Twenty-two
The broker arrived five minutes early in a long overcoat and practical boots, a small plume of cold air following her as she crossed the short path from the street to the inn’s front door.
London saw her coming from the window and met her on the porch, trying her best to present an image of confidence and clarity.
“Stephanie,” London said with a hand outstretched. “Thanks for coming over so soon. I’m sorry if I pulled you from your holiday—”
“Don’t mention it,” Stephanie said, taking London in a hug instead of a shake, her oversized purse dangling against London’s back. “It’s what I do. Though—I have to admit, I was surprised to get your call.”
London led them into the foyer and pretended the front door didn’t squeak.
“Oh, really?”
“It’s not every day a generational property comes into inventory.” Stephanie bent to unzip her boots. “And this close to downtown? It’s a purple squirrel, as we say—one in a million.”
It was her grandfather’s dream brought to life with his own hands. Not a generational property. Not a purple squirrel.
“Oh, this is so lovely,” Stephanie continued, surveying the foyer and sitting room. “This wainscoting is exactly what buyers want. Simple, classic. Beautiful. Why don’t we walk through each room, and you can tell me about what you’ve done.”
London nodded, like she agreed.
Stephanie spoke about the inn as if it were a product, something created specifically to be marketed. Not something fought for, lived in, restored. Just inventory.
London let the words pass through her and led the broker through the sitting room, past the wainscoting she admired and the reclaimed mantle Harper had built years before.
Past the grandfather clock—from her grandfather.
They started the tour in the dining room, with its crystal chandelier and brand-new table, seating for twelve, made from locally felled timber.
The table’s design was Harper’s signature—big bow-tie inlays stitching together natural cracks, a smooth live edge, and a finish so soft it didn’t even feel like wood.
“The aesthetic in this room is wonderful,” Stephanie gushed. “This table alone tells a story, but the coffered ceiling and chandelier are high-end touches. Buyers love these kinds of details.”
The broker turned toward the hallway, already two steps ahead of London. “Have you updated the kitchen as well?”
As they moved through the hallway, Sebastian appeared, a stack of bath towels up to his chin. He slowed, turning sideways to let them pass.
“Morning boss,” he said, as if it were just another morning. As if he didn’t recognize the town’s top real estate broker. “Didn’t realize we had company.”
“Just doing a walk through,” London said sing-song, her eyes begging him not to dig.
“Right,” he said, moving toward the stairs. “Well, when you’re done, I need to talk to you about our linen situation. I’m not sure what they’re doing, but we’re going through towels like it’s a pool party up there.”
“I’ll come find you.”
“Can’t wait.” His tone was we have company friendly, but his body language said he didn’t approve.
What was she going to tell him? He’d worked for her family since he was twenty-two, since well before she’d taken over.
“Anyway,” London said, turning back toward the broker. “It’s all new. We re-did most of main level after the storm. Didn’t have much of a choice.”
Most.
The word stung as she said it. They’d re-done the entire main level.
The kitchen opened at the end of the hall, warm and bright, light bouncing off dark quartz counters and freshly painted cabinets.
Stephanie ran a hand over the counters, opened several cabinet doors. “Oh, wow, solid plywood boxes? So rare.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Did you get permits?”
London shifted her weight as she considered the space. The cabinets, the walls, the places where things may not have been done exactly right.
“Yeah, Harper built those from scratch—even matched the existing door style. I couldn’t believe it,” London said. Maybe she wouldn’t notice the skipped question.
“Well, she’s quite talented,” Stephanie leaned against the stove and jumped forward as the gas clicked. Some things hadn’t changed about the house.
London’s gaze dropped to the lower cabinets—the boxes they’d installed together. Harper had been so confident as they installed them—she was in her element. But the moment when one didn’t fit, Harper had been frustrated.
“It’s a half inch too big,” Harper had said.
“It’s just a box,” London had told her, borrowing Harper’s confidence like it was hers to use.
London remembered being helpful that day. Being the one bringing the “we’ll fix it” energy. And they did. The cabinets were beautiful and functional and matched perfectly.
