“That would be helpful. Because loneliness can override common sense.”
“With your mom and dad back in the loop, maybe you won’t be as lonely.” He studied her. “Speaking of them—why didn’t you reach out to them . . . or tell them about my leg?”
It was a fair question, even if the answer was uncomfortable—and humbling.
“Several reasons.” She dipped her chin and traced the fake wood grain on the Formica tabletop. “Pride and stubbornness are two of them. I felt like the wrong was on their side, and I wasn’t willing to back down and make the first move toward reconciliation. I thought they should do that. On top of that . . . I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That if I told them what had happened to you, they might call or come to visit—and I was worried I’d get an earful of I-told-you-so’s about rushing the wedding.”
“In hindsight, they might have been right about that.”
“No, they weren’t.” She lifted her head, willing him to see what was in her heart. “I love you, Greg. I knew it then, and I know it now. Not being married wouldn’t have made me love you any less after the IED took your leg. And without the wonderful memories of our first ten months together to sustain me, it would have been even harder to deal with.”
“But you could have walked away, without any strings.”
“Wrong.” She covered their clasped fingers with her free hand. “Our heartstrings were already entwined.”
Moisture spiked on his lashes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Man. How do you women deal with all this emotional stuff?”
“Lots of practice.” She grinned. “And you get bonus points for hanging in.”
“Good—especially if we can talk about food now.”
“I have those steaks I mentioned, if you’re hungry.”
“I’ll get the grill going.”
He attempted to rise, but she held fast to his hand. “I agree we need to reestablish a trust level and not jump back into the physical side of marriage—but how do you feel about hugs?”
In answer, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped those strong arms she remembered so well around her.
Tucking herself close, she nestled against the familiar broad chest.
And as his heart beat a steady, welcome rhythm beneath her ear, Rachel let out a slow, contented sigh.
They weren’t home free yet.
Not by a long shot.
But for the first time, the fleeting moments of hope that had sustained and encouraged her during the past eight months seemed poised to fulfill their promise.
17
Crimping the top of the white bag from Sweet Dreams Bakery, Ben shortened his stride . . . slowed his pace . . . and came to a halt a few doors down from Marci’s office.
There was no reason to bother her on this Wednesday morning.
Between her PR work, publishing the Herald, and coordinating the lighthouse project, she must be swamped.
But it had been three days since their lunch in her gazebo—and he was missing her.
Bad.
Bad enough to have invested some serious brainpower trying to figure out how their jobs and geographic situations could accommodate a relationship.
So far, he was batting zero.
Marci had been clear that she didn’t want a short-term or long-distance relationship—and neither did he.
That meant one of them would have to make some life-altering adjustments if they wanted to test the waters of romance.
And since Marci was only two years into her tenure in Hope Harbor—a town she loved—it appeared the onus for change was on him.
A huge challenge, given the plum slot waiting for him in Ohio.
“Morning, Ben.” Father Murphy called out the greeting from across Dockside Drive, swiveled his head to assess the traffic, and jogged over to join him. As usual, the jovial priest was all smiles.
Maybe he could absorb some of the padre’s upbeat mood through osmosis.
“Morning, Father.”
The priest sized up the white bag and sniffed. “Ah. A man after my own heart. That’s my destination too, on this beautiful morning. There’s nothing like a fresh cinnamon roll—or two”—he patted his sturdy midsection—“to launch the day on a happy note.”
“They beat Cheerios, that’s for sure.”
“Or oatmeal—my usual healthy fare.” He made a face, then brightened. “But today I’m succumbing to temptation.”
Ben hiked up an eyebrow. “Should a priest admit such a thing?”
“Clergymen are human too, you know—and I was born with a ferocious sweet tooth. It’s the bane of my existence.” He sighed and folded his hands in front of him. “However, in light of our conversation, I’ll temper my craving and just buy one today.”
“Sorry to ruin your fun.”
“I forgive you, my son.” Eyes twinkling, he gave him a mock blessing. “And now I’ll let you enjoy your own treat.” He inspected the bag. “It appears you have enough to share—unless you’re indulging your sweet tooth too.”
“No. I, uh, thought I’d drop into the Herald and exchange a roll for a cup of coffee.”
“An excellent plan. I saw Marci conferring with Eric at the crack of dawn in his office while I was taking my morning walk on the wharf. Lighthouse business, I expect. I wouldn’t be surprised if she skipped breakfast in order to fit that meeting in.” He shook his head. “It was a blessing for this town the day she moved here, but I suspect she works too hard.”
“I’ll try to convince her to take a short break.”
“You do that. She could use a little diversion in her life.” The padre tipped his head, his expression speculative. “It’s a shame you’ll be leaving soon.”
Uh-oh.
Was it possible the good father had matchmaker leanings?
“I wish I could stay longer—but I have a job waiting in Ohio.”
“Do you have family there? Friends?”
“No. Just a colleague from medical school.”
“I see.” Father Murphy linked his hands behind his back and rocked forward on his toes. “It’s a commentary on our society how people choose where they live these days. Jobs seem to take precedence over every other criterion.”
“That’s not quite true in my case. My friends are all scattered, and I have no family. One town is as good as another.”
“I’ll have to disagree with you on that point. A
