Page 22 of Stolen Harmony
The blanket at the foot of the bed seemed to call for attention, and I found myself reaching for it, pulling it up over his shoulders with movements that felt automatic, protective. A small sound escaped him in his sleep—not quite waking but shifting deeper into the warmth. His breathing was steady but shallow, the rhythm something I couldn't help but count, making sure it stayed regular.
Water seemed like the most basic necessity, so I fetched a glass from the tiny kitchenette and set it on the nightstand where he'd see it when he woke up. Aspirin came next—two pills from his backpack left beside the glass. Basic human decency, I told myself.
The single chair beckoned, and I settled into it, telling myself I'd stay just until I was sure he was stable. Just until the worst of the alcohol worked its way through his system and his breathing evened out completely. It was a lie, but it was a comforting one.
In the lamplight, with the soft sound of his breathing filling the small space, the apartment felt less temporary. More like a place where someone was learning to exist again, one day at a time. His guitar case sat open beside the dresser, and I could see the instrument inside, an acoustic that looked older and more worn than anything else he owned. Loved, the way only musical instruments could be loved.
There were photographs scattered on the small table, printouts that looked like they'd been hastily assembled. I recognized one immediately: Rowan and Elaine at what must have been his high school graduation, both of them smiling at the camera with the easy happiness of people who thought they had all the time in the world. He looked so young in the picture, all sharpangles and possibility, before life had taught him that loving someone meant learning how to lose them.
I picked up another photo, this one more recent. Rowan on stage somewhere, guitar in hand, caught mid-song with his eyes closed and his mouth open, completely lost in the music. He looked alive in a way I hadn't seen since he'd come back to Harbor's End, connected to something larger than his own pain.
He shifted in his sleep, one hand emerging from beneath the blanket to rest on his chest. His fingers were long and callused, marked by years of guitar strings.
I stayed until the first hint of dawn crept through the small window, painting the walls gray and making the lamp beside the bed seem suddenly unnecessary. Rowan's breathing had deepened and evened out, and the flush of alcohol had faded from his cheeks, leaving him pale but peaceful.
When I finally left, I locked the door behind me and slipped the keys back through the mail slot. The streets of Harbor's End were empty at this hour, just me and the seagulls and the eternal sound of waves against stone. The air smelled like salt, the way it always did in the hour before the town woke up and remembered all the reasons for disappointment.
By morning, I was dressed and walking toward the Mariner's Rest, telling myself I needed breakfast and human contact, not that I was hoping to run into someone who might distract me from the night I'd just had. The morning was crisp and clear, Harbor's End looking almost prosperous in the golden light that made everything seem possible.
Tom was already at his usual table when I arrived, coffee and newspaper spread in front of him like offerings to thegod of routine. He looked up when I slid into the booth across from him, his weathered face creasing into a smile that held just a hint of concern.
“You look like hell,” he said by way of greeting. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.” I ordered coffee from the waitress and tried to arrange my face into something that looked less like I'd spent hours watching someone else breathe.
Tom studied me closely. He folded his newspaper deliberately, the way he did when he was settling in for a real conversation.
“Anna called me this morning,” he said. “Said you helped out with that young man who was asking questions about Elaine. That was decent of you.”
I shrugged, wrapping my hands around the coffee mug when it arrived. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“Would they?” Tom leaned back, studying me. “Most people would have let someone else handle it. But you've always been the type to pick up strays.”
The coffee was bitter, too hot, but I drank it anyway. “He's not a stray.”
“No, he's not. But he's hurting, and you've got that look you get when you think you can fix something.” Tom's voice carried the gentle authority of someone who'd watched me make the same mistakes for decades. “Remember when you tried to save that pelican with the broken wing?”
“That's different.”
“Is it? You kept that bird in your garage for three weeks, feeding it fish you couldn't afford, convinced you could nurse it back to health. Your mother finally had to explain that some things need professional help, not just good intentions.”
I stared out the window, watching early tourists wander thestreets with their cameras and guidebooks. “This isn't about fixing anyone.”
“Then what is it about?”
Tom watched me struggle with it, his weathered face patient.
“Speaking of fixing things,” Tom said, apparently deciding to let me off the hook, “heard Victor's been making the rounds again. Buttonholing business owners about that waterfront development.”
“Yeah?”
“Stopped by Dan’s Hardware yesterday. Dan said Victor spent twenty minutes explaining how the town needs to 'modernize or die.'” Tom's fingers made air quotes around the phrase. “Apparently we're all supposed to be grateful for his vision.”
“Victor's always had opinions about Harbor's End's future.”
“His opinions are getting louder. And more expensive.” Tom folded his hands on the table. “Dan said Victor mentioned some kind of timeline, said decisions needed to be made soon or opportunities would be lost.”
The weight in my stomach shifted, became something sharper. “What kind of decisions?”
