Page 6 of Stolen Harmony
“That's not eating, that's surviving. You know there's actual food downstairs at Lillian’s, right? Food that requires chewing?”
“I'm good.”
She studied me with the look women get when they're deciding whether to push or let it go. Sarah had been dancing around me for two years now, offering invitations I always declined and checking in just enough to convince herself she was being a good colleague.
“Tom's making his famous shepherd's pie for lunch special,” she said finally. “The one with the cheese that makes you forget your own name. Lucy Brennan was just in there saying it's better than her grandmother's, and you know how she guards that recipe.”
“Thanks, but I want to finish this.”
“The track'll still be there after you eat.”
I turned back to my monitor, making it clear the conversation was over. Sarah lingered for another moment, then sighed and headed for the stairs. Her footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell, mixing with the sound of Dolores from the antique shop below arguing with someone about the price of a rocking chair.
The office felt different when it was empty. Quieter, but also more honest. Without the chatter and phone calls and constant hum of other people's lives, I could hear what was really there: the whir of hard drives, the barely audible hiss of speakers, and underneath it all, the sound of time passing without anything meaningful happening.
My desk was positioned so I could see out the window if I turned my head. Harbor's End spread out below like a postcard someone had left in the rain too long. The colors were muted, washed out by salt air and too many winters. Brick buildings with faded signs advertising businesses that had closed years ago. A few tourists wandered the main street, cameras in hand, taking pictures of the picturesque decay—the old barbershop with its spinning pole that hadn't worked in a decade, thefive-and-dime where Mrs. Patterson still sold penny candy from jars she'd inherited from her mother.
The afternoon light caught the weathervanes spinning on the rooftops, each one telling a different story about which way the wind was blowing. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries mixing with the distant sound of lobster boats chugging back to harbor, their holds full of the day's catch. Someone was burning leaves behind the library, smoke rising in thin columns that reminded me of incense in a church I'd stopped attending.
I used to love this view. Used to think Harbor's End was the kind of place where people came to find themselves, to slow down and remember what mattered. Now it felt like a museum dedicated to things that used to be important.
The phone on David's desk rang, shrill and insistent. I let it go to voicemail. Whoever it was could wait until he got back from lunch, or they could call his cell, or they could figure out that maybe what they needed wasn't that urgent after all.
By the time Sarah and David returned, I'd managed to make the kid's track sound almost professional. Not good, exactly, but sellable.
“Jesus, Eli, you look like you haven't moved,” David said, shaking rain off his jacket.
“Just focused.”
“You know they make these things called breaks, right? Short periods where you step away from the work and remember you're human?”
I saved the project and pulled off my headphones. “How was lunch?”
“Good. Lillian's was packed. Half the town was there, gossiging about the usual bullshit.” David settled into his chair and woke up his computer, the screen casting blue light on his face that made him look younger than his thirty-five years. “RosaMartinez was holding court at the corner table, talking about how her nephew's coming back from Boston with some fancy degree. And get this—Mags Dane was being all mysterious about someone else coming back to town after being away for years.”
My fingers paused over the keyboard. Harbor's End was the place where people left and never came back, where the young ones escaped to Boston or New York and only returned for funerals and weddings. Someone coming home was news worth spreading from Lillian's to the post office to Stella's Beauty Parlor in less than an hour.
“Anyone we know?” Sarah asked, settling back into her routine of answering emails and pretending to care about the response. Her desk was covered with photos of her grandkids, sticky notes in three different colors, and a coffee mug that read “World's Okayest Office Manager.”
“She was being all mysterious about it. You know how Mags gets when she thinks she has the inside scoop on something.” David laughed, but there was an edge to it. “Could be anyone. Maybe Jenny Castellano's finally coming back from culinary school. Or that Morrison kid who went off to be an actor.”
I turned back to my monitor, but the words sat wrong in my stomach. Mags Dane didn't get excited about college kids or failed actors. She got excited about drama.
The afternoon crawled by with the usual rhythm of small-town business. Phone calls about wedding music, a consultation with a local band called Tidal Pool that would probably break up before their first gig, and the endless stream of administrative work that kept the lights on but didn't mean anything to anyone. Outside, the school bus rumbled past, dropping kids at the corner where they'd stand around Felipe's convenience store, pooling quarters for candy and energy drinks while oldFelipe pretended not to notice them reading comic books without buying them.
At five o'clock, Sarah and David packed up their things with the practiced efficiency of people who had somewhere to go. Plans. Lives that extended beyond these four walls.
“You coming to the town meeting tonight?” David asked, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Victor's supposed to talk about the waterfront development project. Should be interesting, especially with the Costello brothers threatening to chain themselves to the pier if anyone tries to tear down their bait shop.”
My jaw tightened at my brother's name. Victor had been pushing his development agenda for months, talking about bringing Harbor's End into the twenty-first century, about creating jobs and attracting investment. What he really meant was tearing down anything that didn't fit his vision of profitable progress.
“No.”
“Come on, man. This stuff affects all of us. If they start tearing down buildings to make room for chain stores and condos, places like this won't be able to afford the rent. Your dad's boat slip fees are already?—”
“No,” I said again, more firmly.
David and Sarah exchanged one of those looks that meant they'd been talking about me when I wasn't around.
