4
Skip’s neighbor needed help.
Juggling a box of his grandmother’s quilting fabric, Ben paused at the kitchen window. As far as he could tell, the twentysomething guy next door hadn’t made much progress on the hole he’d been trying to dig for the past fifteen minutes.
A swirling cloud of dust motes rose from the box, and Ben waved them away as the younger man placed the shovel in the ground, steadied himself on what appeared to be a bum leg, and pressed down on the blade with the other.
As had happened with his previous attempts, he lost his balance. Teetered. Attempted to right himself.
But this time he failed.
And he fell.
Hard.
Ben dropped the box on the kitchen table.
Enough.
If Skip were here, he’d have offered to help four-trips-from-the-basement ago.
Pushing through the back door, he searched his memory for a fact or two about the next-door neighbor. Came up blank. Skip might have shared some tidbits—but with all the stuff going on overseas, Ben hadn’t always absorbed the details about his grandfather’s everyday life or the minutiae of the various Hope Harbor residents who peopled his world.
For now, though, this was his world—and while in Rome, it was important to do as the Romans did.
In a small town, that meant stepping up to the plate if someone needed help.
The guy was still struggling to get back on his feet as Ben approached the weathered picket fence separating the yards, and he held back until the man was upright. No reason to embarrass him.
Sixty seconds later, Ben strolled over to the fence. “Good morning.”
The guy swung around . . . tottered again . . . but used the shovel to steady himself.
“Morning.”
Based on his clipped delivery and fierce scowl, there was nothing good about his morning—and the man didn’t seem receptive to chitchat . . . or an offer of help.
Better proceed with caution.
“I noticed you from the kitchen window. I’m Ben Garrison, Ned’s grandson.” He extended his hand over the pickets.
Using the shovel almost as a crutch, the younger man closed the space between them with a not-quite-normal gait and returned his clasp.
“Greg Clark. Sorry for your loss.” His voice was gruff, but a flicker of sympathy softened his angular features. “Your grandfather was a good man.”
“Yeah, he was. Thanks.” Ben surveyed the potted rosebush and half-dug hole in the center of a small, well-tended plot that appeared to be under development. “You chose a perfect spot for your garden. You’ll be able to see it from the kitchen window.”
Greg gave the bed a fast, annoyed sweep. “It’s not mine. This is my wife’s project.”
“Looks like she recruited you to help, though.” He motioned to the rosebush.
The corners of Greg’s lips dipped south. “She’s always finding some chore or other for me to do.” Bitterness soured his inflection.
“I’ve heard about those never-ending honey-do lists.” Ben kept his tone light.
“Yeah. She’s a master at that. But I’m not into gardening.”
“In that case—could you use a little help? Two sets of hands might speed up a disagreeable chore.”
A flush mottled Greg’s face. “I don’t need help.”
At the defensive jut of the man’s jaw, Ben hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and hitched up one corner of his mouth. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind taking a break from cleaning out the basement. I can’t believe how many boxes of quilting fabric my grandmother squirreled away. I’d be glad to have an excuse to get some fresh air for a few minutes and let the dust settle before I dive back in.”
Greg hesitated . . . eyed the half-dug hole . . . shrugged. “If you want to help, fine. The sooner I can get this done, the sooner I can have the beer that’s waiting for me inside.”
Beer at ten in the morning?
Maybe there was more to the man’s surliness than anger at being recruited to do a distasteful job in the garden.
Ben sighed.
And maybe he should have stayed in the kitchen.
Getting embroiled in someone else’s problems wasn’t part of his agenda for this visit.
Too late now, though. He’d already stuck his nose in. His only option was to finish the task on the double and retreat to Skip’s house.
“I’ll circle around the front and join you.”
“Whatever.”
Less than a minute later, as he approached the garden from the other side of the fence, the guy was once again trying to dig the hole for the rosebush.
He didn’t appear to be any more stable now than he’d been before.
Since Greg hadn’t mentioned his leg issue, however, it must be an off-limits subject—and it was hard to help a guy who didn’t want to admit he needed assistance.
