by Beck, Jamie
Dealing with his dad always involved a risk of nausea, which could be a bad thing given how much lasagna he’d gobbled at Ryan’s today. Logan drew a deep breath before grabbing his computer and camera bags from his back seat.
Arcadia House’s interior maintained its vintage style. Any remodeling done throughout the years had preserved the home’s heritage. His mother, in particular, insisted on refinishing and recovering older furniture rather than replacing it with more comfortable, modern pieces. One of his favorite bathrooms still retained the original turquoise-and-black tile work.
Maybe his folks thought this tactic would also maintain the family name’s prominence. Maybe they were right. But the hypocrisy of it all troubled Logan. His parents publicly supported the arts to further the Prescott name, but privately they’d never supported or praised his career choices. Whatever.
He strolled through the side door and pantry into the kitchen. Peyton was heating a can of soup at the stove. Sunlight slanted through the windows, casting a ghostly aura around her thickening frame. Her skin had lost its pretty peach hue months ago, giving way to a ruddy complexion courtesy of her TCHP cocktail of docetaxel, carboplatin, and trastuzumab plus pertuzumab. Weight gain had been another unwelcome side effect of those drugs.
She adjusted her head scarf when he entered the room. “Hi.”
He dropped his bags on the counter, irritated that neither of his parents was tending to her. She’d just been released from the hospital a week ago following her double mastectomy. She was still bound in dressings and on Vicodin, and a visiting nurse stopped by daily to check on her. In two days, they had an appointment at the hospital and hoped the bandages and drains would be removed. “Sit. Let me take care of that for you.”
He took the spoon from her hand and guided her to a stool, then kissed her head and returned to the stove.
“How are Ryan and Steffi?” she asked.
“Great. Steffi asked when you’d be up for visitors.” He risked a glimpse of her reaction. She winced, as he expected.
“Not yet.”
Logan reached for a deep bowl and ladled some soup. He set it in front of her with a spoon, then took a seat beside her. “You can’t hide forever.”
Peyton reflexively tugged her robe across her flattened chest before sipping from her spoon. She wouldn’t undergo reconstructive surgery until she’d finished the rest of her treatment protocol, which would be at least another few months from now. Even that would require uncomfortable expanders and other things he’d rather not think about.
He looked away, knowing how self-conscious she’d become about her loss of hair and breasts, her skin texture, brittle nails, and a host of other side effects she’d suffered.
She might mourn the temporary loss of her beauty, but what he’d always loved best and now missed most was her spirit. She’d glowed with a spark born of daring and humor. More than anything else, he wanted to see her old smile return and, with it, the gleam in her eye when she had a wonderful, terrible idea for the two of them.
“I’m not ready.”
He covered her free hand. “Sis, it’s time. You wanted to return to this small town, so you can’t keep tucked away in this house.”
She strained to reach up and grab a handful of his hair, pulling it into a short ponytail at the base of his neck, then let it fall. “Easy for you to say.”
Heat rose up his neck and cheeks. He couldn’t be sure he’d face his own mortality as well as she had. She’d fought bravely. Continued working to the best of her ability, on the days when she could drag herself from bed or away from the toilet. She’d been determined to survive. The hardest part should be behind her—in his mind anyway—but it seemed that facing the world without the armor of her beauty was as big a challenge as battling the cancer itself.
“Did you see anyone else while you were out?” she asked.
He thought of Claire’s bitter words, and then of her falling into the drift and showering herself with a puff of snow.
Peyton raised a barely there eyebrow. “What’s with that look?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Liar.” She pushed the half-eaten bowl aside.
“Eat more.” He set the bowl back in front of her. “You need your strength.”
She sighed and picked up the spoon as if it weighed twenty pounds. “Tell me what made you frown.”
Well, there’d be no hiding from Claire McKenna in Sanctuary Sound. Everyone here knew and loved her. Peyton and he were bound to keep running into her as long as they remained in town.
