Twenty
“Checking out?” London asked, already reaching for the key card in the woman’s hand. “How was everything?”
“Perfect,” she said as she shifted a toddler to the opposite hip. She’d recognize that child anywhere, the hairdryer bandit. “And sorry about the breaker. My husband was so embarrassed about that.”
“Oh, not a problem. It’s an old house.” London typed on her laptop, tapping the room back into the system.
“We had a lovely stay. What you’ve done with the place is just beautiful.”
“Thanks. I hope we see you next year,” London said, knowing full well she didn't know yet if she'd be here next year.
“Every year. It’s our tradition,” the woman said over her shoulder, already out of the room.
How many people had now told her staying at The Colchuck was their annual tradition? This was at least the fifth. Out of eight rooms, that was a high percentage.
Liz and Joanne lingered near the sitting room, leaning on rollaboard suitcases and continuing their talk-over-each-other style. London heard something like, I want to know and will you just let it go?
“Hi!” she called in a voice louder than usual. The faster she checked people out, the faster the cleaners could turn the rooms for the next wave. New Years Eve was just as busy as Christmas—they needed all the time they could get.
“Sorry,” Liz said, stepping toward the front desk. “We’ve just been admiring your renovations. You did such a nice job with the place.”
“I appreciate that, but I didn’t do it alone. I had a lot of help.” With a click, London sent their room back into the system.
“We know.” Joanne rubbed her hands together as if they were cold. “We saw the article in the paper this morning.”
The article.
London had done a phone interview with a reporter a few days before. It must have been published today, three days after Christmas. Three days until the new year. This had to be the “I want to know/let it go” she’d overheard.
“Oh,” London said, hands still on the keyboard. “I haven’t actually seen it yet.”
“You gave that contractor of yours quite the praise,” Liz said, with the tone of someone who had an opinion and was choosing, for now, to keep it neutral.
“She’s not—” London stopped. My contractor. As if that were the correct word for it. “Harper did all the work. She deserves the recognition.”
London left out the part where she hoped Harper would read the article. Hoped she’d see how much London appreciated what she did.
Liz shot Joanne a look that appeared to say I told you and don’t you dare simultaneously.
“Is she still in town?” Joanne asked. The same question she’d asked upon check-in, wearing different clothes.
London smiled the way she’d been smiling all week. Warm enough to mean something, closed enough to end things. “She’s not. She’s back with her family in California.”
Technically the truth.
“Mm.” Joanne accepted this the way people accept the weather—potentially unhappy, but understanding there was nothing she could do about it. “Well, you should read it. Beautiful write-up about Leavenworth.”
“I will,” she said with a little wave. “Safe travels, you two. Keep a lookout in Tumwater Canyon. I heard there’s water over the road just before the sweets shop.”
London watched them go and wondered what the article said that intrigued them so much. Her conversation with the reporter had been relatively short; she’d been told they were writing an article about what it took to rebuild and reopen after the storm.
A break between checkouts meant an opportunity to pull up the article on her laptop.
Still Standing—Leavenworth’s Race to Save Christmas
As London skimmed the article, she read about her friends and neighbors banding together to remove fallen trees, patch punctured roofs, and clear mud and silt from basements and back rooms. The reporter had interviewed the owner of the reindeer farm, who said they’d closed for a couple of weeks to restore habitat for the animals.
He’d talked to the brewmaster at the biggest brewery, which lost all its hops and had to source a key ingredient for its main product in winter.
And he’d spoken with London Mercer, the owner of The Colchuck Inn, about renovating the entire main level of her family’s historic inn.
Her eyes locked on the middle of the full-page article.
“My grandfather built this inn in 1967, and in its nearly sixty years, it has never faced such adversity,” Mercer said. “But this town is resilient. The way people showed up for each other—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The Colchuck is open again because of that.”
London continued reading and came to the quote that Liz and Joanne must have been referencing when they’d said she’d praised her contractor. She’d said it offhand, as they wrapped the interview.
“The town showed up for the inn, but Harper [Mercer] dropped everything when I needed her most, and through her skill and generosity, gave the inn back to me. I’m not sure she knows what that meant,” Mercer said.
Harper Mercer, a furniture builder known locally for her custom work using reclaimed timber, has been on commission at Sleeping Lady Resort for the past six months. In the wake of the storm, that same material now litters the valley—more than any one craftsperson could hope to use.
