Chapter 4
4
She was going to die. Right here on the side of Pelican Point Road.
Pulse pounding, chest heaving, Bren staggered to a halt at the edge of the pavement. Leaned forward. Braced her hands on her thighs. Surveyed the intimidating incline ahead of her as she sucked in air.
Maybe she’d been a tad too ambitious on her first day of jogging. A short, flat route around town would have been far less taxing than this round-trip marathon to the lighthouse, a fair portion of which was uphill.
But good grief, she was on her feet at The Perfect Blend, moving constantly, three days a week. Shouldn’t that have prepared her for a little jaunt to the headland in time to catch a view of Sunrise Reef shimmering in the early morning light?
Apparently not.
Instead, she was going to have to admit defeat and go back—walking, not running. And she’d have to rein in her ambitions. Build up to a run out to the headland and rely on her car for reef-watching excursions for the foreseeable future.
Still gasping, she straightened up and turned around ... just as another runner rounded the bend in the road.
As she scrutinized the figure, her heart flip-flopped.
Well, crud.
Despite the sunglasses masking his features, there was no doubt about the man’s identity.
It was Noah Ward, chin tipped down, pounding along the pavement with a practiced, strong stride, the bunching quadriceps in his thighs beneath his running shorts reinforcing her impression from last night of a toned, fit body.
Wiping her palms down her leggings, she gave the forested headland that was home to a number of secluded houses a desperate sweep.
Could she hide?
There. That Sitka spruce might provide coverage if she—
Noah looked up from the asphalt. Jolted to a stop. Gaped at her.
Dang.
So much for her plan to stop by Fred’s house later today with a peace offering for the younger Ward from Sweet Dreams Bakery and another apology for last night’s debacle. By then maybe he’d have been able to laugh off the mix-up.
Well, maybe not laugh it off, but at least recognize that her actions had been reasonable under the circumstances.
Shoving up the corners of her lips, Bren lifted a hand in greeting but stayed where she was. Her rubbery legs weren’t stable enough yet for walking, and her lungs needed every second they could get to find their rhythm again.
After a few moments, Noah continued forward, his pace much slower than before. As if he too was dreading this encounter.
Bren managed to hang on to her smile as he drew close. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” He stopped beside her, not even breathing heavily after his uphill run. “You’re Bren, right?”
“Yes.”
He extended a hand. “Noah Ward. I know we’ve met, but last night doesn’t qualify as a formal introduction.”
His grip was firm as she returned his shake. “I assume your dad filled you in on my situation.”
“Yes.” He released her fingers.
“Listen, about the pepper gel. I’m sorry I—”
“Wait.” He lifted a hand, palm forward. “I get where you were coming from. In your situation, I’d have done the same. I’m sorry I scared you.”
Her tension ebbed.
His attitude was much more agreeable than she’d expected.
“I did think you were an intruder.”
“Understandable. Although Dad tells me crime isn’t a problem in Hope Harbor.”
That was true.
But thanks to her history, even three years in this idyllic place hadn’t quelled the niggling fear that the aura of goodness in Hope Harbor was nothing more than an illusion.
“It’s not.” She tried for a nonchalant tone. “I was a big-city girl once, though, and my self-preservation instincts are strong. How long are you staying in town?”
With his eyes hidden behind shades, it was impossible to get a visual read on his reaction to her abrupt change of subject.
“TBD.” He tipped his head, brow creasing as he inspected her. “Are you okay? You seem a little flushed and winded.”
She swiped off a bead of sweat inching down the side of her temple despite the cool midfifties temperature. “I’m fine.”
That wasn’t quite a lie. She would be fine as soon as her heart stopped galloping and she could breathe again.
His gaze dropped to her pristine running shoes, purchased last week to fulfill the “introduce regular exercise” resolution on her birthday list.
By contrast, his had clearly logged a ton of miles.
He folded his arms and looked past her, up the rising road. “If you’re a new runner, this is an ambitious route.”
No sense denying the obvious. Her clear physical distress combined with her immaculate shoes were evidence of her novice status.
“I’m managing.”
His phone pinged, and he pulled it out. Gave the screen a quick scan. “Are you on your way up or down?”
“Down.” The formidable incline behind her was light-years beyond her ability at this stage. If she could get away with it, she’d return the pricey shoes and find a different physical activity to honor her birthday fitness promise to herself.
But since she was stuck with them, she’d persevere. On level ground, close to town, until she built up her stamina.
“I guess I’ll see you around the house, then.”
Her spirits perked up.
That sounded hopeful.
“Does that mean you’re not going to want to use the cottage while you’re here?”
“Not unless you’re planning to leave.”
“Only if I’m asked to.”
“Not by me. I’m sorry about the fire at your place.”
She shrugged. “A temporary setback. To be honest, the cottage is a step up from my house—and most of the places I’ve lived. It’s no hardship to stay there.”
Noah took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes the same vibrant hue as the sea off Hope Harbor on a sunny day. “Where else have you lived?”
It took several moments for his question to register as she surfaced from the intense blueness—only to get sidetracked by his unobstructed face.