“Claire was at Ryan’s house when I arrived.” He settled his chin on his fist. “She’s . . . not the Claire I remember.”
Peyton idly stirred her spoon in the bowl. “I hate that I hurt her, and that my behavior changed her.”
Logan covered her hand again, because the sound of the spoon against the bowl frayed his nerves. “You’ve made mistakes, but Claire is choosing to hang on to hate and anger. That’s on her.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “You’re a good brother.”
“Thanks.” He slung his arm around her shoulders. “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”
She met his gaze, then hers flicked to his hair, and she wound a hank around one finger. “Wish you could give me all of this.”
“My hair really gets to you?”
She shrugged. “You’ve always had better hair than me, but now . . .”
Their father strode into the kitchen, a newspaper tucked under his arm, interrupting the private moment. If Logan hadn’t been so absorbed by his concern for Peyton, he surely would have recognized the tingles climbing up his neck as the warning sign of his dad’s approach. Honestly, it was hard to miss.
At six feet two, his father looked like a Nordic god. Broad shoulders, carved cheekbones, and a glacial expression in those eyes that was colder than their iceberg-blue color. Although his blond hair had started to turn silver in spots, relentless exercise kept him trim at sixty-two. Relentless—a descriptor that could be ascribed to many of his father’s attributes.
“Logan.” His father stopped upon the sight of him. “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” His shoulders tightened, preparing for the inevitable sparring.
His father raised his brows before frowning. “How long will you be staying with us?”
“Not sure.” Logan interlocked his hands atop the kitchen island, squeezing them together.
His father huffed. “Must be nice.”
“What’s that mean?” Logan watched him pour himself two fingers of Michter’s.
“Most of us have schedules to keep—a job that requires us to show up.” His dad knocked back half the glass. It wasn’t the first time he’d whipped Logan with that kind of remark, nor would it be the last.
“Lucky for me I’ve got autonomy.” He forced a smile, even as he fought the urge to knock that drink from his dad’s hand.
His dad’s gaze went straight to Logan’s long hair, collarless shirt, and discarded camera bags. “Yes. Like my father.”
In many families, that might sound like a compliment, but Logan knew his father had nothing but disdain for the “feckless” man who’d nearly bankrupted the Prescott family with his expensive hobbies and contempt for work. How many times had he heard his parents deride Grandpa for “farting around” with paints and charcoal in France, Italy, and Sedona?
“No, Dad. Like my great-grandfather.” He unclenched his hands and spread them on the marble counter. Peyton set her hand on his thigh, silently asking him to stand down.
“Dad, please,” Peyton implored, touching her head scarf. “Can’t our family enjoy a relaxed afternoon?”
Their dad finished his drink, set the glass in the sink, and crossed to kiss Peyton’s forehead. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got a call in ten minutes.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“Development work never ends, and I’m this close to signing a deal for a string of
boutique inns.” He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “They need work, but the property and bones are stellar, and I’m going to get them for a song.”
“Really?” Peyton sat up straighter. “Where are they located? Maybe once I’m a bit stronger I can visit them and put together a great write-up.”
It would be good for her to get back to her travel-writing work. She had always loved exploring new places and had built up quite a healthy social media following as a result of her witty accounts of interesting adventures. Still, Logan bristled at the thought of her helping their dad.
His dad shot Logan a derisive glance, as if saying, “Now there’s a working Prescott.” He then smiled at Peyton just before gesturing around the room. “Thank you for taking an interest in what I do to keep all this over our heads. The inns are strategically located along the Atlantic coast, from Maine down through Maryland.”
“Sounds idyllic.” She grasped Logan’s hand. “Maybe Logan can come with me and take photographs for brochures and promotional materials.”
Logan flinched. “I don’t take architectural photographs.”
“Of course not.” His father scoffed. “Why take a paying gig when you can fart around with artistic development?”
