The man smiled, displaying two rows of gleaming white teeth. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again soon. And now, I’ll leave you to chill for a few minutes.” He gestured to the chairs.
Except they were no longer empty.
Marci Weber had claimed one of them.
Ben sighed.
So much for his quick break.
“I think I’ll hang out here after all and hope people give me a little space.”
“Marci won’t bother you—and she doesn’t bite, despite that red hair.”
Right.
“That hasn’t been my experience.”
“You two have met?” Interest sparked in the man’s dark brown irises.
“The day I arrived. It wasn’t a pleasant encounter.”
“No?” Charley studied him. “That’s odd. Marci’s a very agreeable person. She’s only been here two years, but everyone likes her.”
He squinted at the man.
Was Charley suggesting he was at fault for their rough start?
No.
That would be ridiculous.
The man had no idea what had taken place on Pelican Point three days ago.
Yet truth be told, he hadn’t been as kind to her that night as he could have been.
Should have been.
Calling the police might have been overkill, but her reasons for ignoring the cat’s yowls were plausible—as was her caution about answering the door at that hour, especially with the nearest neighbor around a bend a couple of hundred yards away.
As Officer Gleason had pointed out in her defense during the drive back to town, a woman living alone needed to be careful, even in a town like Hope Harbor.
And she had apologized—or tried to.
Until he got snippy.
Ben kneaded his forehead.
Maybe he owed her an apology.
“Don’t overthink it, Ben.” Charley gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Claim a chair and put the rest in God’s hands.”
“She might not be happy if I invade her space, given our rocky beginning.”
“Rocky beginnings have a way of smoothing out. Ask Eric and BJ about that sometime—and come visit my stand soon.”
Before Ben could respond, Charley ambled away to join the small group clustered around Eleanor and a fortyish Latino man.
The buzz in the hall had subsided somewhat as the crowd began to thin, and Ben tossed his empty plastic cup in a nearby trash can.
Should he follow Charley’s advice—or walk a wide circle around the redhead and leave his apology for another day?
As if sensing his perusal, Marci looked up from her phone. Her eyes widened, and she dipped her chin, picked up her oversized purse, and stood.
Perfect.
If she left, he’d have the corner to himself.
But instead of waiting for her to vacate the spot, he found himself walking toward her.
What on earth . . . ?
He jolted to a stop.
What had prompted that impulsive move?
Could he blame it on Charley’s encouragement?
Or perhaps Marci’s flashing green eyes, which had sucked him in the other night despite his annoyance, were the culprit.
The sheen he’d seen on her cheeks during the service—and the compassion he’d felt emanating from her despite the distance separating them—could also have spurred his impulsive behavior.
Whatever the reason his feet had carried him toward her, he was going to have to follow Charley’s advice and put this in God’s hands.
Because she was standing frozen in place, cell clutched to her chest, waiting for him to approach.
It was too late to turn back.
He could only hope their second meeting was a whole lot more civil than the first.
He was coming over.
Marci’s heart skipped a beat as Ben started toward her again, looking very GQ in his dark suit, crisp white shirt, and a subtly patterned tie that matched the cobalt blue of his eyes.
Whew.
She’d known he was handsome the night of the cat incident. Despite his mist-dampened hair, casual attire, and dour demeanor, he’d radiated a potent masculinity no woman would fail to notice.
But today?
It was everything she could do not to fan herself while he approached.
He stopped a few feet away from her, a heady hint of sandalwood tickling her nose as he offered a tentative smile. “I don’t mean to intrude if you’re busy”—he motioned to her phone—“but I wanted to thank you for coming today, introduce myself more formally, and ask if we could start over.”
“I’m not busy.” She attempted to shove the phone into a pocket on her purse. Fumbled it. Tried again while heat crept across her cheeks.
Good grief.
She was acting like a besotted schoolgirl!
“I, uh, liked Ned a lot. Coming to the service was a no-brainer.” She finally managed to jam the phone into its slot. “He wrote a history column for the paper . . . the Herald . . . and he liked to stop in at the office and chat. We had some fascinating conversations, and along the way we got to be friends. Sometimes we even met at Charley’s for lunch and ate on a bench by the wharf. I’m the editor of the paper, by the way. Well, editor, owner, publisher, reporter—in other words, jack-of-all-trades. It’s a very small operation.”
Enough already, Marci! You’re running off at the mouth like a politician who likes to hear herself talk whether or not she has anything worthwhile to say.
She clamped her jaw shut.
If the man across from her thought her rambling discourse odd, however, he gave no indication of it.
“I didn’t know about the column for the paper—but I did know Skip was a history buff. I’d enjoy reading some of his write-ups. I’ll have to look around the house. He must have them stashed somewhere.”
“I’ll be happy to give you copies.”
“I don’t want to create work for you.”
“It won’t take but a few minutes—and I’d like to make amends for the cat incident.”
“Actually, I think I’m the one who needs to say I’m sorry.”
She blinked at him. “But . . . I called the police.”
“And I’m the one who wasn’t very receptive when you tried to apologize.”
“Forget it.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Jim Gleason told me you’d been in the air all day. You had to be seriously jet-lagged. Not to mention the fact you were grappling with the bad news about Ned.”
“That doesn’t excuse bad
