Fourteen
The alarm sang promptly at six a.m., well before her usual wake-up time. London made a pact with herself to be awake, showered, and caffeinated before Harper arrived to paint that morning. She’d promised herself she would be on her best behavior. She’d take instructions and try not to mess them up.
And she’d read the room. If Harper seemed open to it, she’d ask the question Laurie had pressured her to ask.
She’d ask the question she needed to ask.
Her mother had always coached her not to ask questions you don’t want the answers to.
Perhaps it was time to ignore Lorraine’s advice.
This was the same woman who’d also said to always wear a slip, because you could tell everything about a lady from her underlayers.
Advice she’d offered her daughter well into her thirties—undeterred by London’s lack of dress wearing.
With a quick flick of the screen, the alarm was silenced but her head still screamed.
Not a hangover. At least, not the traditional kind.
Her mind had worked all night on what-ifs and whys, looping on each moment of the winery conversation and fixing nothing.
If only she could go back with even a few hours’ hindsight and say something different.
London swung her legs over the bed and sat, hands on her knees, waiting for the courage to arrive. It needed caffeine, too.
She wasn’t opposed to apologies. Wasn’t opposed to taking ownership of her mistakes.
But apologies came with consequences.
What she knew was: She missed Harper. She still loved Harper. And she had zero interest in being hurt that deeply ever again. But most of her adult life had Harper’s fingerprints on it. Every version of home she’d ever built seemed to lead back to her.
They’d once had something solid. Something enduring. Like the Enchantments that surrounded town—reshaped by every slide and storm but still standing. Mountains didn’t give up over a little rockslide.
For too long, she’d told herself she knew what happened. Harper had crossed a line. Harper had moved on.
Time and Laurie’s voice had cracked an opening in that theory.
Did you ever actually ask her what happened?
Was it possible that she had a role in the rockslide?
Worse, was it possible she caused it?
When she made her way to the coffee pot, it was already full. Impossible. There was no sign of life in the house. It was dark, save for the undercabinet lights in the kitchen and a slight glow in the back hall. No screw guns screeching, no Jorge clanking around with tools. No Harper.
London poured a mug anyway, suspicious of the miracle. The first taste confirmed it was fresh. Steaming hot, bold. Stronger than she liked it, but it would do. She leaned against the stove, automatic clicking when the knobs were brushed reminded her not to do that. Such a fussy stove.
As she was debating whether to dilute the coffee, Markus Kline appeared, trying to tie a belt around his robe.
“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” London lifted the mug. “This yours?”
“Yes. Annabelle wakes early and I have first shift. It’s the only way to make it through the day.”
“That explains the motor oil strength.”
“Indeed.” Markus grabbed a mug from an upper cabinet. He’d made himself at home.
“Well, thanks. We have a big day of painting today and I needed it. I hope everything is okay in your room?”
Markus leaned against the cabinets opposite her, his legs crossed at the ankles. He wore full length striped pajama pants and closed toe slippers. London couldn’t help but notice the stylish way he dressed for sleep, just as he did for his daily life.
“It’s impressive, what you’re doing. I don’t think Katherine and I could do such a thing.”
“Impressive?”
“Sure. You’re rebuilding this home—together?
We’d be headed for divorce before the first swing of a hammer.
We don’t do projects. Well, unless you count Anna.
But—this?” He looked around, gesturing with his free hand.
“We could never do it. I’m not a builder, for one.
But to do it without a giant argument? Not possible.
You’re lucky. How long have you been together? ”
“Oh.” London lifted the mug to her lips, searching for answers. “Well, it’s complicated. We’re—we’re actually splitting up.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—it’s just, the way she looked at you—I assumed.”
London waved it off. “No, you didn’t know. I’m still accepting it myself.”
“Hm.” He scrunched his brow. “Perhaps I misread things. But people who are finished with each other usually don’t look at each other like she looks at you.”
He got all this from one encounter, when London was trying her best to get them to leave.
“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure she’s finished with me.”
“Well,” Markus said. “What do I know? I only saw you together for five minutes.” He smiled politely and added, “but in my experience, people who have moved on usually stop showing up.”