There it was—the gassy comparison.
“Daddy!” Peyton admonished her father, and he quickly tucked his chin and frowned.
“I’ll leave you two to your lunch while I make my call.” He started to leave but then stopped at the kitchen door and turned to Logan. “Your mother wanted me to run to town to pick up some things. How about you make yourself useful and run those errands for me? List is on the fridge.”
He tapped the woodwork twice and exited without awaiting a response.
Logan inhaled slowly and blew out a loud breath.
“I know he’s hard on you, but please try to see it from his side.” Peyton swiveled to face him. “His sense of security was shaken by Grandpa’s spendthrift ways. I think he truly worries about your future, and is hurt that you never show any interest in what he does.”
Perhaps she had a point. That didn’t make his father less of a dick, though. Any man who could withhold affection as a way of manipulating his kids and their choices should not be a father. Logan had no idea if he would be a decent father, but he doubted he’d find out. He wasn’t made for staying put, and the example of his parents’ marriage hadn’t provided much in the way of motivation, either.
Like Duck, Logan was a storyteller, and storytellers seek freedom and adventure. He expressed himself through images instead of words. Duck hadn’t written A Shadow on Sand until he hit his thirties. This would be Logan’s decade, too. He just needed the right story. The right project.
He rose from the stool and carried Peyton’s bowl and spoon to the dishwasher for her. “Go rest. I’ll run these errands, and then, when I return, maybe we can work a bit on the memoir.”
He’d convinced his sister to document her journey from diagnosis through remission with a journal and weekly photographs. She’d even gone so far as to allow him to take raw pictures in the hospital and at home. Neither knew exactly how the project would ultimately come together, but it had given them a vehicle for so many emotions throughout the trying experience. Beneath his tears, hugs, and occasional sarcasm had lain a bone-deep terror of losing the person he most adored in life. His only confidante. In a twisted way, he was almost grateful for all of it, though, because he’d never felt closer to her than he did now.
Peyton sighed. “Fine.”
She wasn’t, but coddling never helped her move forward. Logan nodded and snatched the list from the fridge. “See you later.”
He had no idea why his mother needed Krazy Glue, an X-Acto knife, and carpet cleaner today, but his role was not to question. Logan walked into Lockwood Hardware, a place he’d loitered in as a kid. The two-story shop hadn’t changed much at all since his childhood.
Same dusty aisles he’d roamed every summer as a kid with Ben and Ryan, each of them investigating every doodad on the shelves. Just as often, Mr. Lockwood would empty the change from the gumball machine and let them take it to buy ice cream or get bait from the local tackle shop.
Logan was crouching to reach the Krazy Glue when he heard Ben Lockwood speaking to another customer at the cash register.
A genuine smile formed from someplace deep in his chest. Ben and Ryan were two of the reasons Logan had looked forward to helping Peyton recover here in Sanctuary Sound. It’d been years since he and his old buddies had been in the same place at the same time.
A reunion might help him reconnect to a part of himself that had gotten lost in the last decade. The part that might have something genuine and interesting to say.
He strode down the aisle, noting the similarities between Ben and his sister, Steffi. Tall, athletic builds. Hair in shades from caramel to umber. A warm skin tone and golden-brown eyes.
“Benny Boy,” Logan teased as he laid his mother’s booty on the counter and stuck out his hand. “How the hell are you?”
It took a second for Logan to register the tension tugging at the corners of Ben’s smile. “Logan. You look good.”
“Thanks, so do you. I just saw Steffi and Ryan earlier today. How about that reunion?” He folded his arms across his chest, widening his smile as if that might jostle Ben out of his unusually stiff manner.
“It’s been good to have my sister home and see her happy.”
Logan nodded. “I hope I can say the same thing in the coming months.”
“I hope Peyton’s feeling better soon.” Ben’s gaze drifted away. He didn’t elaborate, ask questions, or offer to send a message to her, all of which Logan found odd. Offensive, even.
