21. Harper
HARPER
Two weeks after New Year’s, I was still at Montgomery House.
I had told myself I would stay through Christmas, then Dad asked for New Year’s.
Then maybe a few extra days to help my father with the foundation transition.
Then, suddenly, it was mid-January. My Chicago townhouse felt more like a storage unit than a home.
Everything had officially been handed off, and Timothy had become the last thin thread tying me to my past work, and Northwell… him.
When Timothy asked me what I wanted to do with the voicemails for my work phone, with the final transition pieces that needed to be placed, I almost caved.
Almost asked him if he had listened to them and asked if he had called.
Timothy never mentioned Elliott directly, which I both appreciated and hated.
Because some weak, humiliating part of me wanted to know, wanted to ask.
Wanted to type his name into a search bar like a woman with no dignity and too much free time.
I had been too tempted a few times, but the idea of seeing whoever Timothy had pitched to replace me at Elliot's side made my stomach roll.
Some mornings, when my father went into the city and the house felt too large, too quiet, too full of memories that watched me from corners, I sat in the library with coffee gone cold beside me and wondered where Elliot was.
If he was working, had been seen at events with someone new.
Was the woman from the elevator part of his new PR plan?
Was she my permanent replacement? Had his New Year’s looked the way I imagined it had.
Women in glittering dresses, champagne in excess, his mouth near someone’s ear, his hands on someone else's body.
But then I heard her voice talking to someone on the phone about her booty call and knew my body wasn't the last place his hands were. That thought always hurt enough to make me close the browser before I could type a letter.
I was trying not to miss him. But, the problem with trying not to miss someone was that it required thinking about them constantly enough to ensure you were not thinking about them.
Which was deeply counterproductive.
My father noticed, but did not push for more than I was willing to give. He simply left me notes beside my coffee before he went into the city.
Foundation reports are on the desk. Read only if you feel up to it.
Or:
The vineyards sent another case, a sample of their varieties. Please pretend to have sophisticated opinions when I return.
Or, once:
You are allowed to be sad and still move forward. Both can be true.
That one I folded and kept inside my book.
I had just settled into the library that morning with a stack of files for the literacy initiative my mom had once pioneered, when the front doors opened.
Which was odd because I knew my father would be out until later this evening, and no one else came here.
A moment later, her voice rang through the foyer.
“Harper Lane Montgomery, if you are hiding from me, I will find you.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. Margot appeared in the library doorway seconds later, wearing a cream wool coat, oversized sunglasses pushed into her hair, and the expression of a woman who had never once accepted the word no as a complete sentence.
“There you are.”
I looked up from the file in my lap.
“Good morning to you, too.”
She swept into the room as if she owned it. Honestly, families like ours shared vacation homes, board seats, secrets, and unsolicited opinions. So it was on brand for Margot.
“It is almost noon.”
“It is ten-thirty,” I replied.
She stopped in front of me and looked me over with a dramatic sigh.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
And I knew what was coming next and was much more comfortable hiding from the world in the comfort of our family library.
“No.”
“Yes,” she chirped.
“Margot,” I said with a sigh.
She set her handbag on the coffee table and planted both hands on her hips.
“I am so happy to have you home.” My chest warmed as she continued. “And since I only had Oliver, and he became insufferably male very early, I have been deprived of years of proper pampering.”
“I’m not sure I like where this is going.” I teased.
“You will love where this is going. I have booked us an afternoon.”
I blinked. “An afternoon?”
“Yes,” she huffed, as if I were the ridiculous one.
“What kind of afternoon?” I asked tentatively. Because maybe I could use some Margot energy.
“The kind where you put down boring reports, stop pretending you are eighty years old, and let someone spoil you.”
“I’m not pretending to be eighty,” I said after almost choking on my last sip of cold coffee.
“You are wearing what I hope is your father's clothes. Oversized socks and a chunky sweater that you can probably curl up in and hide.”
I glanced down. “They’re warm, and that kind of the plan.”
“Darling, you are far too fabulous to hide yourself away from the world.”
“I don’t feel all that fabulous,” I muttered because I kind of felt like I had lost a bit of my sparkle somewhere along the way.
“That makes it worse, and this afternoon with me is absolutely necessary.”