“Anyway.” He pushed himself off the cabinet and turned for the stairs. “It’s none of my business. I wish you well. And thank you for letting us stay. I know it’s an inconvenience.”
“Oh, of course.” London slipped easily into host mode. “We actually went to your family’s tasting room last night, so—”
Before she could finish, the front door opened and a burst of cold made its way to the kitchen. Boots stamped on the mat. London didn’t even have to look. At six thirty a.m., there was no other likely person.
Her pulse climbed straight into her throat. Despite her best effort, she wasn’t showered. She wasn’t dressed. And she wasn’t ready for the realities of this day.
“Ah.” Markus must have noticed her face go pale. “The carpenter. I’ll leave you to it.”
He disappeared down the hall just as Harper appeared in the doorway.
Canvas tool bag. Overalls splattered in paint and stain.
Work boots, scuffed at the toes. Beanie covering her short hair, dyed blonde tips poking out.
London caught herself watching longer than she’d prefer, which meant—she was staring.
Harper had always been like this. If she said she would do something, she did it. If she promised to be somewhere, she was early. If she agreed to help, she helped.
Even now.
Even after everything.
“Coffee?” London asked, like it was just another day.
“Yep,” Harper agreed, hand already on an empty mug.
Just another day for her, too.
# # #
By noon, the floor was tarped, caulking had been applied to gaps, tape separated wainscoting from drywall in crisp, sharp lines, and London’s back was killing her.
Kneeling for hours to spread caulking wasn’t her idea of a good time.
Kneeling for hours while wondering what Harper was thinking was even less energizing.
There was no boombox this morning. No music to diffuse or distract.
Just squeezing the tube, spreading the white goo with a wet finger, wiping the excess on a rag and moving to the next gap.
London was a one-woman gap-filling assembly line, and she missed Jorge.
And Harper was back to monosyllabic conversation.
“You missed a spot. Right there.” Harper pointed, and returned to pulling tape, the kkkkttt of its removal from the roll the only thing breaking the silence between them. New drywall and wainscoting smelled good, at least.
“Sorry,” London said, moving backward a full step and attacking the gap with her newfound skill.
Say it. Just ask.
The words were suspended somewhere between her brain and her mouth. And instead of asking them, she dipped her finger in a bucket of water and smoothed a fresh line of goo.
Behind them, the Kline family emerged, looking like they were headed for Paris Fashion Week. Even baby Annabelle was dressed in a designer snowsuit. “We’ll be out as long as she can stand it.” Katherine bounced the baby carrier. “This is looking so good! Better than before. You’re a great team.”
Harper didn’t look up, but the tape in her hands stopped moving for a moment, before she pulled again. Kkkkttt.
London waved them out the door. The only thing that made silent misery more miserable was being told what a great team they were.
“Hey,” London said, wiping her pruney finger on a rag.
She ignored all the white remnants lodged under her fingernails—something to deal with later.
“I need to spend a couple hours in town this afternoon. Joel offered to make some special welcome baskets for the Christmas guests, in honor of the re-opening. I should probably go help. Is that okay?”
“Yep.” Harper nodded and stuck a short piece of blue tape on her thigh, on top a pile of other discarded pieces of tape. “We’re almost ready to spray. That’s a one-person job. You can go now if you want.”
# # #
Yeast and sugar hung thick in the air, the kind of warmth that softened the edges of a frigid day.
Outside, people moved in clumps, crowding from one shop to the next.
Inside Der B?ckerei, they relaxed. Tucked into small café tables, they enjoyed apple strudels, plum cake, and the bakery’s signature—authentic Bavarian pretzels with more than a dozen local mustard choices.
London waited her turn, listening as people ordered more than they’d planned and relishing the intoxicating scent. Behind the counter, rows of pretzels hung from racks and a worker dusted powdered sugar over a large tray of pastries.
Joel was kind to offer his time to help her design baskets for the Christmas guests—who would start arriving in one week.
He greeted her by pushing a warm croissant over the glass display counter.
“Just out of the oven,” he said proudly.
“Come back to my office. I have a whole spread ready for you.”