8
Rachel checked her watch.
Ten minutes until her workday ended . . . and another thirty before she got home after a quick detour to the local grocery store for the OJ she’d forgotten on her trip to Coos Bay yesterday.
Her nerves began to ping.
What would be waiting for her at the house tonight?
Would Greg be like he’d been last night, genial and communicative . . . or would he default to his previous ornery, taciturn behavior?
And if he did regress, what was she going to do about it?
Her stomach knotted.
Maybe she shouldn’t have issued the ultimatum that could hold dire consequences for both of them.
But if she hadn’t, would whatever Dan had said to his brother have had as much impact?
Closing the document on the screen in front of her, she massaged her temple.
It was so hard to know what to do.
Counseling might help them sort through the mess, but Greg had been clear that he’d had his fill of what he called psychobabble before he mustered out of the service.
And she doubted whether a solo trip on her part would resolve their issues.
Her phone began to vibrate, and she pulled it out, keeping an eye on Marci, who was frowning at her laptop screen and typing at a furious pace. She must be working on next week’s editorial about the proposed commercial building code revision that would clean up the disreputable Sea Haven Apartment complex on the outskirts of town.
A short, quiet conversation shouldn’t distract Marci while she was in passionate prose mode.
Rachel scanned her cell—and her breath hitched.
Uh-oh.
Greg never called her at work. All phone communication originated with her.
Pulse accelerating, she put the phone to her ear and angled away from Marci. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Sorry to bother you at the office, but I have some information you might want to share with your boss.”
As she listened to him recount his visit with their neighbor this morning, her eyebrows rose.
She definitely owed Dan a thank-you call.
Whatever he’d said during his visit on Monday appeared to be having a domino effect. A shared spaghetti dinner last night, evidence in the spare bedroom that Greg was buckling down on his PT, and now an impromptu social visit with a neighbor.
Her spirits began to lift, like one of Hope Harbor’s whimsical mists.
“. . . defer for four weeks.”
She’d lost the thread of the conversation.
“I’m sorry . . . I missed the last couple of sentences.”
“I said, Ben checked, and the lighthouse buyer agreed to give him four weeks to consider the offer. That should buy your boss and her think tank some breathing room.”
Rachel stared at the poster on the wall across from her.
“Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.”
The words were pretty . . . and they summed up how Marci approached life . . . but the sentiment had never resonated with her.
Until now.
Maybe she needed to shoot for the moon . . . with Greg. Push him to build on whatever Dan had started during his visit and the ultimatum she’d issued. She might not manage to fully restore the relationship they’d enjoyed during their courtship and early days of marriage—but they’d have to end up in a better place than they were now.
It was worth a try, anyway.
“I’ll let her know. Thanks for asking him to do that.” She curled her fingers tighter around the phone and dropped her volume yet again. “By the way, Marci’s having an open meeting about the lighthouse tomorrow night. She sent an email to the Herald mailing list and I put up a few flyers around town for her. After that, she’ll form her think tank committee. Why don’t you attend?”
Please, Lord, let this project pique his interest so he has something to do all day besides sit in the dark house or up on the cliff lamenting over everything he’s lost.
A few silent seconds passed, and her heart sank.
He was going to refuse.
Without giving him a chance to reject her suggestion, she jumped back in. “It’s going to be in the fellowship hall at Grace Christian. I think she’s expecting a large group. You could sit in the back and listen in if you want to. You don’t have to participate.”
“I haven’t been inside a church in months, Marci.”
“This is the hall, not the sanctuary. And Reverend Baker is very laid-back. I don’t know if he’ll attend, but you don’t have to worry if he does. He welcomes everyone. He won’t make you feel uncomfortable for not coming to services with me.”
“I know him. He came to Grace Christian when I was thirteen.” A beat ticked by. “Have you talked to him about our . . . situation?”
As his voice took on a harder edge, she lifted her chin. “No. That’s between us—and God.”
“You wanted us to go to a counselor.”
“I still think that might be helpful—but I wouldn’t share our history with anyone without talking to you first.”
“Okay.” He exhaled. “I’ll think about the meeting. Are you coming home soon?”
“After I pass on the news about the reprieve to Marci and swing by the grocery store.”
“I put a chicken in the oven. It’ll be ready at five-thirty.”
He was fixing dinner again? The man whose entire culinary repertoire included his mom’s spaghetti sauce and throwing some meat on the grill?