Ben wiped a hand down his face.
His second attempt to do a good deed in Hope Harbor seemed fated to fail as dismally as his first.
At least this guy didn’t have any visible claws.
Psyching himself up for an awkward exchange, he crossed to the garden. “Why don’t I get this out of the pot while you finish the hole—or I could dig if you’d rather tackle the rosebush.”
“I’ll dig.” The man ground out his reply as he jabbed at the soil.
“Works for me.”
Ben knelt on one knee while Greg continued to use the shovel for balance as he stepped on the edge of the blade.
The technique wasn’t working. Every time the blade sank into the soil, he wobbled.
Tension oozed off the man as Ben loosened the dirt in the pot around the root ball.
This guy was seriously stressed.
And Ben had a feeling his mood had little to do with the rosebush his wife had asked him to plant.
All at once, after a particularly aggressive application of foot to shovel, he lost his balance and pitched sideways.
Ben sprang to his feet and managed to grab him before he hit the dirt again.
As he sagged and flailed for support, he let loose with a string of curses while Ben absorbed his weight.
“I’ve got you, buddy. Give yourself a few seconds to get your legs under you.” Ben maintained his conversational, no-sweat tone.
But the instant Greg regained his footing, he pushed away, bright splotches of color once again staining cheeks that were too pale even for a resident of the cloudy Oregon coast.
“I’m done with this stupid project.” He spat out the words, hands fisted at his sides. “If Rachel wants a rosebush, she can plant it herself. Fiddling with flowers isn’t fit work for a real man.”
Greg clumped back to the house, slamming the door behind him.
In the silence that descended, Ben took a long, slow breath. Let it out.
Wow.
That was one angry dude.
Shoving his fingers through his hair, he eyed the half-dug hole.
He could walk away and leave the garden in disarray—or he could spare Greg’s wife the dirty work and complete the chore.
Given that neither choice was likely to endear him to her husband, there was no reason to saddle her with the messy job. She had plenty to deal with already, if his brief encounter with Greg was any indication of the man’s temperament.
Without further deliberation, Ben picked up the shovel, finished the hole, planted the rosebush, and went in search of a hose.
Once he’d watered the plant in, he cleaned the shovel, placed it and the empty rose container beside the rear door, and hightailed it back to Skip’s.
Playing good Samaritan was definitely not working for him on this trip.
So from now on, he’d keep to himself, do what needed to be done to settle Skip’s affairs, and get out of town as fast as he could without creating any more trouble for anyone—including himself.
“Here are all the columns Ned wrote, Marci. If you don’t need anything else for a few minutes, I’m going to take my lunch break.”
Marci swiveled around in her chair as Rachel placed the newspaper clippings on her desk. “No problem. Is Greg joining you?”
Her part-time assistant dipped her head and smoothed down the edge of her sweater. “No. He’s, uh, got other plans for today.”
Based on the few insights about the man Marci had gleaned, that meant Rachel’s husband was either sulking in the shadowy house with all the shades drawn or sitting up at Pelican Point by the decrepit lighthouse, staring out to sea.
Not much of a life for a bride of eighteen months.
“How’s he doing?” She tapped the columns Rachel had given her into a neat stack. Careful, Marci. Don’t push too hard.
“Okay.”
“I haven’t seen him around town.”
“He doesn’t socialize much.”
Like not at all, as far as she could tell.
“How are you doing? I know how hard it can be to move to a new town filled with strangers.”
Not exactly true. Unlike Rachel, by her four-month anniversary in Hope Harbor, she’d already dived into town life and sent down deep roots.
Of course, her time and energy hadn’t been sapped by a taciturn husband battling physical and emotional challenges.
“I’m fine.” Rachel pulled her sweater tighter around her and averted her gaze—as if she was afraid her boss would see through her lie.
Marci reined in a surge of frustration.
Every overture she’d made in the eight weeks they’d worked together had been rebuffed.
But Rachel needed a friend. Someone she could vent to, who would listen without judging.
