Nine
When she parked in front of the inn, London noticed the chainsaws from weeks before had been replaced with something steadier. Less whiney and sporadic, more consistent.
“Hey,” London said when she found Harper in the backyard wearing big red earmuffs and safety glasses. She was feeding a sheet of plywood through a table saw. “How’s it going?”
Harper flipped off the saw and caught the board—now two boards—just before they dropped off the edge of the table. “You’re back early.”
“I said Wednesday.”
London noticed the pile of furniture she and Laurie had tarped was now covered in sawdust. As was all the snow on the ground around them. And Harper. It smelled like she imagined a log cabin would, except outside. Clean. Raw. Almost sweet.
Harper checked her watch. “Right. How’s your mom?”
“As good as she can be, I guess. She was mostly with it this week, though she’s moved on from the Cotswolds to Cornwall,” London said.
“Vacationing in her mind, huh?” The cut boards were leaning against Harper’s hip, waiting to become something.
“Something like that.” London stepped forward, dropping her bag under the patio cover. “Where do you need me?”
Harper pushed the earmuffs around her neck. “Let me finish this one up and I’ll meet you inside. It’s time to start setting cabinets.”
She’d been gone three days and Harper had finished installing flooring and built replacement kitchen cabinets. Who could do that? When she’d asked at the home store, custom cabinets required an eight-week lead time. They had two weeks.
London stayed a moment longer watching Harper reset the guide fence on the saw. Precise, efficient. She sent a smaller piece of plywood through, letting the saw pull. Not rushing. Harper didn’t rush. Even when angry, she didn’t rush.
London used to find that maddening.
She couldn’t get a rise out of her. No amount of pressing—no amount of questioning—could ruffle Harper’s feathers. London wondered if that restraint was strength in disguise. If they’d worked for so long because London pushed and Harper processed.
She stepped inside, right into the kitchen.
Cabinet carcasses were stacked three high and three across, like soldiers waiting for their uniform inspection.
They were better than what was there before, with dovetail joints and pre-finished insides.
London tried to envision them installed, full of mixing bowls and silverware, and the endless supply of serving dishes they’d accumulated over the years.
She remembered her mother saying that the key to being a good host was to feed them well and forget their opinions. And, they always had opinions.
As she got lost in memories, the back door opened and shut. Boots thudded against an old carpet mat.
“Alright.” Harper clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “The sink run is most important to get everything else right, so we’ll start there. Will you grab my level? I’ll find the drill. This’ll be fun.”
Harper found the drill—and the boombox. She’d moved on from ‘90s grunge. Something atmospheric and unfamiliar filled the room. Two weeks ago, London was choking down Boone’s Strawberry Hill and ripping cabinets out of this room. Now, it was getting a second lease on life.
They worked together to move the new cabinets into place, reversing the demolition order, one careful step at a time.
Harper crouched, shim in one hand, level in the other.
“Hold that.”
London did.
With persuasion from Harper’s hip, the cabinet slid into place with a thud. She laid the level on top. The bubble moved left. She added a shim. Moved again. Still left.
When Harper frowned—just a hint of frustration—London noticed.
“Want me to—”
“Nah, I got it.”
Harper removed the shim and put it on the opposite side, and the bubble righted itself. Perfectly level.
They repeated this dance until the last cabinet was ready to insert. The small one Harper’d been building when London showed up. A narrow cabinet just for baking sheets that would go next to the stove.
“This one’s light. I got it,” Harper said.
She lined the narrow cabinet up in the remaining opening and began to push it. It was going to be tight. She pushed. Nothing. Pushed again. No movement. The tape measure showed up again. Fourteen inches.
“Everything okay?” London bent to inspect the opening, then the cabinet sitting in front of it.
“I know I measured this! Ah!” Harper let her tape recoil with its familiar zzzzz. “Opening’s thirteen and a half. It’s too big.”
“We can fix it. You always say, it’s just a box.”
“Yeah, just a box.” Harper rubbed the back of her neck. All those boxes. Betrayed by half an inch. “Not a big deal.”
“I can help. You cut. I’ll sand. I promise not to micromanage.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
In ten minutes, the cabinet had been shortened, reassembled, and slid into place with ease. London picked at a small splinter in her index finger and made a note to wear gloves if she needed to sand again.
“Better,” Harper said and lined up a long face frame in front of the cabinet boxes.
London leaned against the stove, causing the gas to click. “I always forget it does that. Listen—”
“Crap. I need to take a half inch off this, too. Hang tight—can you go find the nail gun?”
More sawing. More time ticking along, unaware December bookings paid the bills for the entire next year. More time to sit with the loop in her head—her mother had always hated the inn they were rebuilding.
When Harper returned with the new face frame tucked under her arm, she had a wisp of sawdust stuck to her cheek. She lined the maple face frame against the cabinet boxes and clamped it down. Backed up and squinted. Adjusted it by a hair.
“There,” she said to herself.
“Here’s the gun. I put in some nails, too. I think I did it right.”
Harper’s fingers brushed London’s as she wrapped her hand around the nail gun.
“You wanna nail it? It’s your kitchen.”
“Are you sure—”
“It’s not gonna hurt you. Just press the tip against the wood and pull the trigger.”
