By the time the road narrows to one lane and the GPS loses its mind, Daniel turns the volume down on the Christmas playlist and grins at me over the steering wheel.
“Welcome to Harbor Glen,” he says. “Land of salt air, generational wealth, and questionable zoning laws.”
I peer past the windshield, my breath fogging the glass for a second before the defroster clears it. On one side, the hill drops toward the town, a scatter of lit windows and holiday wreaths along the main street. On the other, dark water stretches out, the Long Island Sound ink-black under a low lid of clouds. The wind shoves against the car, carrying the faint bite of salt and woodsmoke through the cracked vent.
“You left out the part about your family owning the hill,” I say. “Tiny detail.”
“Hey, the Mercers just lease space from the cliff gods.” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, restless energy in every tap. “We’re harmless. Mostly.”
I laugh, but my fingers stay hooked tight around the gift bag in my lap. The tissue paper crinkles under my grip, little gold stars catching the dashboard light. I already regret the scarf I picked out for Evelyn—beautiful and soft, but probably worth less than one Mercer throw pillow.
“You’re overthinking it,” Daniel says, because of course he reads my hands. “My mom loves anything thoughtful.”
“Your mom collects board seats and donor plaques,” I say. “I brought her wool.”
“Cashmere wool,” he corrects, like the fiber content might save me. “You’re my wife. That’s what she cares about.”
The word wife still lands in my chest with a soft jolt. Three months ago we were in a city hall courthouse, my mother crying into a tissue while Daniel cracked jokes with the clerk. Now I ride toward a cliffside estate that shows up in glossy magazine spreads. Harbor Glen: population, people who would never shop the clearance rack with me.
We turn off the main road onto a private lane, the pavement smoothing out, the snow plowed into clean white banks. The Mercer crest—an abstract wave pattern—appears on a stone pillar at the entrance, lit so the metal glows. It repeats on the gate, on the mailbox, on a small sign pointing the other way: MERCER FOUNDATION / HARBOR GLEN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL.
I catch a glimpse of the hospital lights up on another hill, glass and chrome and a tall banner of the same wave logo flapping in the wind. My mom called it a miracle place when she heard where Daniel was from. The hospital that saved my cousin’s baby, she said. The foundation that pays for NICU equipment. The family that pays for scholarships and research and Christmas toy drives.
Love and harm can fit in the same set of hands. I know that, in theory. Tonight I press the thought down under my ribcage and tell myself this family is the love kind, not the harm kind.
“Light the Harbor parade is next week,” Daniel says, nodding toward the distant docks. Tiny boats already string lights along their masts, shifting on the dark water. “Mom will make you wave from the Mercer boat. It’s a whole thing. Town keeps track of who rides on what yacht.”
“No pressure,” I say, dry mouth at the idea of being onscreen in every Harbor Glen social media story.
“You’ll be great.” He reaches over, squeezes my knee. “They’ll love you.”
I want to believe him. I want this drive to be the start of a long tradition: us, coming back every year, the car full of kids and presents and familiar bickering. I want to belong here enough that the town looks at me and sees a Mercer, not the girl from a two-bedroom apartment over a laundromat.
The lane curves, trees thinning, and then the estate appears.
The house doesn’t just sit on the cliff; it owns it. Shingled walls rise three stories, stretching wide, the roofline edged in white lights that make the snow on the eaves glow. Huge windows blaze amber, reflections of Christmas trees and chandeliers rippling on the glass. Somewhere below, out of sight, waves slam rock, the sound reaching us in dull, steady thumps.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“Still?” Daniel asks, teasing. “You’ve seen it before.”
“That was a weekend in June,” I say. “This is….”
I trail off. This is different. That visit was a whirlwind meet-the-parents blur, three days of polite conversation and pretty dresses, the house a summer postcard. This is my first real stay. My first holiday. My first time arriving with his last name legally attached to mine.
The driveway sweeps to a circle around a stone fountain now shut off for winter, the basin dusted with snow. A tall, symmetrical tree glows behind the front windows, decorated in white and silver and that subtle Mercer wave motif. Subtle for them. Giant for me.
Daniel parks by the front steps, where two lanterns burn with real fire. Before I can reach for my door handle, a man in a dark coat and gloves steps out from the shadow of the entryway and opens it for me.
“Mrs. Mercer,” he says with a courteous nod.
For a beat, I glance at the front door, expecting Evelyn to appear over my shoulder. Then I realize he’s looking at me. My stomach flips.
