold off on finalizing the sale of the lighthouse.

  It wasn’t like she was angling for a date or anything.

  Then why did you take extra pains with your makeup? And why are you wearing the new top you got in Coos Bay last week—the one you were saving for a special occasion?

  “Oh, shut up.”

  One of these days, she was going to figure out how to silence that obnoxious inner voice forever and . . .

  The front bell pealed, and her heart skipped a beat.

  And why did your pulse just go haywire?

  Still muttering, she smoothed her palms down her jeans and marched to the front door.

  This was ridiculous.

  Ben’s visit was simply a humanitarian gesture. It was nothing to get excited about. She needed to remain calm, cool, and collected.

  With that mantra looping through her mind, she peeked through the peephole—and gripped the doorframe to steady herself.

  Wow.

  Ben Garrison was one hunk of handsome.

  Her heart hopscotched again, and she sucked in a lungful of air.

  So much for calm, cool, and collected.

  Even the fisheye-lens distortion couldn’t detract from the broad shoulders outlined by a tweed jacket, or his overall clean-cut, spit-and-polish appearance.

  As he leaned toward the bell again, she jerked away, flipped the lock, shoved back the slider, and pulled open the door.

  Double wow.

  The man was even more breath-stealing with all the parts in proper perspective.

  And when he smiled?

  Oh. My. Word.

  “Good morning . . . or should I say afternoon?”

  Somehow she managed to respond without croaking. “Uh, either will work. Both hands on the clock are straight up.”

  “Let’s go with afternoon then. How’s the arm?”

  It took her a second to drag her gaze away from his baby blues and process his question.

  “It hurts a little, but no other problems.”

  “You ready for me to change the dressing?”

  Right.

  He was here as a doctor.

  Perspective check, Marci.

  “Yes. Sorry to keep you standing on the porch.” She stepped back and pulled the door wide. “I assume the kitchen would be the best place.”

  “Whatever’s convenient for you. It won’t take long to clean up the wound and put on a new bandage.” He held up a small bag. “I brought everything I’ll need.”

  “A doctor who does house calls? I thought you all went the way of the dinosaur.” She led him toward the back of the house.

  “Some of us make exceptions for special patients.”

  Special patients?

  Did that mean what she thought it might?

  Impossible to judge without seeing his face—and turning around to find out would be too obvious.

  In the kitchen, she motioned to the table. “I left a clear spot at this end.”

  He frowned at the two place settings. “Are you expecting someone? We could have done this later in the day.”

  “No.” Her open-weave, bell-sleeved tunic slipped off her shoulder, and she tugged it back into place. Thank heaven for tank tops. “I, uh, thought you might like to stay for lunch. Remember, I told you yesterday I’d like to offer you a proper thank-you for all you’ve done.”

  A glint of . . . humor? . . . sparked in his eyes. Curious. “I do remember. But you didn’t have to go to this much effort.”

  “I like to putz around in the kitchen. If you have other plans, though, I under—”

  “No.” His cutoff was abrupt—and definitive. “After years of army life, homemade food is always a treat. Charley’s tacos are terrific, but I’m ready for some variety in my diet.”

  “Well, don’t get your hopes up. This isn’t anything fancy.”

  “I’m not into fancy anyway.” He set his bag on the table and pulled out a chair. “Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll get the unpleasant stuff over fast?”

  “How unpleasant?” She sat.

  “As long as you don’t watch, not very. It might sting a bit while I clean around the stitches, but I’ll be quick. Mind if I ditch my jacket first? I came straight from church.”

  “Help yourself.”

  He slipped off the sport coat to reveal a dress shirt that hugged his muscled torso as if it had been custom made. Rolling the sleeves to the elbows, he crossed to the sink and leaned forward to wash his hands, the cotton fabric stretching taut over his powerful shoulders.

  Ben Garrison might be a doctor who spent his days standing around doing surgery, but based on his athletic physique, he was no stranger to physical activity.

  Long before she tired of the view, he returned to the table and set about removing the dressing.

  “This might be a good time to look away or shut your eyes.”

  She did both.

  True to his word, in less than three minutes, he was taping a new dressing in place.

  “All done.”

  She peeked at her arm. A much smaller bandage covered the stitches, and there was no blood in sight.

  “How did it look?”

  “Exactly as it should the day after.”

  “Was there much blood?”

  “Enough to make you squeamish.” He rose, disposed of the folded-over dressing in the trash can under the sink, and washed his hands again. “When you change the bandage tomorrow, you shouldn’t see more than a few small spots of blood, if that.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Has blood always had this effect on you?” He replaced the items he’d taken from his bag.

  “To some degree, but I only had minor cuts and scrapes as a kid, and my parents didn’t let us watch violent TV shows or movies. I didn’t realize the full extent of my problem until I was sixteen—on my first date.”

  He closed the bag. “I sense a story there.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yes—and it’s not a pretty one.”

