Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

  “I promise. And thank you. This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.”

  “I’m glad to hear that—but there’s more to come. Can you be ready to go in half an hour?”

  “I can do better than that. How does twenty minutes sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  He started to lean forward . . . like he was going to kiss her. Jerked upright. Stood and backed toward the door. “I’ll, uh, load all the goodies into the car.”

  With that, he spun around and disappeared.

  Fast.

  Like he didn’t trust himself to keep his hands to himself if he stayed around.

  Rachel swung her legs off the bed. Fingered the rose petals and inhaled the sweet perfume. Smoothed a hand over the file folder in her lap amidst the silver paper.

  He’d suggested they rebuild their relationship slowly—but he’d left the timing on their full reconciliation to her.

  Yet after the birthday he’d given her so far—and a romantic picnic yet to come—she had a feeling taking this slow and easy wasn’t going to be easy at all.

  And maybe she didn’t have to try too hard to do that.

  Maybe it was time to listen to her heart.

  24

  Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

  As the familiar ringtone penetrated his sleep-fogged brain, Ben jerked awake. Groped for the cell on his nightstand. Pressed it against his ear after peering at the screen.

  “Lexie. Hi.”

  A beat passed.

  “I think I’m the one who should apologize this go-round. I just checked my watch. Sorry for the early call.”

  He tried to focus on the digital display of the clock next to the bed. Two minutes after seven.

  Yeah, that was kind of early for his post-military life.

  “No problem. I needed to get up.” Not a lie. He owed Marci a call. “What’s going on?”

  “One of my patrol officers spotted your friend in the parking lot at the Gull last night about eleven. She changed rental cars.”

  No wonder Nicole had been under the radar.

  “What’s she driving now?”

  “A silver Chevy Impala with dark-tinted windows.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Car’s still at the motel.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep an eye out for her. Thanks for the update.”

  “Not a problem—but sorry to wake you.”

  “My alarm was about to go off anyway. Will you let me know if there are any new developments?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ben set the cell back on the nightstand and stood. No sense trying to eke out another few minutes of shut-eye. He was wide awake.

  Twenty minutes later, after downing a large glass of OJ and finishing off a bowl of cereal, he punched in Marci’s number.

  “Good morning.” She sounded wide awake and cheery.

  “Morning.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter and gave her the bad news about Nicole.

  “Oh, shoot.” She blew out a lungful of air. “I was looking forward to seeing you this morning.”

  “Likewise. I wish I could swing by and give you a lift, but I’d like to find out what she intends to do next before I risk letting her see us together.”

  “She already suspects we’re involved.”

  “Based on whatever her PI passed on. She hasn’t spotted any evidence herself as far as I know—and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Silence.

  “Marci?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.” Another sigh. “Letting her run the show isn’t sitting well, Ben.”

  “With me, either. If there was any legal recourse, I’d take it. But she can’t keep this up forever—and we have a lifetime ahead of us. We can afford to wait her out.”

  More silence.

  A niggle of unease snaked through him.

  The woman he was falling for had many fine qualities—but her emotions did have a tendency to get the better of her.

  “Marci?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Let’s be patient, okay?”

  “I’m trying. So what are you going to do today?”

  He frowned.

  Her abrupt change of subject didn’t leave him feeling warm and fuzzy.

  “I have a stack of paperwork to fill out for the two jobs here, and I want to get the Oregon licensing process started. I also need to contact a few references—and call the practice in Ohio to let the partners know I’ve changed my mind about joining them.”

  “You’ll be busy.” Her voice warmed. “But it’s a good busy—from my perspective.”

  “From mine too. Hope Harbor always felt like home. Now it really will be.” He strolled over to the kitchen window as Greg and Rachel came out their back door, a picnic basket in hand. “Hey . . . I think my neighbors have a date.” He relayed the scene.

  “Nice. It’s Rachel’s birthday. Sounds like Greg stepped up to the plate to make it special.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “Not for months. I was almost a Valentine baby.” She gave him the date.

  “Ink me in for that day.”

  “I like a man who knows what he wants and plans ahead.” She exhaled into the phone. “I guess I’ll ring Marv for a lift. Call me later today?”

  “Guaranteed. In the meantime, be careful if you spot a silver Chevy Impala.”

  “I haven’t seen any sign of Nicole since she arrived. I think I fell off her radar.”

  “I hope so.” His lips quirked as Greg gave Rachel a hug. The two of them definitely seemed to have mended their fences. “Talk to you soon.”

  As he ended the call, he watched the younger couple next door pull out of the driveway for whatever adventure they had planned for the day.

  Lucky them.

  He’d be planning similar outings with Marci if Nicole wasn’t in the picture.

  Gritting his teeth, he expelled a breath and began to pace.

  Was it possible he was playing this wrong?

  Should he confront the woman, goad her into taking some kind of unlawful action?

  That sounded appealing—in theory.

  But he’d been burned by her on the legal side once.

  Badly.

