Five #2
The picture-perfect postcard looked just as it should. And she alone saw this happen. From the other end of town, everything appeared in place.
Leavenworth was good at this. Good at getting knocked down and standing back up.
Good at pomp and performance. And good at pretending it had always been this way.
No one remembers it used to be a dying logging town.
London stood, looking down the barrel of Front street to the snow-capped mountains that framed it.
Reinvention.
Was that what she was doing?
Or just painting over water damage and calling it new?
As she watched the lights steady, she saw the town reclaim its joie de vivre.
Somewhere, a switch flipped and it roared back to life, unaware it had ever been dead.
It was beautiful. Always had been. And yet, standing there, alone in the middle of the street, she felt like both a local and a tourist.
# # #
London walked home through town, past the hat shop and the chocolate shop and the cheese monger. Past the trees, aglow in daylight—highly unusual. Past workers who had appeared in a flash to fix broken bulbs and loose strands.
If downtown had power, The Colchuck might, too.
Please.
Two blocks. Five minutes.
When she rounded the corner onto Division Street, she saw it. A city truck in front of the inn. Hazard lights blinking.
Her steps slowed as she hit the walkway to her house. A slight woman was wearing a fluorescent vest over a navy parka and writing something on a clipboard. Yellow tape spanned the front door. A red “No Occupancy” sign was affixed to the wood.
“Hi,” London said from behind, causing the woman to startle.
“Oh, hi. You’re Ms. Mercer?” The woman lowered her clipboard.
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“We’ve had reports of structural compromise from the flood. I need to restrict access until inspections are complete.”
“But—we’re just drying it out. No one is staying here. I’ve cancelled all the reservations for weeks.” London’s voice was high and hurried.
“I understand,” the inspector said. “But until we can come inspect the structure, no occupancy. I know this is happening at the worst time. My house is flooded, too.”
Occupancy. As if this were an event venue or a bar. As if she were some distant owner instead of the third-generation caretaker.
“When can you inspect?” London pressed. “It needs to dry out. But nothing structural was damaged. Just wood and drywall. I got everything out fast.”
“We’ll come by next week sometime. The list is long, but you’re near the top.”
Next week.
London sat on the porch steps. She could hear the fans whirring inside. The yellow of the porch lightbulb bounced off her boots. “Okay. Can I at least bring some more fans in?”
The inspector shrugged. “I can’t stop you if I don’t see you.” A step toward the truck. “And Ms. Mercer?”
London looked up.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“Oh,” London said. “Thank you.”
She nodded before disappearing into her truck. Hazard lights clicked off, and she disappeared down the street. The generator hummed, now useless and defiant. There was city power, but London was locked out of her own life.
Snow slid off the roof in drips and drops.
London reached for her phone in her jacket pocket and grabbed a pack of tissues. Other pocket.
She scrolled her favorite contacts, hovering over Harper’s number. But she wouldn’t do it.
“Hi Mum,” she said when Lorraine answered.
“Oh, darling. How lovely to hear your voice,” Lorraine chirped from the other end of the line.
“Where are you? It’s loud in the background.”
“Oh, just in the Cotswolds, you know. I must get away from the city sometimes.”
Her mother was not in the Cotswolds. She was in a memory care facility on Queen Anne Hill, minutes from London’s townhouse.
“Must be nice.” London played along. Correcting her never helped.
“And how are you dear? How’s Parker?”
“Harper.” London broke her own rule on correcting and stared at the yellow tape stretched across her door. She moved to the ski lift swing. “I’m okay, Mum. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful? I sure am missing you. When can you come to England? I haven’t seen you in so long.”
London had visited the day before the storm. “It’s almost Christmastime, Mum. You know how it goes. It’s so busy at the inn.”
“Oh, I never liked that godforsaken inn,” Lorraine said. “Just let your dad run it and come see me for a while. That town is so small, you can’t swing a cat.”
London always loved her mom’s sayings. Growing up the daughter of an American and Brit in fake Bavaria had been quite an education.
“It’s true. But I have work here. Let me get through December, okay? Then we can tour the countryside. We can finally go back to Paris and get some of those croissants you love.”
“Don’t make all your life choices about that inn, dear. Life’s too short to be so serious.” Lorraine’s voice softened. “Promise me you won’t forget to enjoy yourself.”
London had gotten used to making her mother promises she’d never keep. We’ll tour the countryside. We’ll go to Paris. But this promise dug deep.
“I won’t. Mum. I love you to the moon—”
“And back again,” Lorraine finished.
Just as she hung up, London's phone buzzed. She looked. Shoved it back into her pocket. Not now.