Nineteen
London stepped out into the cold before the sun had fully risen, the sky hovering between slate and pale blue.
After days of consistent snow, Christmas morning was cold and clear.
She pulled her coat tighter and headed for the river—quiet time before the inn woke up.
Before she had to put on her best smile and make other people’s holidays feel magical.
Her boots crunched over packed snow, each step sharp and familiar.
The cold burned her lungs, mountain air mixed with the faint smell of woodsmoke from someone’s chimney.
She cut through the River Institute’s parking lot and slipped onto the narrow trail, normally bark and peat and moss, now blanketed in snow and pine needles.
The river ran to her left, crystal clear and fast. Its height had dropped since the storm.
Not a little. A lot. From where she stood, the Icicle River appeared as it always had, cutting a path through the valley, indifferent to history.
London stopped for a while, watching it move.
The valley had taken hits before. Fires in the summer, close enough to taste in the air for weeks. Avalanches that stole young fathers. Climbers who didn’t come back down. Now this.
And still, by Christmas morning, it found its way back to something recognizable.
From somewhere ahead, a red rubber ball appeared, followed by a German Shepherd, tongue dangling and tail wagging as he chased his toy.
On the other side of the river, homes had more space than in town.
In summer, lush lawns bled together, subtle shifts in the shade of green the only hint of property lines.
In winter, it was all white and peaceful—real life gingerbread homes, roofs thick with snow and dotted with lights.
London kept walking, noticing scaffolding that hadn’t been there before, backhoes and other construction equipment at every fourth house telling the bigger story.
She was a stranger moving through the place that had been her home most of her life.
She knew the rhythms. The seasons. The bumper-to-bumper traffic in December and spaciousness of May.
But knowing a place wasn’t the same as still belonging to it.
Her 50th birthday had come and gone just a few weeks before without fanfare. She hadn’t let herself feel that disappointment. There had always been something more urgent. But out here, with nothing left to fix and no one watching, she couldn’t escape.
It hit her the way grief did sometimes—not all at once, but in the quiet moments when there was nothing left to do but feel it.
She never imagined she’d be doing this alone.
Her breath clouded in front of her as she stepped off the trail and climbed the steep grade back up to town. She passed a pair of teenagers dragging a bag of wrapping paper out of a hotel toward its dumpster, already overflowing with the same.
Front Street was on its best behavior as she made her way past the sausage haus, past the bookstore, past the blue and white striped Maypole.
Snow-dusted and postcard-ready, its Bavarian charm was at full volume, as always.
She slowed as she reached the Santa shop, its windows dark but fully dressed.
Twinkling lights framed the windows. Inside, ornaments, garland, and plenty of those little clip-on birds so popular with tourists packed every available inch of space.
Across the street, a couple stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the gazebo, handing a phone back and forth.
“Say hi to Aunt—no, hold it up—higher—there you go,” one of them said, their beanies and scarves bouncing as they laughed.
Others milled about, phones high, videoing and pausing occasionally for selfies with the picture-perfect backdrop.
London shifted her weight, glancing in the direction of the inn.
She couldn’t see it from there, but she felt it.
Lights aglow. Smoke wafting from the chimney.
Guests gathered around the new table with coffee and pastries.
She’d brewed a fresh pot and placed a basket from the bakery before she’d left.
The Colchuck was a beacon, calling her home.
# # #
“Hi, Mum,” London said after she was sure her mother’s aide had handed her the phone. “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, hello, dear. Merry Christmas if you say so.” Lorraine’s voice was scratchy.
“You feeling okay?”
“Oh, I feel right as rain. Which it doesn’t stop doing in this bloody place. I thought England was wet.”
A good sign. She knew where she was.
“Yeah, Seattle does pride itself on being the rainy city. Did you get the presents I sent you?” London sat on the chair in her suite, twirling a loose bit of hair around her finger. She caught herself in the mirror and noticed—overdue for the colorist.
“I did, though I’m sorry, I don’t think I sent yours. You’ll have to pick them up next time you visit. I can’t seem to get to the post these days.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need anything.”
“Nonsense,” Lorraine said. “Everyone needs something. How’s your Harper? Are you two keeping warm in the mountains?”
London wound the hair tighter around her finger. “Harper’s—she’s not here right now, Mum. She’s with her family for Christmas.”
