Marci had invested sweat equity in Skip’s project?
No wonder she was riled about the sale.
“Listen . . . I’m not going to dispute anything you’ve said. But Skip’s gone—and without a person who shared his passion spearheading a project like this, the light wouldn’t survive anyway. The practical choice is to sell it and move on.”
Eyes thinning, she mimicked his confrontational pose. “Not every decision in life has to be based on practicalities.”
“What do you expect me to do? I’m leaving as soon as I wrap up Skip’s estate. Four or five weeks, max. If I turn down this sale, the light will just sit here and continue to deteriorate.”
“A lot can happen in a handful of weeks.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” She gave a vague flip of her hand. “Something that would help preserve the light.”
“That would take a miracle.”
“They do happen.”
“Oh, come on. Be realistic. That’s as crazy as”—he homed in on the two sets of unblinking avian eyes watching the exchange—“as thinking our seagull friends here might peck some gold pirate coins out of the sand that would cover all the lighthouse expenses.”
As if on cue, the two gulls rose in a flutter of wings and raucous squawks, circled close to his head until he was forced to duck, then landed on the ground next to Marci, one on each side—like sentries.
Weird.
“I don’t understand how you can be so callous about this. Ned was your grandfather!”
If the weather were colder, Ben wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam coming out of Marci’s ears.
His own temper was heating up too. What right did this woman he barely knew have to throw a guilt trip on him?
“Don’t you think you’re being too emotional?”
“No!” The slight frizz in her red hair fairly quivered with indignation. “There’s nothing wrong with honest emotion. Sometimes a healthy dose of passion is what it takes to make a person see the light. I’m not going to apologize for how I feel. You need to do the right thing.”
Ben froze as another woman’s similar words echoed in his mind.
“I’m not sorry for how I feel, Ben. Just do the right thing. It can all be so simple.”
But it hadn’t been.
Nor was it now.
Selling a lighthouse might not have the same fallout as his previous dilemma, but it, too, was ripping a hole in his heart.
And he didn’t need another emotional woman compounding the problem.
He backed off a few steps and fished out his keys. “I’m doing what I have to do to wrap up all the loose ends before I leave for Ohio.”
“The lighthouse isn’t a loose end. It’s a legacy. A landmark.”
“Depends on your perspective. Thanks again for the clippings.”
Without waiting for a response, he circled toward his car, giving her and the birds a wide berth.
“Hey!”
He paused. Hesitated. Angled back.
She glared at him. “Walking away in the middle of a discussion is rude.”
So he’d been told.
But sticking around could be worse.
Even dangerous.
“The discussion is over.”
With that, he turned his back on her and strode toward his truck.
Only after he was speeding down Pelican Point Road, the lighthouse receding in his rearview mirror, did he venture a glance back.
Marci was standing where he’d left her, hands on hips, the gusty wind whipping her glorious hair.
He pressed harder on the gas.
No doubt her intentions were honorable. It was clear she cared about Hope Harbor and wanted what was best for the town.
But excitable women were also unpredictable. If he gave her an inch, she might take a mile.
So barring a better offer for the light, he’d stick with his plan—get Skip’s house ready to put on the market, sort through the rest of his grandparents’ personal belongings, and go as many rounds as necessary with his conscience to vanquish his doubts before he signed on the dotted line and ditched the lighthouse that had become one more unwanted complication in his life.
Gee.
That had gone well.
As Ben’s truck disappeared around the curve in the road, Marci exhaled and dropped onto the large rock that offered the best seat in the house for the daily sunset show.
The two gulls waddled over and settled at her heels.
“I guess I might have come on a little too strong, huh?”
They observed her in silence.
Too bad she didn’t have Charley’s skill at communicating with birds—and people.
Would she never learn to curb her tongue?
She tucked her windblown hair behind her ears, massaged her forehead, and admitted the truth.
Diplomacy was not her forte.
Yes, some positive passion would have been fine. Persuasive, even.
But angry, accusatory passion?
Different story.
It was hard to blame Ben for shutting down. Had the situation been reversed, she would have been livid if someone tried to ladle on guilt and dictate what she should do with a piece of property she owned.
Perhaps if she’d come to him with a constructive idea or two and funneled her passion into productive enthusiasm instead of antagonism, he might have been more receptive to exploring other options.
Considering the cold mask that had slipped over his face near the end of their heated exchange, however—and the speed with which he’d vacated the premises—there wasn’t much likelihood he’d be open to a second go-round, even if she extended an olive branch.
Why, oh why, had she been cursed with fiery hair—and a disposition to match?
The upbeat strains of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” drifted from her purse, and Marci dug out her cell. Smiled at the screen.
Perfect timing.
A quick chat with her mother always gave her spirits a boost.
“Hi, Mom.” She leaned back on one hand and filled her lungs with the fresh, salty air. “I’ve missed talking with you. How was the fortieth anniversary cruise?”
“Fantastic. Your dad and I felt like honeymooners.”
Marci grinned. Her mom sounded like a honeymooner. Sort of giddy and girly.
Hard—and kind of disconcerting—to picture a parent in that role, though.
“I’m glad you had fun. Did you and Dad boogie the nights away?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it boogying, but those ballroom dancing lessons we’ve taken for years came in handy.
