“My compliments to your mother on your manners.”
His smile wavered for an instant. “Believe it or not, my dad was the one who taught me my social skills.”
“Sorry.” She sat. “Sometimes I fall into the trap of assigning gender roles, even though I know better.”
“I think in most cases the mother is the one who does that sort of training.” He joined her at the table . . . but said nothing more.
She peeked at him.
Why hadn’t his mother handled that chore?
The question hovered on her tongue—but for once, she curbed her inquisitiveness.
“I usually say a short prayer before meals.”
He draped his napkin over his lap. “An admirable habit. Please, go ahead.”
After a quick blessing, they both dived into their meal.
“This is wonderful soup.” Ben ate with gusto. “An old family recipe?”
“I suppose you could say that. I found it among my great-aunt’s things after I moved in here.”
“Did you know her well?”
“No. My family traveled out here one summer on vacation when I was eleven or twelve, and we stopped in for a visit. That was our only in-person meeting. But she didn’t have any other relatives, so we inherited her small estate.”
“And you decided to settle here instead of selling the house.”
The implied why was obvious.
She’d had a feeling that subject might come up again—but she still hadn’t decided how much to reveal about her background.
“It’s a beautiful area.” Best to stay noncommittal for the moment.
“Yes, it is. I always enjoyed my summer visits with Skip. You know . . . I bet I was in town the year you visited. I came every summer from age ten to sixteen, and I’m thirty-five.”
“I’m thirty-two—so it’s possible.”
“Strange to think our paths might have crossed all those years ago.”
More than strange.
It was almost like . . . fate.
“We didn’t stay long, though.” She scooped up a spoon of the hearty soup. “And we spent most of our visit here at the house, with Aunt Edith.”
“Was she a native?”
“No. She came here in her thirties. Dad thinks there might have been a tragic romance in her background. He could be right. She never did marry. She spent her whole life working at a nursery and cultivating her love of flowers.” Marci nodded toward the window. “After I bought out my sister’s share of the property, I had the gazebo repaired and restored her gardens. The house needed major updating too.”
“Everything appears to be in tip-top condition now.”
“I wish. Most of the cosmetic stuff is done, but the heating system is on fumes. And as soon as the budget allows, I want to tear down the storage shed and build a detached garage. But I needed some assistance with the Herald and my PR business more than I needed any of those improvements.”
“So you hired Rachel.”
“Yes. She’s just shy of her journalism degree, so it was a perfect fit.” She chased a kernel of corn around the bottom of her bowl. “I didn’t realize you knew her and Greg until last week.”
“I don’t know either of them well. I haven’t exchanged more than a greeting or two with Rachel, and I’ve only talked with Greg twice. I assume you know the story about his leg.”
She furrowed her brow. “Yes. From what I can gather based on the little Rachel’s shared with me, I think they’ve had a rough go of it.”
“I agree. How did you connect with her?”
“At church. I sensed she might need a friend . . . and I also got the feeling some additional income would be welcome. She took the job I offered—but she’s been less receptive to my overtures of friendship.” Marci rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin in her palm. “At least Greg seems to be coming out of his cave. He agreed to serve on the lighthouse committee, and I intend to put him to work.”
“That could be beneficial for both of them.” Ben finished his sandwich and gathered up the crumbs from the flaky croissant and a small glob of chicken salad with his fork. “That’s the best lunch I’ve had since I arrived—but please don’t tell Charley.”
“My lips are sealed.” She scraped up the last of her soup. “Can I interest you in dessert? Espresso brownies and Oregon-roasted coffee.”
“Sold.”
Grinning, she stood. “That was easy.”
“Chocolate and coffee are a winning combination any day.” He stood too, and picked up his plate.
“Why don’t we have dessert in the gazebo? Now that the sun’s out, I hate to waste those rays.”
“I’m game. What can I carry?”
“I’ll put the brownies and our mugs on a tray.” She rummaged through a drawer, pulled out a dish towel, and handed it to him. “You can wipe down the table and chairs, though. They might be damp from the earlier mist. If Harpo, my resident pelican, is there, just wave the towel at him.”
“You have a pet pelican?”
“No. He followed me home from the lighthouse one day and shows up on a regular basis. I think he’s taken a fancy to my gazebo. But he doesn’t make any noise and keeps to himself, so I’m cool with it.”
“Whatever you say.” Towel in hand, he walked toward the door while she plugged in the coffeemaker. After twisting the knob, he sent her a quizzical look.
“Sorry. Dead bolt’s set. The key’s on a hook to your right.”
He found it . . . but instead of opening the door, he angled toward her. “You have quite a few locks.”
It was a question couched in a statement.
Decision time again.
Should she tell him the reason behind her security fetish . . . which would also explain why she’d freaked out the night she’d seen him climbing a ladder on the tree outside her window?
Or should she brush him off with a simple a-girl-can’t-be-too-careful reply?
After several silent seconds ticked by, he hiked up one side of his mouth and turned to fit the key in the lock. “Meet you outside for dessert.”
A moment later he slipped through the door.
She
