Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) (6 page)

A dozen different instinctive responses leaped to mind. All of them primal. He took the stairs up to his bedroom instead.

When he came down again twenty minutes later, showered and ready for work, prepared to convince her she really should stay until she was steadier and had things sorted out, she was already gone.

A
lex pushed open the door to the Rusty Puffin. She realized she didn’t owe Fergus McCrae anything, not a good-bye or an explanation, since he hadn’t truly had the power to hire her in the first place. She should be mad at him, she supposed, but she was too tired to be mad. As she’d told Logan—Chief McCrae—it was her fault for not doing her due diligence.

She’d been too grateful to leave Thunder Bay and Michigan, once and for all. There was nothing left there for her except painful memories. She’d figured she’d have a good long time at Pelican Point to figure out where she wanted to go, where she saw herself starting over, and maybe even what she wanted to do with her life when she got there. By the time the job was done, she’d know if Pelican Point had simply been her next lighthouse . . . or her last one.

Except there wasn’t going to be any Pelican Point restoration, so she needed to regroup. Despite having zero appetite as the strain of further indecision and uncertainty was gnawing away at her, she needed to eat. As good as the coffee had been that morning, it wasn’t sitting well. As she’d passed by the Rusty Puffin and spied an older gentleman heading inside, she figured she could kill two birds with one breakfast biscuit.

She wasn’t even sure the place served breakfast, but she imagined Mr. McCrae could point her in the right direction of someplace that did.

The front door was locked, which answered the breakfast question, but before she could turn away, the same older gentleman—Fergus McCrae, she presumed—appeared through the porthole window with a big smile. A moment later, he was ushering her into the pub.

“Welcome to Blueberry Cove, Miss MacFarland.”

“Hi, and thank you. How did you know who I—”

“I noticed your truck out there, name on the side. And you did manage to make something of an entrance yesterday, lass.”

She felt her face warm, but the older man’s eyes were a twinkling blue under bushy gray eyebrows and above a charming, mischievous smile, making it impossible to feel any real embarrassment.

“You don’t need to open just for me.”

“What I need to do is apologize.” He gestured to the stools lined up in front of the bar.

“That’s okay,” she said, though it was good of him to say so. “You were just trying to do something for the town. I understand.”

“Oh, I’m not apologizing for me. I’m apologizing for my nephew.”

That made her pause. And smile. “Well, I appreciate that, but he’s already apologized.”

Fergus frowned at that. “He didn’t hire you.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

“No, he didn’t. I’m guessing my grand entrance, as you called it, didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Can’t say as I blame him.”

From behind the bar, Fergus poured them each a mug of wonderful smelling, fresh coffee. She took a sip and hummed a little. Good coffee apparently ran in the family. He pushed a small bowl of creamers and sugars across the bar, but she was quite happy with the dark brew just as it was.

“You look to be in better spirits today.” With his stout frame, bushy beard and brows, and charming Irish brogue, Fergus reminded her of an oversized garden gnome.

“Your nephew was a gracious host,” she said, flushing a bit as she recalled waking up in a strange bed, snuggled under a thick quilt, still fully dressed like a small, innocent child. Her dreams, on the other hand, hadn’t been remotely innocent or childlike. She was almost grateful for the spigot popping off in the shower. A short spray of icy cold water to the face had done wonders to clear those steamy images from her brain.

Not that he hadn’t immediately put them right back in there. Coming to her rescue, or trying to, anyway, then looking anything but official and chief-like in that old hoodie and faded jeans, slung all low on his hips. And, dear Lord, but that voice of his. She wasn’t too certain that, wielded properly, the vibration of that baritone alone wouldn’t make a woman clim—Alex coughed and ducked behind her hand for a moment, mortified to be thinking of this man’s nephew—the chief of police—like she was.
And right in front of him, for God’s sake.
One night of sleep and a decent cup of coffee might be a start, but she clearly had a long way to go.

“So, are you saying it was that wee spot of trouble you had on the way in that made him decline your services?”

