Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

napkin.”
    Seeing the dribble of soy sauce on Millay’s chin and the brown splotches on the counter, Olivia laughed and handed her friend a paper towel. “Are you working at Fish Nets or will you be at the festival?”
    “I’m only going if there are free samples,” she said. “If there aren’t, I might as well walk around Costco. If I go around the whole store three times, that’s lunch.”
    Olivia settled into one of the plush club chairs facing the water and gave Millay a bemused look. “I think the food you can taste at the event will top the corn dog bites and protein bars you’ll be offered at Costco. If nothing else, Hudson will feed you. The Bayside Crab House is setting up a tent in the vendor area.”
    “In that case, I’m in,” Millay said and Olivia caught the gleam of happiness in Harris’s eyes. She studied her ginger-haired friend. Had his boyish, Peter Pan appearance changed since he’d been shot? Yes, he did look different. He was still as smooth faced and bright eyed as ever, and his cheeks still dimpled when he laughed, but he seemed bulkier and much more confident than the lean, uncertain young man she’d first met over a year ago. He was coming into his own.
    Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether Millay was seeing him through new eyes too, or if Harris would end up being just another man she dated for a spell before growing bored and moving on to the next bad-boy type. Harris was nothing like the surfers, punk rockers, bartenders, or mechanics Millay was typically attracted to. It was clear that he was in love with Millay, that he’d been in love with her since the first meeting of the Bayside Book Writers. Whether Millay was capable of returning those feelings was another story. However, Olivia had no interest in getting involved in someone else’s romantic drama. Having one of her own was enough.
    Rawlings’ name surfaced in her mind, making Olivia acutely aware of his absence. She glanced at her watch. The critique session would start within minutes. Laurel already had her copy of Harris’s chapter on her lap, the notes she’d taken in green pen clearly visible in the margins.
    “Am I ever going to stop being nervous about handing a chapter over to you guys?” Harris asked, trying to catch a glimpse of Laurel’s comments.
    “Probably not,” Laurel said. “And that’s a good thing. It shows that you want to improve—that you care what your readers think.”
    Harris smiled warmly at her. “Even if you ripped me to shreds once a month, I’d still write. I’ve scribbled sci-fi stories since I could hold a pencil. I think we were all born with the writing chromosome. We can’t stop. It’s a part of our genetic makeup.”
    Millay snatched the bottle of beer from Harris’s hand and headed to the sofa. Flopping onto the soft cushions, she kicked off her trademark black boots and put both feet on the coffee table. She gave her toes, which were encased in pink and green argyle knee socks, a satisfied wiggle and then pulled a stack of papers out of her messenger bag.
    “Okay, Harris ‘Watson-and-Crick’ Williams, just promise not to turn into a total sellout when you finally get published. Half of the authors on the bestseller list don’t give a crap about the quality of their writing anymore. They discover a profitable formula and wham!” She snapped her fingers. “All they do after that is pump out the same book over and over again.”
    “That’s still an accomplishment. I can’t imagine what it would be like to write more than one book,” Laurel said. “The whole process is so unpredictable. I was cruising along on
The Wife
. It was practically writing itself until, at about sixty thousand words, I hit a wall.”
    Olivia gave her friend a sympathetic look. “You’re trying to sort out some big issues right now, Laurel.” She paused and then gently asked, “How are you and Steve doing?”
    Laurel shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Better.” She took a sip of chardonnay. And another. “We’re being so polite to each other now. So careful not to hurt each other’s feelings. It’s weird. I hate all the tiptoeing.”
    “You just need to have a huge fight followed by drunken make-up sex,” Millay said. “Smash some plates, rip off some clothes, and you’ll be good to go. You can say please and thank you
after
you’ve done the horizontal tango.”
    For a moment, Laurel’s eyes went wide, but then she laughed. “Actually, you’ve given me a great