“I . . . uh . . . didn’t know you knew how to cook chicken.”
“I didn’t—until about three hours ago. I found a recipe for beer-can chicken online that sounded . . . unique. But I’ve got the pizza place’s number on hand if this is a bust.”
Beer-can chicken.
Yeah, they could end up eating pizza.
But hey, he was making an effort.
“We might be surprised.” She tried for an optimistic tone.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. See you soon.”
The line went dead . . . but a surge of new life infused Rachel’s heart.
For the past two days, a glimmer of the old Greg was back. And now, a touch of humor.
Meaning that maybe . . . just maybe . . . her newly adopted town might live up to its name after all.
Was it possible life at home was improving for her assistant?
As she continued to type, Marci peeked at the woman.
Rachel was still sitting at her desk, phone in hand. But in the past, a conversation with her husband often left a glimmer of tears in her eyes.
Today, however, she looked happy—and a distinctly positive emotion was wafting across the room.
It felt a lot like hope.
Rachel swiveled in her chair and faced her, too quick for Marci to avert her gaze.
Whoops.
No way to hide the fact she’d been watching her.
Marci stopped typing. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. Fine. And I have some news I think you’ll be happy to hear.”
As her assistant told her about the lighthouse sale reprieve Greg had negotiated with his next-door neighbor—none other than Ben Garrison—Marci’s mouth dropped open.
The man who’d cut her off cold on Monday and walked away after she’d asked him to do the right thing . . . well, okay, demanded might be a more accurate word . . . was having second thoughts?
“Your husband must have powerful persuasion skills.”
“He does. Greg can be calm, rational, and diplomatic if he chooses to be.”
Yeah, those would be handy skills to have instead of getting all worked up and flying off the handle. It was always better to cool off before flinging yourself headfirst into a potentially volatile discussion.
She’d have to work on that one of these days.
But for now . . . she had a four-week grace period to come up with a solution for the lighthouse.
Hallelujah!
“This is huge, Rachel. When I tell the group tomorrow night that Ben’s receptive to ideas to save the light and won’t finalize the sale for a month, everyone will be pumped. Is Greg coming to the meeting?”
“I’m going to try to persuade him, but he doesn’t think he’d have much to offer.”
“That’s crazy! He has a history in this town, he loves the lighthouse, and I know he’s creative. He came up with the idea that sold Lou on a regular ad, didn’t he? I got nowhere with the man for two years. Please tell him I’d appreciate it if he’d attend.”
“I will—but I can’t make any promises.” She stood. “Do you need me to do anything else today?”
“No. Go on home and enjoy your evening.”
“You know . . . I think I will.” She grinned, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked out with a new bounce in her step.
As Rachel exited, Marci sank back in her chair, swiveled toward the window, and watched her assistant pass by.
Life sure could take some curious twists.
She might not be happy with how she’d handled her last encounter with Ben, but if they’d parted on more pleasant terms—perhaps even arrived at a compromise—Greg might not have come out of his cave and gotten involved.
Whatever the reason for this hopeful development, if he showed up for the meeting tomorrow night, she wasn’t going to let him get away until she had a commitment from him to serve on the think tank. Working on a project like this could offer him a new perspective . . . which in turn might help bolster his marriage.
She tapped her fingers on her desk and watched two seagulls circle over Rachel as she crossed the street toward her car.
All these weeks, her efforts to offer her assistant a sympathetic ear had met with zero success. But now—thanks to an endangered lighthouse—the tide might be turning for both her and her husband.
Could this be the opportunity to help that Charley had suggested might come her way—albeit in a form she’d never expected?
It was possible.
All she knew was that she was going to run with it—for the sake of Pelican Point light, for Ned’s dream, and for a young couple who were in desperate need of a fresh start.
“Dr. Garrison? I’ll show you back to Dr. Allen’s office now.”
Ben closed his email, stowed his cell, and rose from his chair in the Coos Bay orthopedic surgeon’s tastefully decorated waiting room that was as warm and inviting as a space like this could be.
At least the man hadn’t left him to cool his heels for an hour.
One mark in his plus column.
But he was more interested in the physician’s skill than his punctuality.
Ben followed the scrubs-clad woman down the corridor in the office Allen shared with another orthopedic surgeon. The place appeared to be white-glove clean, and the equipment he glimpsed through a couple of doors was state of the art. The office staff also came across as professional and buttoned up.
All of which fit with the research he’d done online—as well as the brief chats he’d had with two patients in the waiting room.
