Page 58 of Harper

“Morning, Gran.”

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she says. “Dry these dishes for me, eh?”

“Of course. I’m your Reeve today.”

“Oh, no,” she says, “I’ve already got one of those. I’d prefer a Harper instead.”

“She’s all yours,” I say, grabbing a dishtowel.

When I was younger, after my mother died, Gran took on a larger role in my life than most grandmothers. She tried to be there for me during those tumultuous teen years when I was grieving so bitterly. I wasn’t grateful for her then—I resented the fact that Gran was alive to give hugs and advice, while my mother was cold in the ground. But Gran stayed patient and loving, all while firmly enforcing her rules and boundaries. Over the years, I’ve come to realize how lucky I was to have her—to have a strong woman who cared about me in my life. I’m grateful for her now, and I try to let her know it.

“You doing okay, my Harper?” she asks, a gentle smile turning up her lips.

“Just hungover.”

“Something weighing on you?”

Every night I dream of Joe. Every minute of every day, I think of Joe. It’s taking all of my strength—all of it—not to run to him, to tell him everything, to beg him to still love me and let me stay in his life. I’m exhausted and fragile, and my behavior’s all over the place as a result.

I gulp. “No.”

“Sure, now? Only knew one boy who could ever get you flustered like this.”

“I’m fine, Gran. Really. I just—”

“Joe was over here last week.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm. Just checking on us. Mother bear and two cubs roaming around these parts. He’s getting the Game Commission to come in. They’ll be relocated.”

I take my time drying a platter. “Joe’s good at his job.”

“Joe’s good at a lot of things,” she says. “He was awfully good at loving you. Still would be, I expect, given the chance.”

“It’s too late for me and Joe,” I say, opening a cupboard and putting the platter away.

“Why’s that?”

I’ve often wondered if Gran ever suspected that something more was going on with me while I was staying with Aunt Charlotte. She never said anything and responded to my messages “from Chile” like everyone else, but my gran has a sixth sense, a sharp intuition. She isn’t fooled easily.

“Just is,” I say, looking up at her with as neutral an expression as I can muster. I kiss her cheek, then pull the Jeep keys out of my pocket. “I have to pick up some things in town. You need anything?”

“No, honey,” she says, turning back to her chores.

***

Half an hour later, I’m standing in the drugstore aisle of the Fairway looking for Tums, which are, unsurprisingly, sold out. Only locals really frequent this store—it’s the biggest grocery store in Skagway—but the shelves only get restocked once a week, so it can be a little catch-as-catch-can sometimes.

“Looking for anything in particular, Harper?”

I look up to see one of my classmates from high school, Neena Antonov, Lela Antonov’s younger sister. She’s wearing a Fairway smock and carrying a big box of baby food.

“Nah. I’m just browsing around.” I realize the box is resting on Neena’s huge and protruding stomach. “Looks like you’ll need that box of food sooner rather than later, huh? When are you due?”

“Any day now,” she says. “My third.”

I have this overwhelming desire to pull the box from her hands and help her with it, but the Antonov sisters are very self-sufficient; I wouldn’t want to offend her.

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