“You got it.”
Brent turned to her as Charley wrapped her tacos in white paper. “Hey, Marci. How’s the world treating you?”
“No complaints. Anything new at city hall?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” His smile faded.
“Care to share?”
“As long as it’s off the record.”
“Sure. The Herald isn’t the New York Times. I’m not trying to scoop anybody.”
“New York wouldn’t have any interest in this story—but Hope Harbor will. We had an inquiry from a law firm in Eugene on behalf of a client who prefers to remain anonymous. This client has an interest in buying the Pelican Point lighthouse, and they were asking a bunch of questions about zoning regulations.”
“What kind of questions?” Charley set her bag on the counter, faint vertical creases scoring his forehead.
“It seems this client wants to purchase the adjacent parcels of property as well as the lighthouse and build a luxury weekend home that could also be used for corporate retreats and meetings with his senior management.”
“Why does he want a lighthouse?” Marci dug some bills out of her shoulder bag and passed them to Charley.
“He doesn’t. He wants the view. That’s the problem. He’s already checked state and federal laws, but he wanted to verify there were no issues from our end if he tears it down.”
“What?” Marci’s heart flip-flopped. “He plans to level a town landmark?”
“Apparently.”
“We can’t let him do that!”
“How are we supposed to stop him? There’s no zoning ordinance that would prevent him from combining parcels of land up there, and the lighthouse is privately owned.”
“But . . . but it’s been part of this town for more than 125 years!”
Charley set her change on the counter. “I agree.”
“Hey.” Brent held up his palms. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just giving you a heads-up. I wish the town had the means to buy it, but we’ve already been down that road, and it’s a dead end.”
“Ned would be sick about this.” Marci swiped up the coins and dumped them in her bag. “Does Ben know what’s going on?”
“The attorney said the firm had been in touch with him.”
“And he’s going to sell to someone who plans to tear the light down, knowing how much it meant to his grandfather?”
“That I can’t answer. But I have to believe he’s receptive to their offer if the firm is conducting due diligence with city hall.”
“I suppose it’s hard to fault a man for entertaining a reasonable offer.” Charley pulled some more fish out of the cooler. “I’m sure Ben wants to settle the estate and move on with his life. He has no reason to linger in Hope Harbor.”
“It seems to me he could have tried a little harder to find someone who respected the heritage and history the lighthouse represents. I mean, selling it is bad enough, but tearing it down . . .” Marci snagged her bag of tacos, trying without much success to rein in her temper. “Someone ought to talk to him.”
“Are you volunteering?” Charley threw the question over his shoulder as he laid Brent’s fish on the grill.
“I did promise to give him copies of Ned’s columns, so I have an excuse to drop by.”
“I say go for it.” Brent pulled a few napkins from the dispenser on the counter. “What can it hurt to have a calm, rational discussion about what the lighthouse means to the town and politely ask him to see if he can find a buyer who’s willing to preserve it?”
Calm.
Rational.
Polite.
Marci wasn’t feeling any of those things at the moment.
But maybe that was okay.
Maybe this situation called for passion and fervor and zeal.
Those she had in spades.
“I’ll do it—as soon as I eat my tacos and pick up Ned’s columns from the office.”
“Good luck. We’re behind you 100 percent.” Charley gave her a thumbs-up.
“Thanks.”
But as she crimped the top of the brown bag between her fingers and hurried back to the office, she had a feeling she was going to need a lot more than luck to convince Ben to walk away from someone who was ready to take an unwanted lighthouse off his hands for a sum no one else might be willing to top.
“Greg! I know you’re in there! Answer the door!”
As the banging on the front door intensified, Greg muttered a few choice words.
He was not in the mood for a visit from his big brother.
But if Dan had made the long drive down from Florence over eighty-plus miles of winding coast road, he wasn’t going to leave without doing whatever he’d come to do.
“Keep your shirt on! I’m coming.”
The banging ceased as he struggled up from the recliner where he spent most of his days—but knowing Dan, it would resume within sixty seconds if he didn’t unlatch the door.
And he wouldn’t put it past his overbearing brother to call the police and claim it was an emergency if his noisy summons went ignored.
Once he was steady, Greg clumped to the door and flipped the lock. “I thought you were going to knock the door down.”
“My next step if you continued to ignore me.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you. I just don’t move as fast as I used to. What are you doing here, anyway?” He narrowed his eyes. “Did Rachel call you?”
“No. I’m here because you don’t answer my texts or return my calls.” Dan gave him a slow, disapproving survey. “You’re a mess.”
“It’s great to see you too.”
“I didn’t come down here to exchange niceties. And I don’t intend to tiptoe around your delicate sensibilities, like Rachel does.” He shouldered past him into the house.
“I can see that.”
Dan stopped in the middle of the room and did a slow 360. “At least you haven’t trashed the place. I was half expecting to see piles of pizza boxes and junk food containers in addition to these.” With his toe, he toppled a small pyramid of empty beer cans beside the recliner.
“Rachel is a neat freak.”
“So the pristine condition of the house is her doing.”
“Yeah.”
“And how do you
