CHAPTER 8
Harper
Happy place. Happy place. This is home. I love it here.
I take a deep breath as I open the door to the garage.
“Dad! I’m home!”
No reply. Not unusual. I enter through the backdoor like I have a million times, since I was a child. I glance at the hodgepodge gallery wall Lily and I put up when we were teens and try to absorb all the cheery vibes. We were so proud of our first decorating project.
First and last.
I ignore my surroundings as I pass through my mother’s dream kitchen in all its early 2000’s glory. Someday I’ll rip it out and redesign it…if I ever make enough money…if the store doesn’t close…
“Oh, don’t get up,” I say when I hit the living room and see Dad trying to stand. He’s still parked in his chair, which is the usual.
I give him a kiss on the head, “So, how was today?”
He starts coughing and trying to clear his throat, also the norm. I hand him his water glass and will my face not to reveal any sadness or pity. It is sad, though. It’s like he’s trying to find his old voice, which was a rich, happy sound. But it’s gone.
“Fine,” he eventually rasps. “Betty brought brownies, very good. But she made me walk, awful. New renters had their music blaring, gave me a headache.”
“Do you still have a headache now? Want me to get you something?”
He nods and then lies back, spent already. Coughing and talking both wipe him out, especially if he did physical therapy earlier today. I go get the meds from the kitchen and peek out the window over the sink. The rental looks the same as always. I can’t even tell someone’s in there.
I sigh. I may not be good with confrontation, but these houses are not that close together. For their music to bother my dad, it must have been some party. And during the day? Geez.
So, if they’re going to be that inconsiderate, I’ll have to muster up my inner Boss Harper, as Steven has started saying, and go ask for them to keep it quiet. If it happens again, which surely it won’t. How many daytime ragers can these kids have?
Boss Harper kicked butt with the Bully today. Just said no and stood there, like I owned the place. Which I don’t, not really. I own the bakery but now Vanderbutt owns the building. Still, I held it together.
I reach Dad, ibuprofen in hand, and start to open my mouth to tell him about it.
He’d be proud of me standing up for myself.
But he’d lose his ever-loving mind about the fact that I did it in the store and with a paying customer.
Then he’d start thinking about his shop and how he’s not running it anymore.
How he’s not able to do much of anything anymore.
Then he’ll snap at me and I’ll go to bed sad. Again.
So I just confirm that Stu is plugging away in the garage, as always, and then say, “I’m going to go freshen up and then in a little bit I’ll make us some dinner.”
I head up to my room and flop onto my actual happy place, my bed.
I wish I’d gotten home at my normal time so I could squeeze in a nap.
I can’t, but I can just lie here and appreciate this little space for a moment.
Don’t love the house, don’t even like my room anymore but man, do I love this bed.
I love the fancy mattress I saved for, linens I bought straight from an Instagram ad like a crazy person—pillows and all, extra throw blanket, expedited shipping, didn’t even use the discount spinner thing—right after Stuart moved in permanently.
A thump below my room reminds me I should go check on him in the garage. I want to sigh. To flail. To whine and whack that mattress like a toddler. But I don’t.
I just go downstairs and get to work.
_____
“I don’t know how your eyes are open right now,” Janie says from where I’ve got her propped up against the coffeepot. Her husband’s FaceTime habit is rubbing off on her.
“Well, I only had to get up at 4:30 today, not 3,” I remind her.
“Still, up late cleaning, up early baking, a full day of maple recipe planning, which all sound delicious, by the way, then you get home pooped just to take care of your Dad and Stu and you make a lasagna from scratch?”
“I was craving it,” I shrug, then admit, “But yeah, I am kinda running on steam.”
“Fumes. Or running out of steam,” she corrects my stupid brain, simply to be helpful, without irritation or judgment. Like she has since eighth grade.
“Right, one of those,” I yawn the last word.
She chuckles, “Then why don’t you go to bed and leave the dirty dishes for the morning?”
“Because Morning Harper hates when Nighttime Harper does that.”
“Well, whichever one of those is Boss Harper tell her she’s killing it and the Maple Tap is going to be amazing.”
I put another dish in the washer and smile at my friend, “Thank you.”
“Ben’s just walked in, but I’ll call back soon to hear how it went!”
“Okay, bye,” I say. It takes a few more painfully long minutes to finish the dishes and go through my night time lock up routine. I change, wash my face and brush my teeth, fighting to stay upright. Finally, around eleven, I crawl into my amazing, overpriced Egyptian sheets.
Yesssssss!
Bump bump bump bump
No.
Surely not.
It’s 11pm!
This is a quiet neighborhood, which Mr. Newman explicitly spells out in his rental agreements!
They’ll turn it down.
