“Um . . . I’m your neighbor. Jeannette Mason.” She gave him and the dog a discreet once-over as she indicated the property to her left.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Logan West. I’d offer to shake hands, but as you can see, they’re occupied.” He conjured up a smile.
She didn’t return it.
“I noticed.” She hiked up her volume too. “Actually . . . your friend there is what prompted my visit.”
The corners of his lips sagged. Based on her serious demeanor, the woman hadn’t stopped by to welcome him to the neighborhood.
Not even close.
“I hope he hasn’t caused any trouble.”
“As a matter of fact, he’s been . . .” Her voice faltered, and twin creases appeared on her brow as she glanced past him.
He swiveled around.
Molly was hovering in the doorway at the end of the foyer, finger in mouth, the corner of the threadbare blanket wadded in her fist.
And there was a scratch on her cheek, oozing red.
His stomach knotted.
Where had that come from?
He started toward her. “Molly, what happened to—”
As if sensing his opportunity for escape, Toby twisted in his arms and leapt free. He landed on all four feet . . . slid across the plank floor, leaving a streak of mud behind from the one remaining dirty paw . . . and tore into the kitchen.
Mercifully, he stopped barking.
Logan crossed to Molly and dropped to one knee in front of her. “Sweetie, what did you do to your cheek?”
She shrugged and hung her head.
“You have a scratch.” He tapped the smooth skin beside it. The scrape wasn’t deep. A thorough cleaning and an application of some antibiotic ointment would suffice. But it had happened on his watch, and he didn’t have a clue how.
Another indication he was in over his head with this single-parent gig.
She lifted her hand to her cheek.
Mystery solved.
All of her fingernails were too long . . . several were jagged . . . and one was streaked with crimson.
Somehow, in the craziness of packing and moving, he’d forgotten about little-girl manicures.
That chore zoomed up on his to-do list—right below rounding up Toby, finishing the canine cleanup job, and mopping the kitchen floor. Again.
The woman behind him cleared her throat.
Oh yeah.
His neighbor was standing on his porch.
“I’ll fix this up for you in a minute, sweetie.” He gave Molly’s arm a comforting squeeze.
Her expression remained solemn as she transferred her attention to their visitor.
Logan stood and returned to the front door. “Sorry. It’s been a bit crazy around here. You were saying?”
The woman rubbed her palms down her jeans, a flash of uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “Look . . . I, uh, can see you have your hands full . . . and I hate to add to your problems . . . but your dog is digging up my plants. Two today, and several yesterday—including one that disappeared.”
So the leggy thing with the weird foliage that Toby had hauled home and deposited on the back porch had been from his neighbor’s garden.
Not the most attractive plant he’d ever seen—but insulting this woman’s garden wasn’t likely to earn him any brownie points.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll be happy to repair the damage or replace anything that was destroyed—and I’ll do my best to keep Toby from escaping again.”
“I’d appreciate that. And I already took care of the damage. The purpose of my visit was to make sure the issue is addressed.” She sent Molly a quick smile and withdrew a step. “I, uh, have to get back to work. Welcome to Hope Harbor.”
With that, she turned and retreated down the walk.
He waited in the doorway until she disappeared around the hedge that separated their properties, but she never looked back.
Just as well.
Once upon a time, a beautiful neighbor would have been a major distraction. Especially if she was friendly.
But he had plenty of other distractions that took precedence these days—and Jeannette Mason hadn’t exuded one ounce of friendliness.
Expelling a breath, he shut the door as Toby galloped into the foyer, skidded to a stop beside Molly, and plopped on his haunches.
The two of them watched him, as if they were waiting for the next act to begin in a three-ring circus.
An apt analogy.
And unless he managed to get a handle on all the moving parts fast, the new life he’d hoped to create on the Oregon coast could end up being a total bust.
“Jeannette! Wait up!”
At the summons, Jeannette halted her trek to Charley’s wharfside taco stand and swiveled around.
The Hope Harbor Herald editor jogged toward her from across the street, the sun glinting in her red hair.
Jeannette tamed the twitch tugging at her lips. As long as Marci Weber—no, Garrison now, since her marriage five months ago—was around, the town would never have an energy shortage. Nor lack for a champion. A woman who’d relaunched a defunct newspaper and spearheaded a successful campaign to save the Pelican Point lighthouse was a formidable civic asset.
The editor screeched to a stop beside her, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad I caught you. I have a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about, if you can spare a minute.”
Jeannette braced. When Marci had that gleam in her eye, she was usually on some sort of quest—or soliciting volunteers for her latest project.
And saying no to the vivacious redhead wasn’t easy.
Which was why Jeannette had found herself attending the first lighthouse meeting last year—along with hordes of other Hope Harbor residents who’d succumbed to Marci’s earnest, eager enthusiasm.
“I can give you two. Maybe even three.” She tried for a teasing tone—but hopefully Marci would pick up her underlying note of caution.
“Wonderful. First, thank you for renewing your standing ad for the tearoom in the Herald. Without steady advertisers like you, we’d be in deep doo-doo.”
“It’s my pleasure—and it’s a win/win situation. I can’t tell you the number of customers who say they found out about me from that ad.”
“Glad to hear it. Will you be back at the farmer’s market in May when it opens for the season?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Excellent. I’m going to be doing a feature on a different vendor in each issue, and I’d love to showcase Bayview Lavender Farm.”
“All publicity is accepted with thanks.”
A savory whiff of grilling fish set off a rumble in Jeannette’s stomach, and she slid a glance toward the white truck with colorful letters above the serving window spelling out “Charley’s.” She needed to get over there before the taco-making artist’s muse beckoned and he closed up shop to hurry back to his studio north of town.
“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Marci grinned and flapped a hand toward the truck that was a permanent fixture on the wharf.
“Better than good—and that’s my next stop.”
“I’m in the mood for tacos myself, but I have a standing Thursday lunch date with Ben that’s sacrosanct. Sort of like our local clerics’ Thursday golf game.”