“Neither do the witnesses.” She spoke quietly, but every muscle in her body was taut. “Do you know how hard it is to see someone you love sink deeper and deeper into darkness? To sit here day after day while you shut me out, watching your pain and feeling helpless and useless and lonely? To wonder if life will ever be happy and normal again?” Her voice broke, and she gritted her teeth.
Don’t cry!
His features twisted, and pain shimmered in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Then don’t. Let me back into your life. Let’s make a course correction and continue the journey.”
He did an odd double take. “That’s . . . weird.”
“What?”
“Charley said the exact same thing to me less than an hour ago.”
He’d talked to Charley about their situation?
Her posture stiffened. “I thought we always agreed never to discuss our private business with anyone.”
“I didn’t. He was telling me about Floyd and Gladys.”
At the unfamiliar names, she shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve met them.”
“Probably not. They’re seagulls.”
“You mean . . . birds?”
“Yeah.” One side of Greg’s mouth twitched. “Charley has an eclectic group of friends. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s a bit on the eccentric side.”
“True—but he’s also smart and intuitive and empathetic.”
“Not to mention a rose expert, from what I gathered.”
“Yes. A man of many talents.”
The rare touch of levity in Greg’s demeanor faded. “Lucky him.”
“You’re selling yourself short. You have lots of talents too.”
“Had—and most of them were physical. Football, wrestling, being a soldier.”
“You also have a first-class brain.”
“My grades were only marginal in school, Rachel.”
“If that’s true, it was due to indifference, not lack of brainpower. You have an organized and strategic mind. Look at all the ideas you came up with for the lighthouse campaign.”
“Those don’t pay the bills.”
“We have enough money coming in.”
“I don’t want to live off the government—or your salary—for the rest of my life. I need to contribute.”
“Then let’s work together to find a way for you to do that.” She held her breath . . . and took a chance. “It might not be a bad idea to pray for guidance. Maybe you could go to church with me again.”
He frowned. “Charley suggested that too.”
“Like I said—he’s a smart man.”
“I guess it might be worth a try. Nothing else is working.” He straightened up in his chair and motioned toward their food. “We better eat. Our tacos are getting cold.”
Yes, they were.
But as the last wisps of mist dissipated and the sun came out on their cooling dinner, her heart was warmer than it had been fifteen minutes ago.
Because she knew two things.
Greg didn’t want her to leave—and he was making an effort to communicate.
Those were big steps forward.
Nothing else might have been resolved, but the seeds of hope that had been planted the night he made spaghetti were sending down a few more tentative roots.
And perhaps if they both put a little more effort into prayer . . . if they kept the lines of communication between them open . . . those roots would burrow deep, just as the roots on the rosebush Charley had recommended for her garden were doing in the fertile earth of Hope Harbor.
13
Ben would be here in less than five minutes—assuming he was punctual.
And that was a safe assumption.
From all indications, the ex-army doctor had been born with the responsibility gene.
Marci gave her hair one more disgusted survey in the mirror, huffed out a breath, and tossed the brush onto the vanity. There would be no taming her redhead frizz today. She’d just have to live with flyaway locks.
Besides, what did it matter if her hair refused to cooperate? It wasn’t like this was a social visit—even if she had spent hours last night making her mom’s prize-winning chicken salad, experimented with the corn chowder recipe she’d found in Aunt Edith’s collection, and baked a batch of her scarf-worthy espresso brownies.
Offering the man lunch was the least she could do to thank him for his help yesterday and for his willingness to hold off on finalizing the sale of the lighthouse.
It wasn’t like she was angling for a date or anything.
Then why did you take extra pains with your makeup? And why are you wearing the new top you got in Coos Bay last week—the one you were saving for a special occasion?
“Oh, shut up.”
One of these days, she was going to figure out how to silence that obnoxious inner voice forever and . . .
The front bell pealed, and her heart skipped a beat.
And why did your pulse just go haywire?
Still muttering, she smoothed her palms down her jeans and marched to the front door.
This was ridiculous.
Ben’s visit was simply a humanitarian gesture. It was nothing to get excited about. She needed to remain calm, cool, and collected.
With that mantra looping through her mind, she peeked through the peephole—and gripped the doorframe to steady herself.
Wow.
Ben Garrison was one hunk of handsome.
Her heart hopscotched again, and she sucked in a lungful of air.
So much for calm, cool, and collected.
Even the fisheye-lens distortion couldn’t detract from the broad shoulders outlined by a tweed jacket, or his overall clean-cut, spit-and-polish appearance.
As he leaned toward the bell again, she jerked away, flipped the lock, shoved back the slider, and pulled open the door.
Double wow.
The man was even more breath-stealing with all the parts in proper perspective.
And when he smiled?
Oh. My. Word.
“Good morning . . . or should I say afternoon?”
Somehow she managed to respond without croaking. “Uh, either will work. Both hands on the clock are straight up.”
“Let’s go with afternoon then. How’s the arm?”
It took her a second to drag her gaze away from his baby blues and process his question.
“It hurts a little, but no other problems.”
“You ready for me to change the dressing?”
Right.
He was here as a doctor.
Perspective check, Marci.
“Yes. Sorry to keep you standing on the porch.” She stepped back and pulled the door wide. “I assume the kitchen would be the best place.”
“Whatever’s convenient for you. It won’t take long to