  Thank heaven he’d escaped with no more than a few scars.

  If it happened again, however, he might not be as fortunate.

  That was why Lexie and Eric had both advised him to avoid her at all costs.

  So what could he do?

  Hard as he tried to come up with an idea or two that might solve his dilemma, inspiration eluded him.

  He did know one thing, though.

  Marci wasn’t the only one who was frustrated.

  Biding his time and letting Nicole dictate how they lived their lives was getting very, very old.

  This was getting old.

  Fuming, Marci began to pace in the parking lot of Grace Christian while Marv jumped her dead battery.

  This Nicole chick who’d tried to ruin Ben’s life was beginning to grate on her nerves.

  Big-time.

  What on earth was she up to?

  And why would she switch cars?

  If she was hoping to observe Ben secretly, she was delusional. Staying under the radar in a town this size was next to impossible.

  Or maybe the explanation was simpler. Perhaps her other car had developed mechanical issues.

  Except nothing was simple with this woman, based on what Ben had told her.

  Marci let loose with a loud huff.

  Instantly, Marv stuck his head out from under the hood and sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry to hold you up. I’ll have you back in business in less than five minutes.”

  “No worries. I’ve got messages to check.” She waved her cell at him and tried to conjure up a reassuring smile despite her bad mood. It wasn’t Marv’s fault her battery was dead—or that some unstable woman was wreaking havoc on her budding romance.

  He disappear
ed back under the hood—and true to his word, he had her engine humming before she finished responding to emails and texts.

  “That should take care of the problem.” He detached the cables. “A battery this new shouldn’t be giving you grief. I think she’ll work again without any hassles. But to be safe, you might want to drive around for fifteen minutes to recharge it. If the car won’t start next time you use it, the battery isn’t holding a charge and will have to be replaced. That shouldn’t happen, though, unless you’ve got a dud.”

  “Thanks.” She unzipped her purse. “Let me write you a check.”

  He waved her offer aside. “I’ll send a bill to the Herald office. I don’t expect you’re going to disappear and leave me with a bad debt.”

  “No worries on that score. This is home.”

  “That’s what I figured. See you around.” With a jaunty salute, her morning chauffeur ambled back to his tow truck.

  Marci slid behind the wheel of her purring car, put it in gear, and backed out of the spot in Grace Christian’s parking lot. With fifteen minutes to tool around, why not drive up 101 to the scenic lookout that offered a glimpse of Pelican Point light? It was a beautiful view, and she might even be able to snap a few photos she could post on the Herald’s Facebook page to remind residents that the See the Light campaign was in full swing and dollars were pouring in from the crowdfunding campaign.

  Decision made, she pulled out of the lot, aimed her car north, and tuned the radio to an upbeat station.

  The cheery music lifted her spirits—until she happened to glance in her rearview mirror halfway to her destination and spotted a silver car in the distance behind her.

  Her pulse picked up.

  Was it a Chevy Impala?

  Given her limited interest in and knowledge of cars, only an up-close-and-personal inspection of the grille or the hood or the trunk—or wherever the brand name was displayed these days—would provide the answer to that question.

  Keeping one eye on the silver car, she finished the drive and turned into the overlook.

  Doors locked and engine idling, she waited.

  Sixty seconds later, the silver car with dark-tinted windows rolled by . . . and kept going.

  She let out a slow breath.

  It had taken her two years to tame her paranoia after the Atlanta debacle, and letting it resurface was not an option.

  The silver car was nothing more than a coincidence.

  Leaving her Civic running, she dug around in her purse for the camera she kept on hand for potential Herald stories, walked to the edge of the stone wall, and managed to shoot a dozen usable shots of the lighthouse in the distance.

  And she only looked over her shoulder three or four times.

  Task accomplished, she got behind the wheel and retraced her route back to Hope Harbor.

  No silver car followed her.

  See?

  Overactive imagination.

  But an hour later, when she strolled past the window in her office after refilling her coffee mug, the silver car parked two doors down wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

  It was all too real.

  As was the blonde woman wearing sunglasses, seated across the street on a bench by the wharf—but staring her direction rather than toward the view.

  Marci’s stomach flipped.

  Apparently Ben’s nemesis had decided to watch her instead of him.

  Why?

  They’d been careful not to be seen together. Other than that middle-of-the-night rendezvous at her house, they’d kept their distance from . . .

  Wait.

  After dinner last night with Rachel and Greg, they’d walked out together, assuming the coast was clear.

  But that was before they’d realized Nicole had switched cars.

  Was it possible she’d been lurking nearby? Could she have witnessed the cozy parting they’d taken pains to hide from Rachel and Greg with a discreet tilt of her umbrella?

  If so, it would have confirmed her PI’s report that the man she’d targeted was getting friendly with the local newspaper editor.

  Fingers clenched around the mug, Marci backed away from the window and sank onto the edge of her desk, the story Ben had told her about Nicole’s revenge on that nurse playing through her mind.

