Page 14 of A Christmas Harbor

And maybe, hopefully, it had only just begun.

* * *

The sky was still pissing as David staggered out of the bar at a quarter to twelve, but he didn’t care. Not even a Cat 5 hurricane could douse this feeling.

“Take care! Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Happy…all the holidays,” Paul called to their new friends as he backed out the door, which slammed shut on the end of his scarf. “Whoops!” He tugged the scarf free. “This place doesn’t want to let me go.”

David couldn’t blame it. Paul had spread good cheer in the most unlikely of places, like a magical Christmas elf. A magical, sexy Christmas elf.

“I still don’t know how you coaxed that bunch of sad sacks into a forty-five-minute singalong.”

Paul tugged on his gloves. “I guess everyone took pity once they heard me try to carry a tune.”

They looked at each other as their laughter faded. Now what? Was this when exhilaration faded into awkwardness, when the question ofWhere to?cracked the camaraderie of the last two hours?

“I would kill for a coffee right now,” Paul said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t suppose anywhere’s open?”

“Not that we could walk to.”

“And we’ve established that driving is out of the question. So…” Paul did that goofy shruggy thing he’d done when they first met, where his pocketed hands turned outward and up, almost like a curtsy with his coattails as the skirt.

“There’s coffee at my place,” David blurted. “Pretty good coffee, if you…like that sort of thing.”

“I do.” Paul bit his lower lip, like he was holding back a smile. “Where’d you say your boat was parked?”

“She’smooredjust on the other side of the drawbridge, across Spa Creek.”

“And she’s not a submarine, right?”

“Why? Are you claustrophobic?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m claustrophilic. Half my Instagram timeline is #TinyHouse.”

“My boat makes a tiny house look like a McMansion.”

With a definitive tug, Paul zipped his coat up to his chin. “Then lead the way.”

David turned south and started walking. This was happening. At least he knew his home was clean, because it was always clean.

The sidewalk of the largely residential street narrowed so that they had to walk single file. Paul’s footsteps behind him were barely audible over the rain crackling against the pavement. By the sound of it, it would soon be changing to sleet.

Halfway down the block, the sidewalk widened again, and Paul caught up to him. “You think we fixed that couple?”

“Fixed them? With a singalong?”

“Before ‘The Friendly Beasts’ they looked ready to smash their wine glasses and stab each other with the broken stems. By the time we sang ‘Back Door Santa’ just now, they were practically in each other’s laps. I predict a rapprochement, or at least a détente, or some other good French thing.”

“Maybe.” David had observed the Kendricks long enough to know they thrived on drama and would be fighting again by New Year’s.

“Music is so powerful.” Paul held out his arms and interlocked his fingers. “It can bring people together like nothing else. Man, I wish I could have that effect with a bunch of plain old words.”

“Novels are more than a bunch of plain old words. And you can’t compare them to songs. They’re a completely different art form.”

Paul danced around a cascade of water pouring from the corner of a roofed porch. “But how else will I keep my enormous author ego in check if I’ve got nothing to feel inferior to?”

“No, listen. Listen to me.” David heard himself taking on that laughable intensity unique to drunk people articulating a serious point. “I’m not a creator, but I am a…” he batted the air as he searched for the words “…creation receiver. I can tell you what it’s like from my end.”

“Okey-doke.”

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