Chapter Three

      The problem with writing children’s stories was that the only men you met were A) editors, who were either married or gay; B) happily married stay-at-home dads who brought their children to author appearances (where were the single dads these days?); and C) little boys who came to those author appearances (all those adorable little boys—where were the big ones?). Even Noel’s landlord was a woman. Mrs. Bing was fifty-something and you’d think she’d have had a son but no. Actually, considering what Mrs. Bing looked like, that was probably just as well.

      So, naturally, Noel had been thrilled when Donny Lockhart walked into Java Josie’s one rainy fall morning. Noel had been seated at a table, working on her latest project with her gingersnap latte within easy reach. It was a Saturday, practically the only day of the week besides Sunday that she got out of her jammie bottoms and got out of the house. The coffee shop was packed with people. Tables were scarce. He’d asked if he could share hers. Donny was tall and cute with red hair and freckles and trendy glasses. Of course she’d said yes.

      He’d taken out his tablet and gotten to work, typing away. There was no “Hey, we’re both redheads.” No “Crappy weather we’re having, huh?” No “What are you drinking? It looks good.” No “Wow, are you an artist?”

      She could’ve asked him what he was working on, but she didn’t have the nerve. All kinds of clever words poured out of her when she was working on her Marvella Monster books but when it came to picking up guys, she was more of a Timid Tillie Titmouse.

      It wasn’t that she was ugly. She was okay-looking. She just...well, all those years of wearing glasses before they became a fashion statement, coupled with braces and a few extra pounds (the kiss of death when you were in high school) had messed with her self-esteem. That, plus being a bit of a nerd. Who wanted a nerd when you could hook up with a cheerleader? That had become her belief and she’d kept it all through college, which left the shelves in the boyfriend department pretty bare. If a guy got things started, she was fine, but it was hard to put herself out there and make the first move, even though the glasses had been replaced with contacts and the extra pounds had long since disappeared.

      So she’d sighed inwardly and gone back to sketching the illustrations for her latest Marvella book, Marvella and the Monster Under Mary’s Bed.

      She’d just finished sketching Marvella pulling a protesting green gremlin out from under the hapless Mary’s bed when someone spoke. “Are you an artist?”

      Mr. Cute Glasses was talking to her? “Yes.” Now, there was an area where she had complete confidence. “I’m a children’s book author but I illustrate all my own books.” That in itself was quite an accomplishment, if she did say so herself. Not many people could do both well.

      “Yeah?” He’d leaned over and checked out Marvella, who was upside down. She’d turned her sketch tablet around so he could see her creation better.

      “You’re really good.”

      She’d smiled modestly and thanked him. Now that the conversational gate was open, she’d had no problem asking, “What about you? What do you do?”

      His cheeks had turned a little pink. “I’m between jobs at the moment. What I want to do is be a writer.”

      A kindred soul! “Really? What do you want to write?”

      “Legal thrillers. You know, like John Grisham.”

      “I love him.” Something else they had in common. “So is that what you’re working on right now?”

      His cheeks had gone from pink to red. “Actually, no. I’m, uh, writing something different, along the lines of Fifty Shades.”

      She’d felt her own cheeks sizzling. She’d tried to watch the movie, but her eyes had started to melt five minutes in. Her life was more like fifty shades of white.

      “I heard there’s big money in romance novels,” he’d said, “so I thought I’d start there.”

      “That sounds like a plan,” she’d said, at a loss for anything better. She knew quite a few writers, and none of them were in it for the money. They wrote because they loved to write. Still, she supposed it was good to be practical.

      Donny had introduced himself and they’d wound up talking for twenty minutes until he’d checked his cell phone and announced that he had to go. Writers group meeting.

      But before he left, he’d gotten her phone number and promised to call.

      Lo and behold, he had. They’d dated hot and heavy for six glorious months. Six months of foreign films at The Orpheum. Lunch at Lettuce Love, since lunch was cheaper than dinner and Donny was on a budget...so of course she always offered to pay and he always let her. (Very secure in who he was as a man.) Six months of open mike on Monday nights at Java Josie’s, where aspiring writers read their work. (Donny always read. His stuff was...well, he was still a beginner. He had room to grow.)

      Six months of Donny asking her if her agent represented romance novelists, if she could edit his latest chapter, what she thought of his new scene. Six months of Donny talking about Donny and his dreams and very little talking about Noel and hers. Six months of him looking for a job to support himself while he finished his novel and finding nothing and continuing to live in his parents’ basement. Of him asking if he could borrow ten bucks and then forgetting to pay her back. Six months before she finally realized that Donny was cute and creative—and self-centered and a user. After six months, Donny was history. The last time she saw him at the coffee shop he was hitting on a blonde in a business suit. So much for true love.

      But she wasn’t going to think about that. There was more to life than men.

      Like holiday sales. And the mall, which served both Whispering Pines and the nearby town of Salmon Run, definitely had that going now that Black Friday was here. Christmas decorations were up and oversize golden balls and swags hung everywhere. In the middle of the mall, right by the information booth, Santa’s shack, a red plywood chalet with white gingerbread trim, was being erected. A sign at the corner of