London read it twice. Then a third time.
I’m not sure she knows what that meant.
She’d said it to a reporter.
A stranger with a recorder.
She’d said the thing she hadn’t been able to say to Harper directly, and now it was sitting in black and white print in the Wenatchee World for all the valley to read.
She saved the page in her Favorites bar and closed the tab. Harper didn’t read the paper. If she’d seen it, it would be because someone sent it to her.
London’s phone was in her hand in a blink; the kind of muscle memory reaction that moved before the mind could catch up. She typed Harper’s name and started a text. Then deleted it. Then started it again.
Your work was the talk of the guests. Can I buy you dinner when you’re back?
London read the text. Deleted again.
Great reopening week, thanks to you. Can I take you to dinner? I wish I could do more.
Still not right.
Guests loved the reno. Dinner when you’re back? I owe you more than that, but it’s a start.
Text messages were convenient and fast and nearly impossible to convey tone. London felt like she was playing chess with her life—move the wrong piece too soon and risk checkmate. Don’t move at all and lose by default.
A guest cleared their throat in the dining room. Someone played a video at full volume in the sitting room and quickly turned it off. A suitcase wheel caught the edge of a rug and thudded over it. The usual sounds of the inn at full capacity were trying to hijack her brainpower.
Checkouts. Check-ins. Booking requests.
The front door opened with its familiar complaint—she really needed to get some grease on those hinges—and Sebastian appeared, unwinding a scarf from his neck.
“I have been summoned,” he announced. “Also, I saw the article. Also, you’re welcome.”
London looked up. “Thank you?”
“It’s the least you can do. I sent it to everyone I know and told them to send it to everyone they know. Like a modern-day chain letter.”
“Bash—”
“Pfft. Word of mouth is the best marketing.” He helped himself to a cookie from the basket on the front desk. “And Harper needed to see it, so that one was just common courtesy. It was an extremely good article and I’m quoted in it.”
“You sent it to her?”
“I said I sent it to everyone I know.”
“Okay, but you’re not quoted in it,” London said, a flush creeping up the back of her neck.
“Well, I should have been.” He dusted his hands and dropped a shoulder bag behind the desk, looking over London’s shoulder. “What’cha doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Looks like you’re texting Harper.”
“I was—I’m trying to—”
“Get her to take you back?
“Say thank you.”
“Boss, you put her name in the paper with glitter and confetti on top. Once she reads that article, you won’t have to try.”
“Why does everyone seem to think this is a given?”
Her mother. Laurie. Even Cindy. Now, Sebastian? The “she’ll be back” trope was getting old and it was hard to believe.
“We think it’s a given because it is.” Sebastian bumped her off her stool with his hip. “You have all the makings of a great make-up story. A disaster. A deadline. Working together in proximity. You can cut the sexual tension with a knife. Let me see this—”
“No,” London resisted but Sebastian pulled her phone away with the ease of someone who did hot yoga three times a week.
“This is what you’re sending her? Girl, no. Let me help.”
“Bash—”
“Trust me.” He held the phone just out of reach. “You sound like you’re leaving a Yelp review.”
“I don’t sound like that.”
“Guests loved the reno? Who are you? TripAdvisor?” He looked at her with downcast eyes. “Do you want her back, or do you want to thank her for her service, like you’re the Army?”
London crossed her arms. “I want to say thank you.”
“Then say thank you. Not . . . whatever this is.” His thumbs moved over the screen. “Okay. Tell me what you actually mean.”
“I—” London stopped. Because the answer wasn’t neat. Or short. Or safe. “She didn’t have to help. And she did. And now the inn is open, and the guests love it and—” She pressed her lips together. “And I couldn’t have done it without her. Not even close.”
Sebastian’s expression softened. “Great. We can work with that.” He looked at the phone, typing again.
I hope you saw the article this morning. I meant what I said. Thank you for everything you did.
I couldn’t have done this without you.
If you’re up for it, I’d like to take you to dinner when you’re back.
“There,” he said, handing the phone back.
London read it and shook her head. It felt like stepping outside without a coat and realizing how cold it was—when it was too late to return for one.
“It’s too much,” she said.
“It’s accurate,” he countered.
“What if she doesn’t respond?”
“What if she does?”
London hesitated, and then, with a whoosh, the message was gone. Time would tell if this was a smart move or she’d just sacrificed her queen.