Lifting her chin, she pasted on a smile. “Take care, Ben.”
“You too.” With a lift of his hand, he strode away.
She watched him surreptitiously as she crossed Dockside Drive and trudged toward her office.
He didn’t look back once.
Which was for the best. Even without her other issues, getting involved with a Hope Harbor short-termer would be a mistake.
And if she ever did meet a charming, eligible man who was going to stick around town for more than a week or two, she still wasn’t going to let herself get carried away.
She’d think the relationship through and do some due diligence instead of letting electricity short-circuit her brain.
Because she was done making mistakes that led to trouble.
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
