Four
When London leaned into the heavy door at Birch, warmth and garlic hit her, thick and immediate.
The inn still didn’t have power, and she had three friends to feed.
They’d worked hard and cleared almost all the damaged materials before they ran out of daylight.
She scanned the room for an open table. The place was packed.
Locals everywhere. Eating. Playing card games. Not in a hurry.
“It may be a while,” she announced over her shoulder. “Wanna sit in the bar?”
“Who wants wine?” London sank into the cushy chair, her back to the bar. “Better yet—who wants martinis?”
The band was playing a cover of Good Kisser, the lead singer mid-belt.
Cheryl and Cindy were conferring over their menus. They religiously ordered two dishes and split them. It was their thing. Laurie was scrolling her phone, looking at photos of Duke enjoying his dog vacation at her sister’s. London repeated herself. “Drinks? Ladies? Just me?”
“Oh no, definitely not just you.” Laurie flipped her phone over on the table. “I’m ready for a dirty martini, and if they have the blue cheese olives—”
“I hate to tell you—this isn’t the city.” London set down her menu. “They don’t have those olives.”
“You don’t know that!”
“But I do,” London said, turning toward the bar, scanning for the bartender. If Ben was working, he’d take her side. Ben was anti-city. Anti Westsiders. With their fancy coffee and fancy cars and fancy fucking olives.
No sign of Ben, but when she scanned the bar, London saw her.
She was unmistakable.
Harper was wearing her prized Fjallraven flannel.
Rolled to the elbows, like she was working.
The fancy flannel, she’d always called it.
Her hair was different. Shorter. Cut just below the ears.
And blonder. Less grey, more I just got off the beach in Mexico.
One foot rested on the barstool, the other dangled loosely, like she was about to leave.
On a shitty day. In a shitty week. After a shitty storm.
This.
“How do you know that?” Laurie pressed.
“I just do,” London said, turning back to their table. Every instinct told her to look again She didn’t.
“Okay, then,” Laurie continued, “I just want a dirty martini with extra olives. Do they have extra—”
London knew immediately as Laurie’s voice trailed. She’d seen her, too. Harper was definitely at the bar, with her freshly blonde hair and her fancy flannel and her laissez-faire coolness.
“What?” Cindy all but yelled as the singer hit the chorus once again. “What are you two looking at?”
Laurie motioned with her head toward the bar.
“Oh,” Cheryl said, a rare opportunity to get in a word against the backdrop of her more gregarious spouse.
Oh was the only thing any of them could say. They'd been there when Harper left. And for the emotional cleanup that followed. Now here they were again, this time with crowbars.
“Should we get out of here?” Cindy wondered.
London sat silent for a beat before pushing out of her chair. Her pulse kicked. She kicked back. She was on her feet and midstride to the bar before her friends fully clocked what she was doing.
“Is she—?” Cheryl mouthed to Cindy.
“Are you sure that’s—” Laurie started.
“Is that a good idea?” Cheryl tipped a glass of water to her lips without looking down. She had a fleck of mud above her eyebrow and no idea.
That's when the server arrived. Three people consumed with their friend's potential bar fight had forgotten entirely about martinis.
They watched as London closed the distance. Watched as she reached for Harper’s back.
“Oh my God,” Laurie said.
Harper stood.
London said something brief. Harper nodded and let a hand rest on London’s forearm.
And then, London came back to the table.
“Can we get a round of tequila shots and a bottle of Boudreaux Cellars?” London asked the still waiting server. Screw the martinis. “And whatever else they all want. You can put this on my tab, okay, Hannah?”
The server nodded and waited patiently as Cindy and Cheryl explained they wanted two different orders but could the kitchen cut them in half and put half of each item on each plate? Please and thank you.
Glasses and tableware clanged. The hum of conversation filled the high-ceilinged room.
A huge fireplace crackled in the corner, adding a smoky smell reminiscent of summers camping near the lake.
Good Kisser had ended and the band had moved on to something less apropos.
The lead singer was practically yelling about being a teenage dirtbag.
“So—” Cindy downed the tequila as soon as it appeared in front of her. “Harper’s in town.”
London lifted her shot, motioned a toast, and drank it in one gulp. “Yep.”
# # #
“I thought she was in San Francisco,” Cindy said, unable to stand the cone of silence that had enveloped their table. She’d never been good at silence. Silence made her limbs itch. She leaned forward in her chair, fork waving like a conductor’s baton.
“Me, too.” London brought a full glass of red wine to her lips, the alcohol-forward Merlot hitting with instant impact. A few more sips and she’d feel fine. Well, maybe not fine, but—better. For now.
