“But . . . but how can people just stop loving each other?” Hard as he’d wrestled with that thorny question since Mom and Dad had told him the news, the answer had eluded him.
“They don’t—if the love is real. The trick is to do everything you can to be sure it is before you say ‘I do.’”
“How do you do that?”
Skip smiled as he negotiated a curve. “If I had a magic formula to guarantee happy endings, I could make a million bucks—or two. Best I can offer is take your time, ask the good Lord for guidance . . . and cross your fingers. But you have a while yet until you need to worry about that.”
“I don’t ever have to worry about that. I’m never getting married.” He clamped his arms across his chest. “It’s too scary.”
“Yes, it is—but it’s also a beautiful adventure if you find the right mate to share it with.”
He sidled a look at Skip. “Do you think Gram was the right one for you?”
“No doubt about it.”
“But I heard you arguing the other day, when she got mad because you wouldn’t go to that town council meeting with her.”
“Well, I never said love was always smooth sailing. Your grandmother can be a spitfire if she gets riled. She has more spirit than any woman I’ve ever met. But as long as you agree on the fundamentals, some feistiness can add tang to a marriage, like a brisk sea breeze can spice up a trip on the Suzy Q. It’s all a matter of balance. Too much breeze, the ride is rough. Too little, the journey is boring.”
Frowning, Ben stopped at the intersection of Pelican Point Road and Highway 101. Waited until he had a clear view of the pavement through the fog to confirm it was safe to turn. Hung a right, back toward town.
He didn’t want a rough ride once he got married—but a boring one didn’t hold any appeal either.
And boring might be what he’d get with the placid, even-keeled type of woman he’d decided would make the perfect mate.
Marci, on the other hand, would add a heaping measure of spice to a marriage. Whoever exchanged vows with her would never be bored. She was, as Greg had declared, a firecracker.
Trouble was, while firecrackers were fun, they could also burn.
So would Marci lead her husband into rough seas . . . or simply add tang to a marriage with her vivaciousness and spirit?
Hard to say, thanks to the skewed perspective that had been Nicole’s legacy to him.
Ben shuddered as an image strobed through his mind of the blonde woman who’d come within an inch of ruining his life.
Talk about a close call.
And until the sting of that experience faded, he needed to be vigilant—and wary—around every female he encountered . . . especially ones who wore their emotions on their sleeves.
Like Marci.
Even if every encounter with her made it more difficult to think about the not-too-distant day he would leave her—and Hope Harbor—behind.
12
“It’s about time you came back for another taco. How’s it going?”
As Charley greeted him, Greg circled around two seagulls camped on the sidewalk near the taco stand and continued toward the counter. “Hanging in.”
“More than that, I’d say. You were a force to be reckoned with at the lighthouse meeting. I’m not surprised Marci signed you up on the spot for her committee. The first gathering tomorrow should be lively.”
“Did she rope you in too?”
Charley chuckled. “Yep. It’s not easy to say no to our Herald editor. She’s a dynamo.”
“I’m finding that out. But given our short timeframe, it might take a miracle to save the light.”
“They do happen.”
Greg let out a slow breath. “Not in my life.”
“You don’t think so?” Charley rested his forearms on the counter and leaned down, his manner conversational.
“Saving my leg would have been a miracle. Losing it wasn’t.” Hard as he tried to rein it in, a thread of bitterness wove through his words.
“I guess it’s one of those glass half full/glass half empty situations.” Charley’s tone remained mild. Nonjudgmental.
But Greg wasn’t touching that comment. Plenty of people had already told him to be grateful his life had been spared. He didn’t need another pep talk.
“Yeah. Listen . . . can I get two orders of tacos?”
“Sure. Saturday dinner for you and Rachel?” Charley moved over to the cooler and pulled out some fish fillets.
“Uh-huh. She’s been working in the garden most of the afternoon. I told her I’d pay you a visit so she didn’t have to cook.”
“Very considerate.” He laid the fish on the grill. “How’s that new rosebush doing?”
Charley knew about the bush he’d refused to plant?
“Fine . . . I think.” He narrowed his eyes as he watched the man. “Did Rachel talk to you about her garden?”
“Yes. We’ve had several conversations about it. I can tell she loves working with flowers—but she’s in new territory here in Oregon. She’ll have to adapt what she knows to suit a very different climate.”
That was true about more than gardening, given the unexpected twist their lives had taken.
“I’m sure she’d welcome any advice you can offer.”
“That’s what she said.” Charley pulled a bottle of one of his homemade sauces out of the cooler, along with bags of shredded lettuce, red onion, and an avocado. “But that David Austen Munstead Wood rose I recommended should do well for her. It has a spicy old-rose fragrance, and it’s disease resistant.”
Was there no end to the taco-making artist’s knowledge?
“I didn’t know you were a rose expert.”
“I’m not—but I do love all of God’s flora and fauna.” He flipped the sizzling fish and pulled out some corn tortillas. “Right, Floyd?”
As he directed his comment to the pair of seagulls who seemed to have claimed squatter’s rights at the taco stand, the one on the left cooed and ruffled his feathers.
“You have a pet seagull?” Greg arched an eyebrow and scanned the bird.
“No. Floyd and his wife, Gladys, are friends of mine.”
Greg grinned. “They’re married, huh?”
“Sure. Seagulls mate for life—like humans are supposed to
