Eighteen
“Honey, I’m home!” Sebastian announced as he dropped a small bag behind the front desk. His wingtips squeaked as he padded over clean floors. “London?!”
“Be right there!” London called from the kitchen, where she was writing thank you notes for each gift basket. It no longer smelled of wet sawdust and gypsum—now it was citrus and pine and fresh-baked sugar cookies finishing in the oven. Guests would begin arriving in less than an hour.
Sebastian didn’t wait—when did he ever?
“These look great,” he said, leaning over her shoulder to read an in-progress card. “Nice touch with the notes.”
“Thanks. Joel did a great job. Will you help me drop these in the rooms and then get out of here?”
“Get out of here?” Sebastian pressed a hand to his chest. “On opening day? I don’t think so.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” London said as she continued to write. “Go be a person with a family.”
“I am a person with a family. You’re my family.” He popped a chocolate from one of the baskets in his mouth. “These are excellent. Did you sample everything? Quality control is crucial.”
“Bash.”
“What? I take my job seriously.” He wandered out of the kitchen, already onto the next thing. “Oh my God—”
London braced herself for what he’d found.
Instead of naming another problem, he was in the dining room, running a hand over the smooth top of the table Harper made.
It sat centered under the chandelier, long and inviting.
Just yesterday, Cheryl had put together a centerpiece of chunky candles and metallic garland.
Now it was waiting for guests to enjoy meals, play games, make memories.
“This,” he said, circling the table slowly, taking in the depth of the grain and organic edges, “is a moment.”
“It’s a table.”
“It’s more than a table. It’s a statement.” He pulled out a chair and sat, gesturing to accentuate the full length of the slab. “It says, ‘we survived a flood and came back stronger.’ It says, ‘we host people who drink good wine and tell great stories.’ It says—”
“It says you need to leave before your boyfriend figures out your boss told you to spend the holiday with him and you chose to work,” London interrupted.
“Bah. He can wait. I love the energy of opening night,” Sebastian said, like this was Broadway and he had a starring role.
“Rooms. Baskets. And then you’re gone. I’ve got this.”
She did have this. Her friends had readied the inn from top to bottom the day before, only asking for beer and bratwurst in return.
They’d dragged in a tree and hung ornaments from every branch, framed windows with garland, wrapped it around the banister.
They’d straightened the paper snowflakes in the front windows—London had insisted those stay hung until New Year’s.
She’d sent them home with gift baskets, big hugs, and IOUs for help with their own future catastrophes.
That morning, she’d personally checked all the guest rooms for linens—hospital corners, ample towels, robes, slippers—and concluded they were ready.
The Colchuck had hosted guests for Christmas for fifty years. It wasn’t missing one on her watch.
Sebastian sighed dramatically but acquiesced. “I still think this is a mistake.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me here? I can charm. I can intimidate, if needed.”
“I’ve got it. I want you to enjoy your holiday, because—” London stopped herself. No need to cause concern. “I want you to enjoy your holiday.”
“Okay. Merry Christmas, boss.”
When Sebastian had placed all the gift baskets and the front door clicked shut behind him, the inn went quiet in a way it hadn’t been in weeks.
No saws. No compressors clunking to life randomly.
No boombox bleeding through the walls. Just the fire, holiday music, and soft tick of the old clock in the sitting room that had survived everything.
That clock was her grandfather’s, and it marked time where it always had, near the fireplace.
London stood in the middle of it and let herself feel—just for a moment, she told herself.
Holiday lights blinking just outside were warm and inviting.
The cookies were done and placed at the front desk.
Everything was ready and no one needed anything from her.
Yet. She didn’t remember the last time that had been true.
Her Fifty in Fifty list was full of potential. She’d been so certain about what the next year would look like. New hobbies. New countries. A new love interest. Or a few.
When she’d written that list, she hadn’t considered—what if she didn’t want any of those things?
# # #
The front door opened just after four—official check-in time.
London reminded herself she’d done this hundreds of times, even before the inn was hers.
A few more hours was all it took. Harper’s boombox soundtrack of the past few weeks had been replaced with instrumental holiday music—bright, but unobtrusive.
Fire roared in the fireplace, its warmth pushing into the corners of the room.
She looked up from her laptop as the door closed behind a couple shaking snow from their jackets.
The taller of the two paused just inside, turning slowly. “It looks different,” she said. “Fresher.”
“Hi.” London straightened as they approached the bar-height front desk, a Santa brooch on her left lapel catching the light as she moved to join them. “Welcome.”
“It’s beautiful,” the woman said as she pulled a long wallet out of her shoulder bag. “So modern.”
“Thank you.” London smiled. “The storm did a number on us. We just finished remodeling yesterday. It’s been . . . well, frankly, it’s been a lot. But we made it. I’m so glad you’re here.”
As she welcomed her first guests, a loud ringtone cut through the conversation—sharp, insistent—and the guest’s companion disappeared into the sitting room with a quick “I have to take this.”
“I hate that obnoxious ringtone,” the first guest said and slid her license over the counter. Her silver hair was striking, cut in a stylish layered bob. “She can’t hear but won’t admit it. Makes me crazy.”
“How long have you been together?” London asked while she pulled up the reservation. “Liz and Joanne?”
“That’s us,” Liz said. “Too long. Thirty-three years.”
“That’s impressive.”
“It’s survival.” The crinkles around Liz’s eyes were deeper when she smiled.