“About the permits, I’ll need to know that for Form 17. We have to disclose if major work was done without a permit from the city.”
“We didn’t move anything structural,” London said.
“Did you have the water damage certified that it was mitigated?”
The twinge in her stomach showed up again, and London’s shoulders dropped. “I didn’t—I didn’t know that’s a thing.”
“Buyers want to know they won’t be looking at a mold problem in a year.
” Stephanie snapped photos with her phone as she spoke and typed short notes to go with them.
“It’s a liability for you, but it’s a potential nightmare for them,” she said, already halfway up the stairs.
She pulled on the rail as she walked. Sturdy.
Liability wasn’t a word she’d considered. Her obsession had been with getting it done, re-opening, and moving forward.
“Okay,” London said, catching up on the upstairs landing. “What do I need to do?”
“I’ll give you a name—don’t worry. Bill’ll come by with a moisture meter . . .”
Stephanie kept talking, something about acceptable ranges, documentation, about moving quickly while buyers were in town. London nodded where it felt appropriate, but her head felt thick. Everything inside had slowed, as if she were watching it play out from a few seconds behind.
She caught pieces, parts. Not enough to hold onto. The same way her text to Harper hadn’t landed: I’m sorry.
Still nothing.
Stephanie was already in the next room when London composed herself.
“This clawfoot tub is to die for! I love how you’ve staged it, with the bath tray.”
“Oh, I didn’t—” Stage it. Even think of it. Harper did.
“And I love how every room has an en suite bath. This is a big deal for revenue. Guests have so many more choices now with Airbnbs and other short-term rentals in town. Private bathrooms are a real differentiator,” Stephanie continued.
As they toured each room, London pushed down memories.
There wasn’t a part of the inn that wasn’t catalogued in her mind.
Her childhood bedroom, room five. Where she and Harper lived when they moved from Los Angeles, room seven.
The place where she spilled an entire glass of Kool-Aid when she was eight and her mom had dumped a glass of red wine to make her feel better, saying it was time to replace that rug anyway.
It hit her all at once.
Not a single memory. All of them.
Layered over each other—rooms and versions of herself, stacked on top of each other, spilling out everywhere onto the place as it existed now.
She kept talking. Kept walking.
Harper’s touch was everywhere. Not just the main floor. Not just the obvious things. It was in built-ins and paneling. In patched walls and paintings hung. Harper hadn’t just fixed what was broken. She’d put her hands on every inch and made it whole.
Oh.
This wasn’t about freeing herself. It wasn’t about reducing burden or checking off some version of a life she told herself she was supposed to want. It wasn’t her Fifty in Fifty.
This was a life shared—with her parents, with Harper. With Leavenworth.
And she was doing it again. Deciding alone. Moving fast. Calling it the right thing before anyone had a say.
Stephanie’s voice carried from another room. Something about square footage and comparable sales. London stood in the hallway of her grandfather’s inn—her father’s inn—and let the broker dream.
# # #
“So,” Stephanie said, coat already on, card in hand, “We’ll want to list before the New Year’s traffic clears. January is a great time to sell—strike while the iron’s hot.”
London took the card, though she didn’t need it. Everyone in Leavenworth knew how to find Stephanie Miller. Her name was on almost every For Sale sign in town. “I’ll be in touch,” she said.
Not the same thing as “yes.”
If Stephanie noticed the shift in London’s tone, she was too professional to mention it. She smiled and opened the door, just as a family of four was approaching the front steps.
“Take your time,” she said, her tone almost motherly. “But not too much.”
London welcomed her guests to the inn, shoving the card in the back pocket of her jeans. “How was town?” The brightness in her voice masked her inner conflict. She hoped.
They told her about sledding, the line at the hill, the chocolate shop across the street.
The kids talked over each other and London noticed the evidence of said chocolate shop around their lips.
The parents laughed as if this was exactly the trip they’d hoped for, and when they disappeared up the stairs, London had time to collect herself.