Unless everything he’d discovered was off base, Jonathan Allen hadn’t made any missteps with Skip’s treatment.
But he needed to be certain about that.
“He’ll join you as soon as he finishes with his current patient, Doctor.” The woman stopped at an office doorway. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He crossed the room, claimed a cushioned chair in front of the desk, and gave the room a methodical survey.
The diplomas on the walls matched his research, including one from Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, which boasted a top-ranked orthopedic program. There were also a number of Best Doc certificates from national magazines and organizations. And the framed letters thanking Allen for his service on the board of the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons and the editorial board of the American Journal of Orthopedics were impressive.
Allen had some prestigious professional credentials.
The personal items in the office were also instructive.
A photo featuring a couple in their forties surrounded by three smiling children ranging in age from about eight to mid-teens hinted at a happy family life.
Two bookshelves displaying numerous medical titles along with volumes on sailing suggested he had a serious hobby.
And front and center on his desk, a small, lopsided box made of popsicle sticks—perhaps crafted by his youngest daughter?—and filled with Tootsie Rolls indicated the man had a sweet tooth.
That sweet tooth, however, wasn’t apparent when the doctor entered the office a few moments later and extended his hand. He was fit and trim, the brush of silver at his temples and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes the only indications he was on the cusp of middle age.
“Please.” He waved Ben back into his chair as he started to rise. After snagging a file off his desk, the man took the seat beside him rather than across the expanse of mahogany—a gesture that leveled the playing field by positioning them as colleagues.
Courteous touch.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” Ben settled back into his chair. “As I explained to your office manager on the phone, I’m an orthopedic surgeon too. Fresh out of the army. Since my grandfather didn’t tell me about his knee problems, I’d like to get a sense of what was going on.”
Empathy filled the man’s eyes. “Of course. I’d want to do the same in your place. And please accept my condolences on your loss. Ned was an exceptional person.”
“Thank you. He’ll be missed.” Ben indicated the folder in the man’s hands. “I’m sure you’re busy, and I don’t want to encroach too much on your day. If you could give me a quick briefing on his treatment and the issues that came up, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll be happy to.” Allen flipped open the folder and essentially repeated the story Eric Nash had relayed in his law office, embellished with more detail—including MRI scans and various other test results.
By the time he finished explaining the case and answering questions, Ben was satisfied. The protocols the man had followed, his thoroughness, and the reasons for his treatment decisions were beyond reproach. Infections did happen with knee replacements, and Allen had addressed the complications exactly as he would have done.
“I tried to avoid the intramedullary arthrodesis, because your grandfather was a vigorous man and I knew fusing the femur and tibia would restrict his activities.” The doctor’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “But we couldn’t get the infection under control—and that choice was better than the alternative.”
Yes, it had been. Skip would have hated the notion of amputation.
Kind of like his neighbor did.
“I agree with every treatment choice you made. I just wanted to review the case for my own peace of mind.”
“Understood.” Allen closed the file folder and laid it back on his desk. “If you’d like a copy of any of the records, we’ll be happy to provide them.”
“Not necessary.”
The man leaned back, as if he was in no hurry to end their conversation. “Are you in town to wrap up your grandfather’s affairs, or are you settling here?”
“The former. I’ll be joining a friend’s practice in Columbus, Ohio.”
“Given your credentials, I can understand the appeal of a big-city practice. I imagine you’ve amassed more experience than most doctors acquire in a lifetime.”
“A degree from Johns Hopkins would also provide entrée to an established, big-city practice.” Ben indicated the diploma on the wall. After everything he’d read and observed about this man, Allen could have aimed higher than a small practice in a town the size of Coos Bay.
“True—and that’s where I thought I’d end up while I was in medical school and during my residency. As a matter of fact, I had my eye on a practice in Chicago.”
“What happened—if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not at all. After I met my wife, who’s from Coos Bay and has strong family ties here, my priorities shifted.”
“Ah.” Ben smiled. “The power of love can be mighty.”
“Yes, it can. Besides, patients are patients wherever you treat them, and the needs here are as pressing as those in Chicago or Seattle or San Francisco. Plus, to quote that old movie, Field of Dreams, I’ve learned that if you build it, they will come—assuming you offer first-class care, which we do. The truth is, we can’t keep up with the demand.”
“So you never had any regrets about passing up the Chicago opportunity?”