“Hannah is fine,” I say, my voice thinner than I want. The night air knifes in under my coat collar, sharp with sea salt and that clean, bitter smell of snow.
I step out, boots crunching on gravel. The cold hits my face, bright and immediate; the wind tastes faintly metallic on my tongue. Music floats out when Daniel opens the trunk—instrumental carols, piano and strings—and underneath it I catch the controlled clatter of plates, the murmur of staff voices from somewhere behind the house.
“You made good time,” Daniel says, slamming the trunk and grabbing his overnight bag before the man can.
“Mr. Mercer, we can take care of—” the man starts.
“I’ve got it, Luis, thanks,” Daniel says, smiling. He gestures to me with his chin. “Luis, you remember Hannah.”
“Welcome back,” Luis says, and this time his smile reaches his eyes. “They’re waiting in the foyer.”
Of course they are.
I smooth my coat, fingers fumbling at a stray thread on the lapel. The dress underneath—navy, simple, tasteful according to three group chats with my friends—suddenly feels too plain. The scarf in the bag weighs about a hundred pounds.
“Ready?” Daniel murmurs.
I nod, because the alternative is turning around and driving back down the peninsula alone, and I don’t know who I am if I run from this.
The heat inside the house wraps around me with a blast of pine and beeswax. The foyer floor shines under soft recessed lights, pale wood and a runner that looks handwoven. The walls rise up and up, lined with framed black-and-white photos in identical silver frames: sailors, hospital ribbon-cuttings, serious men in suits. Overhead, a chandelier scatters light over everything, glittering like ice.
“Danny.” Her voice reaches me before her arms do.
Evelyn Mercer descends the last few steps of the sweeping staircase, not rushing, not hesitating. Her heels click once on each polished stair. She wears a quiet gray dress that probably costs more than my car and diamond studs that catch the light, throwing tiny shards over the wall.
Daniel drops his bag and meets her halfway, folding her into a hug. I watch his shoulders relax, a small uncoiling I don’t see anywhere else. He breathes her in like home.
Love and harm, same hands. The thought knocks once on the inside of my skull and then goes still.
“Hi, Mom,” he says against her hair.
She releases him and turns to me, smile widening by one practiced notch.
“Hannah,” she says. “You’re here.”
I step forward, gift bag clutched so tight my fingers ache. “Thank you again for having me. For having us. For…everything.”
Smooth, I scold myself. Great start.
Evelyn kisses the air near my cheek, a whisper of perfume brushing my skin—something cold and expensive, citrus over powder. Her hands rest briefly on my shoulders, then slide down my sleeves, thumbs checking the fabric like she’s feeling the thread count.
“This is lovely,” she says, glancing at my dress. “Understated. Harbor Glen women tend to overdo it during the holidays.”
I can’t tell if that’s praise or a warning. My cheeks burn anyway. “Thank you. I, um, brought you something.”
I offer the bag. The tissue paper sighs when she lifts it. She unfolds the scarf, the cashmere catching on her rings for a second before it drapes smooth between her fingers. The color looks right against her skin: a smoky blue that matches her eyes.
“Oh,” she says. Not delight. Not disappointment. Just a measured syllable. “Handwoven?”
“From a small shop near my office,” I say. “The woman who makes them donates part of the proceeds to a domestic violence shelter. I thought—”
“How thoughtful.” Evelyn’s smile sharpens. “You understand the value of giving back. We like that in this family.”
This family. Not our family. Not yet.
Daniel moves to my side, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Told you she’d love it,” he says.
“I do,” Evelyn replies. She folds the scarf with brisk precision and hands it to a waiting woman I didn’t notice before. “Marina, will you place this with my things?”
Marina disappears silent as smoke. Staff slide around us in soft-soled shoes, carrying trays that smell of roasted rosemary potatoes and something buttery and rich. A faint thread of coffee rides the air under the pine from the enormous tree in the next room.
“Dinner is in an hour,” Evelyn says. “You’ll want to freshen up. Daniel, your father is in the study. He wants to talk to you about the Light the Harbor committee’s latest crisis.” Her gaze returns to me. “Hannah, you remember where the guest rooms are?”
“I do,” I lie. Last time, Daniel dragged me from room to room in a dizzying tour. All I really remember is the view of the water and the way every floorboard seemed to know when I stepped on it.
“Good,” she says. “Feel free to wander. This house is yours now too.”
