Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,6

living in destitution, with no hope for a better future.

Guilt nipped at her conscience.

Everyone in town should to do their part to let these three wounded souls know that while they might be in a strange new land, they were among friends.

“If I can manage it, I’ll drop in for a few minutes.” It was the best she could offer on the fly.

“Awesome!” Marci beamed at her as if she’d agreed to come. “I won’t delay your lunch any longer. Enjoy those tacos.” With a wave, she hurried back toward the newspaper office.

Inhaling a lungful of the salt-laced air, Jeannette surveyed the picture-perfect scene as she resumed her trek to Charley’s truck.

The white gazebo in the small park behind Charley’s stand.

The planters separating the sidewalk from the sloping boulders that led to the water, newly filled with spring flowers.

The colorful awnings on the storefronts that faced the sea on the other side of Dockside Drive.

She paused beside one of the benches spaced along the wharf and gazed out over the deep blue water, past the boats bobbing in the placid marina, to the long jetty on the left and the two rocky islands on the right that served as a natural buffer for the protected harbor.

It was a beautiful spot.

In fact, it was this very view that had sold her on the town when she’d come west in search of refuge and a new life.

But as she’d learned, Oregon storms could be fierce. Ferocious waves could batter the rugged coast. And even in sheltered harbors like this, boats could rock dangerously if sufficient turbulence agitated the waters.

The kind produced by the type of low-hanging gray clouds massing on the horizon that suggested some rough weather could blow into town in the not-too-distant future.

“Hi, Jeannette. May I join you for a moment to admire the view?”

Stifling her disquieting thoughts, she angled toward Charley Lopez.

Behind him, the wharfside stand was shuttered.

Drat.

She’d missed her opportunity for a taco lunch.

“Of course—although I have to admit my taste buds were clamoring for fish tacos. Can I cajole you into reopening for one more customer?”

“No cajoling necessary.” Hefting a brown sack, he gave her his trademark smile, his gleaming white teeth a contrast to his sun-burnished, weathered skin. “I saw you over here and assumed you were coming my way.”

“You’re the best.” She opened her purse to dig for her wallet.

“We can settle up on your next visit. The cash box is closed for the day.”

After a brief hesitation, she re-zipped her purse. This was another thing she loved about Hope Harbor. Everyone trusted everyone else.

“Thanks.” She took the bag he held out.

“My pleasure. Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong—and I could see you were desperate for a taco fix.” He winked at her, adjusted the Ducks cap over the long gray hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and shifted toward the sea to give it a long, slow sweep.

Jeannette slanted a look at him. Was that comment about ignoring obvious needs referring to more than tacos? Was he suggesting she should do her part for the immigrant family?

Crimping the top of the bag in her fingers, she rolled her eyes.

What a ridiculous stretch.

From his perch in the taco truck, there was no chance Charley could have overheard her conversation with Marci.

Her conscience was just working overtime.

Charley picked up the conversation. “I never get tired of this view. It’s a balm for the soul.”

She studied the scene again.

Yes, it was—most days.

But this afternoon, it did nothing to mitigate the subtle unease that had been gnawing at her since her encounter with her neighbor yesterday.

“Don’t you think so?” Charley focused on her with those keen, dark eyes that seemed to have an uncanny ability to delve beneath the surface.

She had to scramble to recall his last comment.

View . . . balm . . . soul. That was it.

“I love this vista too. Although I have to admit it’s not working its usual soothing magic on me today.”

“I wonder why?”

She was saved from having to respond by two seagulls that waddled over and settled at Charley’s feet with a few squawks.

“Friends of yours?” She indicated the pair.

“Yes. Floyd and Gladys.”

“Seriously? You name the seagulls?”

“These two are special. We go way back.”

They let loose with a few more squawks.

“I think they’re trying to talk to you.”

“A distinct possibility.” His expression grew speculative. “Curious that they’d show up now.”

“How so?”

“Long story.” After giving the scene another scan, he transferred his attention to her, his usual placid, pleasant