“Uh huh,” he said, following her. “Then in the seventies I left the music biz to work in textiles. I just couldn’t make a go of it.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “The endless touring. The beer stained keyboards. The chincy pay.” He shook his head and smirked. “I cut my losses while I was behind.” As Maris put the album back in its place, he gazed at the piano. “I still enjoy playing, and I’m a big music fan, but trying to make a living at it was just eating me alive.” He smiled at her and patted his protruding stomach. “It’s hard to stay big if you can’t afford to eat.”
She grinned back at him. “Speaking of which, I was just about to start preparing for the wine and cheese.”
He gallantly gestured to the door. “That’s the last thing I’d want to delay.”
As George took a seat in the living room, Maris was again on her way to the kitchen when the front door opened and Megan appeared. Heat flared in Maris’s face but she smoothly changed direction and intercepted the journalist.
“Megan,” she said pleasantly, “I’m glad you’re back. Could I speak to you?”
The woman’s sharp features showed surprise. “Of course.”
“This way,” Maris said, leading her to the back, out through the vestibule, and onto the back porch.
“Did you remember something about the history of the lighthouse?” she asked, her journal in hand as always.
Maris paused at the railing and turned to her. “No. I remembered to look up your work on the internet.”
That brought her up short, and her eyes became wary. “Oh yes?”
Maris crossed her arms and nodded. “Yes. Very impressive.”
Megan brightened. “Oh, yes.”
“So I just want to let you know that…” Megan opened her journal. “…that the album that was placed in George’s luggage has now been returned to the parlor.”
Though the journalist had clicked the ballpoint pen, she wasn’t writing. “The album…”
“Furthermore,” Maris continued, “Bear may be a man of few words, but he is neither dull nor a potential thief for your story.”
Megan gaped at her. When she realized her mouth had dropped open, she closed it and the journal, and clutched the small book to her chest. “How did you read what–”
Maris held up a hand. “I haven’t touched your notebook,” she said truthfully but pointedly looking at it. “But there’s a certain pattern to your work and a certain tone that it takes.”
“Speak plainly,” the journalist said, seeming suddenly impatient.
“Fine,” Maris said. “I’m telling you that you’re not going to find success or win any prizes by writing a negative story about Pixie Point Bay and its people. Period. And I’m even going to tell you why that’s so.” She paused to let her words sink in. “Because it’s just not true. No amount of fiction, planted evidence, or fact spinning can make it true either. It will simply not be believable.”
Megan dropped her hands to her sides. “I see. Are we done here?”
“No, we’re not. I have one piece of plain-speaking advice for you. Then we’re done.”
Though the journalist frowned and clenched her jaw, she said, “Say it.”
Maris softened her tone and did her best to muster a smile as well. “You’re a talented writer. Of that there’s no doubt. But consider what might happen if you saw things for what they really were, and wrote that truth. There’s power in that kind of candor. Real power.”
“Thanks,” Megan said, biting off the word. She turned on her heel, and strode back into the house.
Maris sighed. “Well, I tried.”
29
Although the McGrath family had checked out earlier in the day, the boys already talking about their next destination, the musicians were all at the Wine Down. Soft evening light filtered in through the dining room’s bay window, while lively conversation took place. The last day of the festival had apparently been as big a hit as the others.
As Maris passed Bowdie his glass of wine, she said, “How was attendance today? Was it a good-sized audience?”
He beamed at her as he took the drink. “The best yet. Today was the biggest festival attendance ever. It broke a record.”
Maris grinned back at him. “That’s wonderful news.”
On his way to the sideboard, Spats clapped the guitarist on the shoulder. “This young man was on fire today.”
“Really?” Maris said, pouring another two glasses at the table, one of red and one of white.
Just then Megan appeared in the doorway, and Maris offered her a choice by holding up both glasses.
The journalist managed a little smile and took the white. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Maris said, inclining her head. She nodded at the guitarist. “Bowdie was just telling us that the festival set a new attendance record today.”
Megan arched her brows as she sipped her wine. “Oh really?” she said.
Maris noticed that she hadn’t brought her journal.
“Smashed it,” Bowdie replied. “And what a great crowd.”
George was just returning with a plate full of cheese-dipped vegetables and lightly toasted sourdough croutons. “Boy, that crowd was so into it today,” he said. “Sort of like a last hurrah.”
“I don’t know what it was,” Bowdie said, setting down his glass and picking up his own plate, already half-eaten. “I don’t care what it was. It was amazing.” He turned to Megan. “Were you there?”
She nodded. “I was. And you’re right. There was definitely a different kind of energy today.”
Spats returned at that point, plate in hand. “It just sort of lifts you up when an audience responds like that. The more they got into it, the more we got into it.” He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “Mmm, sweet.”
“White or red?” Maris asked him. “I’m pouring a dry Chardonnay and a crisp Sangiovese tonight.”
He glanced around at what everyone else was having. “The red please.”
The conversation turned to the various performances, their favorite songs, and the new players. Maris refreshed both the fondue and the dippers, and opened more wine. It seemed the festival had come off without a hitch,
