Page 103 of Stolen Harmony

When Rowan leaned back, cradling his coffee mug between his hands, I found myself studying the way the morning light caught in his dark hair, the way his mouth curved when he was thinking about something that amused him.

“Well, I'll be damned.” The voice came from beside our table, warm and gravelly with age. “Elias Grant, as I live and breathe.”

I looked up to see Lillian Jackson, the diner's owner for the past fifteen years, standing with a fresh pot of coffee and a smile that could have powered the whole town. She was in her sixties, built like someone who'd spent decades on her feet, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and eyes that missed nothing.

“Mrs. Jackson,” I said, half-rising from my seat out of the manners my mother had drilled into me decades ago.

“Oh, sit down, honey. You're making me feel ancient.” She topped off both our coffee cups without asking, then turned her attention to Rowan. “And you must be the young man I've been hearing so much about. Rowan, isn't it?”

Rowan's posture went slightly defensive, the way it did when strangers knew more about him than he expected. “That's right.”

“Thought so. You have your mother's eyes.” Lillian's voice softened. “She used to come in here sometimes, back when youwere just a teenager. Always ordered the same thing - blueberry pancakes and black coffee. Said it reminded her of Sunday mornings when you were little.”

I watched Rowan's expression shift, surprise replacing wariness. “She talked about me?”

“Honey, she talked about you constantly. Carried pictures in her wallet, showed them to anyone who'd look. Proud as anything, that woman was.” Lillian glanced around the diner, noting the subtle attention our conversation was drawing. “Some folks in this town don't know how to mind their own business, but your mother, she knew what mattered.”

An older man at the counter turned around, his expression sour. “Seems like some things run in families,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

The temperature in the diner seemed to drop ten degrees. Lillian's smile never wavered, but something dangerous flickered behind her eyes. She walked over to the man's stool with the deliberate pace of someone who'd dealt with troublemakers before.

“Frank Kowalski,” she said sweetly, “did I just hear you being rude to my customers?”

Frank shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in his eggs. “Just making an observation.”

“Well, here's an observation for you.” Lillian's voice remained pleasant, but there was steel underneath it. “This is my establishment, and in my establishment, people treat each other with respect. If you can't manage that, you're welcome to take your breakfast to go.”

The diner had gone quiet, all conversations suspended while everyone waited to see how this would play out. Frank glanced around, probably looking for support, but found only neutral faces and a few outright disapproving looks.

“Wasn't meaning any harm,” he mumbled.

“I'm sure you weren't.” Lillian patted his shoulder with maternal condescension. “But maybe next time you'll think before you speak. Now, you want more coffee, or are you planning to nurse that cup all morning?”

Frank nodded quickly, and normal conversation gradually resumed around the diner. Lillian returned to our table, her smile genuine again as she refilled our cups.

“Don't mind Frank,” she said quietly. “He's been bitter since his wife left him last spring. Likes to spread it around like it's contagious.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said, and there was something in his voice I hadn't heard before. Not just gratitude, but surprise. Like he hadn't expected anyone in Harbor's End to stand up for him.

“Honey, your mother was one of the kindest people I ever knew. Anyone with sense could see she raised you right.” Lillian glanced between us, and I could see her putting pieces together. “Besides, this town's got bigger problems than who shares breakfast with whom.”

She moved on to other tables, but the warmth of her intervention lingered. I watched Rowan's shoulders relax, saw something ease in his expression that I hadn't realized was there.

“She's right, you know,” I said quietly. “About your mother being proud of you.”

“Hard to believe sometimes.” He took a sip of coffee, his gaze drifting to the window where Harbor's End was waking up to another ordinary day. “Feels like I disappointed her more than I made her proud.”

“That's grief talking, not truth.”

“Maybe.” He looked back at me, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. “It's weird, hearing someone else's memories of her. Like discovering a room in a house you thought you knew completely.”

“Good weird or bad weird?”

“Good weird, I think. Scary, but good.” He smiled, and it was the first completely unguarded smile I'd seen from him. “Makes her feel more real somehow. Less like a ghost.”

I found myself wanting to extend this moment, to build on whatever had shifted between us. “Tom and David are coming over tonight for a barbecue. Nothing fancy, just burgers and beer on the back deck.” I paused, suddenly nervous. “You should come. If you want.”

“You sure?”