Because minus the puckered eyes, red splotches, and runny nose, this guy was movie-star handsome.
As the silence lengthened, she yanked her gaze away from his, dipped her chin, and fiddled with the pull on the zipper of her windbreaker. “Quite a few places.”
And that was all she intended to offer. There was no point in letting the past taint her new life in Hope Harbor. Yes, she’d let a comment slip yesterday with Zach, but that had been in the midst of a crisis situation. She had no such excuse today.
Except for cobalt eyes that had sent a tingle down her spine and temporarily short-circuited her brain.
“Well ...” Noah lifted his phone. “I have a text to return. Don’t let me hold you up.”
Shoot.
He’d just derailed her plan to fiddle with her shoelaces until he disappeared from view.
She peeked toward the curve down the road that would hide her from his sight.
Would her shaky legs carry her that far without collapsing?
Unknown.
But what choice did she have?
Gritting her teeth, she lifted a hand in farewell and set off, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
It was touch and go, but she made it.
Not until she was certain the coniferous trees would hide her from his view did she slow to a walk, her wobbly legs balking with every footfall.
It was going to be a long trek back to town.
But once she got there, she intended to take a hot bath, eat another one of the Sweet Dreams brownies the partiers at The Perfect Blend had sent home with her, then move on to the next item on her birthday resolution list.
And hope it was more successful than her first foray into running.
The view from the headland was as glorious as he remembered from his first trip to Hope Harbor almost a decade ago.
Noah slipped off his sunglasses, slid them into his pocket, and took in the scene.
The lighthouse was in far better condition than it had been on his previous visit, and a discreet, low-slung structure with vaulted windows that would frame the lighthouse from inside was tucked into the woods nearby. A special events facility, perhaps. That hadn’t been here on his last trip.
But it was the vista from the headland out toward the Pacific that drew, and held, his attention.
Fists propped on hips, he surveyed the vast expanse of sea-stack- dotted water, the cerulean surface sparkling in the morning sun, ocean and sky melding at the horizon in the far distance. A pelican sailed past high overhead, its oversized orange beak vivid against the cloud-studded azure sky. Not far offshore, a sleek dolphin leapt out of the water in a graceful arc.
Noah drew in a long, slow breath.
St. Louis had its charms, but the relaxing vibe here was hard to beat.
It also made him disinclined to deal with the crisis that had dropped into his lap on the road up here.
And that was the danger of coming to a place like this. It could tempt a person to do what his dad had done and chuck the rat race. Climb off the corporate ladder and be content with a slower pace.
Which was fine if you were sixty-five.
It wasn’t so fine if you were thirtysomething, with most of your working life ahead of you.
Unless you were a rainbow-haired barista who was content to make fancy drinks for a living.
But he had a different future in mind.
So while he’d chill as best he could during his stay in this idyllic spot, he wasn’t going to let business slide. Meaning he should get back to town and hunker down with his laptop until he left to meet Dad at the taco stand for lunch.
After giving himself another thirty seconds to fill his lungs with the salty air and soak in the peaceful ambiance, he turned his back on the view.
Did a double take at the lean man ambling up the path toward him, his long gray ponytail topped with a Ducks baseball cap.
Wasn’t that Charley Lopez? The taco-making artist?
Yeah, it was.
Strange how he’d just been thinking about Charley’s tacos, only to have the man appear. At a remote lighthouse, of all places. What were the odds of that?
“Morning, Noah.” Charley lifted a hand in greeting as he approached, a fan of fine lines radiating from the corners of his dark brown eyes. “Welcome back to Hope Harbor.”
Noah stared at the renowned artist who moonlighted as a taco chef.
How had Charley recognized him? Other than the handful of words they’d exchanged at Mom’s funeral last year, he hadn’t chatted with the man at any length since his visit to the taco stand during a quick weekend trip out here for his mom’s birthday four years ago.
“I can’t believe you remember me.”
“Some people are worth remembering. But I have to confess I ran into your father when I stopped at Sweet Dreams for a cinnamon roll this morning.” Charley hefted a white bakery bag, sending a delicious aroma wafting through the air. “He mentioned you were in town. Said the two of you were coming by the stand today for lunch.”
“That’s the plan.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you both.” Charley motioned to a bench a short distance away that offered a panoramic vista of the sea. “If you’d like to linger, I’d be happy to share my cinnamon roll and the best seat in the house.”
“Thanks, but I have to get back. A work issue came up that requires my attention.”
“I seem to be striking out on all counts today. I offered the same deal to Bren when I saw her on the road, with the same result. I assume the two of you passed each other.”
An image of the barista, with her triple-pierced ears, psychedelic-patterned leggings, and spiky hair that looked as if she’d stuck her finger in an electric socket strobed through his mind.
“Yes.”
“Nice woman. It was thoughtful of your dad to give her a place to stay after the fire yesterday. A little kindness goes a long way toward smoothing rough paths and healing hearts.”
Noah frowned.
Was Charley talking about the havoc the fire had caused in Bren’s life—or something more?