“So do I.” Logan pushed his items forward and Ben rang them up. “Maybe you could swing by the house and visit. Come with Steffi. It’d be good for Peyton to see old friends.”
Ben flashed a sad kind of smile and scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe . . .”
He ran Logan’s card, bagged up the goods, and tossed the receipt in the bag without another word. Just that weak smile pasted on his face.
“Before I jump to conclusions, let me ask—do we have some problem, or are you just having an off day?”
“Sorry?” Ben stapled the paper bag shut and set it aside.
Logan tugged the bag closer. “You don’t seem happy to see me, and given the magnitude of my sister’s health issues, your lack of interest in her is glaring.”
“We’ve got no problem, Logan. And I wish Peyton well with her recovery, but things are complicated.”
“How so?”
Ben crossed his arms and looked Logan dead in the eye. “Honestly? I’m team Claire.”
The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead disrupted Logan’s thoughts.
“Are we back in middle school?” He couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice.
Ben cracked his knuckles, then pulled Logan aside and spoke in a quiet but firm voice. “Understand something, Logan. Claire and I have lived in town together for the last decade while all of you ran away to live bigger, better lives. I hung out with Claire and Todd, and was there to pick up the pieces when he left. She’s like a sister to me, and I won’t hurt her by hanging out with Peyton until Claire is okay with that.”
Logan should respect the loyalty, but they’d all been friends for years. He was counting on friends to help him smooth the way with Claire, not to support her decision to freeze Peyton out. “Don’t you think Claire’s being a bit unreasonable now? My God, it’s been more than a year. Todd was a jerk, anyway. They’re both better off without him.”
“You don’t know jack shit.” Ben propped himself up against a shelf. “I know Peyton’s been through a lot these past six months, and she’s still got a tough road ahead, but eventually she’ll likely go back to traveling the world, charming the pants off folks, and living the high life.
“Claire will still be here with me, living with pain that never really goes away,
self-conscious about her limp and limitations. I have no love lost for Todd, but she loved that guy, and when Peyton took him away, it broke Claire almost worse than that bullet. So don’t come back here now and act like it’s up to Claire to move on and get over her pain. She’s entitled to her anger, and she’s entitled to choose not to trust or forgive your sister. That’s Peyton’s fault, not Claire’s. And I’m not going to hurt a friend who’s been here with me all along just to make things easier for you or your sister. Sorry.”
Logan’s blood boiled like a steaming teakettle. This day had not gone according to plan. Not one bit. Claire had snubbed him, and now Ben was drawing his own line in the sand. “Well, I appreciate your honesty. Glad your sister doesn’t feel the same way. Guess this means we won’t be hanging out while I’m home.”
He spun on his heel and strode out of the store, but even in the midst of his righteous indignation, he couldn’t quite block out Ben’s words. “She loved that guy, and when Peyton took him away, it broke Claire almost worse than that bullet.”
It sucked to be stuck in the middle when someone he loved had done something so wrong. He didn’t always know what to do with his own feelings of disappointment and shame about Peyton’s choice. Still, he loved her. He had to help her atone, for all of their sakes.
When he reached his car, he glanced back at the store, letting the acid in his stomach settle. Two petty arguments with old friends in one day. A new record and another thing he’d have to fix.
Holding on to resentment wasn’t good for anyone. He didn’t have to look any further than his own hostility toward his dad to know that much.
Chapter Three
Connecticut Muffin’s blue-and-white-striped awning beckoned from the opposite side of the street. Claire told herself to walk past the shop, even as she found her feet ambling across the crosswalk. No chocolate croissant, no matter how flaky and sweet, would solve her problems. Those delicious five hundred calories would not convince Mrs. Brewster to change her mind and renovate her bathroom soon. Nor would the burst of pleasure soothe her stomach, which had been doing somersaults every day since that run-in with Logan.
