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