  Was she now planning some similar vengeance on the woman her twisted mind considered a new rival?

  Or was she waiting to make her move until she had further proof her suspicions were sound?

  Anger bubbling up inside her, Marci mashed her lips together. Stood.

  She was not going to be a sitting duck.

  She was not going to let this woman intimidate her.

  She was not going to pussyfoot around and wait for the other shoe to drop.

  She was done letting Nicole call the shots.

  But . . . what sort of proactive measures could she take?

  Chugging a fortifying gulp of coffee, she returned to the window, brain firing on all cylinders. There had to be a way to force the woman’s hand.

  She discarded the first preposterous ideas that sprang to mind . . . but then a solution that seemed to have serious potential took root.

  Yeah.

  That could work.

  And as far as she could see after weighing all the ramifications, other than some capital outlay, there were no downsides. It would be simple to implement, and it might put an end to this fast—assuming Nicole was as volatile as Ben said.

  Even if it didn’t work, at least she’d be doing something.

  To get this rolling, though, she did need some assistance—but hopefully her query would be kept confidential.

  Besides, she wasn’t going to say why she needed the information.

  Shoring up her resolve, she crossed to the Herald phone, picked it up, and dialed Lexie Graham Stone.

  Rachel’s birthday had been a success.

  As Greg lowered himself to the side of the bed in the guestroom he’d occupied since they’d moved to Hope Harbor, a smile played at his lips.

  His wife had loved the roses, the breakfast in bed, the college catalogs, the picnic. She’d been glowing by the time they’d wended their way home and parted for the night with a simple hug in the hall.

  Only one thing could have made the day more perfect.

  But after promising to let her set the pace on their full reconciliation, pushing would be wrong.

  He leaned over and began to remove his prosthesis.

  She needed to be the one to make the first . . .

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and he looked up. “It’s open.”

  Rachel cracked it a few inches and peeked around the edge. “I thought you might be asleep.”

  He would be under normal circumstances. It was closing in on eleven. But holding Rachel’s hand for most of their day together—and sharing a final hug—had juiced his adrenaline. Even thinking about sleep had been impossible until fifteen minutes ago.

  “Not yet.” His prosthesis was half off, so he bent back down to finish the task, trying for a light note. “If you’re after more birthday presents, I’m all out.”

  “I hope that’s not true.”

  He lifted his head—and the breath jammed in his lungs as she slowly pushed the door open.

  His wife had exchanged the yoga pants and oversized T-shirt she’d worn to bed since they came to Hope Harbor for the filmy negligee that had knocked his socks off on their wedding night.

  She remained in the doorway as he tried to rein in his galloping pulse.

  Her invitation couldn’t be any more explicit.

  And if he had two sound legs, he’d jump to his feet, sweep her into his arms, and give her the present she clearly wanted.

  Not an option now that he’d removed his prosthesis.

  And maybe that was better.

  With him stuck on the edge of the bed, she’d have a few moments to rethink the step she was taking much sooner than might be in her best interest.

  She twisted her fin
gers together in front of her, and a soft pink hue flooded her cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. We need to be on the same page for this.” She backed up and started to turn away.

  “Wait!” He pushed himself to his feet, balancing on one leg as he grabbed for the crutch propped against the wall beside the bed.

  After a brief hesitation, she angled back.

  “We’re on the same page.” He locked gazes with her. “I can’t think of a better end to this day. But it might be too soon.”

  “For me . . . or for you?”

  “You. I don’t want you to rush into anything you might regret. You haven’t given me long enough to prove myself.”

  “Didn’t we agree I’d decide the timing?”

  “Yes . . . but I want to make sure you’re thinking clearly about this.” Even if every instinct in his body was urging him to be less than noble and take what he desperately wanted.

  “I am thinking clearly.”

  That made one of them.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” She walked toward him, her pace slow. Deliberate. “I know we’ve had a rough stretch—but I’ve never stopped loving you. And my heart tells me we’re out of the woods.” She stopped two feet away, reached for his hand, and twined her fingers with his. “What does yours say?”

  For several seconds, he studied her.

  There wasn’t one ounce of doubt on her face—or in her radiant eyes.

  Thank you, God!

  Instead of responding with words, he tugged her close, wrapped her in his arms, and gave her a birthday kiss to remember.

  Greg had no idea how long it went on.

  But somewhere along the way, they ended up on the pillows, Rachel’s soft curves molded against his harder planes.

  Like in the early days of their marriage, before an IED changed everything.

  And as her birthday waned . . . as he demonstrated just how much he loved this woman who’d stood by him with love and fidelity through all the difficult months they’d endured . . . gratitude overflowed in his heart.

  It might be his wife’s special day, but the gift she’d given him was one he would treasure every single moment for the rest of his life.

  25

  Ben drew in a lungful of the bracing salt air and forged up the path to the lighthouse, waiting for the invigorating hike to work its usual magic and take the edge off his nerves.