Christmas in Angel Harbor

by Jeannie Moon

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.” The young lady was charming, and completely enamored with her new book.

  Ella settled herself in the big, overstuffed blue chair that Jane’s Uncle Joe had just placed near the front window. Once her young customer was comfortable with her new acquisition, Jane made her way over to Dan. “Want to sign the stock?” she asked.

  A slight shiver ran through her, countering the heat that had flooded her just a moment ago when he looked up and locked eyes with her. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Then you can’t return them.”

  “Return them? Are you serious? People love gifting murder for the holidays. I’ll sell out. Especially if they’re signed.”

  An embarrassed laugh escaped his throat and Jane realized she’d put him on the spot. “If you’d rather not, I understand. We rarely have signed books, especially from big authors…like you.”

  She thought she heard him grunt in response. “I’m happy to. Don’t you host signings?”

  “I try, but we don’t do enough volume to be on the publishers’ radar.”

  “That’s shortsighted of them.” He picked up the stack of books and went to the counter. “Got a pen?”

  He still had the sweetest smile. Wide and welcoming, it belied the darkness in the books he wrote. She handed him her best black pen from the leather cup that sat near the cash register and watched as he scrawled his name in each book.

  “I didn’t go out on tour with this book, so there are very few signed copies. Some of my crazier fans would pay big bucks for one.”

  She chuckled at the revelation. “An exclusive, signed Dan Gallo? Wow.”

  “Yep. Don’t tell anyone, there’ll be stalkers outside your store.” He was making a joke, but Jane knew there was truth in what he said. He had some die-hard fans. There were always customers looking for his book on release day, if not before. If she did a post a photo or two of a signed copy on the store’s social media pages, she expected word would spread. Fast.

  “I’d be happy to host a signing here if you’d like. We could do one while you’re in town. At your convenience, of course.” God, she sounded like a dork.

  He didn’t answer, instead focusing on the books where he left his name on each title page. Whether he was pondering the question or ignoring her, she couldn’t tell. Once he closed the last book, he locked eyes with her and grinned. “I’ll think about it. I’m wrapped up with my new book, and I’m not really interested in any public stuff right now.”

  “Oh. Okay. I understand. What’s the new book about? I mean, that’s silly. It’s obviously another thriller—”

  “It’s not. No. It’s…it’s not a thriller.” He cut her off so abruptly, she had to regroup before she responded.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. You’re doing something new then?”

  Pulling back from the small talk, he seemed distant, maybe even a little distracted. She was in the presence of a rock star author, a man who walked the red carpet and flew in private jets. Two of his books had been made into films, and one character spawned a five-year run on network television.

  “Can you tell me about it? The book? Unless it’s top secret.” Jane’s natural curiosity wouldn’t let her drop it. She had to try.

  There was a quick shrug and from the way his back stiffened, Jane could plainly see his books, new or old, were not something he was interested in discussing.

  “I’m not talking about it. I haven’t even told my editor and agent what I have in mind.”

  “I see. Well, if you ever want to set up at the back table like you used to in high school, feel free. You wrote a lot of words there.”

  She remembered working late at the store with her father, and Danny would be there under the guise of doing homework. He might have done some studying, but most of his time was spent writing, spinning tales of his own, and Jane had felt special that she and her father were the only people who knew his secret. Dad didn’t say much about it, though. Instead, he kept Danny in hot chocolate, coffee, and all the leftover baked goods he could pack away. The store didn’t have a café back then, but Dad always had a pot of coffee on, and at least a dozen pastries or donuts from the bakery around the corner.

  Of course, Danny had been her crush. He was a high school girl’s dream. Tall and athletic, smart and creative, he didn’t fit the mold of the typical jock, and their friendship baffled everyone at school. Maybe that’s what made it so perfect.

  They went in opposite directions for college, putting a lot of miles between them. They called each other, wrote letters—well, she wrote letters—Danny was the one who called. When he did, they talked for hours. There was a change in their relationship between high school and the end of college. Something Jane thought was rather magical.