The words hold warmth on the surface, cool water underneath. I nod, thank her again, and let Daniel slip my overnight bag from my shoulder.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” he tells me. “Go claim your territory.”
I head down the hallway, boots sinking into the thick runner. The sound of the ocean fades behind the insulated glass, replaced by music and clinking silverware and the low hum of people who never worry about next month’s rent. My skin prickles under my coat, heat rising until I shrug it off and sling it over my arm.
The living room opens on my left, all high ceilings and glass. A huge tree commands the far corner, every branch wrapped in tiny white lights. Ornaments hang in precise clusters: silver globes, glass stars, little pewter waves echoing the Mercer crest. On the mantle, framed photos of Lydia dominate—her name in gold letters on a stocking, her face at different ages, her smile fixed mid-laugh.
I stop. The air tastes different here, thicker, like the room holds its breath around her.
Lydia with a gap-toothed grin, hair in two blond pigtails, holding a plastic boat. Lydia in a soccer uniform, jersey muddy up to her knees. Lydia in a white dress at some charity event, hand tucked into Evelyn’s arm, both of them turned toward the camera. There are pictures of Daniel too, but he sits just off-center in most of them, the supporting actor in his sister’s story.
I rest my fingers on the edge of the mantle, the wood smooth and cool. The faint smell of smoke from the fireplace below curls up, mixing with the resin of the tree. Heat brushes my shins through my tights.
“She loved Christmas,” Daniel said once, in the kind of voice you don’t interrupt. “Mom hasn’t changed anything.”
I believe him now. Lydia is everywhere. On the tree, on the mantle, in a framed newspaper clipping about the boating accident that took her life—headline carefully angled so it doesn’t face the room full-on. An entire holiday curated to keep her present and untouchable.
I move on, feeling watched by a girl who will never meet me.
The hallway beyond the living room splits. One side slopes toward the kitchen, where the metallic clank and the smell of garlic and roasting meat intensify. The other side heads for the main staircase, wider than the living room in my childhood apartment. Family portraits line the wall, oil paintings this time, each generation gazing down in heavy frames.
I climb, hand sliding over the polished banister. The wood is too slick to catch my nerves. On the landing, two hallways branch off toward bedrooms, doors closed and identical. Straight ahead, a narrower set of stairs climbs to the third floor. The carpet runner stops at the top, where a white door waits, paint untouched by fingerprints.
A brass keyhole glints at eye level. Above it, a small plaque carries a single word: PRIVATE.
I swallow, my throat dry. A faint chill rolls down from under the door, cooler than the rest of the hallway. No sound leaks out. It’s like the top of the house holds a mouth, shut tight, keeping something on its tongue.
“Don’t go up there.”
Daniel’s voice brushes the back of my neck. I jump, hand flying off the banister.
“God,” I say, heart slamming. “You’re quiet for a six-foot-two guy.”
He stands on the landing behind me, hair damp from the snow, one tie of his overnight bag still in his hand. His eyes flick once to the door, then back to me, pupils tightening.
“Third floor’s off-limits,” he says. “House rule.”
“Because of Lydia,” I say. I don’t mean to whisper, but the corridor squeezes the word small.
His jaw shifts. “Yeah. Mom keeps her stuff up there. Memorial space.”
“Like a shrine?”
“Like…storage,” he says, too fast. “She’s not ready to go through any of it.”
I look at the plaque again. Private. The letters catch the light in a thin, precise line.
“She made a whole wing for her,” I say. Lydia’s face flashes behind my eyes, frozen in that soccer photo, forever in motion and forever stopped. “That must be…a lot.”
“Lydia died here, remember?” His voice softens, but a thread of steel runs through it. “Holiday season is hard. Just don’t push this, okay? For everyone’s sake.”
Everyone’s sake. Not just Evelyn’s.
I nod, because what else can I do? I rest my hand on the banister again, fingers brushing the glossy wood, and back away from the third-floor stairs. The door stays closed, indifferent to my retreat.
As I follow Daniel down the hallway toward the guest rooms, the smell of pine and polish thins, replaced by the faint, sterile tang that I recognize from hospitals. It drifts in on the heat from the vents, a hint of disinfectant that doesn’t belong in a home.
I glance back once, over my shoulder, at the door marked PRIVATE.
My first night under this roof, and there is already a part of the house I am not allowed to see.
I tell myself it’s grief.
The tiny knot in my chest tightens anyway, a quiet, gnawing question: what else are they keeping locked upstairs?