Had she been too hard on him?
Was she wrong to set some ground rules?
What would she do next if this didn’t work?
The answers eluded her.
All she knew was that countless articles she’d read on the net over the past few months had emphasized the need for tough love in certain cases.
Like this one.
Greg hadn’t been happy about it—but as long as there was a chance it might work, she had to stick with the program.
Even if it broke her heart.
5
She needed a taco.
Bad.
Marci scrolled through her email, stopping to read yet again the note Ben had sent her after the article about Ned appeared in last week’s paper.
It was cordial, complimentary, appreciative—and totally impersonal.
If she’d had any doubts about the finality of their parting at the wharf, his polite communiqué dispelled them. It was clear he had no intention of seeking her out.
Which was excellent news, given her aversion to dating at the moment—wasn’t it?
Yes.
Of course it was.
The best strategy would be to forget about him—and she would, as soon as she convinced the right side of her brain to get with the program.
In the meantime, a stroll to the wharf and some spicy fish tacos should distract her from imprudent fancies on this first day of May.
She rose and moved over to the window, wedging herself against the frame as she peered toward the far end of the wharf.
Rachel eyed her. “What’s up?”
“I’m trying to see if Charley is cooking before I trek down there. Mondays are iffy.” She squinted. The serving window on the truck appeared to be open. “I think tacos have trumped painting today.”
“Lucky you.” Rachel refocused on the half-finished article displayed on the screen in front of her. “I was in the mood for one of his creations myself an hour ago, but the truck was shut up tight.”
“Want me to bring you back an order?”
“No, thanks. I got a bowl of soup at The Myrtle instead. That will hold me until dinner.”
Marci returned to her desk to retrieve her purse, giving her assistant a discreet scan.
Rachel needed more than a bowl of soup to fill out the hollows in her cheeks.
But an infusion of hearty food wouldn’t erase the smudgy half-moons under her lower lashes that grew darker with every passing day.
Apparently the situation at home wasn’t improving.
She slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“No worries. I’ve got it covered here.”
Marci left her office behind, inhaled the tantalizing scent of cinnamon rolls as she passed Sweet Dreams Bakery, and crossed Dockside Drive toward Charley’s.
Her favorite taco chef raised a hand in greeting as she approached, treating her to one of his trademark all’s-right-with-the-world smiles. “Good morning . . . or should I say afternoon?” He perused the sky. “Afternoon it is. The sun’s on a downward slide.”
She twisted her wrist. “For the record, it’s one-thirty. How do you manage without a watch?”
“Why would I need one?”
True. Charley marched to the beat of his own drummer and set his own schedule—which accounted for the erratic hours at the taco stand.
“I see your point. Unfortunately, most of us can’t live without our watches.”
“More’s the pity. Life’s too short to spend it yoked to a clock. So what are you having today—a late lunch or a very early dinner?”
“Knowing how filling your food is, probably both. What’s the fish of the day?” Not that it mattered. She’d never met a Charley’s taco she didn’t like.
“Mahi-mahi, with a chipotle lime sauce.”
“Yum.”
He pulled some fillets out of a cooler, set them on the grill, and began chopping a tomato. “I enjoyed your article about Ned in the paper last week.”
“Thanks.”
“I bet Ben was pleased with the tribute.”
“He seemed to be, based on the note he sent.”
“Considerate of him to invite you out on the Suzy Q for the final farewell.”
Marci furrowed her brow. “How did you know about that?”
Grinning, he pulled out three corn tortillas and laid them on the grill. “It’s a small town. People talk. I listen. Right, Floyd?” He tossed the remark toward a seagull pecking around on the nearby pavement.
The bird nudged his feathered companion, and the other gull cackled in what almost sounded like a laugh.
“I agree, Gladys.” Charley opened a bottle of his homemade sauce.
“You talk to seagulls?” Marci’s lips twitched.
“As long as they talk back.” He winked at her. “One-sided conversations aren’t much fun.” He removed the tortillas from the heat and flipped the fish, his manner growing more serious. “I expect Rachel knows all about that.”
She scrutinized him.
Had her clerk confided in the taco-making artist?
“Has she talked to you about her . . . situation?”
“We’ve chatted now and then. But Greg’s only been by once since they arrived.”
“I think he keeps to himself.”
“Not the best idea when you’re feeling blue.”
Marci assessed the man as he began assembling her tacos. Did he know more than she did about Greg’s mental state—or did that comment just reflect Charley’s keen intuition?
Best to proceed with caution.
“I feel bad for both of them. I can’t imagine being hit with such an immense challenge that early in a marriage.”
“I hear you. Storms can throw us off course whatever our stage in life, but they’re harder to weather if you’re inexperienced or unprepared. As Ned would have said, in a rough sea, it takes a lot of hands working together to get a boat back to safe harbor.”
“My hands are available—but Rachel isn’t receptive.”
“That could always change. You might still get your chance.” He lifted his arm and waved at the city manager, who was crossing the street toward them. “It seems you aren’t the only one having a late lunch today.”
Brent Davis strode up to the truck and sniffed. “I could smell your tacos all the way to city hall.”
Charley chuckled. “You must have a world-class nose.”
“My mother claims I do. Wherever I was in the neighborhood as a kid, I could smell her chocolate chip cookies baking and always managed to arrive at the back door as she was pulling them out