Alex had just taken a sip of coffee and almost choked all over again, thinking of the services she’d offered in her dreams. “I don’t know. He said he’s focusing his resources on restoring the house first, and that the keeper’s cottage and tower are a bit lower on his list. I know how involved renovation would be on a light station the age of that one, and how costly it is, so I understand the need to prioritize. He needs to live in the house, whereas the lighthouse . . .” She let the rest trail off with a lift of her shoulder.

That was the problem with most of the decommissioned lighthouses left to private interests. Unless there was a desire to turn them into some source of tourist income, or in the rare case, to make them into personal living quarters, it was a whole lot of money to put into something that was otherwise, essentially just a rather oversized lawn ornament. An ornament that needed constant upkeep and maintenance, given its location was rarely, if ever, in a guarded, sheltered spot.

To her, it was about preserving history. A very unique slice of history. And she wasn’t alone. Lighthouses inspired all kinds of deep and powerful emotions in a broad range of folks, even the ones with no personal history or association with them. For her, it was, and had always been, very personal.

Her grandfather-with-many-greats before his name had also been a light keeper. He’d done as much of the maintenance himself as possible in those days. His son and daughter-in-law had taken over for him eventually, and his grandson after him, who was keeper when their tower had been decommissioned. The grandson had used his renovation skills, learned at the hands of his own father and grandfather, to do what he could to sustain it, then had put those skills to use helping out with the restoration of other light stations. When his two sons had joined him, MacFarland & Sons had been born. Now it had all come down to Alex, who was the last of the line.

Fergus grumbled something under his breath, then grabbed a white apron and quickly tied it around his stout frame. “Here I sit, bending yer ear and not offerin’ up anything to go with that coffee. I can fire up the grill. What will ye have?”

“Please don’t go to any trouble. Actually, I was hoping you could direct me where to go to grab a bite before leaving.”

“Was that your only reason for stopping by then?”

“I wanted to thank you for the opportunity, for trying to make it happen, and let you know that I understand the situation.” She smiled. “And I figured a pub owner would steer me right when it came to a place to eat.”

That elicited what could only be described as a jolly, whiskey-edged laugh. “Och, so you’ve heard my reputation with the grill here. Or lack thereof. Unfortunately, my cook doesna’ start work for a few hours yet.”

“No, no, nothing like that and it’s okay, truly. I meant what I said about not going to any trouble.”

“It’s the least I can do, seeing the trouble I put you through, coming all this way for naught. And you claim my Logan was a good host, but if he couldn’t be bothered to feed his guest—”

“No, he . . . well, he tried. If what you say about your lack of cooking skills is true, then it seems your nephew might not have fallen far from the tree.” At Fergus’s raised bushy brow, she added, “Let’s just say I was thankful he stopped with a plate of toast. I’d hate to see what he’d do to a carton of eggs.”

That set Fergus off on a gale of laughter. Wiping the corner of his eye, he leaned on the bar and patted her arm. “We’re a pair, we are. Last of the McCrae men in the Cove.” He winked. “Good thing we each have other.”

She smiled, but felt a bit flustered all the same. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. You both make an amazing cup of coffee.”

“Oh, on the contrary. It’s a right breath of fresh air ye are. Folks walk around like the sun rises and sets on the man. ’Tis true he’s done more than his share of good for our wee village, and that after sufferin’ more than his fair share of bad. It’s thankful we are that he stuck by the town, made his home here, when most probably would have left and not looked back. But that’s not to say it wouldn’t be good to have someone give him a bit of a nudge, now and again.”

Fergus’s comment about Logan’s past left her understandably curious, but her smile deepened as she recalled how the local police chief had seemed a bit surprised by her . . . less than fawning demeanor that morning. “Well, while I might have been happy to help you out with that, you’ll have to find another nudger.”

Fergus simply held her gaze, smiling. Those sky blue eyes of his sparkled quite merrily, which only served to underscore the whole gnome thing. “You know, one of the skills I do claim to have is being a pretty good listener.”

“I appreciate that. I do,” she said. He seemed like a lovely man, charming and good-hearted. His manner was something of a balm after the more tension-filled moments she’d had with his nephew that morning. And the day before. She slipped off the stool. “I should probably be going. Thank you for the coffee. If Chief McCrae—”

“Logan,” Fergus said automatically, much as his nephew had.