She usually didn’t sit in the open during the day—her father had always told her to be visibly busy around guests—but this day, she couldn’t fight the urge to fall into a club chair in front of the fire.
It crackled and snapped, and she tossed an extra log on before sinking into a chair and resting her elbows on her knees.
It wasn’t just a lot.
It felt wrong.
Not the tour. Not the questions. The decision. Sitting in the chair, fire blazing, London had just walked someone through something she maybe wasn’t willing to give up.
Before she could sit with it, Sebastian appeared in the doorway, exactly on cue.
“So,” he said.
“Please don’t,” London said, closing her eyes briefly.
“I’m not doing anything.” He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “How’d it go?”
“I’m not sure.” London watched the flames catch her new logs, bright and immediate, then settle. “It’s been a rough couple days.”
“Seemed like Steph was pretty excited to be here.”
“She was.”
“And you called her here, so—”
“Yes, but I’m not so sure now.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked. “I can handle it.”
“I didn’t want to ruin your Christmas,” she said. “And frankly—I didn’t know how to say it without making it real.” She pointed to a chair opposite her. “Have time to sit?”
“Until the next person uses up their last towel, yes.” Sebastian sat, his body rigid. Posture perfect. London had never seen him slouch.
She ran a hand through her hair, eyes tracking the ceiling for a moment before dropping back to the fire.
“Being away was starting to help,” she said. “I was getting somewhere. But being back here—”
London gestured around the room.
“It’s all still here.”
“Yeah,” Sebastian said. “That’s generally how it works.”
“Every room. Every wall. Even what was replaced. I can’t get away from her.” London dabbed at the corner of her eyes. It seemed like she’d been on the verge of tears or laughter for an entire month. There was no neutral. There was no peace.
“Being back here just undid everything, you know? Each time I was close to breaking through with her, we just had a bigger fight.”
“Hm.”
“Hm? After all that, hm?”
“Yep.”
“Come on Bash, I know you have an opinion. You always have an opinion.”
“Lesbians confuse me.”
“Not helpful.”
“Okay, the way I see it, you want to stay here, or you don’t. You want to be with her or you don’t. And you’re circling both—but not making progress.”
“More helpful. Go on.”
Sebastian crossed and uncrossed his legs. “You want me to tell you what to do?”
“Maybe.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You do it all the time.”
“With towel orders and HVAC repairs.” He tilted his head, trying to catch her eyes directly. “Not with this.”
London looked for answers in the fire. “She rode down the mountain without me,” she said. “Yesterday. I told her I was thinking of selling, and she just put on her helmet and left.”
Sebastian watched the fire for a moment, then, “What did you expect her to do?”
“Not that.”
“Boss.” His voice dropped. “You told the person who just rebuilt this place for you that you were thinking of selling it. I would have done the same thing.” He leaned forward in his chair, determined to find her eyes that time.
“Scratch that, I would have taken the key to your machine and then ridden down without you.”
London laughed, a little. “Well, I certainly would have fired you if you did that.”
“You hear what I’m saying. Right? She thought you were repairing, and you gut punched her.”
“Yeah, I get it now.” London pressed her palms together between her knees, rocking forward. “I just don’t know how to fix it.”
“Well, for what it’s worth you could fix it with Harper and still sell,” he said.
“I looked on Zillow while you were giving the grand tour. The Zestimate is like three million, give or take.” He pulled his phone out of a pocket and held the screen toward her.
“So, financially you’d be fine either way. ”
“That’s your advice?”
He pulled his phone back and folded his hands in his lap. “That’s context.”
“And?”
“And—with that context, the question isn’t whether you can sell. It’s why you want to.”
Behind them, someone tapped the bell at the front desk and Sebastian stood. “And I don’t think you’ve answered that yet. I’ll get this while you think.”
When he was just out of the sitting room, London heard him slip back into guest service mode with ease. “You need more towels? You bet. I’ll have them right up.”
Meanwhile, London sat, the fire crackling, the noises of the inn the soundtrack to her life. His question lingered.