Too bad her assistant wasn’t on better terms with her parents. Texas wasn’t easy commuting distance, but surely they’d offer moral support if she worked up the gumption to let them know what was going on here.
Or perhaps not, if they’d been less than thrilled about their daughter’s elopement—as Rachel had hinted.
Meaning she had to keep offering a hand of friendship.
“You know . . . I’ve been thinking about running down to the new native-plant nursery near Sixes. Would you like to come along?”
A spark of interest brightened the other woman’s face—just as Marci had hoped. The one subject Rachel talked about freely was gardening.
But the tiny glimmer of animation flickered . . . and died.
“Thank you for asking, but I need to be available for Greg when I’m not working.”
“You also need some time for yourself—and your own interests. There’s nothing wrong with setting aside a few hours here and there for fun.” She tried to infuse her comment with caring rather than criticism.
Rachel’s throat worked. “Fun hasn’t been part of my life for a while.”
That was the closest the woman had come to a direct confidence—although the admission was no big revelation. Based on the sheen in her eyes after most of the hushed phone conversations she held with her husband in this office, laughter and joy weren’t part of her standard fare.
Thank goodness she’d applied for the job here. At least it got her out of that depressing atmosphere for fifteen hours a week.
“Why don’t you think about that trip south? We could stop for tea at the lavender farm too. It’s charming.”
Rachel hesitated—but in the end she shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but this isn’t the best time. Maybe down the road?”
So much for her powers of persuasion.
“Sure. And don’t worry about hurrying back. I’m going to review the ads for the next issue of the Herald. I can’t believe you convinced Lou Jackson to commit to a regular slot for the bait and tackle shop—but I’m thrilled. We can always use another steady revenue stream.”
“It wasn’t a hard sell after I suggested he use the ad space to not only promote his shop but indulge his penchant for trivia. To be honest, it was Greg’s idea.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I mentioned at dinner one night that you’d asked me to contact a few businesses about buying an ad. Greg knows Lou from way back and remembered how he likes to entertain customers with obscure facts. He said including a trivia tidbit in ads would attract readers—and potential customers—especially if Lou ran a special on one of his more eclectic items.”
“Well, it’s a very creative idea. I love the copper hummingbird feeder he’s featuring in the first ad. Who’d expect to find such an item in a bait and tackle shop? Tell Greg I said thanks for the suggestion.”
“I will.” She retreated to her desk and picked up her purse. “Be back soon.”
As Rachel pushed through the door, Marci exhaled and sank back in her chair.
At twenty-two and twenty-three, Rachel and Greg had their whole life ahead of them.
Yes, they’d had a serious setback.
Yes, they’d need to alter the plans they’d made.
Yes, they’d been given a tough row to hoe.
But if they stuck together—and accepted the help that was available—they could weather this storm.
Unfortunately, as far as she could tell, neither of them was ready to admit they needed outside assistance. Pride, embarrassment, insecurity—whatever their reasons, they were hunkering down and trying to get through this alone.
Or Rachel was.
Greg appeared to be on the verge of giving up.
What a mess.
And despite the save-the-world gene her mother always claimed was embedded in her DNA, there was nothing she could do about it except pray—and watch for any opportunity that came along to offer a helping hand.
With a quick glance at her watch, Rachel pulled into the driveway of the tiny bungalow she now called home.
She had twenty-two minutes left on her lunch break—even if lunch wasn’t on her noon agenda. Checking on Greg was more important than food.
Not that she’d tell him that. He’d probably go ballistic if she did.
And she wasn’t up for one of his angry tirades today.
She surveyed the sweet, furnished rental cottage, with its rose arbor on the side and hanging fern on the front porch. It was just the kind of home she’d envisioned for them when she’d been a smitten college student in Austin and he’d been a strapping army cavalry corporal.
How could she not have fallen in love with the charming military man who’d painted such a rosy picture of their life together in this idyllic town—especially after he’d made the hour-and-fifteen-minute commute from Fort Hood to spend time with her every chance he got?
It had felt like a match made in heaven.
Until the vows they’d taken on that sunny October day a year and a half ago had been put to a harsh test.
She choked back a sob.
