Page 11 of Stolen Harmony

“Sorry about that,” Willa said, turning to me with a much warmer expression. “Jasper's always been a dick, but losing his job at the plant made him worse. I'm Willa Chen, by the way. I work at the medical center.”

“Rowan Hale.”

“I know who you are. Your mother talked about you all the time when she came in for her checkups.” Her smile faltered slightly. “She was proud of you, you know. Really proud.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, mostly because they sounded true. “Thank you.”

“You settling in okay? I know Harbor's End can feel a little... intense when you've been away.”

“It's an adjustment.”

“I bet.” She glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered, then back at me. “Tell you what—if you need a friendly face, I'm usually at Lillian's Diner around seven for coffee. Best pie in town, and Lillian knows how to mind her own business.”

“I might take you up on that.”

“Good. And don't let idiots like Jasper get to you. Half this town's just jealous they never had the guts to leave, and the other half wishes they had somewhere to come back to.” She squeezed my shoulder gently. “Welcome home, Rowan.”

As she walked away, I noticed the blonde woman from earlier approaching.

“Excuse me,” she said, her accent confirming my suspicion that she was from somewhere other than Maine. “I'm sorry to bother you, but are you really Rowan Hale? The musician?”

“Depends who's asking.”

“I'm Chelsea Morrison—I write for the Harbor's End Gazette. Well, I'm freelance, but I cover local interest stories.” She was already digging in her purse for what I assumed was a recorder or notepad. “I'd love to do a piece about you coming home. Local boy makes good, returns to his roots?—”

“I'm not interested.”

“It would just be a quick interview. Five minutes, maybe ten. People love hometown success stories, and?—”

“I said I'm not interested.”

Her smile became strained. “Are you sure? It could be great publicity for your music career?—”

“My music career is fine without your help.”

The rejection clearly stung, but she tried one more approach. “What about a piece on how the town has changed since you left? Just some quotes about?—”

“No.”

This time she got the message. “Well, if you change your mind, I'm staying at the Anchor Inn.” She pressed a business card into my hand before I could refuse it. “Think about it, okay? It could really help put Harbor's End on the map.”

I watched her walk away, noting the way she immediately pulled out her phone and started typing. Probably updating her editor that the local celebrity was being difficult. By tonight, half the town would know I'd turned down an interview, and by tomorrow they'd all have opinions about why.

The encounter had drawn more attention than I wanted. A group of teenagers had gathered outside the coffee shop,whispering and pointing. An older man I didn't recognize was openly taking pictures with his phone until a woman who might have been his wife smacked his arm and made him stop.

I shouldered my guitar case and started walking toward Harbor Street, hoping to escape before anyone else decided to welcome me home. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sidewalk, and the smell of the harbor—salt and seaweed and boat fuel—brought back a flood of memories I wasn't ready to deal with.

The apartment I'd rented was above a used bookstore. The owner, a man in his sixties with wild gray hair and paint-stained fingers, looked up from his newspaper as I approached.

“You must be my new tenant,” he said, extending his hand. “Fred Nakamura. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Rowan. Thanks for the quick turnaround on the rental.”

“No problem at all. Nice to have someone young in the space—keeps the ghosts from getting too comfortable.” He said it with a straight face, like he might actually believe it. “You need anything, I'm usually downstairs until six. Coffee, recommendations, someone to complain to about the weather—I'm your man.”

The staircase up to the apartment was narrow and creaked ominously under my weight, but it held. The apartment itself was exactly as advertised: small, clean, and furnished with the kind of generic furniture that suggested its primary occupants were people in transition.

One window faced the street, offering a view that included part of the harbor and most of Harbor's End's modest downtown. The walls were painted white but had faded to cream, and there was a persistent smell of old wood and the faint mustiness that came with buildings that had seen better decades.