Twenty-one
“Okay, rooms three, five, and seven have checked out. Six asked for a late checkout but all the rooms today have quick turns, so I told them no.”
London filed card keys in a little plastic box.
“Three wants more cardamom buns. I told them I’d try. Feel like sprinting over to The Alpinist in the next twenty minutes?”
Sebastian leaned against the counter and fluffed the part in his hair. “Unlikely. I don’t feel like sprinting anywhere. I’ll give them directions on their way out.”
“Fair,” London said. “The guest in eight said the baseboard heater is making clicking noises so we need to get the HVAC guy out here today if possible.”
“That heater has been making clicking noises for years—it needs to be replaced, not repaired.” More hair fluffing.
“Well at least go up there and pretend to look at it.”
“I can absolutely do that and then decide it’s part of the old home charm,” Sebastian said. “Anything else?”
“Can you make some signs today asking that people not run personal space heaters?” London glanced at her phone. Nothing. “Room five tripped a breaker on Christmas and it was because they’d brought two space heaters and ran them both at the same time. The house can’t handle that kind of draw.”
“Signs. Got it. Nothing from Harper, huh?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
“I was. And no.”
The front door opened and closed, letting in a couple in puffer jackets, cheeks flushed. They stamped boots on the entry mat, laughing too loudly, the kind of giddy, vacation laughter that signaled they had no cares in the world. They moved with ease together and headed straight upstairs.
“Give her time,” Sebastian said. “And get out of here. I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure? I can hang out today.”
What London didn’t say was she didn’t know what to do next. For nearly a month, every available minute had been occupied. Punch lists and decisions and keeping the plates spinning. What was she supposed to do, three days before New Years, if she didn’t staff the front desk?
She could drive to Wenatchee. Get a pedicure. Go to a movie. Have a nice meal. But all of that seemed so unfulfilling alone. She could hang out in town with the tourists and what? Drink too much mulled wine and wallow in her life choices?
Without the needs of the inn and someone to run it with, life felt hollow.
Sebastian made a shooing motion with both hands. “You generously gave me Christmas off. Go have a self-care day. Go snowshoeing. Just go.”
London rested her fingers on the edge of the desk and leaned into it. “Yeah, okay.” She walked slowly toward the front door, grabbing her coat from the hook behind the door. “Call me if you need me.”
“Go.” Sebastian ordered and then turned his attention to the couple handing him room keys.
London’s phone was unlocked before she even realized she’d done it.
A text from Laurie asked when she was coming back to Seattle.
A spam message offered her zero percent interest on a timeshare property in Cabo San Lucas.
Nothing from Harper. She’d read the message—and not replied.
Life was arguably easier before text messaging.
Or perhaps, sitting in the discomfort of the unknown was easier because people couldn’t communicate instantly.
She reached for the door handle, and the door swung open fast, before she could turn it.
Harper.
Wearing her same old Carhartt jacket, collar turned up against the cold, but the hat was new. A dark green knit—something she hadn’t bought for herself. She had a canvas bag over her shoulder, surprise painted all over her face.
“Hi.” Harper let go of the handle.
“Hi,” London said.
The inn carried on behind them. A door closed upstairs. Someone coughed in the sitting room. Sebastian—blessedly—didn’t look up, which for him, was as good as not listening.
“I got your text,” Harper said as she stepped in. She pulled YakTrax off her boots and let them dangle over the mat. Her cheeks were pink, as if she’d been walking a while. Her smile was less guarded, the little dimple on her left cheek starting to emerge for the first time in a long while.
“I figured.” London leaned back against the wall, unsure what to do with her body. Or hands. Or eyes. How could this person she’d known so well for so long make her so nervous? “Didn’t know if I’d hear from you.”
“Sorry. Just got back this morning and it’s been a little nuts.”
Of all the possible outcomes, how had she not considered this one? Harper had simply been travelling.
“Yeah, how was the pass?”
“I saw the article, too.” Harper ignored the small talk.
“Sebastian.” London nodded.
“Yeah, but you could have sent me that.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.” London became aware she was still holding her coat. “I was just heading out. I was going to—”
She stopped herself. Go be hollow somewhere else didn’t seem like the right thing to say. “I actually didn’t have a plan.”
“Did you eat?” Harper asked.
“Not yet.”
“Me either.”
That almost smile.
