Page 8 of Jack

“Up here, Bee!”

She walked into the small entryway, where her mother’s thick orange puffer jacket hung from a hook, along with a bulky knitted scarf and her white SORELs. Shucking off her jacket, Harper hung hers next to it, slid off her UGGs, then padded into the main room.

Stopped.Holy cats—“You gutted the place. Again.”

Instead of a small kitchen with a pass-through to the main area stood a gray granite island and, along the wall, a contrasting new black granite counter with white cabinets. The wood flooring—maybe original, but sanded and re-stained—stretched out to cover the entire room, with the stone fireplace cleaned and rechinked. Orange leather furniture, a number of brightly patterned floor rugs, all overlapping, and new contemporary art hung gallery style on the walls.

Not that Harper really expected her father’s oils to be hanging there, but the massive Picasso-style watercolor moose in turquoise and orange seemed a unique choice.

The stairs leading to the second-floor bedrooms had been opened up, with a hand-turned wood railing and fresh black risers.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Mom. When you said remodel, I thought paint and new carpet. Who knew you were such a DIYer?”

She came up the stairs, expecting to find Dr. Phillipa Malone in her expansive bedroom, maybe sitting at her writing desk or in a lounge chair reading one of the books from the wall-length shelf that held her expansive library on psychology and other mental-health-related topics.

Nope.The master bedroom was empty, and recently redone too. No carpet save the plush white rug, a new king-sized bed, and a small secretary, with a roll top and an antique chair.

“Where are your books?” Harper just stood in the room, wordless.

“I got a Kindle.”

The voice came from behind her, and she turned, found her mother, her messy shoulder-length blonde hair tied back, wearing a pair of—“Are those my track pants from high school?”

Her mother looked down at the paint-stained orange-and-green pants. “They make great paint pants. And I found this shirt in your throwaway pile.” She picked at the white T-shirt—Duck Lake Storm, regional track champions—now dotted with light-blue paint.

“That wasn’t in my throwaway pile.”

Her mother made an O with her mouth. “Sorry.”

Harper held up a hand.Let go and grow.She could almost read the mantra in her mother’s hazel eyes. “It’s fine. But what—wait . . .” She stepped past her, intoherroom.

Not her room.

No furniture. No pink carpet. The once stenciled walls, some of them inscribed with her poetry quotes, repainted in a gray-blue. “Where’s my desk?”

“Oh—I’m having it stripped and restained.”

She turned. “Mom. That was Dad’s desk. I wrote . . . I mean . . .” She took a breath. “I was hoping to give it to my daughter someday.”

Her mother had put down the painting rag and now came over to her. “Oh, darling. Of course. If you get married and have a daughter, you can definitely have it.” She reached in for a quick hug.

“But . . .”Aw, never mind.

Her mother let her go, smiled at her. “It’s so nice that you stopped by on your way to the inn. What time do the festivities start?”

It took a second for the words to click in.Wait—“Mom. I’m stayinghere.”

Again, the O. “But I’m having the floors sanded and stained this week. I need to get the painting done first, and the new furniture won’t be here for at least a month.” She made a face. “I suppose you could sleep on the sofa, but I’m taking clients here now, so . . .”

Harper forced a smile. “Okay. I get it. I . . .”

“Can’t you ask Emily if you can stay with them? I mean, you practically lived with them, especially in high school.”

Harper glanced at the inn, visible, of course, from her window, along with the trail.Shoot. “Yeah, I’ll drive over and ask.”

“It is very nice to see you.” Her mother took her hand. “I’ll look at my calendar—I’m sure I can rearrange and we can find a time for lunch. Oh, wait . . . I have that conference this weekend.” She forced a smile and gave Harper’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll text you.”

Right.“Okay, so . . . I’ll pop down to the Kingstons’ and see if they have a room. . .”