  “Care to share?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. It’s ancient history now. But I’ll give you the condensed version. I was so excited about the date I didn’t bother to ask the guy what movie he was taking me to see. Turned out it was a war flick. I had a feeling I might have some trouble—but since I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp, I decided I’d close my eyes during the grisly parts.”

  “Why do I have a feeling that strategy didn’t work?”

  “Because you’ve seen me around blood.” She sighed. “The whole movie was one big gore fest. I closed my eyes whenever I sensed blood was coming—but I didn’t anticipate the scene where a booby trap ripped off some guy’s arm.”

  He winced. “What happened?”

  “I threw up all over my date . . . and the couple in front of us . . . and the person sitting next to me.”

  “Wow.” His lips twitched, as if he was struggling to rein in a chuckle.

  “Go ahead and laugh.” She waved a hand. “As first dates go, mine was sitcom material. I can laugh about it myself now, but I was mortified for the remainder of my high school career.”

  “I don’t suppose the guy ever asked you out again.”

  She snorted. “Are you kidding? He went out of his way to avoid me at school. I guess he was afraid I’d pull the same stunt again—and being puked on isn’t exactly fun.”

  “I know. Been there, done that.”

  “I suppose it’s a job hazard for you, but trust me—it’s worse if it happens on a date.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “So . . .” She rose. “On that appetizing note, are you ready for lunch?”

  This time he did let loose with a chuckle—one that was full and deep and rich . . . and set off a bunch of sparklers in the region of her heart.

  “In my job, you learn to develop an ironclad stomach. I’m always up for a meal.”

&n
bsp; “In that case, have a seat.” She indicated the chair that offered a view of lawn edged by woods and the gazebo flanked by two lush gardens.

  He remained standing. “Let me help in some way.”

  “The soup is on, and it won’t take me but a minute to put the sandwiches together.”

  “Why don’t I get the drinks?”

  Ben didn’t strike her as a man who took no for an answer—nor did he seem the type to sit while others worked.

  “Fine. Glasses are in that cabinet”—she motioned toward it—“and soda and ice are in the fridge.”

  By the time she’d assembled the sandwiches and ladled the thick soup into crockery bowls, he was waiting for her at the table.

  “That looks and smells delicious.” He took one of the plates from her and pulled out her chair.

  “My compliments to your mother on your manners.”

  His smile wavered for an instant. “Believe it or not, my dad was the one who taught me my social skills.”

  “Sorry.” She sat. “Sometimes I fall into the trap of assigning gender roles, even though I know better.”

  “I think in most cases the mother is the one who does that sort of training.” He joined her at the table . . . but said nothing more.

  She peeked at him.

  Why hadn’t his mother handled that chore?

  The question hovered on her tongue—but for once, she curbed her inquisitiveness.

  “I usually say a short prayer before meals.”

  He draped his napkin over his lap. “An admirable habit. Please, go ahead.”

  After a quick blessing, they both dived into their meal.

  “This is wonderful soup.” Ben ate with gusto. “An old family recipe?”

  “I suppose you could say that. I found it among my great-aunt’s things after I moved in here.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “No. My family traveled out here one summer on vacation when I was eleven or twelve, and we stopped in for a visit. That was our only in-person meeting. But she didn’t have any other relatives, so we inherited her small estate.”

  “And you decided to settle here instead of selling the house.”

  The implied why was obvious.

  She’d had a feeling that subject might come up again—but she still hadn’t decided how much to reveal about her background.

  “It’s a beautiful area.” Best to stay noncommittal for the moment.

  “Yes, it is. I always enjoyed my summer visits with Skip. You know . . . I bet I was in town the year you visited. I came every summer from age ten to sixteen, and I’m thirty-five.”

  “I’m thirty-two—so it’s possible.”

  “Strange to think our paths might have crossed all those years ago.”

  More than strange.

  It was almost like . . . fate.

  “We didn’t stay long, though.” She scooped up a spoon of the hearty soup. “And we spent most of our visit here at the house, with Aunt Edith.”

  “Was she a native?”

  “No. She came here in her thirties. Dad thinks there might have been a tragic romance in her background. He could be right. She never did marry. She spent her whole life working at a nursery and cultivating her love of flowers.” Marci nodded toward the window. “After I bought out my sister’s share of the property, I had the gazebo repaired and restored her gardens. The house needed major updating too.”

  “Everything appears to be in tip-top condition now.”

  “I wish. Most of the cosmetic stuff is done, but the heating system is on fumes. And as soon as the budget allows, I want to tear down the storage shed and build a detached garage. But I needed some assistance with the Herald and my PR business more than I needed any of those improvements.”

  “So you hired Rachel.”

  “Yes. She’s just shy of her journalism degree, so it was a perfect fit.” She chased a kernel of corn around the bottom of her bowl. “I didn’t realize you knew her and Greg until last week.”

  “I don’t know either of them well. I haven’t exchanged more than a greeting or two with Rachel, and I’ve only talked with Greg twice. I assume you know the story about his leg.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Yes. From what I can gather based on the little Rachel’s shared with me, I think they’ve had a rough go of it.”

