This, Lawson thought, was his idea of hell.
The sleek white kitchen was overrun with dishes. Silver bowls were piled in the sink, sticky with salted butter, and wooden spoons littered the marble countertops. Even the fruit bowl — overflowing with mango, bananas, and what Lawson suspected was a pink pineapple — had managed to get covered in cookie dough.
Moira stood in the center of all of it, a determined conductor, wearing a frilly apron with flowers that hadn't seen the light of day in at least 10 years. It wasn't that his mother was fussy, Lawson reasoned — heaven only knew, she spent most of her days in the garden, getting dirt caked under her fingernails.
No.
It was that Moira hated baking.
And yet, here she was.
Baking.
His father had joined them too, which only confirmed Lawson's suspicion that someone tipped Moira off about their arrival; Anthony Hale spent every Saturday morning golfing at the local sports club. He cancelled his tee-time only if someone had died, was actively dying, or if the country went into a state of national emergency.
Or, apparently, if Harper Lane was visiting.
Lawson looked at the girl in question. Harper was examining the framed photographs on the wall, toying absently with the end of her braid. Several strands had come loose, curling around her face. She tapped a photo of a scowling brunette girl in Mickey Mouse ears.
"Is this Paige?" Harper asked.
Moira smiled. "Yes. Wasn't she darling?"
"Oi!" Paige scowled, looking uncannily like the photograph. "I still am darling. And I still hate mascots, too. They're just so creepy."
His sister was seated at the kitchen table, a book on Monet's greatest works propped open in front of her. She was sitting cross-legged — a habit that Moira always chided her for — innocently pretending to read as she studied Harper. And Lawson knew that Paige was pretending; his sister hadn't flipped a single page since their arrival.
Moira shrugged on an oven mitt. "Does anyone want a lemon biscuit?"
"Not if there's lavender in them," Paige said immediately.
"There's always lavender in them," Lawson warned, turning to Harper. "Lots of it. Just as a heads up."
Harper winked. "I'll take my chances."
Lawson drifted closer to the table, examining the jumble of glossy photographs. Moonlight-coloured freesia. Dutch tulips. Buttery roses. He hadn't doubted that Harper was talented, but to see it was a whole other thing.
"These are beautiful, Harper," Anthony said.
His father had moved closer, his green eyes — so like Lawson's own, according to most of their acquaintances — roaming thoughtfully over the collection. Harper flushed.
"Thank-you," she said.
Anthony picked up a photograph, holding it up to the light. "How long have you been a photographer?"
"Oh," Harper said. "I mean, I'm not a professional. I'm more of a freelancer. I took a few years after high school to go traveling and build my portfolio, but I'm studying English lit at the University of Colorado next year."
"You are?" Lawson asked.
The words came out of his mouth before he could think better of it. Harper gave him an odd look.
"Yeah," she said. "Mom lives close by."
Lawson shook his head. "But you..."
Hate poetry, Lawson wanted to say, which was ridiculous; English literature wasn't just a crash-course in Blake and Wordsworth.
No.
What Lawson meant to say — what he actually wanted to say — was that Harper Lane was a photographer. He knew it, just as he knew that the sun rose in the East and that you should never order coffee on a plane. King Arthur had his sword, and Harper had her camera. Some tools were made to be wielded by great artists.
Simple as that.
"It's a shame," Anthony said, setting the photograph down. "You're very talented. Have you ever thought about exhibiting?"
Harper's mouth quirked. "Outside of my high school cafeteria? No."
"You should."
"Thank-you," Harper said. "But I don't have the—" She broke off, scratching her neck. "The funds."
Lawson's stomach clenched. For an odd moment, he'd thought she was about to say talent, and the idea disturbed him. Harper knew she was talented, didn't she? It was obvious, even to him. And he knew fuck all about photography.
"Oh, Lawson," Moira said, turning to face him. "What are you doing about Fish?"
Lawson blinked. "Fish?"
"Paige's fish," Moira clarified.
Harper arched an eyebrow. "Fish belongs to Paige?"
"He does," Paige said sunnily. "Fish had a younger brother once, too, until he ate him." She glanced up from her book. "Turns out that you shouldn't put two Siamese fighting fish in the same tank, or they'll fight. Who knew?"
"Fish did belong to Paige," Lawson said, giving his sister a cutting look. "But I inherited him a few years ago. We're getting along swimmingly."
"That's because you spoil him," Paige announced. "He's getting fat."
Lawson shot his sister another dirty look, and Harper smiled. Moira, on the other hand, looked troubled; his mother pulled her flowery oven mitts on backward, ignoring the beeping of the oven timer.
"Someone needs to feed Fish while you're away," his mother said.
Lawson shrugged. "Griffin's on it."
Moira looked doubtful. Lawson didn't blame her; they all knew what Griffin was like. He was more liable to explode a fish than feed it.
"Don't kill my fish," Paige warned. "Or I'll be seriously upset."
"Give me some credit," Lawson sighed. "I'm not going to let Fish die."
"Good," Moira said, wiping at her eyes. "I know it's silly, but sometimes I just... the thought of..." To Lawson's dismay, his mother trailed off, staring blankly at the countertop. Then Moira bent down, coughing as she pulled open the smoking oven. "For god's sake, they've burnt!"
