It was as picturesque as he remembered it.
“Yes. I liked hanging around down here as a kid. In fact, I loved everything about Hope Harbor. My visits were the highlight of my year.”
“Would you mind sharing some of those memories while we walk? I have my digital recorder with me.” She dug it out of her bag.
“You came prepared.”
“As any first-class reporter would.”
He could buy that.
But why would a first-class reporter spend her life running a podunk paper like the Herald?
Major disconnect.
Frowning, he took her arm and guided her around a pair of seagulls who’d planted themselves in the middle of the sidewalk.
Marci appeared to be bright, smart, and personable. The kind of woman who would rise quickly in any field.
So what had brought her here two years ago? Where had she lived before? What had she done in her previous life? Who had she left behind—or come to Oregon to be close to? Why wasn’t she working for a big-name publication? How could she make a living publishing the eight-page, every-other-week Herald?
Why wasn’t she married?
Most important, could he ask a few of those questions without getting her hackles up?
“Being prepared is smart in any job.” He chose his words with care as the gulls fluttered along behind them—likely hoping for a handout. “But tell me about the Herald. I thought it went out of business six, eight years ago.”
“It did. I revived it.”
“So it’s been back in business for about two years.”
Her step faltered, and she stiffened. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“Officer Gleason mentioned your tenure here. Charley did, too, after the service. They’re staunch fans, by the way.”
Her posture relaxed a hair. “Both are super guys. They’ve been very supportive of my attempt to get the paper going again. The whole town has been.”
“It’s a risky venture, though. Papers are struggling everywhere these days.”
“That’s why I do PR work on the side. Those clients provide my main income—but journalism is my first love. And every town deserves a newspaper. The Herald is small, but I like that I can be hands-on with every aspect.”
“Do you do everything?”
“Not quite. I have a part-time assistant at the office and a freelance designer who takes care of the layout.”
“Still sounds busy.”
“It is.”
“Have you worked on larger publications?”
“No. Newspaper slots are hard to come by for newly minted journalism majors. After college I took a job with a PR firm in Atlanta.”
“That’s a long way from Hope Harbor. What brought you here—aside from the beautiful setting?”
She watched a black oystercatcher dip low over the harbor, its distinctive yellow-tipped, orange-red bill a blaze of color against the blue sky. “My sister and I inherited our great-aunt’s cottage on Pelican Point. I came to clean it out and put it on the market, but I fell in love with the town. Since I was ready for a change of job and lifestyle, I bought my sister’s share of the cottage and stayed.”
Her straightforward explanation covered all the basics, and she’d delivered it in a casual, relaxed tone.
Except she wasn’t relaxed.
A thrum of tension radiated off her, and her response came across as too glib and practiced—as if she’d expected to be queried on this subject and had written out and memorized her answer.
Suggesting this wasn’t a topic she liked to discuss.
Why?
Before he could figure out how to finagle an answer to that question, she held up the recorder. “Let’s talk about Ned. We’re going to be at the boat soon, and you haven’t told me a thing yet. Why don’t you share a story or two about your visits here, and what you most remember about him?”
Her request was reasonable. She’d joined him on this walk to hear about Skip. But they’d be at the boat in less than three minutes, and that wasn’t long enough to do justice to any story about his grandfather.
“I have a better idea.”
Marci slanted him a cautious look. “What?”
He hesitated, already besieged by second thoughts about the suggestion that had popped into his mind. After all, he’d planned to use his time on the boat to reminisce about the happy days he’d spent with Skip, not entertain a passenger.
But he wasn’t yet ready to let Marci go—leaving him just one option.
Dismissing his qualms, he plunged in. “Why don’t you come out on the boat with me? That’s where Skip spent his happiest hours . . . and I have a lot of memories of the Q too. I could share a few of them while we’re on the way to the spot he chose as his resting place.”
She jolted to a stop. “I’m, uh, not exactly dressed to go out on a crab boat.”
“You’re wearing flat shoes, the weather’s fine, and we can stay inside the cabin if you prefer that to the open deck. It’s a beautiful day to be on the water . . . and I have a feeling Skip wouldn’t mind if I brought one of his friends along. Besides, don’t first-class reporters go where the stories are?” He gave her his most persuasive grin and tapped the recorder clutched in her fingers.
“Yes, but . . . but we could also meet after you get back. I’ll be in my office for a while.”
That was true.
Yet the idea of concluding the funeral ritual accompanied only by a complete stranger—accommodating though the captain might be—was quickly losing its appeal.
“Are you certain you want to pass up a ride on the Suzy Q?” He conjured up another charming smile. “She’s a great boat . . . and that’s where my grandfather spent a significant portion of his life. It would give you some—is color the right word?—for your story.”
The wry tug at the corners of her lips told him he’d convinced her to come even before she responded.
“You win. I’m in.”
“You won’t
