by Beck, Jamie
Chapter Four
Claire eagerly entered Pat Waltham’s house with her book tucked under her arm. Her fine-tuned olfactory system immediately sniffed out something sweet—berries and baked goods. Few things were better than book group discussions, but pairing them with homemade goodies did top the list. “Smells wonderful, Pat. What did you make?”
“A strawberry galette with basil-infused cream.” Pat helped Claire out of her coat, with a smile. She was seventy-five but more vibrant than most despite the wiry gray curls springing from her head. Typically clad in turtlenecks and khakis, she’d sometimes wear a chunky necklace for oomph. She liked her brandy and loved to travel, so she often shared the best stories.
“Is it too soon to ask for seconds?” Claire teased while following Pat into the living room, where Betsy was seated beside Naomi Tinio, the local librarian. At sixty, Naomi was something of a hipster, a rarity in their conservative New England town. Claire’s mom might call Naomi groovy, with her jet-black hair with bright-purple swaths, bucket hat, oversize glasses, and wacky T-shirts, like the green-and-white “If you don’t eat tacos, I’m nacho type” one she was wearing tonight.
“I’ll cut you an extra-large slice,” Pat promised. “Let me finish bringing everything into the living room. Then we’ll get started.”
Pat had just left the room when Betsy patted the cushion of the chair to the right of the sofa. “Sit here.”
Claire rested Rosie against the sofa arm and plopped onto the comfortable recliner. She set the massive orange hardcover book on her lap. “I’m so interested in hearing what everyone thought of this book. I have some pretty strong opinions about Cora.”
“And I’m so interested in knowing whether you’ve run into Peyton or Logan since my shop.” Betsy’s eyes glittered with interest. “I thought you handled yourself beautifully, except for when you dropped the croissant . . . and left behind your tea.”
Well, thanks for the reminders. Claire slid a brief glance at Naomi, whose gorgeous, warm Filipino skin tone filled Claire with envy, but she seemed more interested in her tumbler of Armagnac than gossip about the Prescott siblings.
“I haven’t seen them since then, but if or when I do, there won’t be anything to gossip about. Live and let live. The past is done, and I’m focused solely on building my business and opening a retail shop. There won’t be any hair-pulling or name-calling.”
“Peyton’s lucky she crossed you and not me. I’m not above a little name-calling,” Betsy snickered. Her divorce had been a nasty cliché. When her husband left her for his secretary, Betsy had made things as difficult for him as possible, which didn’t help lessen the sting or make raising her two young kids any easier. “Of course, it’s hard to pick on someone who’s so sick. She looked dreadful, didn’t she?”
“Chemo isn’t a spa treatment, for chrissakes.” Naomi scowled while knocking on wood. “Be careful how you talk about her illness, or karma will kick your ass.”
“Karma or not, I’m not discussing Peyton. Not tonight. Not ever.” Peyton had vilified herself without needing Claire to pile on. Besides, she still hadn’t shaken off that troubling image of Peyton from the bakeshop.
Hearing about her breast cancer last fall and understanding its severity had not motivated Claire to show mercy. But seeing the distorted version of Peyton . . . well, that had chipped away at her resolve.
Peyton’s sickly eyes and quiet shame had revisited Claire for three days, forcing her to draw a few conclusions. First, a person can’t truly hate someone he or she didn’t once love. Sure, mass murderers, crooked politicians, and other things are hateful, but a person won’t feel that intense blistering of acid in her gut when thinking about those folks the way she will when betrayed by a trusted friend. Second, hatred can burn like a hundred suns for an infinite time if stoked with self-pity. Third, even when hate burns the remnants of friendship to the ground, fond childhood memories are sowed so deep in the soul that it takes very little to till that fallow soil.
No, Claire wasn’t willing to talk to Peyton or befriend her again. But she couldn’t deny that the grace Peyton had exhibited by leaving the bakery had shifted the scales the tiniest bit away from hatred. That, and Logan. No matter how hard she resisted, he’d always be her weakness. His love for his sister and his wish to see her forgiven were hard for Claire to ignore.
