Free Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto Page A

okay?”
    â€œSure.”
    They sat. Noel sipped. A rich aroma, sadly not matched by the bitter taste. “So,” said Noel, “what can I tell you? I gather you’re in a writing quandary.”
    A quick, ironic smile and raised eyebrows from Beck. “A quandary mostly about writing as a profession. Write, or finish an engineering MSc that I’m about halfway through with. Like my dad wants me to.”
    Noel shook his head. “Can’t help you with that one.”
    â€œBut Professor Langley told me you used to be a journalist, and now you’re a stockbroker.”
    Damn, he should’ve checked with Peter about how he’d described Noel. At least he’d used the context Noel had set Brendan in. “Not really a broker. I just dabble.”
    â€œDon’t you miss writing?”
    Noel’s turn for an ironic smile. “Let’s just say I’m glad there’s something else I can do.” He remembered Brendan saying, after he’d finished a book he enjoyed, I’m glad that guy wrote the book. Now you don’t have to. Noel’s inability to get back to his writing career had first peeved Brendan, who could be a broker wherever he lived, then he became worried because Noel had followed him from Vancouver to Nanaimo. Toward the end, Noel’s block was only a matter for gentle mockery. In which Noel also participated.
    Beck breathed an explosive sigh. “I don’t think I could live without writing. This year all I needed to do was write and it’s been my best year ever.”
    â€œI applaud you,” said Noel. “It’s a fine thing when you discover what’s best for you so early in life.”
    â€œBut don’t think I’m not pragmatic too, Mr. Franklin. That’s why I’m so torn between journalism and fiction. At least journalism might pay.”
    â€œCan’t you do both?”
    â€œYeah, maybe. But the articles I wrote for Langley were a lot less fun than the novella.”
    â€œYeah? How?”
    â€œYou’d see how if you read them.”
    â€œTell me how.”
    â€œThe essays have good ideas. I think so and so does Langley. But the writing, it’s, well, a bit flat. Better than prosaic, but there’s no real sparkle to my style. Now the novella, it’s pretty good. In it my writing sort of sings along—” he caught himself, and grinned, lopsided. “If I do say so myself. And I wish Langley would say so too. Or anything about it. You know him. Why do you think he’s not read it yet?”
    Noel shrugged. “His reasons sound pretty good to me.”
    â€œYeah, yeah . . .”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘sings along.’ And how did you make that happen?”
    â€œYou mean, change my style? I didn’t try to. It just happened.”
    Noel leaned forward. “Look, Jordan—and since this conversation is serious, I’d like to call you Jordan; Mr. Beck is wrong. And I’m Noel.” He stretched out his hand. “How do you do?”
    The grin again. Jordan shook. “Okay, thanks, uh, Noel.”
    â€œSo? The change. In your style. Changes just don’t happen.”
    â€œI guess I needed to. For the material.”
    â€œWhich material?”
    â€œThe story. And the characters.”
    â€œWhat is the story?”
    â€œI’d rather you read it. But okay. It’s about . . .” He held Noel’s eye as he described the story, though with a greater sense of what was going on in Jimmy Piper’s mind than Noel remembered from the manuscript. More emphasis too on the geography and landscapes along the back roads. When he finished, he picked up his coffee mug and sipped. “Writing it, it was as though I was taking pictures of everything going on in my mind and then with the snapshots in front of me I could describe what was happening with this incredible clarity, each scene really sharp visually,