Christmas Eve at Friday Harbor (Friday Harbor 1)

“Do you know who you remind me of?” Maggie asked in a conversational tone. “The little mermaid. You’ve seen that movie, right?” Turning, she rummaged beneath the counter and found a large pink conch shell, part of a beach-themed display they had planned to put in the window soon. “I have something for you. A present.” Coming around the counter, she held it up for Holly’s inspection. “I know, it looks pretty ordinary. But there’s something special about this shell. You can hear the ocean if you put it against your ear.” She handed the conch over, and Holly held it carefully up to her ear. “Can you hear it?”

The child responded with a matter-of-fact shrug. Clearly the ocean-in-the-seashell trick was old news.

“Do you know why you can hear it?” Maggie asked.

Holly shook her head, looking intrigued.

“Some people—very practical, scientific people—say that the shell captures outside noise and lets it resonate inside the shell. However, other people”—Maggie gestured to herself and gave the girl a significant glance—“believe there’s a little magic in it.”

After considering this, Holly returned her meaningful glance and touched her own small chest.

Maggie smiled. “I have an idea. Why don’t you take this shell home with you and practice making noise in it? You could sing or hum into it like this….” She sent a wordless tune into the empty shell. “And someday maybe it could help your voice to come back. Just like the little mermaid.”

Holly reached out and took the shell with both hands.

At that moment, the door opened, and Mark Nolan walked back into the store. His gaze went to Holly, who was staring intently into the aperture of the conch. He froze as he heard the girl begin to croon a few soft notes into the shell. His face changed. And in that one unguarded moment, Maggie saw a flashing succession of emotions: concern, fear, hope.

“What are you doing, Holls?” he asked casually, approaching them.

The girl paused and showed him the conch.

“It’s a magic shell,” Maggie said. “I told Holly she could take it home with her.”

Nolan’s dark brows lowered, and a shadow of annoyance crossed his face. “It’s a nice conch,” he told his niece. “But there’s nothing magical about it.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” Maggie said. “Sometimes the most ordinary-looking things have magic in them…you just have to look hard enough.”

A humorless smile touched Nolan’s lips. “Right,” he said darkly. “Thanks.”

Too late, Maggie understood that he was one of those people who didn’t encourage flights of fancy in their children. Heaven knew he was not alone. More than a few parents believed that children were better off with a strict diet of reality, rather than being confused by stories of made-up creatures, or talking animals, or Santa Claus. In Maggie’s opinion, though, fantasy allowed children to play with ideas, to find comfort and inspiration. However, it wasn’t up to her to decide such things for someone else’s child.

Abashed, Maggie retreated behind the counter and busied herself with ringing up the items in the basket: the fairy book, a puzzle, a jump rope with wooden handles, and a fairy ornament with iridescent wings.

Holly wandered away from the counter, humming softly into the conch. Nolan stared after his niece, then turned his attention back to Maggie. He spoke in an edgy undertone. “No offense, but—”

Which was the way people always started a sentence that ended up being offensive.

“—I prefer to be honest with kids, Miss…”

“Mrs.,” Maggie said. “Conroy. And I prefer to be honest, too.”

“Then why did you tell her that’s a magic shell? Or that a fairy lives in that house on the wall?”

Maggie frowned as she tore the receipt from the register. “Imagination. Play. You don’t know much about children, do you?”

It was instantly apparent that the shot had hit its target far harder than she had intended. Nolan’s expression didn’t change, but she saw a band of color burnish the crests of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “I became Holly’s guardian about six months ago. I’m still learning. But one of my rules is not to let her believe in stuff that’s not real.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to offend you. But just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not real.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “Do you want your receipt with you, or in the bag?”

Those mesmerizing eyes stared right into hers with an intensity that caused her brain to do an abrupt control-alt-delete. “In the bag.” They were close enough that his scent reached her, an amazingly good smell of old-fashioned white soap, and sea salt, and a hint of coffee. Slowly he extended a hand across the counter. “Mark Nolan.”

His grip was strong, his hand warm and work-roughened. It awakened a subtle pang of awareness that started deep in the pit of her stomach.

To Maggie’s relief, the shop door jingled as someone else came in. Instantly she tugged her hand free. “Hello,” she called out with artificial cheer. “Welcome to the Magic Mirror.”

Nolan—Mark—was still staring at her. “Where are you from?”

“Bellingham.”

“Why’d you move to Friday Harbor?”

“It seemed like the right place for the shop.” Maggie gave him a little shrug, to indicate that there was too much to explain. That didn’t appear to dissuade him. The questions were gentle but persistent, nipping at the heels of her every answer.

“You got family here?”

“No.”

“Then you must have followed a guy.”

“No, I…why do you say that?”

“When a woman like you moves here, there’s usually a guy.”

She shook her head. “I’m a widow.”

“I’m sorry.” His steady gaze kindled a hot, shaky feeling inside, not entirely unpleasant. “How long ago?”

“Almost two years. I can’t…I don’t talk about it.”

“An accident?”

“Cancer.” She was so aware of him, the healthy masculine vitality of him, that she was covered with a full-bodied flush. It had been a long time since she’d felt this kind of attraction, extravagant in its intensity, and she didn’t know what to do with it. “I have friends who live at Smugglers Cove, on the west side—”

“I know where it is.”

“Oh. Of course, you grew up here. Well, my friend Ellen knew I wanted to make a new start somewhere, after my husband…after…”

“Ellen Scolari? Married to Brad?”

Maggie’s brows lifted in surprise. “You know them?”

“There aren’t many people on this island I don’t know.” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “They haven’t mentioned you. How long—”

A little whisper interrupted him.

“Uncle Mark.”

“Just a minute, Holls, I’m—” Mark broke off and went very still. He did a near-comical double take, his stunned gaze falling to the child beside him. “Holly?” He sounded breathless.

The girl smiled up at him uncertainly. Standing on her toes, she reached over the counter to give the shell to Maggie. And she added in another hesitant but perfectly audible whisper, “Her name is Clover.”

“The fairy?” Maggie asked in a hushed voice, while the hair on the back of her neck lifted. Holly nodded. Swallowing hard, Maggie managed to say, “Thank you for telling me, Holly.”

Three

In the shock of hearing Holly’s whisper, Mark forgot everything: their surroundings, the woman behind the counter. Six months they’d been trying to get Holly to say something, anything. Why it had happened here and now was something he’d parse out later with Sam. For now, he had to keep it together, to not overwhelm Holly with his reaction. It was just…Christ.

Mark couldn’t stop himself from lowering to one knee and pulling Holly against him. Her fine-boned arms went around his neck. He heard himself saying her name in a shattered murmur. His eyes were stinging, and he was appalled to realize that he was on the verge of losing it.

But he couldn’t control the tremors of relief at the evidence that Holly was apparently ready to start talking again. Maybe now he could let himself believe that she was going to be okay.

Feeling Holly wriggle to free herself from his tight grasp, Mark pressed a fervent kiss against her cheek and forced himself to let go. He stood, evaluated his emotion-clenched throat, and realized there was a good chance his voice would crack if he tried to say anything. He swallowed hard and blindly studied the Pink Floyd lyrics on the wall—not reading them, just focusing on the color of the paint, the texturing on the Sheetrock beneath.

Finally he slid a guarded look to the red-haired woman behind the counter—Maggie—who was holding the bag of stuff he’d just bought. He saw that she comprehended the significance of what had just happened.