Hard to tell from his neutral expression, although a subtle undercurrent in his inflection seemed to hint that his comment encompassed more than yesterday’s incident.
But what did it matter? Bren’s personal life wasn’t his concern. He had plenty to deal with as it was with an aging father who lived too far away and the challenges of a demanding job.
“Dad’s always been generous.”
“A fine trait. And it’s certainly on display with his volunteer efforts at Helping Hands. He’s an outstanding board president, from what I gather.”
Noah stared at the man across from him.
Dad wasn’t a mere member of the board of the organization but the president?
What else didn’t he know about his father’s activities in Hope Harbor?
The two of them needed to have a long talk. Soon.
His phone pinged, and he pulled it out. Skimmed the text from a colleague. Stifled a sigh.
The situation at work was getting messier by the minute.
After thumbing in a fast reply, he returned the cell to his pocket. “Duty calls.”
“If an urgent matter has come up, I could give you a lift back.” Charley motioned toward a parking lot at the end of the path that led to the lighthouse, where a 1957 silver Thunderbird with a white top was the sole occupant. “Bessie is at your beck and call.”
The man named his car?
Noah’s mouth twitched.
A little eccentric ... but he was an artist.
“Thanks, but I don’t want to skip my run. I’ll just pick up my pace.”
“In that case, you may pass Bren. She was walking kind of slow, like she was tuckered out. I offered her a lift back to town, but she said she was fine.” Charley transferred his attention to two seagulls circling overhead. “Funny how often people say that when the opposite is true. Independence is an admirable trait, but it can get tangled up with pride and fear, can’t it?”
Noah shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Was that a rhetorical question, or was Charley angling for a philosophical exchange on this Thursday morning?
Fortunately, the other man motioned to the birds that had settled on the bench and changed the subject. “I don’t see Floyd and Gladys up here too often.”
He named birds too?
“Are you talking about the gulls?” Noah inspected the pair. The two were cuddled close together, watching the humans who shared the promontory with them.
“Yes. They’re old friends.”
O-kay. Definitely eccentric.
“Um ... how do you tell them apart? They all look alike to me.”
“No, they’re quite distinctive if you pay attention. Like humans. Floyd, for example, has a black spot on top of his head and a nick on the right side of his beak. And he’s never far from Gladys’s side—especially since the webbing on her left foot was injured in the spring.”
Noah peered at the birds, but if the features Charley had mentioned were present, his eyes weren’t up to the task of detecting them.
A leftover effect from the pepper gel, perhaps?
Didn’t matter. Spotting seagull nuances was far less important than spotting irregularities on balance sheets—his priority for this morning.
“Well, enjoy the view.” He swept a hand over the scene.
“Goes without saying.” Charley focused on a spot offshore, to the right of the lighthouse. “It’s a shame Bren missed Sunrise Reef this morning. It’s more stunning than usual.”
Noah glanced over his shoulder, toward the sea.
The sun had crested the hills to the east, gilding a string of rocky outcroppings that barely broke the surface of the cobalt expanse.
“Pretty.”
“Very. It’s too bad not many people notice it or bother to come up in the morning to see it at its most beautiful. I make the trip now and then. So does Bren.”
Nice that the barista and Charley had time to indulge in sightseeing.
He gave his watch a discreet peek and edged toward the path. “I should get going. Sorry I can’t stay to keep you company.”
“No worries. Floyd and Gladys are fine companions.” He adjusted his Ducks cap and continued to examine the golden rocks, his expression pensive. “Reefs are amazing, aren’t they? You’d never know from looking at the surface what treasures are hidden below.” After half a dozen beats, Charley turned back to him. Smiled. “See you at lunchtime.”
As the man strolled toward the bench and the two seagulls hopped aside to accommodate him, Noah cocked his head.
Strange encounter. And somehow unnerving.
In fact, unnerving was an apt adjective for his first ten hours in Hope Harbor. A pepper gel attack, two encounters with a rainbow-haired woman, major opposition from his father to the idea of moving back to St. Louis, and a conversation with a philosophy-spouting taco maker who had seagulls for friends.
But once he returned to the world of numbers, he’d be back on familiar ground, where outcomes were predictable if you analyzed and crunched with precision.
Which he always did.
Noah pivoted and started back down the path, leaving the lighthouse and Charley behind as the lingering tendrils of fog evaporated in the morning sun.
It was harder to leave behind the man’s comments, though. Especially the one about Bren appearing to be worn out when he’d come across her on the road.
Obviously the pepper-gel-toting barista had bitten off more than she could chew with her foray into running.
Nevertheless, she hadn’t accepted a lift from Charley.
Had her pride been masquerading as independence, as the man had suggested? And what had he meant by that reference to fear?
Clamping his lips together, Noah picked up his pace.
Enough.
He was here to convince his father to move, unless he found compelling evidence of a strong support system and social network. Period. Whatever problems his dad’s short-term tenant had weren’t his concern.
Yet hard as he tried, the image of large, guarded hazel eyes with a distant echo of hurt in their depths refused to be erased.