Christmas in Angel Harbor - Jeannie Moon Page 0,11

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