I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile.
Margot’s gaze softened. “There she is.”
Everyone kept saying that lately. My father, Oliver, and now Margot. Like they had a group chat with catch phrases to say to me. As if pieces of me had been scattered somewhere, and everyone was relieved when one showed up.
I looked away first. “I have work.”
“No, you have avoidance disguised as productivity.”
My eyes snapped back to hers, and she smiled like she already knew this would go her way.
“Come with me,” she said. “Let me have this day with you. I have been dreaming of taking you shopping and feeding you champagne since you were seventeen and too busy pretending you hated dresses.”
“I did hate dresses.” I laughed because there was a very angry teenage Harper who would rather hide than stand out.
I closed the file in my lap, asking, “What exactly did you book?”
Her smile turned victorious. “A salon, lunch, shopping, and then maybe a little dinner.”
“Margot.”
“With Oliver.”
I froze, and she pretended not to notice.
“Oliver?” I repeated.
“He has to eat.” She said with a shrug.
“I’m aware of how human bodies work,” I said, tucking my legs up into the oversized sweater.
“And he asked about you.” She said with what I assume was a sly smile. “We missed you.”
The words cut through my attempt at deflection so neatly that I forgot what I was going to say. Margot sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand. The gesture was so maternal and familiar that my throat tightened immediately.
“I know coming home is complicated, I know this house holds beautiful and terrible things. But you were loved here, Harper. You still are.”
I looked down at our joined hands. Her nails were painted a deep burgundy. Mine were nude. Because that was safe and forgettable.
“I don’t know how to be me anymore,” I admitted.
Margot squeezed my hand. “Then we start small.”
“With a salon?”
“With nail polish,” she said, motioning to the nails I was just staring at.
I laughed despite myself.
She smiled, “That’s my girl.”
And because I was tired of being difficult for the sake of seeming in control, I went upstairs, changed, and let Margot Hastings kidnap me.
The day she had planned was excessive; Margot did not do moderation.
The salon was in the city, tucked behind a discreet black door with no visible signage and enough security to suggest politicians, actresses, and socialites came there to cry into cappuccinos while someone fixed their hair.
Margot had closed it down. I stared at her when we walked in.
“You closed the salon?”
“Only for a few hours.” She quipped, like it was no big deal.
“Margot.” I huffed.
“What? I know your privacy matters to you, and what matters to you matters to me.”
Something in her voice softened at the end.
Privacy matters.
I remembered who she had been to my mother. A friend, a sister in all ways that mattered, a woman who had stood beside my family when privacy stopped being something we could assume.
My irritation dissolved as a stylist appeared with champagne. Margot accepted two glasses and handed one to me.
“To small starts,” she said.
I clinked my glass against hers.
“To small starts,” I repeated. Because I could do that. Small decisions that brought me back to myself and who I want to be, what I want my life to be.
We started with nails. I chose pale pink out of habit, and Margot immediately vetoed my choice.
“No.”
“It’s classic.” I retorted.
“It’s boring.” She said, with a scrunched-up nose.
“It’s professional.” I defended.
“You are not in a boardroom.”
“I could be later,” I said, but I was losing steam.
“You are not choosing nail polish for a hypothetical boardroom, Harper Montgomery. You could show up in a glitter cocktail dress, and people would still listen. Small starts, choose something you never normally would.”
I stared at the rows of colours. Deep red, emerald, midnight blue, gold, soft lavender, a sparkly rose shade that looked like something I would have loved when I was fourteen. Then my eyes landed on a blue that looked so familiar, but I couldn't place it.
Margot noticed, and told the esthetician, “That one.”
“No.” I groaned.
“Yes.” She rebutted.
“It’s too much.”
“It’s nail polish, not a blood oath, my darling girl.”
I laughed and then nodded at the woman who looked like she didn’t know which crazy woman to listen to.
When the polish had been meticulously applied, I stared at my hands as if they belonged to someone else. Someone younger, softer, maybe a little playful and flirty. Less afraid of being dismissed.
Margot leaned over. “See?”
I flexed my fingers.
“They’re ridiculous,” I said in a low voice.
“They’re fun.”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
The word felt almost foreign.