  “I agree. How did you connect with her?”

  “At church. I sensed she might need a friend . . . and I also got the feeling some additional income would be welcome. She took the job I offered—but she’s been less receptive to my overtures of friendship.” Marci rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin in her palm. “At least Greg seems to be coming out of his cave. He agreed to serve on the lighthouse committee, and I intend to put him to work.”

  “That could be beneficial for both of them.” Ben finished his sandwich and gathered up the crumbs from the flaky croissant and a small glob of chicken salad with his fork. “That’s the best lunch I’ve had since I arrived—but please don’t tell Charley.”

  “My lips are sealed.” She scraped up the last of her soup. “Can I interest you in dessert? Espresso brownies and Oregon-roasted coffee.”

  “Sold.”

  Grinning, she stood. “That was easy.”

  “Chocolate and coffee are a winning combination any day.” He stood too, and picked up his plate.

  “Why don’t we have dessert in the gazebo? Now that the sun’s out, I hate to waste those rays.”

  “I’m game. What can I carry?”

  “I’ll put the brownies and our mugs on a tray.” She rummaged through a drawer, pulled out a dish towel, and handed it to him. “You can wipe down the table and chairs, though. They might be damp from the earlier mist. If Harpo, my resident pelican, is there, just wave the towel at him.”

  “You have a pet pelican?”

  “No. He followed me home from the lighthouse one day and shows up on a regular basis. I think he’s taken a fancy to my gazebo. But he doesn’t make any noise and keeps to himself, so I’m cool with it.”

  “Whatever you say.” Towel in hand, he walked toward the door while she plugged in the coffeemaker. After twisting the knob, he sent her a quizzical look.

  “Sorry. Dead bolt’s set. The key’s on a hook to your right.”

  He found it . . . but instead of opening the door, he angled toward her. “You have quite a few locks.”

  It was a question couched in a statement.

  Decision time again.

  Should she tell him the reason behind her security fetish . . . which would also explain why she’d freaked out the night she’d seen him climbing a ladder on the tree outside her window?

  Or should she brush him off with a simple a-girl-can’t-be-too-careful reply?

  After several silent seconds ticked by, he hiked up one side of his mouth and turned to fit the key in the lock. “Meet you outside for dessert.”

  A moment later he slipped through the door.

  She was off the hook, thanks to Ben’s consideration and diplomacy. Unlike her, he knew when to back off.

  Except—why was she disappointed instead of relieved?

  Because part of you wants to tell him your story.

  Reluctant though she might be to admit it, that was the truth.

  But sharing personal information would deepen their relationship—and the closer they became, the harder it would be to say goodbye.

  Exhaling, she dumped some beans in the coffee grinder.

  What a mess.

  Why, oh why, did the first man in two years who’d revved her engines have to be someone who was only passing through?

  Working on autopilot, Marci finished preparing the coffee and cut generous squares of brownie while her mind wrestled with a critical question that had nothing to do with the task at hand.

  Should she follow her instincts and share some background with Ben . . . or play it safe and protect her heart?

  14

  Way to go, Garrison.

/>   As Ben dried off Marci’s patio table and chairs and kept an eye on the large white bird with the oversized orange beak that he’d shooed out of the gazebo, he blew out a disgusted breath.

  Nothing like introducing an obviously sensitive subject to ruin an enjoyable lunch with a beautiful woman.

  Big mistake.

  After draping the damp towel over the railing, Ben shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned a shoulder against one of the wooden uprights, and surveyed the gardens.

  He’d also made a mistake by assuming Marci wasn’t an outdoor kind of person. The well-tended beds spoke of hours of hard labor in the dirt, and the lawn was precision-cut and meticulously trimmed.

  He surveyed the ramshackle shed, slated to be replaced by a garage when funds permitted. Given the condition of the structure, that couldn’t happen too soon—and a garage would be a welcome convenience.

  Yet Marci had taken on the expense of an employee instead, delaying the project.

  It was possible she did need help at her office—but it was also possible her motives for hiring Rachel were more benevolent than practical. That she’d recognized a need and stepped in to help, as she had when she’d relaunched the Herald and jumped in to spearhead the lighthouse project.

  The very sorts of things his grandmother would have done.

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  Marci was a lot like June Garrison—a spitfire, with spirit to spare.

  But Gram had also been all heart—like Marci. No need that crossed her path went unaddressed.

  No wonder Marci and Skip had become friends.

  Ben wandered over to the other side of the gazebo, following the progress of two gulls as they dipped and soared in perfect sync against the blue sky.

  His grandfather might never have mentioned Marci or the column he’d written for the paper, but he’d no doubt found in her a kindred spirit. Someone who’d reminded him of the lively, animated woman he’d loved.

  Someone who might fly off the handle on occasion, but who was vivacious and vibrant rather than volatile and vicious.

  As Nicole had been.

  A shudder rippled through him.