London remembered what Sebastian had said. All the makings of a great make-up story. She thought about the agony between sending the text and this moment, Harper standing in front of her in the inn she’d rebuilt—in a hat London didn’t recognize.
“Can I buy you lunch? Or—something. Anything you want. The least I can do for everything you’ve done for the inn.”
Not enough.
“For everything you’ve done for me.”
Harper folded her lower lip under her front teeth as she thought, just like she always had. London had forgotten about that.
“Snowmobiling,” Harper said.
“Sorry?”
“You said whatever I want. I want to go have some fun. Snowmobiling. Up to Sugarloaf.” It looked like Harper but sounded like a kid asking for something—pushing the limits of the offer. Because she could. Because London had already said yes to anything.
Outside, cold pressed against the windows, but the sky was blue. The view of the valley from Sugarloaf Mountain would be stunning.
“God. I haven’t been snowmobiling since—”
Since before everything changed.
Her father loved snowmobiling; her mother, not so much. London had taught Harper the ropes when they’d moved to Leavenworth and her wife was a natural. She instinctively knew how to use her weight to manipulate the machine and quickly became much better and faster than London had ever been.
“That’s exactly why you should. Come on. I’ll call Bud over at the rental shop. Go change and I’ll meet you up there.”
“You have gear here?”
“At the resort, yes. All my stuff’s there.”
Key information, finally. London had suspected she’d been staying at the Sleeping Lady but hadn’t had confirmation until now.
“It sounds—”
“Fun?” Harper cut her off before London could issue all the reasons why snowmobiling was a bad idea. “Meet me up there in forty-five. That’ll give us enough time to get to the top and back down before dark.”
Whether it was a good idea was debatable, but winter negotiations always involved planning to be back before dark. She shushed her inner voice, which said she was too old and too unpracticed to get on a snow machine and drive it up a mountain.
# # #
London adjusted the full-face helmet again, though it felt secure, the plastic edges pressing noticeably into her cheeks.
“You’re overthinking it,” Harper said, already atop her machine.
The staging lot to the trailhead was packed, two-stroke engines revving in their whiney, high-pitched signature sound, friends checking gear and planning routes and comparing snacks. The trees that lined the trail dripped with snow, sparkly and glistening on a bluebird day.
“I’m not,” London said, tugging on the chinstrap. “It’s uncomfortable.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
London glanced over, noticing Harper’s helmet was still in her hand.
She wore a solid black snow suit with leather patches at the knees and elbows, and heavy boots up to her knees.
If Harper didn’t already exude badassery, she would’ve cinched it with this outfit, on that machine, with the most majestic backdrop.
“I just haven’t done this in a while.”
“Like riding a bike,” Harper grinned. There was the dimple. Finally. “Remember which hand does what?”
“Yes.” London reminded herself, right hand gas, left hand brake. She was the one who taught Harper to do this, after all.
“And remember, easy on the thumb. A little gas goes a long way.”
It was as if Harper was actively reading her mind. “Right.” London nodded and pressed slightly with her thumb while holding the brake. The machine revved a response and her brain registered. Light touch.
“Alright, so—” Harper started, throwing her helmet over her head with one motion and tightening the chin strap. “Let’s go to the summit. Just follow me. We’ll take it nice and easy. Should be beautiful up there today.”
Around them, a winter Nascar pitstop. Riders came in and left with frequency, revving engines, hopping off to use portable toilets, running into the little store for snacks and handwarmers.
Everyone seemed so comfortable. Everyone seemed so happy.
London didn’t feel comfortable or happy, but it was obvious Harper did.
She was in her element. She’d suggested they do something together that didn’t involve hammers and saws and her old boombox.
It was almost as if they were them again.
“You ready?” Harper revved her machine twice, apparently checking its power. It had plenty.
A nod.
Without a word, Harper eased the snowmobile forward onto the wide trail and waited for London to join.
Then, revved the engine and started the ascent past flocked Ponderosas that rose high into the sky, past low drifts covering trail markers, past a stand of younger Aspens, bent under the weight of the snow as if they were doing a curtsy bow.
London followed, her thumb cautious with the throttle, the machine responding faster than she expected, even with the earlier practice. Its skis cut clean lines into the packed trail, the engine vibrating her hands up into her shoulders.
She gave it some gas.
Too much.
She eased off.
Too little.