18. Harper
HARPER
Christmas morning came quietly. No alarms, traffic outside the window, or the sharp buzz of my phone on the nightstand reminding me of emails, meetings, or men who had no business living rent-free in my head. Just snow.
For a few seconds, I lay there staring at the ceiling and let myself exist inside the fragile pocket of peace before memory found me.
Then it did. Chicago and that elevator. The scent of her perfume and the knowledge that he went there with her just to hurt me.
My chest tightened before I could stop it.
I closed my eyes and breathed through the ache, waiting for it to pass.
It hadn’t, not really, but it had dulled since coming home.
That seemed to be the best I could hope for lately.
The first few days after coming home had been a blur of sleep and my father pretending not to worry.
I slept so hard the first night that I woke up disoriented and convinced I had missed something important.
Then I remembered there was nothing left to miss.
No schedule with Elliot, fake dates, late-night texts, no reason to roll over and check my phone. So I slept more.
My father didn’t push. He simply appeared with coffee, food, blankets, and the occasional glass of wine.
The house was quiet when I climbed out of bed Christmas morning and crossed to the window.
Snow had fallen overnight, covering the lawns and gardens and the long drive in pristine white.
The lake beyond the trees looked frozen; the surface pale and still beneath the winter sky.
Montgomery House had always been beautiful at Christmas.
Garland along the banisters. Candles in every window.
A tree tall enough to have its own ladder.
Fresh greenery tucked into mantels and doorways.
I pressed my fingertips to the cold glass.
For one moment I could almost see her in the reflection.
Sophie Lane Montgomery. Barefoot in the kitchen, hair pinned messily on top of her head, with flour on her cheek, telling my father that if he touched one more cookie before guests arrived, she would divorce him.
He would pretend to be horrified, then steal another one.
I showered, left my hair damp, and pulled on leggings with one of my mother’s old sweaters.
Downstairs, I found my father in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and a look of suspicion aimed at a mixing bowl.
I stopped in the doorway, asking, “Should I be concerned?”
He looked up, offended. “I can handle breakfast.”
“You once burned toast so badly that the smoke alarms in the east wing went off.”
“That was a faulty toaster,” he replied.
“It was a commercial-grade toaster.”
“Faulty commercial-grade toaster.”
I laughed softly and moved toward him. His eyes warmed at the sound.
“Merry Christmas, my angel.”
I crossed the kitchen and wrapped my arms around him.
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”
He held me tight for a moment, kissing the top of my head before letting me go.
On the island sat eggs, flour, butter, a bowl of cranberries, and three different recipe books.
I raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”
“I was attempting to bake.”
I picked up the closest book, not one of the polished chef-written ones. This one was old, with a green fabric cover that had frayed at the edges and a split spine from overuse.
My breath caught before I even opened it.
My mother’s cookbook. The book had lived in the kitchen when I was little.
Not on a shelf with the decorative cookbooks no one actually used, but shoved into drawers, left open on counters, stained with butter, wine, and tomato sauce. I ran my fingers over the cover.
“I haven’t seen this in forever.”
My father’s voice softened. “I found it yesterday.”
I opened it carefully. The pages smelled faintly of paper, vanilla, and time. Her handwriting appeared in the margins. Notes beside recipes. Little pieces of her tucked between flour measurements and oven temperatures.
Beside a cranberry-orange loaf recipe, she had written: Alexander says he hates cranberries. He is lying.
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.
My father leaned over my shoulder. Then huffed. “Slander.”
“But you do hate cranberries.” I said, my finger trailing over her handwriting.
“I would eat anything she made.”
I remember that, mom was an incredible cook, but sometimes she would get it wrong and Will and I would complain, but Dad would eat whatever she put on his plate.
I turned to another page. A folded recipe slipped free and fluttered onto the counter. I picked it up carefully. The paper was soft from use; the edges browned slightly.
Christmas Eve Pasta In my mother’s handwriting. Underneath, in smaller print: Harper likes extra cheese. Will eats around mushrooms. Alexander will complain and then have seconds.
My throat closed. For a second, the kitchen blurred.
I saw Will at the counter, rolling his eyes because I had too much cheese on everything.
My mother laughed as she swatted his hand away from the pan.