  However, the wall he’d put up a long time ago told her he didn’t feel the same, and it did more than just ding her ego, it broke her heart.

  He looked around the store and smiled when he spotted the large, round dark oak table. It sat in one corner, just like it always had with a green-shaded floor lamp nearby. “This place…it’s different, than I remember?”

  “Well, nothing stays the same, and it has been a while. We added the small café five years ago, so while it won’t be my dad’s day-old coffee, the caffeine is at the ready.”

  He laughed; this time it was full and deep. “That swill your father called coffee could remove paint, but it felt like home, you know?”

  “It did indeed.” She missed her father at times like this. He would have given Danny hell for letting so much time pass without a word, but then he would have welcomed him like family. It took a long time for Jane to get over that he never reached out when her dad passed, that he ignored her calls. Whatever he felt, or didn’t feel for her, Danny had owed her dad some respect.

  She caught him staring at the corner table again. “I’m going to get back to work,” she said. “Just give a holler when you’re ready to make your purchases.”

  “Will do.”

  “Janie?” She turned and his voice stopped her. “How late are you open?”

  “Tonight we’re open until ten. We have a book club scheduled in the meeting room in the back.”

  “Is the table free? I’m thinking a change of scenery might be just what I need.”

  Now Jane felt herself smile. “I’ll have the coffee on.”

  Chapter Three

  Dan didn’t know if going back to his old haunt would help with his writing, but it couldn’t hurt. So, after dinner, he slid his laptop into his battered leather messenger bag, added some pens and the leather notebook he’d been scribbling in for the last week, and headed out into the bitter cold November night. Always a creature of habit, he was having trouble finding his groove since he’d arrived at his sister’s house. He really liked the little cottage, he always had, and his sister and brother-in-law had done an amazing renovation. It was perfect really, and no one was going to come looking for him here. But his writing mojo was off. Something wasn’t clicking.

  His assistant was the only person who knew how to reach him, and even she wasn’t sure what to think about him going off the grid. His cell was the bane of his existence, constantly pinging with texts and emails. So, two days ago he shut off his phone and got a second line. He wasn’t going to be found until he was good and ready.

  Granted, hiding out felt cowardly, but it was necessary. This was his chance to slip into his writing bubble and find satisfaction in his words again.

  He was happy to climb back into his Audi after the stint in his sister’s vehicle. Her SUV was functional but had absolutely no style. Style. His agent would probably tell him “style” was shorthand for mid-life crisis. He’d be right.

  The trip to town was so quick on a weeknight, he almost wanted to drive around for a while to gather his thoughts. Instead of following that urge, he found parking in the municipal lot right by the harbor. Before he headed to the bookstore, he walked the short distance to the water. Standing on the edge
of the pier, he focused on the horizon, which was barely visible now that the sun had gone down. Having looked out on this same scene twelve hours ago drove home how light and dark could change your view of the world.

  There were just a few clouds overhead, and those were quickly drifting by the bright quarter moon. A smattering of stars twinkled off the water, which was as smooth as black silk. It was completely still, allowing the air to carry background noise and music coming from the nearby bar. There were no boats, no other people, and the water looked bottomless and dark.

  He’d spent half his life living in cities, and while there was a lot to love about a place like New York, the energy had faded and he found it isolating. Sure, he had friends; he dated. But late last year, after the murder, Dan realized the city had lost its ability to give him the buzz he needed to create. He was frozen.

  His ideas had dried up; his motivation was gone.

  It took months for him to realize he needed to come home.

  Drawing a deep breath, Dan realized he could use this. It was more than just the natural beauty of the harbor. He’d forgotten how the water affected him, teasing his senses, calming him. A quiet harbor like this one was protected—safe. While he loved Hawaii, with its bright sunshine and crashing surf, the gray-green waters of Long Island reflected his mood.