“Well, darling, don’t you think you should call her? Why are you speaking with me?”
“I want to talk to you, Mum!”
“And still—you should call her, yes?”
“It’s complicated. Harper’s not my biggest fan right now.”
“Everything worth having is complicated, darling. That’s just life keeping you from the boredom of sameness.” Lorraine made a sound that might have been a laugh. Or a cough. “Your father is complicated. I love him because of it, not in spite of it.”
London sat with that, let her mother have the moment.
“Where is he anyway? He left for tea nearly twenty minutes ago—” Lorraine’s voice trailed off. Perhaps she was looking around for Frederick. Perhaps the phone slipped from her ear.
The sigh was right there, waiting. Dementia had stolen so much from her. One moment, her mother was accidentally brilliant. The next, still lost in the same confusion. This conversation never ended.
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon. You know how he likes to make it just right for you.” London played along.
The line went quiet. Long enough that London checked the screen.
“London, dear.” Just her name, but at full volume. Lorraine’s voice was less scratchy. Clearer. More like the mother she’d heard all her life. “Are you happy?”
“Yeah—I’m—I’m okay.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
London felt the tears gathering and blinked them back. “No. I’m not sure that I am. Right now.”
“Mm.” Lorraine said, like she’d expected the answer. “You know, you have a habit of carrying things alone. You get that from your father. It’s not noble, darling. It’s just lonely. When he comes back, he can tell you himself.”
“Harper’s still there, if you look,” Lorraine continued. “Don’t be an idiot about it.”
The laugh surprised her, falling out before she could stop it, the tears right behind.
“I do wish this rain would stop. I’m going to ask to move back to my room,” Lorraine said, her voice lighter. “The garden looks dreadful against this grey sky and it’s putting me off my tea.”
“Mum?”
“Mm?”
“I love you.”
“Well, I love you, too, darling. Obviously.”
When the aide’s voice came back on the line, London heard her mom in the background asking for her tea again. She flipped her phone face down on the armrest and looked out her window. No rain in Leavenworth. No garden, either. Just a snow-packed roof and a view of the neighbor’s garage.
She sat with the stillness, which was never quiet at Christmas. Outside her door, footsteps travelled down the long hall. A small child’s voice squeaked about sledding. Someone dropped something with a thud.
You have your father’s habit of carrying things alone.
She’d asked for help in repairing the inn—from several people.
She’d worked side by side with Harper for weeks to restore it.
She’d accepted assistance from locals when they’d offered it, and when they’d forced it on her.
She’d all but monopolized her best friend’s free time with the constant processing of her separation.
But.
She hadn’t told anyone how completely her father’s death had undone her. Not Sebastian, who would have listened and added levity. Not Laurie, who asked, more than once. And not Harper, who slept beside her, watching her disappear from the outside in and not knowing how to reach her.
She’d let others fix the inn.
But she hadn’t let anyone near what was actually broken.
Her father would have understood. He’d have done the exact same thing, called it strength, and been wrong about it. Just as she had been wrong.
It’s not noble, darling. It’s just lonely.
# # #
The phone buzzed against the armrest and London had to look twice—Harper was FaceTiming her. She let it buzz once more and answered with her best I’m completely composed face.
“What a nice surprise,” she said, almost immediately regretting that word choice.
The screen showed the chaos of a family Christmas.
Shredded wrapping paper and crumpled gift bags covering the floor.
A tree so big it didn’t fully fit in the frame.
A baby, crawling around and giggling, looking under paper and in bags.
Harper’s brother’s dog was right behind the baby, checking each spot for whatever Sully may have missed.
“Hi,” Harper finally said from behind the phone. “Sully wanted to wish you a merry Christmas and then had the nerve to leave me holding the phone. Hold on, let me grab her.”
London listened as Harper’s voice lifted an octave, “Come here, Sully, come to Auntie. That paper will still be there, come here, baby.”
Harper returned with a baby on her hip—nine months old, give or take. She was wearing a green and red striped onesie that made her look like an elf, flashing a gummy smile, little spit bubbles at the corners of her lips.
“She’s gorgeous,” London said, and meant it.
“Yeah, she’s a looker.” Harper bounced, and Sully smiled more.