Page 12 of Jack
She wrinkled her nose. “I gotta go over to Doyle’s. Penelope Pepper is there and I’m checking her in.”
“Really? The podcaster?”
“Yeah. She did the podcast on the Grizz case. We got kind of close, and I needed an extra, so she’s in the wedding. Besides, she and Harper used to be roomies, so we thought that would be fun.”
She said it just like that, dropping Harper’s name as if the woman hadn’t made him run from Duck Lake for the better part of a decade.
No big deal.
“Harper?” He managed, somehow, to say it like a bomb wasn’t exploding in his chest.
“I know you remember her.”
He swallowed. “Um . . .”
“Oh please. My best friend? Blonde hair? Lived down the trail?” She pointed to a trail in the woods that connected the King’s Inn property to the cottage on 458 Whispering Pines Drive. “We called her Bee.”
Yeah, and he’d called herPigtails. Which only brought to mind the fact that for most of his life, he’d seen her as one of his kid sister’s friends.
Never as a woman he’d consider kissing.
“Yes, I think so.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. Shrugged.
“Ihopeso.” She shook her head. “Anyway, you two are walking down the aisle together.” She squeezed his arm. “And by the way, you’re bunking at Doyle’s too, so giddy up after you say hi to Mom. I’ll get you settled.”
Oh. Great.
He’d never needed Aggie more than right now.
Because clearly, the trouble was just beginning.
* * *
Please, God, if you’re listening, don’t let Jack be here.
Harper sat in her car for a long moment, letting the vehicle warm up, fighting a shiver. She could do this. She could . . .
Her breath made a fog spot on the windshield, so she finally put her car into reverse and backed out of the driveway, then headed down the road toward King’s Inn Drive.
Something about seeing the old place, however, loosened the tightness in her chest. Even if Jack did show up, maybe he’d forgotten the . . . well, the horror.
Mortification.
Right. As if.
She pulled up next to a smattering of vehicles and got out. Left her bag in the car just to take in the changes.
Maybe none. The old Victorian seemed to have weathered time. The apron porch circled the house, bumping out around the turret, swept clean of snow, and now twinkle lights hung from pillar to pillar, glinting in the fading sunlight. Pine trees decorated in white and blue ribbons—probably wedding decorations—sat at the base of each pillar.
Inside would be three stories of gleaming parquet floors, stamped-metal ceiling tiles, leaded bay windows, a fireplace in every room, and facing the lake, a turret bedroom that a princess might live in .
Five second-story bedrooms, two with sitting areas that overlooked the lake, a couple third-story rooms with an adjoining bath, and of course the turret bedroom meant they specialized in family reunions and other cozy events.
Harper had received the digital invitation: the ceremony taking place at Heritage Church, the reception in the third-story ballroom that could easily seat eighty or more.
Probably, the majority of the guests would stay in Duck Lake at the rebuilt Duck Lake Motor Lodge on the south end of town, but hopefully the family had room for Harper somewhere. She would sleep in a closet if she had to.
Or maybe at the carriage house, where the Kingston siblings had grown up. It sat away from the main inn, a two-story home with another five bedrooms, remodeled over the years by her father. Three more homes, built at the turn of the twentieth century by the original owner, Bing Kingston, newspaperman turned Gilded Age millionaire, sat farther on the north end of the property, with their own set of multiple bedrooms, gleaming mahogany trims, multiple chimneys. Palaces of their time.