  He stored the specifics in his brain, trying not to focus on the regret that hovered just below the surface. He’d ignored so many facets of his past, the realizations were starting to stack up like cordwood before winter. He had been so damn full of himself. He’d disregarded everything—and everyone—who mattered. He’d pushed aside the people and places who had helped him tease the words out of his head. People who cared about him.

  He’d pulled up roots years ago, never imagining it would be this small town that might actually save him.

  “Man up, Gallo,” he muttered to himself. “Regret is a pointless emotion.” There would be no room for remorse when he got to the bookstore. He had a job to do, and he hoped Jane and the familiar surroundings would help him find the words that had been eluding him.

  The table. It was scarred and ancient, but he had a feeling it was just what he needed. Or maybe it was Jane he needed. God knew, she was still easy on the eyes. That gorgeous mouth of hers could inspire the most stubborn writer’s block.

  He was only half kidding when he told Ella about the Fallon magic. He was sure Mike Fallon was one of the old Irish Tuatha tribe, with his great barrel chest and his love of a good tale, and he’d definitely passed on a bit of the power to his daughter. Jane was always special, lithe and pretty, with a sweet disposition and sharp mind; she left him muddled whenever she was nearby. He’d been so happy to see her when he walked into the bookstore earlier, his tongue snapped back into a knot. “Hiya, Janie,” he’d said. Yeah, that was smooth. Words were his living, yet around her, he sounded like an idiot. She was still beautiful, maybe even more so. With just the right number of curves. Her blond hair was thick and silky, a honey gold that fell in gentle waves over her shoulders. Her eyes, a shocking hazel-green could bore a hole right through him.

  She was brilliant and kind, and even though he’d walked away from her, and never spared a look back, she still welcomed him. He certainly didn’t deserve it.

  Earlier, he’d noticed his pulse still beat a little faster when she was around. Jane Fallon was the girl of his dreams a very long time ago. She’d listened to him, encouraged him, and believed in him. She’d offered her heart, and he’d been too stupid to accept it.

  The deep thudding he felt was a reminder that some things—some people—weren’t easily forgotten.

  Upon entering the shop, he heard faint voices coming from the children’s section, which were not at all childlike. Then he remembered that’s where Mike had built out a space for small groups to meet, like the book club Jane had mentioned earlier. He was glad to see her dad’s vision had come to fruition and the bookstore was still a fixture all these years after Mike’s passing.

  It was weird. Between his reaction to Jane, and feeling like he’d never left this place, Dan thought again about why he hadn’t come back home sooner. It was true, there was a level of indifference, and maybe the feeling that he was above the small-town existence he’d come from, but it was much more than simple pretentiousness. Nope, Dan was an asshole. He’d abandoned the people who’d meant the most to him. His folks. His sister.

  And Jane.

  Dan always said it was because he was busy. “Swamped” was his favorite descriptor, but the truth of it was that he was a straight-up jerk. It crossed his mind more than once that this shift away from the darker side of human nature was as much about saving his own soul as it was about writing a book.

  The café counter was staffed by a girl who was probably in her late teens. She was typing away on a laptop and he felt a kinship with her. It might have just been homework, but her focus was too intense for a simple history paper. Whatever it was, she was so into it she didn’t notice him standing there.

  “Hi.”

  Her head snapped up when he spoke. At first she looked annoyed, then flustered, then apologetic.

  “Oh, wow. Sorry. What can I get you?” The young woman had Jane’s fey-like eyes, and a spray of freckles across her nose, but instead of Jane’s long honey-streaked locks, the young woman’s hair was almost black, like Mike’s, with a streak of blue along one side. He wondered how she was related. This could only be a Fallon, and boy, did this one’s Irish roots run deep.

  “Just a small coffee and ahh…” He craned his neck to get a look at what was in the display case. “That chocolate chip cookie looks good.”

  “Oh my God. The cookies from Sweet Chemistry, the bakery up the street, are so good. You can taste the butter.”

  “Sweet Chemistry? Great name. You’ve sold me. I’ll have one.”

  Nice kid, he thought. She retrieved his cookie and poured his coffee in a to-go cup. “You won’t be sorry. Should I leave room for milk?”

