What in tarnation was he supposed to do with the thing?
“I’m afraid the lighthouse isn’t in the best shape, either—despite your grandfather’s efforts to restore it. After his knee issues began, he wasn’t able to do much physical labor, and contractors charge a lot for that kind of work. Some people in town lent a hand on occasion, but progress was slow.”
Tucking away the bad news that the lighthouse might be crumbling, Ben homed in on the other piece of information the man had shared. “What knee issues?”
The attorney cocked his head. “You didn’t know?”
“No. In his emails, he always said everything was fine. We didn’t often talk by phone, but whenever we did, he was upbeat.”
“Maybe he didn’t want you to worry, given the demands of your job.”
Yeah. That sounded like Skip. His grandfather knew army surgeons working near the front lines had a high-stress, high-adrenaline, fast-paced lifestyle. They’d discussed it often. And Ned Garrison had never been the type to burden other people with his problems.
But Ben wasn’t other people.
He was family.
And he owed Skip. Big-time. Without those summer visits to look forward to after the acrimonious divorce that had rocked his childhood, who knew how he’d have ended up?
There was nothing he wouldn’t have done for the man who’d been his lifeline.
Ben took another sip of the cooling coffee, buying himself a few moments to rein in his wobbling emotions. “Tell me about the knee issues.”
“Your grandfather wasn’t one to dwell on unpleasant subjects, but I understand he had bad arthritis and opted for a knee replacement not long after he acquired the lighthouse. An infection set in, requiring revision surgery. When that didn’t work, a third surgery was done to insert a metal rod—which left him with a permanent limp and hampered his physical activities. He couldn’t do much on the lighthouse anymore, so four months ago he decided to sell.”
“Who was his surgeon?” Ben’s jaw tightened. If someone had botched this job, they were going to be held accountable.
And why hadn’t Skip taken advantage of his expertise? No, he hadn’t done many battlefield knee replacements—but he was an orthopedic surgeon, for crying out loud. He could have consulted on the case, vetted the specialist his grandfather had chosen.
Eric riffled through the papers in front of him and extracted a sheet. “Jonathan Allen in Coos Bay. I don’t see a primary care doctor listed for your grandfather. He must have done what most of the locals do and simply visited the urgent care clinic in town for everyday medical needs. They may have recommended Dr. Allen.”
“Thanks.” Ben jotted down the man’s name. Before he left Oregon, he intended to pay the doctor a visit and review his grandfather’s medical records.
But it wasn’t likely the knee procedure had anything to do with the massive heart attack that had felled him.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he shifted gears. “If my grandfather put the lighthouse on the open market, I’m assuming the town still doesn’t want to buy it.”
“Correct. A few residents tried to stir up some interest, but the effort petered out. Even if the structure was in pristine condition, Oregon has an abundance of lighthouses already—many much more impressive than ours—so it’s not as if it would draw tourists who might contribute to the local economy.”
Hard to argue with that logic—or fault the town for passing on the purchase.
“So a private buyer is the answer.”
“If you can find one.” The attorney didn’t sound any more confident than Ben felt. “Your grandfather listed it with an agent, but I don’t believe there have been any inquiries.”
Of course not.
That would be too easy.
“I’ll go up and look it over after I arrange the memorial service for my grandfather. Is there anyone in town who might be able to do a structural assessment?”
“My wife’s an architect and runs a local construction firm.” Eric rose, crossed to his desk, and extracted a business card from a drawer. “She went out before your grandfather bought it to give him her thoughts. She won’t mind running up there again to reevaluate it.” He returned to his seat at the table and handed over the card.
“Thanks.” Ben pocketed it. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“No. Your grandfather’s estate was in order. Transitioning the assets will be simple. You have the keys to his house and car, and the paperwork’s been signed. You’re set.” Eric pushed an envelope across the table. “This is the key to the lighthouse.”
For a fraction of a second, Ben hesitated.
But there was no avoiding the truth.
He owned a lighthouse.
One that apparently no one wanted.
Including him.
Heaving a resigned sigh, he picked up the envelope and rose.
Eric stood, too, and extended his hand. “My condolences again on your loss. Your grandfather was a wonderful man—and an asset to this town.”
“Thanks.” He returned the attorney’s firm clasp.
“If I can be of any other assistance while you’re here, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“I appreciate that. But I don’t plan to stay long.” Or he hadn’t, until he’d inherited a lighthouse. “Thank you for delaying our meeting a few hours.”
“No problem. I know how hard it can be to maintain a schedule on travel days. With all the ground you’ve covered, you must be operating on fumes.”
“I am.” Hard to believe he’d been in the Middle East thirty-six sleepless hours ago. “I’m going to crash at my grandfather’s house for a while until I feel more human.”
“Sounds like a plan. The Myrtle Café is open if you want to grab an early dinner first. Or you could swing by Charley’s on the wharf. You might have gone there with your grandfather as a kid.”
“I did. Often.” His mouth watered just thinking about the savory fish tacos the man concocted. A visit to Charley’s was on his Hope Harbor must-do list—but not until he got some z’s. He needed sleep more than food.
The attorney walked him to the door, and Ben exited
