by Beck, Jamie
She rose with him. “It’s been a long day. I want to dig into this while I’ve still got some energy left.”
“Fair enough.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek goodbye, but she moved at the same time, and so their lips met. A quick buss, but it brought back an old memory.
“Well, we haven’t done that since you were fifteen, Claire. I think I did a better job back then, though,” he teased, his lips warming at the thought of it.
She turned so red her face almost matched the color of his shirt. She gripped Rosie and started toward the front door without meeting his gaze. “I can’t remember.”
Liar, liar. Now he had another goal, though. That first kiss had been to fulfill the wish of a sad friend. This one, an accident. Next time it would be on purpose. And it would be one she’d never forget.
Chapter Six
“Whatever else happens, you must be happy that Logan’s project brings us one step closer to making retail space a reality.” Steffi set aside the photos of Logan’s apartment that Claire had already memorized. “I’m meeting with building-supply companies this week to get us added to the lists they hand to their customers who are looking for small contractors.”
“Good idea.” Claire had awakened this morning full of creative energy and confidence. Things would turn around for them now. She could feel success in her grasp, just like the rush she used to get after a great practice. “I’m starving. Let’s grab a quick lunch.”
“Oh.” Steffi screwed up her face before stretching her arms along the tabletop. “Peyton called me this morning. She’s feeling a little stronger today and wanted to get out of the house, so I agreed to meet her for lunch. Of course, you’re welcome to join us.” Her attempt at a smile resembled a wince.
“No thanks.” Claire unclenched her jaw. She didn’t have the right to demand loyalty, but it stung that Steffi wouldn’t take a side—her side.
“I understand, but if you change your mind, we’ll be at Thai Basil. I know how much you love its shrimp tom yum soup.”
She did love that soup. Hearty and spicy, perfect for a cold March afternoon. But sitting across from Peyton would give her heartburn.
She shook her head. “Just as well. I’ve decided to take another run at Mrs. Brewster to push her into that master bathroom remodel. The woman has no vision. She couldn’t imagine what I was saying. If I sketch a little something and attach some photos, she might change her mind. It’s worth a shot, anyhow.”
“I like when you get into bulldog mode. Sounds like a good plan.” Steffi rose from her chair.
They hugged goodbye before Steffi strolled out of the house they’d shared for nine months. When she left, Claire slouched against the arm of the sofa. The cozy living room looked like something straight out of House Beautiful magazine. Comfortable. Welcoming. The kind of environment Logan claimed to want for himself.
This rental had been a place she’d enjoyed coming home to when Steffi lived here, too. A place filled with warmth and love.
But now she saw through the illusion of her own design and knew a truth that Logan would learn only after she’d redecorated his home. No furnishings, drapes, or artwork could infuse a home with genuine comfort. Only the love inside the four walls could do that for people. Until she—and he—found someone to share their spaces with, their homes might always feel a little bit empty and cold. The choices they were both making lately suggested they’d better keep space heaters handy.
An hour later, she saved her drawings for Mrs. Brewster in a working folder. Her stomach grumbled, prompting her to go to the kitchen and check her refrigerator. As she suspected, her options consisted of condiments, milk, and leftover cheesecake. Nothing hearty and satisfying. Nothing healthy.
She opened the pantry door but could hardly get excited about Ritz Crackers and peanut butter. Not after Steffi had put the idea of that soup in her head. Steffi, who was probably sitting down with Peyton at this moment.
Logan’s plea nudged Claire again. What she deemed healthy avoidance, others might view as her cowering from Peyton, and that didn’t sit well. Even sweet old Pat had sounded fed up with Claire holding on to her grudge. “Thank Peyton,” she’d said about Todd. That idea still made Claire huff. However, facing Peyton in public would put an end to the whispers taking place all around her. And she’d get her soup.
She grabbed her keys and coat and went to her car, pumping herself up for what could devolve into an ugly situation. When she arrived in town, she parked a block from the restaurant. She stared at the window boxes filled with silk ivy and ruby-red geraniums while calling in a takeout order, which would provide her an excuse to leave after ten minutes. Plenty of time for Peyton to apologize, yet not enough time to turn the event into an episode of The Jerry Springer Show.
