After setting one of the bags down at the door that led into the house, she inserted her key in the lock and shouldered into the kitchen.
Stopped.
Gaped.
The small café table was set for two—sort of. A knife and fork rested on a paper napkin at each place, and a container of parmesan cheese was in the middle. Not fancy . . . but an effort.
She glanced at the stove.
Two pots were steaming—boiling water in one, and what appeared to be spaghetti sauce in the other. The kind Greg had made for her from his mother’s recipe on a few occasions during their courtship and in the early days of their marriage.
There was also a bag of salad on the counter beside a large bowl.
He’d been busy while she’d run up to Coos Bay to do some errands.
But what in the world was going on?
As if he’d heard her unspoken question, Greg appeared in the doorway from the living room. “Are you hungry?” He continued toward the stove without meeting her gaze.
“Um . . . yeah. I am.”
He stirred the sauce, then crossed to her and took one of the bags. After setting it on the counter, he opened one of the utensil drawers and poked around.
Feet rooted to the spot, she studied his taut posture. “Greg?”
“Yeah?” He pulled out a pair of scissors and cut open the bag of salad, his voice gruff.
“Why are you cooking?”
“I got hungry for Mom’s spaghetti sauce. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”
“No. That’s fine. I like your mom’s sauce.”
She moved to the counter and deposited the other bag, keeping a surreptitious eye on her husband while she put away the groceries.
He wasn’t just fixing dinner. He’d also combed his hair and shaved.
Something was up.
But what?
If she got him talking, she might be able to find out—though that was a difficult-to-impossible chore most days.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . my boss asked me last week to pass along her thanks for your idea about the ad for Lou’s Bait and Tackle shop. He went for it hook, line, and sinker—pardon the pun.”
She braced for a smart-aleck comeback.
It never came.
“Good.” He bent down to get the colander, keeping his face averted.
It was a start—but one-word answers weren’t going to tell her why he was cooking dinner.
She needed to ask more open-ended questions.
“Do you remember any of the weird trivia Lou shared with you when you visited his shop as a kid?” Lame, but the best she could come up with on the fly.
Several silent seconds ticked by, and her spirits dipped.
He wasn’t going to respond.
Whatever the reason he’d decided to clean up and prepare dinner, he wasn’t going to . . .
“That the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock because they ran out of beer. As a teen beginning to sneak a few sips of alcohol here and there, that stuck with me.”
She froze.
He’d not only answered but offered a tiny personal insight.
Stay cool, Rachel. Keep the conversation going.
“Are you certain he wasn’t pulling your leg?”
He stiffened—and she sucked in a sharp breath.
How stupid could she be?
Any reference to legs was bound to shut him up as tight as one of Oregon’s butter clams.
So much for . . .
“Yeah.” He resumed stirring. “I checked it out later. He had his facts straight. A few people tried to call him on trivia over the years, but he could always back up his claims.”
Rachel slowly exhaled.
He hadn’t closed down.
Thank you, God!
“I don’t know what fun nugget he’s going to share in the first ad, but the featured item is a copper hummingbird feeder.”
“That should sell well. I saw quite a few of the birds darting among the flowers up by the lighthouse on Sunday.”
She masked her dismay.
He must have taken the car up there—again—while she walked to church.
Lovely as the spot was, thinking about her brooding husband sitting on the edge of a cliff did not leave her feeling warm and fuzzy.
But she wasn’t going to try and dissuade him from his solitary trips again tonight. That would only raise his ire and shut him down.
“The lighthouse has an incredible view.” She tried for a pleasant tone as she crossed to the counter and began to toss the salad. “Sad to say, though, it may be off-limits soon.”
He finished dumping the limp noodles from the pot into the colander and swiveled toward her, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
She told him what Marci had passed on yesterday after her encounter with the city manager at Charley’s—and with Ben later at the lighthouse.
Frown deepening, Greg ladled sauce over the noodles while she put the salad on the table. “That stinks. Everyone in town loves Pelican Point light.”
“That’s what Marci said. She’s planning to get some people together to brainstorm ideas about how to save it.”
“When?”
“She made some calls yesterday afternoon while I was at the office.” Rachel filled two glasses with water and set them on the table, homing in on the spark of interest in Greg’s eyes. “Would you like to get involved?”
He carried their plates of spaghetti to the table. “I don’t know what I could offer.”
“You’re very creative. You were the brains behind that successful charity fund-raising drive your unit had in Fort Hood, and you had a very creative idea for Lou’s ad.”
“Your boss is a pro at this stuff.”
“No, her background is journalism and PR, not marketing. She’s looking for help.”
“I don’t have any training.” He opened the lid on the can of parmesan but weighed the container in his hand instead of sprinkling any cheese on his pasta.
“You have excellent instincts—and you know this town. Better than Marci.”
He refocused on the task at hand, dousing his spaghetti with the parmesan before handing her the can. “I’ll have to think about it. We better eat or this will get cold.”
Rachel bowed her head, said a short blessing, and dug into the spaghetti.
“I got some chocolate chip cookie dough at the grocery store.” An impulse purchase that for