The gun fired with a psssh-thunk, and London recoiled. A brad disappeared into the wood. Clean. Permanent.
“Nice!” Harper pointed to the next connection point. “Do it again.”
Psssh-thunk.
“That’s kinda fun.”
“Great job. I’m impressed.”
Harper stood, dusting her thighs. “You’re different.”
“How so?” London kept her eyes fixed on the cabinet line. What a massive difference they made.
“Don’t know. Different. Softer.”
Softer?
“Is that bad?” London asked.
Harper shook her head once. “No.”
The boombox spilled a generic folk song into the kitchen—brushed drums, a slow acoustic guitar, a man’s voice that seemed like it was singing from the other side of town, from the foothills of the Enchantments.
“It’s just—you’re not trying to fix everything. I mean, you are, because you need to. But you’re not trying to force fit things into how you think they should be.”
“I’m tired of fixing everything.”
Their eyes met.
“Me, too.”
Harper reached for the next face frame and London lifted the other end reflexively, helping center it in place.
“I think we’re good here for now. Coffee?”
# # #
The Alpinist had been their favorite coffee spot in town. Tucked into a back alley, it was off the main drag and off the radar for all but the most Instagram-post hunting tourists. A local’s spot, and the best cardamom buns in town. Also, the only cardamom buns in town.
They walked side-by-side in the middle of Commercial Street—the town was eerily empty.
Even Wednesdays in December were usually swollen with families taking photos and little dogs barking at the woman who drove the horse carriage through town.
Today, there were no barking dogs and no horse carriage.
Silence held them, broken by the occasional comment about a repaired roof or a cleared street.
“Looks like they got a new roof over at the oil and vinegar shop,” Harper noted.
“Yeah,” London nodded. “Fucking storm got us all.”
When they reached The Alpinist, its familiar scent met them at the door. Steamed milk. Cinnamon. Dark roast espresso.
“You want your usual?” Harper asked, already leaning against the counter.
The milk steamer hissed, fighting for attention as the barista pulled a shot. Grind. Tamp. Steam. The rhythm felt predictable. Like laying floorboards one-by-one.
London left the ordering to Harper and grabbed their usual table by the window. The one that had morning light and a view of passersby. They used to love to make up stories about people walking by. Who was secretly in love. Who had just broken up. Who’d forgotten to pay the cable bill.
Outside, snow was pushed into its usual corners. Wreaths were fluffed and lit for the holidays. Candy canes bolted to facades. The town was pretending nothing had happened. As if no storm was bigger than Christmas.
Harper set two mugs on the weathered tabletop.
“I was thinking—if we get the doors made and installed by Sunday, that just leaves wainscoting in the sitting room and dining room. And Sebastian’s list. We’re not as behind as I thought.”
She reached inside a small paper bag, grabbed the cardamom bun and tore it cleanly in half, sliding the slightly larger piece across the table. London stared at it briefly, remembering. They’d always shared one. Not because they had to. Just because they did.
“That’s good.” She traced the rim of the mug with her thumb. “You work fast.”
Harper tilted her head a little to the right, just as she always had when deflecting praise.
“I had help.”
London took a sip and let the syrupy sweetness sit on her tongue while she debated asking.
Harper stared at the steam coming from her mug. She preferred simple drip over the lavender and pistachio lattes London loved.
“Who?”
“Oh, nobody. A guy from the Sleeping Lady. I paid him for a couple afternoons. Needed some hands.”
Nobody.
Did she leave out the name because she didn’t want London to know? Or because it truly didn’t matter?
London blew on the coffee. Sipped again. “Smart.”
A beat passed. Then two. Outside, a delivery driver hopped out of his truck and pulled a bollard out of the ground to ease his way down a restricted street.
“I wanted to make sure we hit the deadline. I know how important December is.”
Harper had lived through enough Leavenworth Decembers—the lighting ceremonies, the sleigh rides, the constant turnover.
“Thank you.” London raised her mug. “Really.”
Expressing appreciation wasn’t her weakness. Lorraine had insisted she say please and thank you for every little thing growing up. Thank you came easier than I’m sorry.
Before Harper could acknowledge, a shadow fell across their table.
“Would you look at that!”
Katie Madsen from the Santa shop stood before them, scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and cheeks as rosy as Mrs. Klaus’s.
“I was just talking to Joel about you two,” she said. “Word travels fast, you know.”
Harper straightened. London noticed.
“You know, this town always comes back together. Even after devastation. If you need anything, you let us know. We’re here for each other in Leavenworth.”
“We’re getting it done,” Harper said.
“Well, good. It wouldn’t feel right to have The Colchuck dark at Christmas.” She lowered her voice. “And I won’t lie and say I’m not thrilled to see you two back together.”
Katie gave them a satisfied smile and turned to the pastry case.
Behind them, grind, tamp, hiss continued.
London stared at her coffee, half consumed, thin white lines denoting each sip inside the mug.
“Should we correct her?” Harper asked after a slow sip.
“Not worth it.” London lifted her mug to her lips.
Outside, a little girl in a dirndl flattened her nose to the window, blew them a raspberry, and ran off laughing.