As the first person walked toward the microphone in the center aisle, the rear door opened. Greg Clark slipped inside and claimed a seat near the back.
Yes!
Even if he didn’t contribute, he was here.
That was huge.
For the next twenty minutes, a number of people claimed the mic to reminisce about Pelican Point light or offer suggestions to save it while Marci took copious notes.
Only after the comments waned did Greg rise and approach the microphone.
He introduced himself, and Marci smiled her encouragement.
“I arrived a little late, but I did hear all the input. I’m not an expert on this sort of thing, but I do have a few thoughts that might be worth considering.”
“All ideas are welcome.” Marci held up her pad of paper. “I’m recording every one, and the think tank committee will review each of them over the next few days.”
“Well . . .” He rubbed his palms down his jeans. “It seems to me we need a rallying cry. A slogan people can latch on to. Something like ‘See the Light.’”
A smattering of applause and “hear, hears” echoed throughout the room.
“I like that.” Marci wrote it in the notebook. “Much catchier than ‘Save the Lighthouse.’ Please, go on.”
“Even with serious effort over the next four weeks, I don’t know if it’s possible for us to match in one fell swoop the price offered by the anonymous person who wants to buy the property.”
When he relayed the amount, a collective groan rippled through the group.
“But . . .”—he held up his hand—“if we can generate sufficient interest in the project and lock in some longer-term commitments to assure funds will continue to come in, we might be able to work out a payment plan with Ben Garrison.”
Ha.
Maybe Greg could do that—but she doubted the army doctor would be amenable to anything she proposed.
“It’s still a pile of money.” The callout came from someone sitting near the back.
Greg angled that direction. “We could also ask him if he might be willing to take part of the value as a tax write-off, which would reduce the price.”
“I like it. That could have possibilities.” Marci continued to scribble. “Any thoughts on how to deal with the costs of restoration and ongoing maintenance?”
“There are resources in town we could tap for some of that. For example, the Hope Harbor garden club might be willing to take care of the grounds, at least initially.”
Rose Marshall, the club president, jumped up. “I’d be more than happy to broach that with the group. Given the desperate situation, I’m confident we could find enough volunteers to handle the site for a few months—at the very least.”
“That’s wonderful, Rose. Thank you.” Marci grinned at her, then looked back at Greg. “What about restoration?”
“That could also be done by volunteers, as long as the work was supervised by a professional.”
Eric’s wife stood. “I’d be happy to volunteer my services in an oversight capacity. I’ve done a couple of assessments of the light, and the good news is that it has no lead paint and only moderate water damage. There’s a lot of work to be done, but volunteers could handle the bulk of it. And some contractors might be willing to tackle the more dangerous exterior work pro bono if we can generate some positive PR for them.”
“Thank you, BJ.” Marci continued jotting on her pad. “I can help on the PR front.”
“Once the light is restored and the grounds are maintained, the biggest expense will be ongoing upkeep.” Greg shoved his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. “If we could make the lighthouse a paying proposition—perhaps create a venue for special events, like weddings—and market the property that way, the lighthouse upkeep might pay for itself in the end. It could even be profitable.”
“Are you thinking the town would own the lighthouse?” Marci paused, pencil poised above her tablet.
“That’s one option. Or we could form a nonprofit lighthouse foundation that would oversee the property, supported by various organizations in town—like the garden club.”
“I’m liking this.” She scrawled a few more notes . . . weighed the odds of taking a risky plunge . . . decided to go for it. “I’m going to be assembling a committee later tonight that will pursue all these ideas, but I think you need to be a member.” She gave the assembled group a sweep. “How does everyone else feel about that?”
Resounding applause echoed through the room.
She smiled at him as his complexion reddened. “That sounds like a mandate to me. May I sign you up, Greg?”
Putting the man on the spot might backfire—but if he agreed to assist in front of all these people, she was certain he’d honor the commitment.
A few beats passed . . . a few more . . . and finally he gave a slow nod. “Sure.”
In short order, Marci closed the meeting and flipped off the mic, mentally ticking off all the positive outcomes from this evening.
The large turnout suggested the town was behind the campaign.
Lots of innovative ideas had been put forward.
Several people had volunteered their own services or the services of their organizations.
And the icing on the cake?
Greg Clark had not only come to the meeting but agreed to be part of her committee—surely a boon for both the lighthouse and his marriage.
As she left the podium, Marci’s gaze landed on Charley, seated in the middle of the crowd.
The corners of his mouth lifted . . . and he gave her a thumbs-up that felt like a stamp of approval.
Did he, too, recognize that both Pelican Point light and a young man’s life—and marriage—might have been given a second chance this evening?
Or was she reading too much into their quick, silent exchange?
Hard to say.
Yet both were true.
And Marci wasn’t about to let either backslide in the days ahead.
With one final scan of the stunning view from Pelican Point, Ben pulled out his keys and headed back to Skip’s truck.
Taking a Saturday lunch break at the light while feasting on Charley’s tacos had been an