In hindsight, her parents’ advice to wait awhile before getting married seemed spot-on.
As they’d pointed out, if it was meant to last, what was the rush? Why not plan a wedding a bit further down the road, after she finished school and her love-at-first-sight romance with Greg had sustained a few challenges?
But no. From the day they’d met at a party given by a mutual friend, she’d been convinced Greg was her soulmate.
Rachel pulled the key from the ignition and clenched her fingers around it.
Maybe the man she’d fallen in love with was still inside his body somewhere.
Maybe.
But if he was, he’d retreated behind a barricade she hadn’t been able to breach.
And after four depressing months in a town that wasn’t living up to its name, she was running out of ideas.
Yet short of going home and admitting she’d made a mistake, all she could do was hang in and pray their situation would improve.
With a weary sigh, she pushed the door open and circled around to the back of the house. Jolted to a stop at the shovel and empty rose container.
Had Greg read her note and actually planted the bush instead of wadding up the slip of paper and tossing it in the trash?
She hurried to the back of the yard and the in-progress garden where she spent her happiest hours.
The bush was there, in the spot she’d marked.
Her spirits took an uptick.
Was it possible they’d turned a corner?
Trying not to get her hopes up, she continued to the back door, unlocked it, and walked in.
“Greg?”
Silence.
A niggle of unease raced up her spine.
“Greg, are you here?”
More silence.
It was a foolish question, anyway. She had the car, and he wasn’t inclined to do much walking, despite the urging of the physical therapist.
Dread pooling in her stomach, she walked down the short hall, stopping on the threshold of the master bedroom.
He was lying on his back in the dim room, fingers linked over his stomach, eyes closed.
His body was so motionless, her lungs locked.
Had her fears finally come to pass? Had he crossed the line and decided to escape from his problems once and for all?
No.
His chest was rising and falling.
He was still with her—in body, if not spirit . . . or heart.
Fingers curled into tight balls at her sides, she refilled her lungs. “Thank you for planting the rosebush. It will be much happier in the garden than in that pot.”
Several endless, silent seconds ticked by.
“I live here.” Her attempt at humor had zero impact on the rigid set of his mouth.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Rachel.”
He never was—unlike the old days, when his ready laugh had brightened her world.
“I had an errand to run on my break and decided to swing by and have some yogurt.” Not far from the truth. She did need to eat some lunch. “I noticed the rosebush as I walked around the back. I appreciate your . . .”
“I didn’t plant it.”
At his harsh cutoff, she blinked. “What do you mean? It’s in the ground, exactly where I asked you to put it.”
“Our neighbor did it.”
“What neighbor?”
“Ned’s grandson. I think he said his name was Ben.”
She tried to make sense of that. “Why would he plant my rosebush?”
“Because your husband couldn’t!” He pushed himself upright and swung his right leg to the floor, the stump below his left knee protruding over the edge of the bed.
Rachel gave the room a quick scan.
The utilitarian tube that functioned as his new leg, along with the hard, flesh-colored shell that fit over his stump, were jumbled on the floor in the corner—as if he’d hurled them from the bed.
Above them, the mar on the paint confirmed her suspicion.
The rosebush story was less simple to sort out.
“How did Ned’s grandson get involved in this?”
He glared at her. “He must have seen me struggling. When he offered to help, I figured the sooner I got done, the sooner I could move on to a few beers.” He swept a hand over the three cans lined up on the nightstand that she hadn’t noticed until now. “So I said fine. Then I fell while he was here. Or I would have if he hadn’t caught me.” Bright spots of color reddened his cheeks. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I know it—”
“No!” His bellow reverberated off the walls, and she flinched. “You don’t know anything! Not what it’s like to lay here at night needing to pee and hoping you can get onto your crutches before you wet the bed. Or to live with the reality that you’ll never lead a group of soldiers into battle again, or win a marathon, or be a firefighter.” He rubbed his forehead. “You don’t know squat, Rachel.”
“I know you.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Or I thought I did. The man I married wasn’t a quitter.”
“Yeah, well, he’s long gone.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.”