“Not a one. I’m as busy as I want to be—too busy at the moment, as is my partner—a situation we need to address soon. I also live in one of the most beautiful spots on the planet surrounded by a wonderful family. What more could I ask?”
“That sounds like something my grandfather would have said.”
“Come to think of it, I may have stolen a few of those lines from him.” One side of Allen’s mouth hitched up. “He was a smart man—and quite the armchair philosopher.”
“Yes, he was.” Ben stood. He’d used up too much of this doctor’s busy day. “Thank you for all you did for him.”
Allen rose too and extended his hand. “It was a privilege to have him as a patient. Let me show you out the back way.”
As they walked down the hall toward a door that bypassed the waiting room, Ben asked a few polite questions about the other physician in the practice and the hospital facilities in the area.
Yet as he said goodbye and left the Coos Bay orthopedic surgeon’s office behind, one of Allen’s comments kept replaying in his mind.
“Patients are patients wherever you treat them, and the needs here are as pressing as those in Chicago or Seattle or San Francisco.”
That was true.
However . . . big-city practices had more resources available. More hospital options. Potentially a bigger variety of cases.
And that had been Allen’s first choice too—absent a strong personal incentive to make Coos Bay his base.
Ben stepped outside the medical building, into bright sunshine, and struck off for his truck.
But his mind remained on the conversation with Allen rather than the buzz of activity around him on the busy street.
If his circumstances were similar to the other man’s, he might choose a different route too. Other than his med school buddy in Columbus, he didn’t know a soul in the city. And while the professional challenges might keep him busy during the workday, his after-hours life was liable to be lonely for the foreseeable future.
And Columbus would be nothing like Hope Harbor, where everyone knew everybody else’s business—and almost the entire population showed up to bid farewell to a beloved, longtime resident. Where people cared about their neighbors, and the pace of life felt slower . . . and more reasonable.
Small towns had much to recommend them.
Maybe someday, once he was ready to think about romance again, he might relocate to a place like Hope Harbor. With his credentials, he should be able to find a slot in a practice like Allen’s without any difficulty—and a small town would be an ideal place to raise a family.
Truth be told . . . with the right incentive, he might consider staying now.
An image of Marci’s face flashed through his mind, and he scowled as he thumbed the automatic door opener and strode across the parking lot toward Skip’s truck.
She was not an incentive.
Just the opposite.
The Hope Harbor Herald’s editor was the last woman on earth who should be on his radar screen.
If or when he fell in love, he intended to pick someone with a placid, even-keeled temperament who thought before she spoke and who knew how to present a calm, reasoned argument instead of going ballistic and hurling insults and accusations.
In other words, the polar opposite of Marci Weber.
He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and pointed the truck toward Hope Harbor.
Too bad about those flyaway emotions, though—because she did have some fine qualities. She cared deeply and wasn’t afraid to put herself on the line for people—and things—she loved. Her tears on the Suzy Q, her attempt to apologize the night she’d called the police on him, her efforts to save a town landmark were all admirable.
Not to mention that she was one gorgeous woman. Long after he left Hope Harbor, he had a feeling her sparkling green eyes, slender curves, and vibrant hair would continue to strobe through his mind.
But he’d had enough of volatile women to last a lifetime. Unruly emotions were a deal breaker, plain and simple.
He paused at a stoplight and leaned forward to switch stations on the radio. Halted mid-reach to squint across the street.
Was that Marci now? Coming out of what appeared to be a vintage clothing store?
She stopped and pivoted, as if someone had hailed her, and he followed her line of sight.
Charley was strolling toward her.
Suspicion confirmed.
It was Marci.
Odd that she’d show up while he was thinking about her.
He watched the two Hope Harbor residents chat until an impatient beep from behind forced him to accelerate through the now-green light.
With Marci’s hair glinting in the sun, it wasn’t difficult to keep tabs on the duo in his rearview mirror for a full block.
But at last they disappeared from view.
And that was just as well, based on the sudden jump in his pulse when she’d walked out the door of the shop.
At another time . . . with another woman . . . he might have let himself fall for a local resident and altered his career plans, as Jonathan Allen had done for the woman he loved.
Yet even if the perfect match came along, the timing in his case was just plain bad. He needed some distance from the last woman who’d complicated his life before he trusted himself to dip his toes into romance.
So he’d keep his eyes fixed on Columbus . . . and pray that when the day came for him to leave Hope Harbor, he could walk away and forget all about lighthouses, legacies—and the lovely Marci Weber.