“Yeah. That’d be okay.” A moment of silence passed . . . and when he spoke again, his inflection was a tad too casual. “Dan would have enjoyed those if he’d stuck around for a couple of days, like he said he might. They’re his weakness.”
She stopped eating. “Your brother was here?”
A faint flush spread over Greg’s cheeks as he continued to chow down. “For a little while yesterday. He drove down to say hi.”
All the way from Florence?
Not likely.
Dan was one of the most single-minded men she’d ever met—next to her husband. If he’d made the long, winding drive, he’d had an agenda.
One that involved his younger sibling.
And whatever he’d said must have hit its mark.
Yet curious as she was about what they’d discussed, a different question was front and center in her mind as they chatted more than they had in months during the remainder of the meal.
Was tonight the beginning of a permanent course correction—or no more than a blip on the radar that would disappear by morning?
As the chime of the doorbell echoed through the house, Ben yawned, took a slug of coffee, and padded barefoot toward the front door.
He’d need a gallon of caffeine to perk him up after the hours he’d spent tossing and turning for the past two nights, thanks to his less-than-pleasant encounter with Marci at the lighthouse on Monday.
It was downright irritating to be that discombobulated by a woman.
Even more annoying?
He still found the Herald editor appealing despite her over-the-top emotions and penchant for poking her nose in other people’s business.
His business, anyway.
And it didn’t help that she’d been dead right about most of what she’d said.
Trouble was, no matter how much he racked his brain, he couldn’t come up with a solution that would preserve Pelican Point light.
Smoothing a hand down the hair he hadn’t yet bothered to comb, he pulled open the front door.
His neighbor stood on the other side. The one he hadn’t seen since their less-than-pleasant encounter a week ago.
Wonderful.
If the man was as ill-tempered on this Wednesday morning as he’d been in his backyard, Ben might as well write this day off as a total loss.
And it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.
“Good morning.” He managed a stiff smile, fingers tightening on his mug.
“Morning.” The guy cleared his throat. “I, uh, wanted to stop by and thank you for planting the rosebush for my wife—and apologize for my bad manners.”
A few beats ticked by while Ben absorbed the man’s words.
Maybe the guy wasn’t a total jerk after all.
Some of the tension in his shoulders evaporated.
“No worries. We all have bad days.”
“Or months. Eight of them, in my case.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I lost my leg in the Middle East, and the adjustment has been hard.”
Ah.
Stiff gait explained.
Along with the man’s testy attitude.
Given all the mangled limbs he’d seen, all the desperate please-save-my-leg/arm/foot/hand pleas he’d heard from soldiers, Ben knew as well as anyone could who still had both legs how devastating a loss like that was to a young person in their prime.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I just got back from my last tour over there myself, at a forward operating base hospital.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yes. Orthopedic surgeon.”
A muscle ticced in Greg’s jaw. “You cut off a lot of limbs while you were there?”
“Some—but I saved every one I could. We all did.”
“So I was told. But in Landstuhl they said mine was too far gone. You ever work there?”
“For about a year.” He’d seen more trauma cases at the military hospital in Germany than most doctors saw in a lifetime. “Did you run into an IED?”
“Yeah. After only six weeks.” Disgust flattened his features. “All that training for nothing. I didn’t have a chance to do anything worthwhile while I was over there.” He eyed the mug. “Except learn to like super-strong coffee.”
At the sudden turn in the conversation, Ben regarded his visitor.
Was the guy angling for an invitation?
Could be.
He might want to talk about his experiences with someone who’d seen battlefield trauma up close and personal.
“Same here. That’s the kind I brew now. Would you like a cup?” He lifted his mug and motioned toward the back of the house.
“I wouldn’t mind. Thanks.”
Ben eased aside to let him pass. “Straight back to the kitchen.”
He followed as his neighbor walked with a not-quite-normal gait toward the rear of the house. At eight months out, it was possible he was still using a temporary prosthesis. Depending on the extent of any other IED-related injuries, his progress might have been delayed. Hopefully he was following whatever PT regimen had been recommended.
Based on their previous encounter, however, the man had anger—and depression—issues.
Marital ones, too, given his comments about his wife.
Could he build some rapport with the guy, who seemed in need of a sympathetic ear?
Might be worth a try.
After all, if he couldn’t save the lighthouse for the town, he might be able to at least lend a hand to one of the town’s residents.
“Have a seat.” Ben motioned toward the table and removed yet another box of fabric he’d dragged up from the basement. Thank goodness the quilting club at Grace Christian was willing to take them off his hands. “Cleaning out the house is taking longer than I expected. I had no idea my grandparents were such packrats. Cream or sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
He filled a mug for the man and joined him at the table. “I’d offer you a donut or Danish if I had either, but Cheerios are my breakfast staple.”
“They were mine too, in my bachelor days.” One side of Greg’s mouth hitched up. “For lunch and dinner too.”
“I hear you. Been there, done that.”
“I eat better now, though. My wife made some kind of baked omelet before she left for work. Her cooking beats Cheerios and army grub any day.”
“Lucky you.”
“Yeah.” His smile faltered. “I’m definitely the lucky one in our relationship. She had no idea what she was