“No!”
At her uncharacteristic vehemence, his eyebrows rose . . . and her heart stumbled.
What on earth had prompted her heated—almost belligerent—rebuttal?
Until now, she’d absorbed all the verbal abuse he’d dished out, pussyfooting around the hard issues, giving him space to deal with anger and grief over his loss, afraid that if she took a hard stand, she’d further damage his delicate psyche.
Yet the kid-gloves treatment hadn’t worked—and she was sick to death of being patient.
Apparently some of the advice she’d picked up while scouring the internet for guidance had sunk in.
And with their relationship deteriorating anyway, what did she have to lose by taking a harder-line approach?
Steeling herself, she marched over to the bed. “I have a few things to say.”
“Then sit down so we’re on the same level.”
“No. You stand up.”
A muscle spasmed in his jaw. “I need my stuff.” He gestured to the corner.
“How did it get over there?”
He glowered at her in stony silence.
But no response was necessary.
They both knew the answer to that question.
Instead of retrieving his prosthesis as she would have in the past, she strode to the small side chair in the corner, picked it up, and placed it in front of him. Once seated, she twisted her fingers together, hoping she wasn’t about to make a big mistake.
“For the past eight months, I’ve watched you struggle to accept the new reality—and I’m not seeing any progress. I’ve listened to you complain, endured your bad moods, let you vent your anger and hostility and resentment on me. Well, I’m done. Things need to change around here. We’re supposed to be partners in this marriage, for better or worse, in sickness and in health. I’m trying to keep my end of that bargain. You need to keep yours.”
His features hardened. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“No, you’re not.”
A spark of anger ignited in his eyes. “What gives you the right to make that judgment?”
“I know you. I’ve seen how hard you can work and how goal-driven you can be. If you applied the same single-minded focus to rebuilding your life that you used to woo me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Our life might be different than we planned, but it would be good . . . and happy.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You have both legs. There’s nothing holding you back from doing anything you want to do.”
“There’s nothing holding you back, either—except anger. You need to get over it and move on.”
“To what? All I ever wanted to be was a firefighter like my dad and brother. No chief is going to hire a man with a fake leg.” He threw the prosthesis a venomous look.
She wasn’t going to dispute reality. Facts were facts.
“There are hundreds of other jobs that don’t require two perfect legs.”
“Firefighting is in my blood. It’s been my goal since I was a kid.”
“Goals can change. I have a variety of interests. You must too. Pick a new field and pursue it. You have two years of junior college—go back to school and get a bachelor’s degree.”
“I’m not college material. And who’s going to support us? You?”
“The VA is covering most of our expenses. My job is nothing more than a supplement.”
“I didn’t sign up to be a parasite.”
“Then what’s the plan? Are you going to mope around for the rest of your life?”
“I might.”
She let a few beats pass while she gathered up her courage.
“Then you’re going to do it alone.”
At her firm, quiet statement, Greg froze. “You’re leaving?”
“That’s up to you.” She stood, returned the chair to its place, and walked to the door, her legs quivering as she angled back to him. “I still love you, Greg. You—not your leg. And I’ll help you in any productive way I can. But the next move has to come from you.”
For one tiny second, she hesitated. His prosthesis was across the room, in the corner. Retrieving it would be a struggle for him while maneuvering on crutches.
But he’d caused that problem himself . . . and cleaning up avoidable messes for him wasn’t productive.
It was enabling.
Shoring up her resolve, she turned, left the room—and kept walking until she reached her car.
After she slid into the driver’s seat, her trembling fingers fumbled three attempts to insert the key.
Once she succeeded, she expelled an unsteady breath and rested her forehead against the wheel, doubt gnawing at her already shaky composure.
Had she been too hard on him?
Was she wrong to set some ground rules?
What would she do next if this didn’t work?
The answers eluded her.
All she knew was that countless articles she’d read on the net over the past few months had emphasized the need for tough love in certain cases.
Like this one.
Greg hadn’t been happy about it—but as long as there was a chance it might work, she had to stick with the program.
Even if it broke her heart.