Time to retreat.
“Well . . . I’ll let you go before this mist becomes a full-fledged rain.” She swiveled away.
“In case you’re interested, the cat was hurt.”
Stomach flip-flopping, Marci swung back.
Ben Garrison’s arms were crossed tight against his broad chest, and though the murky light made it difficult to read his expression, disapproval oozed from his pores.
“What happened to her?”
“I have no idea. All I know is her paw was bleeding. Didn’t you hear her crying?”
“I heard her meowing—but Annabelle gets stuck in that tree on a regular basis. She always manages to get herself down. How was I supposed to know she was injured?”
“Would it have hurt to check?”
“I don’t wander around outside at night.”
“Or answer the door.”
“Not for strangers.”
“You could have called through a window, acknowledged I was there. I would have explained what I was doing and saved us both all this aggravation.”
That was true.
In hindsight, her lapse in judgment was obvious.
But why did he have to be snippy about it? She’d apologized, hadn’t she? What more did he want? She couldn’t go back and restage the whole scene, for pity’s sake.
“Look . . . I said I was sorry. That’s all I can do at this point.”
“Does the cat belong to you?”
“No. My neighbor. And I expect by now she’s receiving plenty of TLC for that hurt paw.”
“Do you plan to verify that?”
What did he think she was, some callous animal hater?
Bristling, she glared at him. “I intend to call her as soon as you leave.”
“Fine.”
Sheesh.
This guy had attitude with a capital A.
Turning on her heel, she stomped back to the house, passing the police officer halfway.
He gave her an I-warned-you shrug and continued toward the cruiser parked at the end of her drive.
Fine.
Maybe it would have been wiser to hold her apology for a day or two.
But if she’d learned one thing over the past few years, it was to speak up and do what needed to be done instead of pussyfooting around until it was too late.
Putting off the hard stuff was a recipe for trouble.
However . . . not every situation required an immediate fix. Jumping into the fray too fast could cause problems too.
Tonight was proof of that.
Huffing out a breath, she climbed the two steps to her porch. Had she waited until Ned’s grandson logged some sleep and recovered from jet lag, he might have been more receptive to her apology—and less judgmental.
Too late to fix that now, though.
Behind her, car doors slammed and an engine rumbled to life. By the time she let herself into the house and peeked through the window, red taillights were disappearing down the road.
Thank goodness the unpleasant episode was over—or it would be, as soon as she talked to Mrs. Schroeder and confirmed Annabelle was safe.
Marci reset the dead bolt and secured the sliding lock on the front door, armed the security system again, and retreated upstairs.
What a night.
As for that story about Ned she’d planned to write for the Hope Harbor Herald, filled with quotes from his beloved grandson?
She had a feeling it was toast.
2
The church was packed.
From his front-row seat, Ben gave the standing-room-only crowd at Skip’s memorial service a quick sweep over his shoulder.
What a fabulous tribute to the man who’d been part of Hope Harbor for seventy-eight years. As the minister had said in his sermon, Ned Garrison had embodied the spirit of this town, with his upbeat attitude, giving heart, passion for life, and abiding hope.
Saying goodbye over the past three days as he’d wandered around his grandfather’s tidy bungalow, paging through photo albums and examining the well-worn books in the modest library, had been gut-wrenching.
Yet the hardest task lay ahead.
And it had nothing to do with the eulogy he was about to deliver, even though public speaking wasn’t high on his list of favorite activities.
As if on cue, Reverend Baker called him to the pulpit.
Taking a deep breath, Ben moved forward and stepped behind the microphone.
From up front, he had a much more expansive view of the congregation. Pressure built behind his eyes as he scanned the people who’d given up their Saturday morning to honor the man he’d loved. Most of them were strangers, but he did recognize a few faces.
White-haired Eleanor Cooper, who’d always plied him with her famous fudge cake when he and Skip had dropped in to say hello during his summer visits.
Charley Lopez, resident taco maker and renowned artist, who dished up philosophy along with his mouth-watering tacos.
Eric Nash and his wife, BJ, who’d visited the lighthouse and confirmed Skip had put no more than a small dent in the work that needed to be done.
And in a pew near the back, sitting beside the older man from the cranberry farm he’d loved to visit as a kid, was the red-haired woman who’d sicced the police on him Wednesday night.
A woman whose generous lips and heart-shaped face had been popping up far too often in his mind since their inauspicious meeting.
Marci Weber.
Not that she’d introduced herself that evening. She’d been too busy morphing from penitent to piqued once he’d lit into her about leaving the cat in the lurch.
But on the drive home, Officer Gleason had offered a few details about her, including her name and profession.
So was she here to pay her respects to Skip—or to cover the memorial service of a lifelong resident for the Herald?
Not that it mattered. Their paths weren’t likely to cross much during his brief stay. And that was fine by him. He didn’t need any more grief, and she appeared to be capable of dishing out plenty.
Redirecting his attention to the sheet of paper he’d placed on the podium, Ben launched into his eulogy, keeping it brief—as Skip had requested in the directions he’d left behind.
How like his grandfather to plan the whole service and tie up all the loose ends with his estate so his sole heir wouldn’t have to deal with an overwhelming amount of hard stuff.
Other than a lighthouse.
But Skip had been trying to sell the thing. No