“Well,” Betsy huffed, slouching back onto the sofa, “that’s . . . mature of you.”
Pat strode in and set the galette on the coffee table, alongside dessert plates and silverware that she’d placed there earlier. Claire’s mouth watered at the first hint of those glistening strawberries.
“Help yourselves,” Pat said. “Claire, would you like some Armagnac?”
Pass! One whiff of that stuff singed her nostrils. “No, thanks. Don’t want to dull the taste buds.”
She helped herself to a large slice and cut into it with her fork, grateful for the sugar rush and book discussion that should sweep the Prescott siblings from her thoughts for a while.
“What did I miss when I went to the kitchen?” Pat settled her well-padded behind on the wingback chair.
“Not much.” Betsy licked her finger after using it to push some of the dessert onto her plate. “Claire isn’t in a sharing mood, even though I heard Logan offer her a job. One she turned down. Call me crazy, but if I had a chance to spend time with that fine-looking man, I’d take it. He wouldn’t even need to pay me.” She cackled, and Pat and Naomi sniggered along with her.
“If I were a few decades younger, I’d fight you for him.” Pat added a dollop of the cream to her plate, then turned to Claire. “Honey, please tell me you aren’t passing on a job opportunity because of Peyton.”
“It’s not just that . . . ,” Claire replied through a mouthful of berries and crust. Deep down she knew she should take that job. The commission would go a long way to fixing the company’s financial trouble, and the job itself would give her a kind of creative challenge and freedom she’d rarely get around here. “The job’s not practical. It’s in New York—almost two hours each way. And we all know he’s trying to buy my forgiveness for his sister. I won’t be manipulated by another Prescott.”
Betsy elbowed Naomi. “I’d let him manipulate me, if you get my drift.”
“We all get your drift, Betsy,” Naomi muttered. “Claire, I respect your integrity.”
“Thank you, Naomi.” One supporter was better than none, she supposed.
“Listen up,” Pat instructed. “I’m the oldest, which makes me the wisest. Who cares about his agenda? Think about your goals, and do whatever is needed to keep your business going. Tell him straight up there won’t be a quid pro quo where his sister’s concerned, but take the job. Refusing it because of Peyton isn’t integrity, it’s fear. And, honestly, you’re better off without a weak, faithless man like Todd, so maybe you should be thanking her instead of holding a grudge.”
“Thank her?” Claire choked before she dropped her gaze to the bottle of Armagnac, which she might actually be willing to toss back now. Might need, even, to get through the night.
“I heard Todd skedaddled as soon as she got sick. He left you, he left her . . .” Pat fluttered her hand in the air. “Who knows how much time you would’ve wasted on that guy had Peyton not been the one that got him to show his true colors? Now you’re free to find a good guy.”
“It’s not much fun being free in a town where there aren’t many available men,” Betsy moaned. “Ben Lockwood’s cute, though. Why don’t you date him?”
“He’s like my brother,” Claire said.
“Logan’s available.” Naomi shrugged. “Never heard a mean word about him, and he’s got that sexy artistic thing going for him.”
“Logan Prescott goes through women faster than I inhale a sleeve of Oreos.” Claire set her empty plate on the table for emphasis. It’d taken months for the ache of losing Todd to go away. If she ever let herself get close to Logan, she’d never recover when he left her.
And it would be when, not if. Logan didn’t settle down. Not for anyone. “Let’s please change the subject and talk about the book.”
“Fair enough,” Pat conceded. “I don’t know about all of you, but the descriptions riveted me. It might sound crazy, but I think we should take an Alaskan cruise.”
The others began to chatter excitedly about that fantasy, while Claire spent the next few moments talking herself down. Pat had a fair point about taking the job. Logan couldn’t force Claire to talk to Peyton, and she’d been clear that she wouldn’t be pressured.
If he wanted to take the gamble and pay her, why shouldn’t she profit off his misguided loyalty? Claire could avoid the transit and work off architectural drawings and photographs. Visions of racks of Scalamandré fabric and shelves of trendy home accessories danced before her.
