Seven #2
“Lon, let’s not. You asked me for help in return for what I’ve asked you for. I’m here to do that, okay?”
“I just mean . . . I didn’t think you’d ever come back. To Leavenworth. To this.” London motioned with outstretched arms to the room, with its cozy lounge chair and antique dresser. Her eyes settled on their wedding photo, still tucked into the bookcase.
“I didn’t,” Harper said. Soft, gentle. “I’m not back. It’s temporary.”
London sat with the vagueness and fought the instinct to bring out the daggers.
“You seemed so sure about leaving. You were so—different.”
Harper let out a breath. “I wasn’t.”
“I thought you were done with me. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen you again.” London lifted a knuckle to her eye. Not now. She could cry later, quietly. Out of earshot.
Harper was quiet for a moment. Her jaw worked like she was deciding something.
“I was done being invisible,” she said, leaning her weight onto her knees. “In my own life. You don’t realize this, obviously. When your dad died, he took all the oxygen out of our lives. Both our lives.”
The instinct rose—sharp, defensive. Ready to argue.
It dissolved before the words reached her mouth.
She put herself back in time, to the aftermath of the surprise of death and conflicted feelings and complete and utter loss.
If she were honest, that’s what it felt like for her, too.
No oxygen. Like she was trying to suck air out of the ocean. Pain so deep, no salve would ease it.
“I didn’t see that,” she said, resting a hand on Harper’s thigh. “All I saw was a mountain of grief and a million things to do. Paperwork. Guests. My mom. I was drowning and I guess I thought if I held everything together, we’d survive.”
Harper covered her hand. “I kept moving, too. You just didn’t notice.”
“I wish you’d told me.”
“I tried. Maybe not in the right ways, but I did try. You were just—gone. Even when you were right there.”
Silence stretched again. It was less brittle. More raw.
London traced the floral pattern on the duvet with a finger. “I thought you left because you stopped loving me.”
Harper looked up at that. The fine lines that defined her forehead deepened.
“That wasn’t it. I didn’t need you to do everything or be everything.
I just needed you to see me.” She pushed herself off the bed with a fist around the loaned clothes.
“Anyway, I need to go to bed before I say something I shouldn’t. ”
# # #
Morning arrived without permission. She’d feigned sleep all night, but the minutes dragged on while London stared at the ceiling and beat herself up.
For a year, she’d told herself her marriage fell apart because of Harper.
For a year, she’d told herself a story of being abandoned during her darkest hour, only to end up in a darker hour.
Coffee dripped out of the pot slower than ever. Without cabinets or counters, it was plugged into a floor outlet in the corner of the kitchen.
“Come on,” she tapped the top of the pot.
“Please tell me you’re decent!” Sebastian called as he closed the front door. He carried a stack of paper under an arm, a large iced coffee concoction in his hand and navy peacoat completing his sophisticated look. “We need to talk about refunds.”
No good morning.
No how are you?
No nonsense.
“Hi to you, too,” London growled, holding an empty mug, still staring at the coffee pot.
“Oh, girl. You okay?” Sebastian looked her up and down. “You’re giving camping vibes.”
London knelt and poured half a cup of dark roast into the mug that read Willkommen. “I didn’t expect you today. What’s up?”
“These.” Sabastian fanned the stack of papers he’d kept under his arm.
They really needed some countertops, soon.
“We have fourteen cancellations through next week. I rebooked two of them to January. The rest want full refunds, and I need your sign off. One is threatening to leave a bad review if we don’t waive the policy for Christmas. ”
London let the caffeine warm her. There wasn’t enough coffee in town to power this day. “Waive it.”
“Across the board?” Sebastian’s voice stepped up an octave.
“Yes.”
“You’re the boss. Oh! I want to show you some other things that need fixing. While Harper’s here.”
London hadn’t seen Harper yet that morning. Had she slept? Had she left?
“Here,” Sebastian continued, tugging on the stair rail. This is loose, see? And the fourth tread squeaks when you step on it. Drives me crazy all day.”
“Okay,” London said.
“And then here,” he continued walking, leading them into the guest suites. “The caulking around this tub is peeling off. We don’t want more water damage.”
“No, we don’t.”
“And the poster bed in six needs to be tightened. God knows what people do when they’re here,” Sebastian’s urgency was raising her blood pressure. “If we’re re-opening for Christmas, we should think about repainting the hallways. They’re covered in suitcase scuffs.”
Just then, Harper emerged from her bedroom, day old clothes back on, a big smile for the inn’s manager. “Bash, oh my God!” She wrapped him in a hug. “You smell as good as ever. Cedar?”
“Actually, it’s fir, bergamot, and smoked vetiver. Manuel’s been blending new scents lately. He’s obsessed. This is the latest.”
“Well, it’s delicious,” Harper cooed.
It was the easy way she leaned into him that stung. Familiar. Uncomplicated.
“I’ll tell him. And while you’re here, we were just going over some things that need your attention.” Sebastian spoke with the confidence of someone who lived there, who knew what was broken.
“Sure, show me.”
London stuffed her hands into her pockets as Sebastian took Harper into room six to look at the poster bed. The Harper she knew was back. Her tone had shifted, her body straightened. She was confident and controlled. Warm. Open. The way it used to be.
“I’ll go work on cancellations,” she yelled after them, too late.
“I’ll screw down this tread, too,” London heard Harper say as they descended the stairs. She was sitting on the floor with her laptop and Sebastian’s printouts.
“And the rail,” he repeated to the one who would fix it.
“You got it. Anything else?” Harper asked as they landed back in the sitting room, its floor finished, walls still open.
“I think that’s it,” Sebastian sipped from the long straw in his coffee. “You sure about this floor?”
“Not my choice,” Harper shrugged.
“Hey—” London raised her voice. “There weren’t a lot of choices. It was available. I think it looks nice.”
“It does. It’s just—” he hesitated. “It reads new. The rest of the place reads history.”
“Maybe it’s time for history to be just that.” London petted the floor like it was a labrador. It was modern. And durable.
“So, are we rebuilding, or rebranding? I need to get our listings updated. Expedia, Booking, Kayak, all of them. It’s going to take time. If we’re rebranding, I’ll start now.”
Harper looked at the floor.
London looked at Harper.
Her father’s reminders played in her head.
“We’re rebuilding.”