That was true.
And if there was even a remote possibility of saving the light Skip had loved, why not put the question on the table?
“Sure. I can do that. I’ll have my realtor contact him. But I’m curious. Why are you so interested in the light?”
“I used to hang around up there with my friends when I was a kid.” His features softened, and the corners of his lips rose a fraction. “Some of my happiest memories are the hours I spent there in the imaginary worlds we created, defending the place from pirates and rescuing ships in distress, or pretending it was a castle under siege. Going up there gives me a lift.”
It appeared everyone in town had a soft spot for Skip’s folly.
“I’ll call my agent this morning and let you know what the buyer has to say.”
“That’d be super.” He finished his coffee and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I wouldn’t want to keep you from that.” He waved at the dusty boxes from the basement lining one wall in the kitchen.
“Trust me, I’m in no rush to plunge back below deck.”
He followed his neighbor to the door, where the man shook his hand, apologized again for his prior rudeness, and thanked him for the coffee.
Yet as Greg walked down the path toward the street and Ben closed the door, he had a feeling the man’s visit had been prompted as much by his concern over the fate of Pelican Point light as by his apology.
And truth be told, he’d like to see a different outcome too.
In fact, if Marci had been willing to discuss the situation rationally on Monday, they might have been able to find some common ground.
But no.
She’d waved her hands in the air and spouted nonsense about miracles and accused him of betraying Skip’s legacy.
His mouth tightened as he strode back to the kitchen.
He hadn’t exactly been Mr. Congeniality himself—but anyone would have gotten defensive in the face of such an onslaught. Short of yelling back at her, walking away had been his only option.
However . . . he wasn’t an unreasonable man. While Greg’s idea might not lead anywhere, he was willing to ask the buyer to wait four weeks for an answer. If the nameless man with deep pockets said yes, Marci and her think tank would get their opportunity to come up with a viable alternative.
It was the least he could do for Skip.
And it will make Marci happy too.
He blew out a breath and set his mug down on the counter with more force than necessary.
So what?
He didn’t give a lick whether she was happy or not.
Liar, liar.
Ignoring the taunt from his conscience, he plunged back into Skip’s black hole of a basement that seemed to produce two new boxes for every one he hauled up the steps.
At this rate, it would take a full three weeks to empty the place.
In the meantime, he’d stay far away from the fiery redhead. Now that he and Greg were communicating, he could funnel any news about the light through him to his wife, who could in turn inform her boss.
It was a perfect plan.
Because while life might be more boring without Marci’s jade eyes flashing his direction and her sizzling energy setting off sparks to rival Fourth of July fireworks, his heart would be much, much safer.
8
Rachel checked her watch.
Ten minutes until her workday ended . . . and another thirty before she got home after a quick detour to the local grocery store for the OJ she’d forgotten on her trip to Coos Bay yesterday.
Her nerves began to ping.
What would be waiting for her at the house tonight?
Would Greg be like he’d been last night, genial and communicative . . . or would he default to his previous ornery, taciturn behavior?
And if he did regress, what was she going to do about it?
Her stomach knotted.
Maybe she shouldn’t have issued the ultimatum that could hold dire consequences for both of them.
But if she hadn’t, would whatever Dan had said to his brother have had as much impact?
Closing the document on the screen in front of her, she massaged her temple.
It was so hard to know what to do.
Counseling might help them sort through the mess, but Greg had been clear that he’d had his fill of what he called psychobabble before he mustered out of the service.
And she doubted whether a solo trip on her part would resolve their issues.
Her phone began to vibrate, and she pulled it out, keeping an eye on Marci, who was frowning at her laptop screen and typing at a furious pace. She must be working on next week’s editorial about the proposed commercial building code revision that would clean up the disreputable Sea Haven Apartment complex on the outskirts of town.
A short, quiet conversation shouldn’t distract Marci while she was in passionate prose mode.
Rachel scanned her cell—and her breath hitched.
Uh-oh.
Greg never called her at work. All phone communication originated with her.
Pulse accelerating, she put the phone to her ear and angled away from Marci. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Sorry to bother you at the office, but I have some information you might want to share with your boss.”
As she listened to him recount his visit with their neighbor this morning, her eyebrows rose.
She definitely owed Dan a thank-you call.
Whatever he’d said during his visit on Monday appeared to be having a domino effect. A shared spaghetti dinner last night, evidence in the spare bedroom that Greg was buckling down on his PT, and now an impromptu social visit with a neighbor.
Her spirits began to lift, like one of Hope Harbor’s whimsical mists.
“. . . defer for four weeks.”
Drat.
She’d lost the thread of the conversation.
“I’m sorry . . . I missed the last couple of sentences.”
“I said, Ben checked, and the lighthouse buyer agreed to give him four weeks to consider the offer. That should buy your boss and her think tank some breathing room.”
Rachel stared at the poster on the wall across from her.
“Shoot
