“Dad taught me enough to get by—not that I need those skills very often. Most guys in my generation wouldn’t know a foxtrot from a tango.”
“More’s the pity. They have no idea what they’re missing. There’s nothing more romantic than dancing to a classic tune. Maybe if you beat the bushes, you’ll find a few men who know a step or two.”
An image of Ben flashed through her mind.
Did he know how to dance? And if he did, what would it be like to sway in his arms to a slow, romantic melody?
A soft sigh escaped her.
“Marci? Are you there?”
“Uh, yeah.” She shot to her feet, and the gulls scuttled back with an accusatory glower. Focus, Marci. “I haven’t run into any Fred Astaires out here.”
“Have you been looking?”
She stifled a groan.
Of course her mother would bring up her love life—or lack thereof.
“I’m occupied with the Herald and getting my business established. That doesn’t leave me much free time.”
“You’ve been there two years, honey. I know you’re busy, but don’t you think it might be healthy to carve out a few hours for a social life? We all need balance to thrive.” Unlike her daughter, Laura Weber knew how to tactfully discuss a sensitive subject.
Why couldn’t she have inherited her mom’s ash-blonde hair and calm temperament instead of her grandmother’s ginger mane and unruly tongue?
“I’ll get there at some point, Mom.”
“Are there many eligible men in that small town?”
Again, Ben’s image strobed across her mind.
How ridiculous was that?
The man didn’t like her, she wasn’t altogether sure about him, and he was leaving in a handful of weeks.
That was not the definition of eligible.
She erased his face from her mind.
“A few.”
“Not as many as in Atlanta, though. You had an active social life there. I bet you miss that.”
Her stomach kinked.
No, she didn’t.
Not one bit.
Thanks to Jack.
The moratorium she’d declared on dating suited her fine.
But she’d never shared that bit of her history with her parents—and she had no intention of starting now.
“Believe it or not, my life has been too full to think much about dating. Hope Harbor may be small, but there’s always interesting stuff happening here. Wait till you hear the news about the lighthouse.”
She proceeded to fill her mother in on the impending sale, downplaying her involvement with the cat-rescuing army surgeon who now owned the property.
“I can see why the town would be upset about that.” Her mother’s comforting empathy filtered over the line—another trait Marci wished she’d inherited. “Since you run the newspaper, is there anything you could do to rally support for a save-the-lighthouse campaign?”
“That might be a possibility if we had more time—but the owner has an offer on the table, and he wants to close the deal before he leaves town in four or five weeks.”
“Ouch. That’s a tiny window. Still . . . it couldn’t hurt to talk to a few people, generate some ideas, could it? When you’re all fired up, you’re a force to be reckoned with. Your zeal could create a lot of enthusiasm.”
Not with Ben—but in all fairness, she hadn’t applied it very well, either.
“It’s worth thinking about.”
“Seems like the only reasonable option, short of finding a wealthy benefactor.”
“Not likely in this area. Hope Harbor is rich in many ways, but money isn’t one of them.”
“Why don’t you sleep on it? Give the situation some thought—and prayer. God’s help desk is always open.”
The corners of Marci’s mouth twitched. “Cute analogy.”
“Also true. Will you keep me informed?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll say a few prayers myself. I remember the light from our visit last summer. It would be a shame if it disappeared.”
“I agree—and I appreciate the prayers. Tell Dad I said hi.”
“Will do. Take care, sweetie. We love you.”
The line went dead, and Marci tucked the phone back into her purse.
“It’s always comforting to talk to your mom, you know?” She addressed her comment to the two seagulls.
One of them made a purring noise that sounded like an affirmation.
Or had that come from Annabelle? Maybe the feline was prowling around nearby, in search of another tree to climb.
She scanned the windswept terrain.
Nope. Her neighbor’s cat was nowhere in sight.
Marci checked out the seagulls again. They appeared to be grinning at her.
Rolling her eyes, she strode toward her car. She was as bad as Charley, talking to seagulls.
Yet somehow she felt better.
Go figure.
In any case, her mother was right about the light. She did have tons of enthusiasm, and she’d always believed that old saying about obstacles being nothing more than stepping-stones.
So what if she’d ticked off Ben? That didn’t mean the cause was lost.
If she could recruit some volunteers to form a think tank, they might be able to come up with a plan he could accept and the town would find financially palatable.
It was possible.
And if, in the end, they failed to stop the sale, at least she’d be able to sleep at night knowing she’d tried her best to preserve a treasured piece of Hope Harbor history.
7
What was that appetizing aroma?
Pulling a bag of groceries from the back of her car, Rachel sniffed again.
It smelled like Italian spices.
Not pizza, though. That scent was all too familiar after the countless takeout they’d ordered over the past two months.
Or rather, the ones Greg had ordered while she was at work, so he didn’t have to sit with her during a meal.
He might never have admitted that was the reason for his sudden pizza craving, but why else would he eat while she was away unless it was to avoid her at the dinner table?
And maybe this was no more than a continuation of that pattern. He could have found some other place with more than pizza on its takeout menu.
Spirits sinking, she hefted the second bag out of the car and shut the door with a hip-check. If he’d ordered out again, she’d be eating another solitary dinner while he watched TV or played video games.
At least she wouldn’t have to
