At another time . . . with another woman . . . he might have let himself fall for a local resident and altered his career plans, as Jonathan Allen had done for the woman he loved.
Yet even if the perfect match came along, the timing in his case was just plain bad. He needed some distance from the last woman who’d complicated his life before he trusted himself to dip his toes into romance.
So he’d keep his eyes fixed on Columbus . . . and pray that when the day came for him to leave Hope Harbor, he could walk away and forget all about lighthouses, legacies—and the lovely Marci Weber.
9
Almost all hundred seats in the fellowship hall had been claimed, and the meeting wasn’t scheduled to start for fifteen minutes.
They needed more chairs.
Marci scanned the room, homing in on Reverend Baker, who was having what appeared to be a lively conversation with Father Murphy from St. Francis church.
Weaving through the clusters of people grouped around the edges of the rows, she approached the two clergymen.
“. . . and alternate the sessions between our churches.” Reverend Baker consulted his cell phone. “Would Wednesday night be a possibility?”
“No. Our men’s club meets then. What about Tuesday?”
“That should work.” Reverend Baker caught sight of her and lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello, Marci. You’ve got quite a turnout.”
“Of course she does. Saving the lighthouse is a worthy cause. We all love our landmark.” Father Murphy beamed at her. “I can’t recall the number of times I’ve used that icon in a homily.”
“Better you should use a biblical analogy.” The minister sniffed.
The priest narrowed his eyes. “I use plenty of those too. And speaking of the Bible . . .” He redirected his attention to her. “We have some news for the Herald.”
“No, we don’t.” Reverend Baker sent the padre an exasperated look. “Not yet, anyway. We only came up with the idea today. There are a host of details to work out.”
Father Murphy dismissed his objection with a wave. “We’ll get to those. But we’re in agreement on the concept, and since it’s never been done here, I think the idea is worthy of a small mention in the next issue of the Herald.”
“Why don’t we let Marci decide?”
Both clergymen turned to her—but before they could launch into their spiel, she held up a hand.
“I’m always interested in news, but I have a more immediate concern.” She swept a hand over the room as the last few seats were claimed. “We’re running out of chairs.”
The two clerics surveyed the hall.
“Indeed we are.” Reverend Baker slid his cell back into his pocket. “I’m afraid we got carried away with our discussion and lost track of what was going on around us.”
“Evening, everyone.” Charley materialized at her elbow, dressed in his usual jeans, T-shirt, and a Ducks cap. “I think we need more seats. Why don’t I round up a few men to set up some more chairs?”
“Would you, Charley? That would be a huge help!” She smiled her thanks.
“No problem. I’m glad to see such a big turnout for the meeting.” He touched the brim of his cap and moseyed back toward the crowd.
“Now that we’ve solved the seating issue, we’ll tell you about the brainstorm we had today—on the golf course, no less. And they claim nothing productive happens on the links.” Father Murphy grinned and nudged her arm with his elbow. “Now for the big news—St. Francis and Grace Christian are going to sponsor a joint adult Bible study class this summer. Isn’t that an inspired idea?”
“Yes. Inspired.” She peeked at her watch. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I get with you both tomorrow to talk about it some more?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Of course, your parishioners will have to do some remedial work before the first session.” Reverend Baker’s tone was serious, but the twinkle in his eye tipped Marci off that she was about to witness some of the clergymen’s good-natured jibing.
“Hmph.” Father Murphy adjusted his clerical collar. “Despite your misguided notions, Catholics are not Bible illiterates.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“This is supposed to be a learning session for everyone, not a contest.”
“True. I don’t plan to keep score—do you?”
“Certainly not. I only keep score between the two of us.”
Reverend Baker tut-tutted. “That must be a very depressing exercise. Remind me how far you are in the hole.”
“Hey!” Father Murphy bristled with mock indignation. “I’ve bested you the last two out of three.”
“I do have to admit your game is improving.” The minister’s lips twitched.
“More than your golf score is.” Father Murphy winked at Marci as he delivered his zinger.
She covered her chuckle with a cough. “I’ll let you two finish this discussion in private. I have a meeting to start.”
Leaving them to their friendly sparring, she moved to the front of the room, collected her notes, and took her place behind the microphone.
As the crowd settled down, she gave the attendees a quick once-over. After two years here, she recognized many of the faces.
Michael and Tracy from the cranberry farm. Eric Nash and his wife, BJ. Sheriff Lexie Graham Stone and her new husband, Adam. Eleanor Cooper, seated beside Luis Dominguez, the Cuban immigrant who’d lost so much in his flight to freedom. Anna Williams, who had apparently once been a recluse but was now front and center at every civic event. Charley. Brent Davis.
Even Jeannette Mason from Bayview Lavender Farm had come. She might not be an official Hope Harbor resident, but she was a regular at the weekly farmers’ market in the summer and a familiar face around town.
But the one person she’d most hoped would attend was nowhere to be seen.
Greg Clark.
Stifling her disappointment, she forced herself to focus on the agenda in front of her. She could always make a personal pitch later for his involvement.
After welcoming everyone, sharing the news that they had close to four weeks to come up with a solution, and explaining the think tank