“If the restoration project ever makes it to the top of the list, I hope you and he will keep me in mind.” She had no idea what she might be doing by then, but one thing she’d learned from her dad was to cover all her bases. Thinking about him made her heart squeeze. She kept thinking she’d get used to it, or that at some point the memories would change to something more comforting, less painful. But if that time was coming, it hadn’t arrived yet. And, for whatever reason, this morning she felt particularly vulnerable.

“After you came all this way,” Fergus said, “and with the dual centennial anniversaries looming, I honestly thought he’d reconsider and do what the town wants him to do.”

“In that case, maybe my grand entrance was more of a factor. I am sorry for that, by the way. I’ve never fainted before. We’ve always prided ourselves on our reputation.”

“I know you’re a professional. I did my homework before contacting you. Your family has built quite a legacy in the restoration business. I’d ask how it was you came to focus on lighthouses, but I read the story on your website. Still, I imagine it’s a far more complex tale when personally told. I’d have enjoyed hearing it from you. You come from good stock, Miss Alexandra MacFarland.”

She nodded and the twinge in her chest tightened. “Thank you.” She ducked her chin briefly, determined not to get teary-eyed again. Now that she’d let the waterworks start, she was having a hard time controlling them. In fact, she’d been surprised when she’d woken up that morning, just how puffy and stuffy she still felt after her little jag on the off-ramp. Even her throat had felt raw. She assumed it was just the cumulative effects of exhaustion coupled with the unfortunate fainting episode. Still, the solid hours of sleep she’d gotten had been a timely godsend.

Fergus was looking directly at her when she looked at him once again, and there was unmistakable emotion clouding his eyes as he spoke. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I know it hasn’t been that long for ye, lass. But it’s sorry, I am, about your da.”

Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes and there was no stopping them. She could only nod, then nod again. “Thank you,” she finally said, her voice throaty again as she dabbed away the tears.

“It’s a good thing, that you mean to continue. In some form or fashion, anyway. Family is important. Passion, and being passionate, equally so. You’ve the true luck of the Irish to have been able to combine them as ye all have. I didn’t know the man, but reading up on the work you’ve done, that he’s done, as well as your grandfather, and his father and uncle and whatnot before him . . . I can’t help but think how proud he’d be, how proud they’d all be, taking everything that has come before, and putting it forward to continued good use.” Fergus put his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, lass, I didnae mean to bring ye any additional heartache.” He squeezed her arm. “We’re each an amalgamation of all those in our lineage. All of them are standing strong, supporting who we are, who we can be. They are in our blood and in our bones. You might feel alone, but you never will be, never can be. You’re the sum of all that came before ye, dear Alex. And you’ll carry them with you, wherever you go. They are part of you. I’ve told Logan the same thing. But my nephew . . .” He trailed off, shook his head. “Well, he’s an idiot for not seeing what I see plain as day. Something he would—should—understand better than most.”

Alex dabbed again at the corners of her eyes and her cheeks with the back of her hand, then forced a smile outward. It was clear Fergus McCrae was a dear man, indeed, and she appreciated his kind words, his wisdom, hard as they might be to hear. “And what is that? What do you see?”

“That both of you have a love and a need to tackle a new project, to keep your hands busy while your hearts heal. Doing the one thing you connect with best can bring you closer to finding your way there. I know it. If Logan had shut off his head for more than a minute and let his heart see for him, he’d have seen the same.” Emotion was thick in Fergus’s voice, the brogue serving to make it all the more poignant. “I know where ye are, lass. I’ve been there myself. And Logan, puir lad, has been there more than once, for all his young years. His project is taking care of the town . . . and keeping his commitment to maintaining Pelican Point as best he can. For you, the project would be yet another old beacon, a crumbling tower, in dire need of your wise and caring hand. In return, it will let ye pour all of the confusion, the grief, the questions yer having into her as you work your way through it and out the other side. As it happens, we’ve got ourselves a tower in need of some attention. Seems to me we’d all come out ahead on that equation.”