I wait. I pray. I hear Stuart stirring, hear my dad cough.
Yeah, so, none of us can fall asleep.
Ugh.
I grab my giant Giants sweatshirt off the back of my Laundry Pile Chair and begin marching down the stairs.
I also lift my chin, tighten my topknot and square my shoulders.
Because Boss Harper needs to show up right now, just like she did earlier.
If I can kick him out of my shop I can ask a few college punks to turn down their… rock music? I think?
I slip on the closest shoes I can find, my tall rain boots I use when I shovel snow off of the driveway, and throw open the door. At least it’s unseasonably warm tonight.
I squish straight through the mushy snow that covers my yard and the rental’s yard too. Right to the front door.
I knock.
C’mon, that was a weak knock. Boss Harper!
I really knock.
Nothing.
I huff in disbelief. A whole party going on and not one person can come to the stupid door? I pound again and I’m not sure but…I think they just turned the music up louder?!
Oh, hell, no.
I fume on the steps, trying to see in the front windows but only finding closed curtains. But the music is coming from the side. The garage? That makes sense. The garage is closest to my window and Dad’s window. They can just move their party inside the house. Easy.
My legs scream at me as I trek around to the side. I am so freaking tired. Too freaking tired to deal with this. I want my bed!
I reach the garage and decide to just bang right on the big double car garage door. Nothing.
“Ughhhh!” I actually growl aloud. And bang again.
At last, the music dies.
“Ah!” I nearly jump out of my knock-off wellingtons at the loud clangs of the garage door going up.
Up, up, slow as can be. I peek down expecting to find a bunch of shoes but I only spot one pair. Very nice Nikes, running shoes or sporty shoes of some kind.
Then I see calves. A built set of hairy calves that quickly put the puzzle pieces together.
This dude was working out to music in his garage, oblivious.
The door rises, revealing thick thighs in athletic shorts, a trim waist, an amazing chest, frankly, under a dry-fit shirt that’s drenched in sweat and—
“No.”
“No!”
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I shriek at Sir VanderThighs—no, Harper, do not think about this thighs right now!
“I asked you first,” he says, again reminding me of a moody tween.
Overwhelmed, I simply point at my house, my arm shaking with either rage, shock or fatigue.
His eyes shift to the side of my house, then back to me.
“That’s your house?” He asks, angry. Like I did something wrong for living in my house on my street in my town.
I just close my eyes and try to breathe.
“Of course it is. Just bloody fantastic. Only one decent rental in the whole Godforsaken town and it’s next to the she-demon,” he says to the ceiling.
She-demon!
“Yes my town, my street, my house! Your music is too loud and you need leave. Find another place to rent!”
He narrows his eyes, crosses his arms and cocks his head to say, “No.”
“Yes!” I say, panting.
After a beat he says, “Let’s negotiate.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. Way too damn tired for this. “Let me come in for coffee.”
I lock eyes with him. Ha! That’s right! Comet’s coffee is trash! Serves you right! I fight a smirk and say nothing. He can do all the talking, I won’t budge. He’s moving off this street. Tomorrow.
“I’m not moving,” he says, like he can read my thoughts. I take a deep breath. He goes on, “Let me come in for coffee and breakfast this week while I’m here and I’ll consider finding another rental.”
Consider?
He tracks the question on my face. “That’s right. All you have to do is let me be a paying customer and I’ll think about the hassle of moving again. Maybe.”
I snort. It’s not hassle for him to do anything. He’s a billionaire. He can make his own stupid coffee. Probably in a personal Bosch machine I can’t even afford for the store!
“Final offer,” he says.
“No,” I reply. His eyebrows shoot up into his sweaty dark hair and I go on, “I don’t want you in the store. Stay here, be rude, say whatever you want to me. But your weird music,” I use air quotes, then point to my house, “is keeping up a sick old man in there.”
His head jerks back slightly, “Your…father? You live with your father.”
“And Stuart,” I yawn.
“Listen,” he starts, clearly shifting back into negotiation mode. Which I do not have time for.
I blurt out, “And none of the three of us can sleep right now and we just got into bed and I have to be up at 3:30 so just shut up and be nice for once in your life!”
Over it, I turn and stalk back toward my own yard.
“Wait, we haven’t agreed on our terms,” he tries. I keep moving. He calls, louder, “If I agree to use headphones, can I have your coffee?”
I lift my hand and flip him off.
“Still unclear,” he says, though it sounds like he’s almost smiling.
I lift my other hand and go for the double bird.
Clear enough for you? I don’t say out loud.
He should agree to headphones to be a decent human being! Ugh! I leave my hands up the whole way to my door because he better not try to come back into my store. Seriously.