“Nice. It’s Rachel’s birthday. Sounds like Greg stepped up to the plate to make it special.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“Not for months. I was almost a Valentine baby.” She gave him the date.
“Ink me in for that day.”
“I like a man who knows what he wants and plans ahead.” She exhaled into the phone. “I guess I’ll ring Marv for a lift. Call me later today?”
“Guaranteed. In the meantime, be careful if you spot a silver Chevy Impala.”
“I haven’t seen any sign of Nicole since she arrived. I think I fell off her radar.”
“I hope so.” His lips quirked as Greg gave Rachel a hug. The two of them definitely seemed to have mended their fences. “Talk to you soon.”
As he ended the call, he watched the younger couple next door pull out of the driveway for whatever adventure they had planned for the day.
Lucky them.
He’d be planning similar outings with Marci if Nicole wasn’t in the picture.
Gritting his teeth, he expelled a breath and began to pace.
Was it possible he was playing this wrong?
Should he confront the woman, goad her into taking some kind of unlawful action?
That sounded appealing—in theory.
But he’d been burned by her on the legal side once.
Badly.
Thank heaven he’d escaped with no more than a few scars.
If it happened again, however, he might not be as fortunate.
That was why Lexie and Eric had both advised him to avoid her at all costs.
So what could he do?
Hard as he tried to come up with an idea or two that might solve his dilemma, inspiration eluded him.
He did know one thing, though.
Marci wasn’t the only one who was frustrated.
Biding his time and letting Nicole dictate how they lived their lives was getting very, very old.
This was getting old.
Fuming, Marci began to pace in the parking lot of Grace Christian while Marv jumped her dead battery.
This Nicole chick who’d tried to ruin Ben’s life was beginning to grate on her nerves.
Big-time.
What on earth was she up to?
And why would she switch cars?
If she was hoping to observe Ben secretly, she was delusional. Staying under the radar in a town this size was next to impossible.
Or maybe the explanation was simpler. Perhaps her other car had developed mechanical issues.
Except nothing was simple with this woman, based on what Ben had told her.
Marci let loose with a loud huff.
Instantly, Marv stuck his head out from under the hood and sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry to hold you up. I’ll have you back in business in less than five minutes.”
“No worries. I’ve got messages to check.” She waved her cell at him and tried to conjure up a reassuring smile despite her bad mood. It wasn’t Marv’s fault her battery was dead—or that some unstable woman was wreaking havoc on her budding romance.
He disappeared back under the hood—and true to his word, he had her engine humming before she finished responding to emails and texts.
“That should take care of the problem.” He detached the cables. “A battery this new shouldn’t be giving you grief. I think she’ll work again without any hassles. But to be safe, you might want to drive around for fifteen minutes to recharge it. If the car won’t start next time you use it, the battery isn’t holding a charge and will have to be replaced. That shouldn’t happen, though, unless you’ve got a dud.”
“Thanks.” She unzipped her purse. “Let me write you a check.”
He waved her offer aside. “I’ll send a bill to the Herald office. I don’t expect you’re going to disappear and leave me with a bad debt.”
“No worries on that score. This is home.”
“That’s what I figured. See you around.” With a jaunty salute, her morning chauffeur ambled back to his tow truck.
Marci slid behind the wheel of her purring car, put it in gear, and backed out of the spot in Grace Christian’s parking lot. With fifteen minutes to tool around, why not drive up 101 to the scenic lookout that offered a glimpse of Pelican Point light? It was a beautiful view, and she might even be able to snap a few photos she could post on the Herald’s Facebook page to remind residents that the See the Light campaign was in full swing and dollars were pouring in from the crowdfunding campaign.
Decision made, she pulled out of the lot, aimed her car north, and tuned the radio to an upbeat station.
The cheery music lifted her spirits—until she happened to glance in her rearview mirror halfway to her destination and spotted a silver car in the distance behind her.
Her pulse picked up.
Was it a Chevy Impala?
Given her limited interest in and knowledge of cars, only an up-close-and-personal inspection of the grille or the hood or the trunk—or wherever the brand name was displayed these days—would provide the answer to that question.
Keeping one eye on the silver car, she finished the drive and turned into the overlook.
Doors locked and engine idling, she waited.
Sixty seconds later, the silver car with dark-tinted windows rolled by . . . and kept going.
She let out a slow breath.
It had taken her two years to tame her paranoia after the Atlanta debacle, and letting it resurface was not an option.
The silver car was nothing more than a coincidence.
Leaving her Civic running, she dug around in her purse for the camera she kept on hand for potential Herald stories, walked to the edge of the stone wall, and managed to shoot a dozen usable shots of the lighthouse in the distance.
And she only looked over her shoulder three or four times.
Task accomplished, she got behind the wheel and retraced her route back to Hope Harbor.
No silver car followed her.
See?
Overactive imagination.
But an hour later, when she strolled past the window in her office after refilling her coffee mug, the silver car parked two doors down wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
It was