And, after years of wondering about where Logan lived, she’d finally learn every nook and cranny. She could make it a true home for him. Pick the fabrics, the styles, his bedding . . .
Therein lay the only real danger—the risk to her heart. Rationally, she knew she had no future with Logan, but working closely with him could make that hard to forget. Make her miss him anew when he and Peyton finally took off again, like when they’d all left home after college.
“Claire, are you even listening?” Betsy snapped her fingers right in front of Claire’s nose.
“Sorry.” Claire puckered her lips.
“If we’re seriously going to plan a trip together, let’s choose a book set in Italy or Greece or some other warm Mediterranean location. Why spend a week of summer vacation being cold in Alaska?” Betsy shook her head.
“Didn’t this book strike a chord with your sense of adventure? I kept picturing the vastness of Alaska. It seemed so freeing.” Pat drummed her fingers on the book cover. “I really want to visit.”
“I’d go,” Naomi said. “Assuming we could get a reasonable cruise package.”
“Well, I have read that men outnumber women by a lot in Alaska. Maybe it’d be worth a visit,” Betsy conceded.
Everyone looked at Claire, who’d remained silent. “Sorry. I can’t go.”
“Why not?” Pat asked.
“I need every spare penny for my business this year.”
“Unless you take that job with Logan.” Pat shot her a pointed look.
“Even if I do”—Claire couldn’t believe she was even contemplating that—“I can’t take that kind of trip. Hiking? No. Even being on a ship . . . I wouldn’t feel safe.” She slid a glance at Rosie.
“Honey, life isn’t about being safe.” Pat filled her plate with a second slice of the galette and more cream. “One of these days I really hope you spread your wings again. Don’t you miss taking flight?”
“That’s what books are for. I got to know Alaska well enough. I walked in Leni’s shoes and experienced her courage.” She opened the book to her first tabbed page. “And I think we should read Tara Westover’s memoir, Educated, next. We’ll get to ‘visit’ Idaho in that one.”
“When do we get to go to the Mediterranean?” Betsy whined.
Logan paced the living room floor while Peyton sifted through the batch of photographs he’d taken of her after the doctor removed her bandages. She’d looked right into the camera, but he could see the wall she’d put between herself and the lens. He couldn’t blame her. She’d shown remarkable bravery and vulnerability by even letting him shoot the pictures. Still, he’d wanted her to drop her guard.
Now she’d spread them out on the Aubusson rug, beneath the rows she’d created from the best of his earlier work. All around them lay pictorial evidence of her battle, from the first appointments through the most recent. The past six months had been a blur, yet these photos forced him to recall particular moments in excruciating detail.
Light flooded the spacious room through its oversize windows and reflected off the shiny surfaces of the polished wood and mirrors. The brightness imbued the images with a sort of starkness that made him restless and uncomfortable. Apt, since nothing in the living room was comfortable. Antique, fussy furnishings with hard, tufted cushions. The opposite of welcoming . . . or of “living.”
He missed the sweet, smoky scent of Duck’s cigar and the sound of his rumbly voice reading aloud. Missed the way his aging eyes lit with delight whenever Logan had shown him something he’d built or drawn or written. Once he died, this house had become a war zone between Logan’s father and Grandpa, with his dad emerging as the victor.
Logan shook his head and refocused on his sister, whose gaze lingered longer on certain photos than on others. Her mouth remained slightly downturned, her eyes distant and muddied.
“What are you thinking?” He crouched beside her.
She covered her face with her trembling hands. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
He laid a hand on her back. “Why not?”
“Look!” She gestured across the floor. “If we publish this memoir, I’ll be showing these to the world. Hideous images. Images of me, weak and ill, I’ll never escape or forget, and neither will anyone else.”
He held her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “When I look at these pictures, I see a beautiful fighter. A woman who’s brave enough to share her truth to help others.”
“You need glasses.” She elbowed his hip. Her head scarf started to fall back, so she tightened it.
She didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t quite know what else to say to her. Having never faced his own mortality, he had no experience to draw on. No real words of wisdom. Only love.
“You’re feeling stronger lately. We’ll keep taking new photographs to add as you improve and your hair grows back, so that you and everyone else will see exactly what I already see. The passages you’ve written so far are moving. Think of the women who might find strength in that. Think of the money we could donate to research from the proceeds.”
When they’d started the project, they’d discussed making it a memoir and donating 50 percent of any income to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. He’d been saving parking tickets and prescriptions and other memorabilia, thinking they might juxtapose those things with the photos and narrative. He might even contribute from his own journal, as a family member and caretaker.
“You seem to forget that I’m basically a self-centered, vain person, not someone who’s ever been out to inspire or save others,” she muttered. “Ask anyone.”
“Stop it. Most of us are self-centered and vain now and then. You aren’t unique. And maybe you never tried to inspire or save people before, but now you have an opportunity to do just that. To turn this suffering into something good.” Logan paused, his thoughts shifting to a particular redhead who’d been on his mind for days. She hadn’t called to take him up on his offer. He could hardly believe it. “Look at Claire. She overcame her setbacks and went through recovery like a champ. People admire her for it, and they’ll admire you, too.”
“I think it’s pretty well established that I’m not, and have never been, Claire.” Peyton’s pale eyes flickered.
“How do you know? You’ve never been tested until now. You can be like her.” He hugged her. “You’ve already inspired me.”
“You’re too kind.” She reached up and rubbed his head. “I can’t wait for the wig made from your gorgeous hair.”
“It feels weird to shampoo now.” He raked his hands over his bristly hair, missing the silky length of it. “And I hate that Dad likes it.”
Peyton smiled for the first time all morning. “Unintended consequences.”
Didn’t he know it. How unfortunate that doing something for a good reason could result in a negative consequence. He closed his eyes, hoping to purge the image of his father’s approving expression. “Did hell freeze over?” the man had muttered at dinner that night. Logan had bitten his tongue so hard he couldn’t eat.
“Okay, enough stalling. Pick a few and let’s move on.” He sat on the edge of the coffee table, but then his phone vibrated. He tugged it f
ree from his pocket. Claire. A zing traveled through his chest. He looked at Peyton. “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a few.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Must be a woman. Karina, perhaps?”
He frowned. “I’ve told you, I work with Karina. We aren’t a thing.”
“You were a thing.”
“For about a second.” He waved his sister off as he crossed the room, heading toward the French doors that led to the flagstone patio. “Hello?”
“Logan, it’s Claire. McKenna.”
As if he didn’t know her voice. He opened the doors and stepped outside. A frigid blast of wind swept up the lawn from the Sound, which sparkled with sunlight as if someone had scooped up handfuls of rhinestones and scattered them across the water.
He tucked his free hand beneath his armpit, shivering. He could turn back or be glad the bracing weather would keep him sharp. He’d need to be sharp to reel Claire in. “Good morning, Claire.”
He shouldn’t tease her. At least, not until he was sure she’d called to accept his offer. Another smile tugged at his mouth as he prepared for matching wits with her again.
“I suppose you know why I’m calling.” Her voice tightened as if she were being walked down a plank at knifepoint.
“I hope so.” He did, and not just for his sister’s sake.
Ever since he’d seen her at Steffi and Ryan’s place, he’d thought about how much nicer it would be to come home to someplace with style and warmth. His run-in with Claire since that day had only piqued his interest. Something about her was different now. Her hair, of course. But something else had him pumped up by the mere sound of her voice . . . something he still couldn’t identify but wanted to figure out.
“Before I commit, I need to see the layout and some photographs. Just to make sure I can give you what you’re looking for.”
“Okay.” In his twisted mind, her innocent words took on a double meaning. He frowned. Claire wasn’t his type. She would demand things. Expect things. Deserve them, too. He didn’t have that to give. Hadn’t ever been interested in traditional relationships and roles. He had his art to pursue. His story—the one he had yet to figure out—to tell. He couldn’t stop seeking it even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. And yet . . .