My father pretended to hate that she would cook every Christmas Eve so that the staff could be home to their families, while stealing whatever she was cooking straight from the dish when he thought no one was looking.
I set the paper down slowly, and my father’s hand covered mine.
“Do you want to make it?”
I looked up at him. The question was simple, but the look in his eyes felt anything but. Because making it meant touching the past. It meant letting the ghost into the kitchen instead of keeping her safely in stories.
I swallowed hard. “Can we?”
His eyes softened. “Of course.”
So we did, or we tried.
My father was excellent at many things. Negotiations. Public speaking. Making senators uncomfortable. Staring down people who mistook politeness for weakness.
Cooking was not on that list.
“Those onion pieces are enormous.”
He looked down at the cutting board. “They are rustic.”
“They are basically quarters.” I replied with a laugh, filling our wine glasses.
“Rustic quarters.”
“Mom would have fired you.” I said and then immediately rubbed at the ache in my chest. This was the most we had talked about her in a very long time.
“She loved me too much.” He replied in a voice thick with emotion.
We spent the next two hours making a mess.
A spectacular one. Flour on the counter, sauce on my sleeve, and my father nearly burning garlic while giving a completely unnecessary speech about patience.
We drank an entire bottle of wine while I accused him of feigning incompetence, and he accused me of inheriting my mother’s disrespect for his authority.
It was the closest Christmas had felt to normal in years.
Not because it didn’t hurt; it did. Every time I reached for something and remembered my mother used to keep it in a different drawer, it hurt. But it was not the kind of pain that destroyed, it was the kind that reminded you something beautiful had existed.
We had sent most of the staff home for Christmas, my idea. My father had looked at me with softness when I suggested it a few days earlier. “Are you sure?”
“Mom would have hated the idea of everyone missing their families so we could eat a pretentious dinner in a house large enough to host a government summit.”
His expression had shifted then. “She would have.”
So Christmas dinner was just us. The table in the smaller dining room instead of the formal one.
Candles lit. Snow pressing against the dark windows.
My mother’s pasta in a serving dish that was far too elegant for the chaos that created it.
The cranberry-orange loaf cooling on the rack.
A bottle of wine between us, one of the ones he had mentioned investing in.
I took a sip and tried not to smile, as my father watched me over the rim of his glass.
“Well?”
I swirled the wine as if I knew what I was doing.
“I think you should invest.” I offered.
“Do you?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I took another sip.
“Because it’s good.”
His mouth curved. “Exceptional analysis.”
“I’m in public relations, not a wine expert…”
“Noted.”
“It feels…” I looked at the glass, searching for the word. “Warm.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Warm?”
“Yes. Like something you’d drink in a room with people you actually like.”
He laughed. “That should be the tagline.”
“It’s better than whatever your marketing team came up with, I guarantee it.”
His smile lingered. Then slowly faded into something thoughtful. “Maybe we should invest.”
I looked up. “We?”
He held my gaze. The firelight from the sitting room beyond the open doors flickered across his face. For a second he looked older than I liked, not weak, never that, but tired from carrying grief for too long.
“I think it’s time,” he said quietly.
My stomach tightened. “Time for what?”
“For you to stand beside me.”
I sucked in a breath. “Dad.”
“You have been building a life of your own,” he said gently. “And I have been proud of you for it. I am proud of you.”
My throat tightened. “But?”
“But I think hiding has become heavier than being seen.”
I looked away, saying, “I wasn’t hiding.”
“No?” The question was gentle.
“I was making my own name.”
“You were,” he agreed.
“And proving I could do something without Montgomery attached to me.”
“You did.”
I looked back at him. He wasn’t arguing, and that somehow made it worse.
“I needed that.”
“I know.”
“I still need that.”
“Do you?” He asked and then set his glass down before continuing, “I am not asking you to disappear into this family. I am asking if you are ready to stop hiding from it.”
I looked down at my hands, my mother’s ring, at the manicure I had picked at enough over the last few days that one nail had chipped.
“I don’t know who I am as Harper Montgomery,” I admitted.
My father’s face softened. “You are exactly who you are as Harper Lane.”
“That’s not true.” I argued.
“It is.”