Page 2 of Reeve
“No! I wasn’t speeding,” I tell her, hanging my parka on the rack by the door and toeing off my wet boots. “And it wasn’t that icy. More mud than ice.”
“Mud can be just as dangerous,” she informs me, pouring warm milk into a bottle, then shaking it. “Travis is reading Wren a bedtime story. Let me give this bottle to him, and then we’ll go.”
“I didn’t realize Travis Clearwater was old enough to babysit.”
Last time I saw Joe’s cousin’s son, he was in grade school.
“He’s almost fifteen now,” says my sister. “In fact, I think he’s dating Ivy’s cousin.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep!” she calls over her shoulder, headed down the back hall to the nursery. “The older one. Jenny.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. Fifteen-year-old Jenny Caswell has a boyfriend, and I don’t?The sooner I get to Anchorage, the better!
When Harper returns five minutes later, her boots are on, and she’s shrugging into her parka. Our plan is to check out the gingerbread houses and other holiday decorations in the shop windows on Broadway before grabbing supper at the Purple Parsnip. If I know Bruce Franks (and I do!), it’ll be totally decked out for Christmas with a dazzling array of festive lights, themed Christmas trees, and carols playing non-stop on the restaurant speakers from now until New Year’s.
“You know what I realized?” asks Harper, wrapping a scarf around my neck, then plunking a hat over her blonde hair. “This is our fifteenth Yuletide Stroll together. Can you believe it?”
For as long as I can remember, since I was five, and she was eighteen, the Friday night after Thanksgiving has been reserved for me and Harper to window shop in Skagway and have dinner together at the Parsnip. It’s how we kick off the Christmas season every year, and I love it.
I might even miss it next year, I think wistfully, wondering if I’ll even make it home for Thanksgiving, or if I’ll need to stay in Anchorage for school.
“Joe meeting us?” I ask her as we step out onto her front porch.
The air is crisp and cold, and overhead, a million stars brighten the inky Alaskan sky.
“Maybe,” she answers, hooking her arm into mine as we head for the sidewalk. “He’s off work at six, and I told him we’d be strolling by the shop windows for a little bit before grabbing chow at the Parsnip. If it’s a quiet night at the station, he might come find us. Any objections? I can text him not to come if you want a sisters-only night instead.”
“No objection. I love Joe. You know that.”
I’vealwaysloved Joe. He’s my brother from another mother, much more so than Parker’s husband, Quinn Morgan, who’s growing on me, but still has a long way to go to win me over.
“How come you accepted Quinn so fast?” I ask Harper.
“Because he loves Parker. Always did. Always will. I could see it.”
“Then why was he so mean to her when they were kids?”
“He was just a dumb kid looking for attention,” says Harper, turning us right down State Street, toward the shops, restaurants, and annual Yuletide festivities. “You’ve got to give him a little grace for that. Yes, he and Sawyer were pranksters in grade school and even into middle school. And yes, Parker was their favorite victim. But they were all kids, and kids are allowedto act like assholes. You want my honest opinion? Parker was holding a grudge that was out of proportion to Quinn’s crimes. I’m glad she got out of her own way before it was too late.”
“Toolate?” I ask. “She’s not even twenty-four until next week, and she’s already married with a baby.”
“I didn’t mean ‘too late’ in the span of Parker’s life. I meant that I’m glad she gave Quinn a chance before he gave up on her. There’s only so long he could bear it.”
“Bearwhat?”
“Loving her that hard, despite how much she hated him.”
I think about this for a moment, and I can see the truth in Harper’s words. I can see how much Quinn loves my sister. And it’s also true that he and Sawyer mostly stopped teasing and pranking her in middle school, but Parker’s hate for him was still going strong a full decade later. It must have been torture to love her over those long ten years—for Quinn to know that his own stupid actions had birthed and strengthened her vitriol. How lonely it must have been for him to love her without the hope of Parker ever reciprocating that affection.
But then again, I’ve read all of the classic love stories of hate turned to love; of second chances that become epic love stories: Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliott, John Thornton and Margaret Hale—and the most iconic haters-to-lovers of all—Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. What all of these stories have in common is that the lovers held on to hope, even when all hope was gone.
With this literary argument ringing in my head, I say, “If Quinnhadgiven up on her, then his love wasn’t true.”
“Oh, babycakes, you’ve read too many novels,” she says, her tone annoyingly condescending. “It makes the heart brittle to love without reciprocation. If you truly believe that there’s no chance to requitement—that the object of your love will never, ever love you back—eventually, you mustforceyourself to moveon.” She takes a deep breath. “And think about it. Quinn was down in Juneau crabbing every year. He has friends there. He could’ve easily moved down there to get away from her. To getoverher. Andshewould’ve lost out on the love of her life.”
“Or maybe she would’ve met someone else,” I suggest, trying to sound wise. “Someone who might have loved her even better.”