  “Nah. I drink it black.” He paused, but his natural curiosity was piqued. “What were you working on when I broke your train of thought? Homework? You looked…pained.”

  Her eyes widened and a little bit of pink stained her cheeks. Now she looked embarrassed, maybe? Definitely unsure about sharing with him.

  The young woman exhaled, long and dramatic, before glancing at the screen on her sleek laptop. “Pained is probably a good way to put it,” she sighed before continuing. “It’s a short story I’m editing for a contest entry. It’s frustrating me.”

  “Ahhh. I get it. How many times have you revised it?”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “About a hundred. It’s never going to be good enough.”

  He laid a bill from his wallet on the counter. “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Umm…are you a writer?”

  He shrugged, savoring the feeling of being unknown. “I dabble.”

  Danny never gave advice unless the writer was receptive. So, when she nodded, he continued.

  “Stop revising. If you’ve gotten good feedback, and taken constructive criticism to heart, you’re fine. If you over-edit you’ll take the passion, the voice, right out of the work.”

  Her eyes grew wide, panicked. That thought, to stop revising, clearly scared the crap out of her. In truth, it scared the crap out of most writers.

  “But how will I know if it’s good?”

  “You don’t. That’s the hard part of this gig. Some people love what you do, others not so much. The question is, do you love it? Do you love your story?”

  Her eyes were bright, focused. He could see the burning desire to succeed in the blazing blue. “I do. I do love it. I just want everyone else to love it too.”

  “I understand that better than you think, but since we can’t control other people or their taste, all we can do is give it our best. Our passion.”

  She was still doubting herself; he could see it in the way she bit down on her lower lip. But the deep b
reath she drew in let him know the kid was screwing up her courage. “Okay. Thanks. I guess I should suck it up and submit it.” She took the money from the dark granite counter and smiled. “Let me get you your change.”

  “No worries. You keep the change. What’s your name?”

  “Tara. And, uh, thanks.”

  “I’m Danny. It’s great to meet you.”

  “Can I help you with anything else?” she asked.

  “I was going to work at the back table.” He looked at the space and then back at Tara. “Is that all right?”

  “Oh, sure. Not a problem. We have customers work there all the time. It’s a nice quiet spot.”

  “I appreciate it.” Dan picked up his coffee and the small wax paper bag with the cookie. “Good luck with your story, and thanks for the cookie recommendation.”

  He walked away from her with his coffee and his snack, wondering if he could follow his own advice. He had to trust his process—his passion—otherwise his own book would be a lie, and his readers deserved better than that.

  *

  Jane came out of the book club meeting with a headache for the ages. The new historical fiction the members had chosen to discuss had spawned more arguments than conversation over the past hour. Between the liberties taken with the timeline in Georgian England, and an intense dislike some of the ladies in the group harbored for one of the protagonists, there was little agreement on the merit of the work. For Jane, any book that elicited strong emotions was a winner, unless they were hostile emotions.

  Still, the ladies chose another book for next month and left chattering about what a nice time they’d had. Jane had to wonder what the women considered a good time. Go figure. When she got home, she might have to break out a bottle of wine, or chocolate, or both.

  The lights in the children’s room were low, and as she walked through she straightened up the area. She shelved a book, put a stuffed animal back on the rack, and pushed in the chairs at the small tables.

  Her mom had really done an amazing job with the decorations. Pine garlands adorned the tops of bookshelves and hung artfully over the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced Main Street. Glittering Christmas decorations of varying styles and sizes sat on the round table by one of the front windows. They would be moved, later in the month, and a large Christmas tree would be there instead. In front of the other window, a lovely silver menorah surrounded by sparkling gelt and a few dreidels was waiting for the first night of Hanukkah. It was such a pretty space; it made her sad to think that she’d be doing much of the preparation without her daughter or her mother next year. Jane didn’t know where Tara would end up for college, but she knew it would be far enough away for Jane to miss her. Change was hard. God, was it hard.