“Should we leave?” Cheryl reiterated.
“Leave? Hell no!” Cindy grabbed a piece of sourdough from the untouched pile and broke it, crumbs spraying across the table. “I want the tea. Plus, here comes the food.”
As dinners arrived and the server placed plates before them, London set down her wine. “It’s fine. We can be in the same room. There’s nowhere to go, anyway.”
The band slowed it down and the energy in the room softened. The lead singer's voice was nothing like gravelly Stevie Nicks’, but their rendition of Landslide worked.
“Okay then, at least tell us what happened.” Laurie swirled her wine in the glass. “What did you say?”
“I told her what happened at the inn and that I’d sign the papers if she’d help me rebuild before the December rush.”
Cindy's jaw dropped. Her hands flew to her mouth. “You haven’t signed the divorce papers?!” Her voice boomed over the softness of the music. Half the bar turned toward their table. No way Harper didn’t hear that.
“Not yet, no. I haven’t been ready. I’ve been—” London gestured with both hands to Keep. It. Down. “I just haven’t been ready. But I really need help and Harper is an excellent carpenter. She built half the stuff we just ripped out. I figured signed papers would get her to agree.”
“So, you just bribed your wife?” Laurie kept swirling that glass of wine. She hadn’t tasted it yet.
“Ex-wife,” London corrected. “Well, soon.”
“You don’t need to do that. We can help you,” Laurie argued. “Let’s get a carpenter from Seattle. I’m sure we can find someone just as good.”
“Yeah, my friend Symonne’s got a great crew—” Cindy stabbed at a tomato. “They could re-build the Space Needle with a box of Legos and some Silly Putty.”
“Guys, it’s okay.” London managed a smile she didn’t feel. “I need to do this. It’s time. She agreed to help. I’m going to get through December. Then I’m gonna sell The Colchuck.”
Laurie tilted her head. “Are you sure? Because—”
London lifted her glass again. “I’m sure. New year, new me. No inn, no wife.” Onlookers saw friends mid-toast. A night of celebration and joy. She tried to sell it. “Here’s to a rebirth.”
“To phoenixes,” Cindy clinked her glass against London’s and wine sloshed over the edge. “To messy, beautiful phoenixes.”
Eventually, it was time to go. Dinners were picked over, wine was consumed, conversation had been exhausted.
Even the band had left. As she downed the last of her wine, London quickly turned over her shoulder.
The clock behind the bar read 8:34 p.m., but it may as well have been midnight.
Winter nights in the Pacific Northwest were long.
It was called The Big Dark for a reason.
She may or may not have been checking the time, but that look at the clock confirmed what she’d been waiting for: Harper had left.
Without fanfare. Without a wave. She’d slipped out a side door maybe.
Or even right through the front, without attention.
London wondered where she went. The Sleeping Lady?
Unlikely, as it didn’t have power. To a friend’s?
Maybe. Sleeping in the cold would be better with company.
Or was someone else waiting for her with a warm bed?
Questions folded on top of questions.
Why was she in town? Who was she seeing these days?
London was convinced she was seeing someone.
Harper was a catch. Tall and lean, her swimmer’s build set by hard work.
She was striking in a lived-in way—laugh lines and crow's feet she'd never tried to hide, proof she'd shown up for her own life. Harper didn’t like to be alone. Never had. That was the part London didn’t see coming.
Leaving meant being alone, for both of them.
It was the first time they’d been in the same room since everything fell apart. She’d survived.
“Should we get out of here?” Cheryl nudged her wife. Her voice was soft, but firm. Responsible, reliable Cheryl.
“Yeah.” Cindy stood and wiped crumbs off her thighs. “We’ve got a long drive with that full trailer. We’ll drop it at the transfer station tomorrow. I love the cleanse of a dump run.”
“You guys are just the best, thank you.” London stood and found herself in a group hug, Cindy’s sandalwood scent now replaced with sawdust and steak, a hint of sweat.
“We love you,” Cheryl said, pulling away. “Please be careful with your heart.”
“I will.” London drew an X over her flannel with a finger. “Promise.”
As her two friends left the bar, Laurie remained. She didn’t sit. “You still love her.”
“Don’t, please.” London sank back into her chair.
“You offered to sign the papers in exchange for what? Labor? Time together?”
“I need help, that’s all.”
Laurie waved off the server, approaching with a pitcher of water. “Sure, you do. But not from her. You say you’re done, and then you stand in the ashes and wait for her to come back. This time, you’ve just found a way to make it happen.”