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

and when they got tied together there was a kind of soft music. I don’t know, but it’s like the prose is singing what it says.” He looked over Noel’s shoulder.
    Jordan’s throat had gone crimson. The man was blushing.
    â€œAt least it seems that way to me.” He took another sip.
    Noel was moved. Maybe a bit jealous. Even with his best writing, he’d never thought of it as singing. But was Beck’s blush because he’d lied well? Or because he’d shown a private section of himself? “Always good to feel proud of what you’ve done well. Tell me, who are your writing models?”
    â€œOh. Yeah. Well, a little Vonnegut, some Dickens, Mark Twain, Hiassen of course. Whitman, definitely.”
    â€œWilliam Least Heat-Moon?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œA man who wrote a book called Blue Highways . Like the roads you just described.”
    â€œNever heard of him.”
    â€œHow about your characters? They based on people you know?” He watched Jordan’s face tighten. Not knowing, or trying to figure out a plausible answer?
    His head shook. “Nobody I know well. Bits and pieces of people I’ve met, some friends even, but I did a lot of shaping.” His face relaxed, the grin came back. “And lots of rewriting. This draft was the fifth.”
    â€œYou get any critique along the way? Between drafts?”
    Suddenly the blush again, and a hesitation. “No, I didn’t. Why’d you ask that?”
    Something wrong here? “Usual reason. Get an outside view and rewrite from whatever you learn.”
    â€œNo,” he said again.
    â€œWhat made you want to rewrite?”
    He stared into the remains of his coffee. “When it didn’t feel right, sound right, I’d close my eyes again and try to see the scene. And take more mental pictures. And compare these with what I’d described. And it got clearer.”
    A good trick. Noel wondered where Jordan had learned it. Or was he a true autodidact? “Well, I have to agree with you. The fiction writing process does sound more intriguing than the prose. If you’d like, I’d be pleased to read either or both.”
    â€œHey, that’d be great. Give me your email address and I can send them to you—” He glanced at his watch. “Better be this afternoon. I’m on duty in a few minutes.”
    â€œI can probably get them from Langley.”
    â€œUh, no, don’t do that.” He stood. “Langley might feel like I’m pressuring him. Or something.”
    Or something what? Noel took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote out his private email address. A while since he’d had to do this—usually these days he’d give someone his Islands Investigations International card. He tore out the page, handed it to Jordan. “Don’t know how long it’ll take me to read the material. But I’ll get back to you.”
    â€œThanks.”
    They both stood. Suddenly Jordan seemed nervous. In a hurry to get to work? Or afraid he’d reveal information that might prove dangerous to him? “D’you have a recommendation for a late breakfast?”
    Jordan grinned. A forced attempt at being pleasant? Hard to tell. “Sure. Try Thor’s. On Nichols. Good place. Their breakfast’s fine. It’s a pub and it’s even better at night. I know from experience.”
    â€œOkay. Thank you.”
    â€œYeah. And, uh, thank you, Noel. See you. Got to speed off.”
    â€œGood luck.” He watched Jordan stride to the door, and out. Noel left more slowly. Would Jordan Beck change into waiter’s garb? That belt-and-suspenders outfit wasn’t exactly the semi-upscale look.
    He returned to Peter Langley’s office but found it locked. Conferences with colleagues, department meetings. Glad not to be living that life. In the car, Noel checked his map. Thor’s, on Nichols. He drove into town and parked