“Sorry about that.” Joanne returned, tucking her phone into an oversized coat pocket, brushing long-gone snow from her sleeve as she stepped back beside her partner.
“The work you’ve done is gorgeous. I love the paneling in the sitting room—so refined.
And that fire?” She glanced toward it, eyes softening. “Exactly what I needed today.”
“I’m so glad,” London said, tilting her head slightly. “I gather you’ve stayed with us before?”
“Every Christmas,” Liz said. “Or at least we used to. It’s been a while, but we started coming here when it wasn’t always easy to find places that felt . . . easy.”
That explained it. Familiar, but older. Softer around the edges.
As she checked them in, London watched without meaning to.
Liz took care of business—ID, credit card, check-out date.
Friendly, but all business. Joanne went on about finishes and styling, noticing the little touches they’d made to the home.
They talked over each other without apology.
Finished thoughts halfway and picked them back up somewhere else. Neither seemed to mind.
Thirty years of conversation didn’t need structure.
“You’ve done a lot,” Joanne said. “It feels the same, but—better. Could I get your contractor’s info? We’ve been talking about redoing our kitchen and—”
“Don’t bother her with that—” Liz cut in. “Let’s go get settled and let her work. What was your name again?”
“London,” she said. “Mercer.”
“Right, daughter of the owner, yes?” Liz slipped her wallet back into the bag.
“Something like that.”
Frederick would be proud. In this case, “daughter of the owner” felt earned.
“I still want that contractor’s info.” Joanne stage whispered as she walked away, her eyes dancing with mischievous satisfaction.
“Of course you do.” Liz didn’t miss a beat.
The truth was messier than a business card, so London smiled and held up the room key instead.
“Here—you’ll want this. You’re in room three, just up the stairs and to the right. Let me know if you need anything at all.”
When they’d reached the base of the stairs, Joanne stopped. “You’ve done something special here. I can feel it.”
Watching Liz and Joanne was like looking into what her future could be. Something steady, built over time. Something with scars and history and the kind of ease that came from choosing each other again and again. Something that lasted.
As soon as their footsteps faded, the inn settled again. Outside snow was swirling, catching the glow of the streetlights. Inside, the fire held. Music filled the space where newness and history met.
London rested her hands on the edge of the desk and closed her eyes. Seven more check-ins. That was all that stood between her and the quiet end of this day—and whatever came with it.
She could do this. She was doing this.
London picked up her phone and checked—no texts.
No I made it.
No How’s opening day?
Her thumbs moved before she could stop them. I wish you were here. She stared at it briefly, then deleted it word by word until the screen was blank again. She started over.
Did you make it?
Typed, but unsent.
Next thing she knew, a family was standing in front of her, ready for their Christmas to begin. “Welcome,” she repeated, back at square one. She flipped her phone face down on the desk. Six more check-ins.
# # #
By ten o’clock, the inn was full and the front door access locked, except for guests. London had changed into sweats and thick socks and had retreated to her suite with a frozen pizza and glass of Chianti. She’d earned both.
Just as she settled into the lounge chair near the bed, her phone lit up.
Let it be nothing.
“This is London—”
“Hi, sorry to bother you. The power just went out in our room.” A man’s voice, somewhere between apologetic and alarmed. She could hear small sounds in the background—a child, awake far too late for the night Santa would come. “Everything just went dark.”
“Oh, okay. Not a problem at all,” London said, already moving toward the kitchen. “Let me go take a look. Can you hang tight a few minutes?”
She grabbed the flashlight she kept in the junk drawer—still there, where it had always been, even after moving everything out and putting it back together.
London pushed through to the pantry behind the kitchen.
The breaker box was mounted on the side wall, currently wedged between canisters of oatmeal and bags of flour.
London remembered watching her father trace a finger down the labeled rows.
He had once told her all the guest rooms were on their own breakers, and the bigger ones had two.
She could do this.
The beam of the flashlight swept the box and she found the tripped breaker immediately—a single switch thrown to the middle. She almost laughed at the simplicity of her latest challenge. Almost. Too many things had gone wrong for too long to celebrate a tripped breaker.
Before she flipped it, London stood with her finger on the breaker, flour and cinnamon and old wood filling her senses.
Harper would’ve been down there before the guest even called.
She would have. She’d have known by the sound alone—something in the way the house changed when a breaker went—and she’d have flipped the breaker while London was still processing the call.
With a firm hand, London flipped the breaker.
It clicked loudly into place. She heard claps above her head.
Success. When she reached room five to check on the guests, the door opened wide before she could knock, and a toddler holding a hair dryer giggled at her.
Two space heaters glowed orange in the room.
“Sorry about that,” a man in plaid pants and a too-tight T-shirt offered. “She’s a handful these days.”
“No worries at all,” London said, looking through him to the heaters. “But it’s an old house, so you may want to run only one of those at a time, just to be safe.”
The man had the grace to look sheepish. “Right. Yes. Sorry again.”
What were people thinking?
There were so many reasons she had wanted to sell the inn. Harper’s fingerprints, on everything. The overhead that crept up a little more each year. Uncertainty of seasonality in a tourist town that could empty out at any moment. And then, of course, there were the guests.
Her pizza had gone cold, but the wine was still good when she slumped back into the lounge chair. It was too late to eat, anyway. As she sipped Chianti and let the day settle, London wondered—could she actually do it? Could she pull the trigger and sell The Colchuck?
That answer depended more on what Harper did than she wanted to admit.