Except—why was she disappointed instead of relieved?
Because part of you wants to tell him your story.
Reluctant though she might be to admit it, that was the truth.
But sharing personal information would deepen their relationship—and the closer they became, the harder it would be to say goodbye.
Exhaling, she dumped some beans in the coffee grinder.
What a mess.
Why, oh why, did the first man in two years who’d revved her engines have to be someone who was only passing through?
Working on autopilot, Marci finished preparing the coffee and cut generous squares of brownie while her mind wrestled with a critical question that had nothing to do with the task at hand.
Should she follow her instincts and share some background with Ben . . . or play it safe and protect her heart?
14
Way to go, Garrison.
As Ben dried off Marci’s patio table and chairs and kept an eye on the large white bird with the oversized orange beak that he’d shooed out of the gazebo, he blew out a disgusted breath.
Nothing like introducing an obviously sensitive subject to ruin an enjoyable lunch with a beautiful woman.
Big mistake.
After draping the damp towel over the railing, Ben shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned a shoulder against one of the wooden uprights, and surveyed the gardens.
He’d also made a mistake by assuming Marci wasn’t an outdoor kind of person. The well-tended beds spoke of hours of hard labor in the dirt, and the lawn was precision-cut and meticulously trimmed.
He surveyed the ramshackle shed, slated to be replaced by a garage when funds permitted. Given the condition of the structure, that couldn’t happen too soon—and a garage would be a welcome convenience.
Yet Marci had taken on the expense of an employee instead, delaying the project.
It was possible she did need help at her office—but it was also possible her motives for hiring Rachel were more benevolent than practical. That she’d recognized a need and stepped in to help, as she had when she’d relaunched the Herald and jumped in to spearhead the lighthouse project.
The very sorts of things his grandmother would have done.
A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
Marci was a lot like June Garrison—a spitfire, with spirit to spare.
But Gram had also been all heart—like Marci. No need that crossed her path went unaddressed.
No wonder Marci and Skip had become friends.
Ben wandered over to the other side of the gazebo, following the progress of two gulls as they dipped and soared in perfect sync against the blue sky.
His grandfather might never have mentioned Marci or the column he’d written for the paper, but he’d no doubt found in her a kindred spirit. Someone who’d reminded him of the lively, animated woman he’d loved.
Someone who might fly off the handle on occasion, but who was vivacious and vibrant rather than volatile and vicious.
As Nicole had been.
A shudder rippled through him.
Marci was nothing like the woman who’d made his life a living hell.
Yet she was wary. Her over-the-top security precautions proved that.
Was it due to some phobia, like the one she had about blood—or was there a more sinister explanation?
Not a question she was likely to answer today, given her silence in response to his comment about locks.
The door banged shut behind him, and he shifted toward it.
“Dessert’s ready.”
She descended the single step, balancing the tray, and he strode across the lawn to take it from her.
“Your gazebo awaits. You’ve done an incredible job with the gardens, by the way.”
“Thanks. My aunt kept detailed notes and diagrams about what she planted, what worked, what didn’t. It seemed like a nice tribute to her to restore them.”
“So you’re not an avid gardener?”
“I like flowers—but this”—she swept a hand over the beds—“was an ambitious undertaking. Hi, Harpo.” She wiggled her fingers at the pelican.
From his spot on the lawn a dozen feet away, the bird regarded them with a doleful, mute stare and ruffled his feathers.
“Did you know Rachel’s a gardener?” He set the tray on the small café table as the bird ambled off, then soared into the air.
“Yes. I tried to entice her to go with me to a new native-plant nursery down near Sixes, with a stop at the lavender farm on the way home for tea, but I couldn’t tempt her.”
“I wouldn’t take the refusal personally. Given the situation at home, I assume she has other priorities.” He waited until she took her chair, then sat.
“True.” She indicated the sugar and cream. “Help yourself.”
“I like it black.”
“Not me. As a latecomer to coffee, I like it diluted and sweet. Straight up is too strong and bitter for me.” She added a hefty dose of cream and stirred in a generous teaspoonful of sugar.
He broke off a piece of brownie with his fork. “You have a peaceful spot here.”
“I agree . . . even if it’s a bit on the remote side.”
Strange that she’d mention the isolation if she didn’t want to talk about her security setup.
Or was she thinking about answering his unspoken question, after all?
Best to play this by ear, let her take the lead.
“I’m surprised this road is so undeveloped.”
She blew on her coffee and took a sip. “From what I understand, a speculator bought most of this property decades ago. He sold a few lots here and there, like this one, but the location has its downsides.”
“I imagine frequent fog is one of them.”
“Yes. Not to mention the wind and the lack of sea views—except out by the light.”
“What happened with his grandiose plans?”
“They came to naught. Eventually he went bankrupt, and the property was tied up in litigation for years.”
“Is that still the case?”
“I don’t think so. Brent told me there’s a new house slated to be built down the road—and of course, the person who’s interested in the lighthouse is planning to buy a couple of the adjacent lots too. Are you really in the dark about his or her identity?”
“Yes. The offer came through