Her outburst echoed around the silent kitchen. Harper's eyes were wide. Lawson exchanged a loaded look with Paige; he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, too fast and too loud and too hot.
Fuck. Not now.
Not today.
"Mum," he said carefully. "Are you alright?"
"Sorry," Moira muttered, putting a hand over her eyes. "Sorry, Harper, I'm not usually like this. I don't know what's wrong with me this morning."
"It's alright, darling," Anthony said, placing a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder. "Perhaps we should go for a walk soon, hmm? It's such good weather."
Lawson pulled out his car keys. "We should really be off."
"Now?" Moira looked pale. "But you haven't even had tea yet."
"We don't want tea," Lawson said.
"Not even more biscuits?"
Something twisted in his chest. "It's a long drive. We should make a start."
Harper — clearly sensing the tension — rose from her seat, polishing off her biscuit. "It was so lovely to meet you."
They made their way to the car. Sunlight breathed warmth into the pavement, coaxing flowers out of the earth with gentle hands. A toddler charged down the street, babbling excitedly to a harried-looking parent drinking coffee. Moira watched the child with a wistful expression.
"Here." His mother pressed a tin container into his hands. "Have some lavender biscuits. In case you get peckish."
Guilt filled him. "Mum..."
"Do you need a hand, Harper?" Anthony asked. "I can get this in the boot for you."
His father took Harper's photography kit, and Lawson watched them go, chattering about golf and Jordan Spieth and Pebble Beach, whatever that was. Paige had vanished, which was largely in character for Paige; his sister could only take so much human interaction.
It was just Lawson and his mother left standing on the porch, marinading in the late spring sunshine.
"Who tipped you off, then?" Lawson asked. "That we were coming?"
His mother's eyes were on the toddler. "Griffin."
"Bastard," Lawson muttered.
"Language, darling," Moira chided, but she sounded too tired for her heart to be in it. "Harper's a charming girl. She's Griffin's sister, isn't she?"
Lawson nodded. "Soon to be."
Moira turned to face him. She smelled like lavender and lemon and warm earth: all the scents of their childhood. He was a good foot taller than his mother now, although most of the time, Lawson still felt like she towered over him.
Not today, though.
"It's good to see you like this," she murmured.
"Like what?"
"Happy," Moira said. "After everything that's happened, I worried that you might never..." Her chin wobbled. "I know these past few years have been tough on all of us, but it's good to see you smile. I'd forgotten what it looks like."
He softened. "I'm okay, Mum. Please don't worry."
"Impossible." She patted his cheek. "Drive safe, okay?"
She ducked back into the house. Anthony gave Lawson a meaningful look, patting him on the shoulder as he passed. Lawson sighed. Well, at least the house hadn't exploded; things could always be worse. He was just climbing into the driver's seat when Paige hurried onto the doorstep.
"Bye, Harper!" Paige called, waving cheerfully at the car. "It was nice to meet you! You're very pretty, and way out of Lawson's league — I just felt someone should tell you in case you didn't know."
Lawson resisted the urge to flip his sister off.
Barely.
Harper was smiling when he slid into the car. She'd pulled her hair out of its braid, and it tumbled over her shoulders in a thick, curly mess, scenting the car with something sweet. Vanilla? Peaches?
Or maybe he was just going insane, Lawson thought, rubbing at his eyes. That seemed like a distinct possibility, too.
"Thank god," Lawson muttered, starting the engine. "We're finally free."
Harper flipped on the radio. "I like your family."
"I'm sorry about Mum." Lawson kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, guiding the car onto the road. "She's fine, most of the time, but she can get a little..."
"Lawson," Harper said gently. "We don't have to talk about it. Not if you don't want to."
Crushing relief filled him. "Thank-you."
They drove in silence for a few minutes, watching as tall glass buildings crumbled into countryside. Harper's gaze was fixed on the window. Sunlight filtered through the window, picking out the gold and red strands in her hair.
"Look," Harper said finally. "I have something that I need to tell you."
Lawson guided the car to the left. "I knew it. You're secretly a spy for the American government, aren't you?"
She rolled her eyes. "Lawson."
"Sorry. Go on."
She fiddled with her sleeve. "When I ran into Jake earlier... I mean, I wasn't really expecting to see him, and you know how weird I've been feeling about going to this wedding alone — which is stupid, I know, but just go with me — and I didn't really think about it, but I sort of just panicked and—"
"Ohio." Lawson's heart was beating very fast. "Just say it."
His imagination was running all over the place. Were Parker and Harper back together? Was she going to bring Jake as her date to the wedding? The idea of having to watch them together — watch Parker possessively wrap his arm around Harper's shoulders, watch her smile up at him — made Lawson feel oddly sick.
Harper met his gaze. Lawson braced himself.
"Here's the thing," Harper said slowly. "I told Jake that we were going to the wedding together. As a date."
Hello lovely readers,
Eek! Lots to unpack today — what on earth was going on with Moira and her biscuits? And what will Lawson make of Harper's confession?
Question of the Day: what's the weirdest use for a paperclip that you can think of? We did an exercise in my MA publishing class where you had to write down as many uses as you could think of in three minutes; I got to 30, but divergent thinkers can generate 200+!
Affectionately,
J.K.