While it might be unfair to spring herself on Peyton, fairness wasn’t her concern. After all, Peyton had been less than fair with her.
She heaved a sigh and got out of her car. Heavy, clumsy feet made the two hundred yards to the door seem like a ten-mile hike. Her shortness of breath only made it worse. The anxiety attack annoyed her. This was her home turf, after all. She inhaled cold air and held her breath, then blew it out, slow and steady, before throwing back her shoulders and opening the door.
The divine aroma of coconut, seafood, and spice stirred her hunger. Lawana, the owner’s daughter, greeted her.
“Your order’s not ready yet, Claire.” Her rich skin and dark eyes always made Claire feel plain and pale. Logan would probably love to photograph Lawana, with her lush mouth and inky hair. Imagine what her ponytail could paint on his walls!
“That’s fine. I’m not in a rush.” Claire smiled, remembering why she’d come and wondering if Steffi and Peyton were behind her at a table. If so, had they seen her? Every hair on her body vibrated. “Let’s get the bill out of the way.”
She signed the credit card receipt, then slowly turned and glanced around the room. She spied Steffi and Peyton in the corner.
Steffi saw her first, her eyes widening in shock. Peyton looked in Claire’s direction and set down her chopsticks before wiping her mouth and lowering her hands to her lap.
Claire shuffled toward the table, the heat in her cheeks nearly unbearable. Sweat formed on her back and scalp, but she refused to take off her coat or give the impression she’d be staying. She hadn’t thought to check to see if anyone else who knew them was watching. She hoped so, only because then the whispered dialogue would finally shift away from “poor Claire” commentary.
“Hello.” She cleared her throat while coming to a stop behind an empty chair. She nodded at Steffi before facing Peyton, wishing she’d prepared a speech. Extemporizing wasn’t her strength. “I’m sure you know that I’m working with Logan now. You’re lucky to have such a thoughtful brother.”
“I know.” Peyton’s thin, ruddy skin looked dry and raw. She tugged at her head scarf and then at her cardigan. “He’s the best.”
Peyton’s apparent shame and fragility twisted through Claire’s indignation, loosening the knots that kept her trussed up in anger.
“He’s asked me to let you apologize. While I don’t like being pressured, I also can’t, in good conscience, accept his money while simultaneously denying him something he wants so badly. So I’m here to listen, if that’s what you want, of course.”
“It is.” Peyton darted a look at Steffi.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room.” Steffi rose from the table and patted Claire’s shoulder before she gave them some privacy.
“Do you want to sit?” Peyton gestured to the empty chair.
“No.” Claire remained safely behind the vacant seat. “I’m leaving as soon as my lunch is ready.”
“Okay. I understand.” Peyton drew a breath. “I told Logan not to interfere, but thank you for giving me the chance to tell you, in person, how very sorry I am. It was horribly wrong to hurt you that way.
“I’ve gone back through the years, remembering all the ways you were a
good friend to me. Like when you went to bat for me when Mrs. Morton blamed me for tromping through her garden. Or how you sat with me, holding my hand for the longest two minutes of my life at twenty, and then celebrated the fact that I wasn’t pregnant. How you encouraged me to pursue a writing career in spite of the fact that I knew I could never live up to my great-grandfather’s legacy.
“I can’t understand, let alone explain, why I did what I did, Claire. I justified it a hundred ways in the beginning. The way I first met Todd at the coffee shop before knowing that he was your Todd. How I then tried to ignore him once I realized the situation, but that only seemed to make us both more crazed. The way he convinced me we . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Why I thought I could be happy going forward while knowing what I’d done to you I’ll never know.” Her voice cracked, so she paused to sip some hot tea. Claire hoped her face hadn’t winced each time Todd’s name had come up.
Peyton set the small cup down, eyes downcast, and spoke barely louder than a whisper. “Until then, I wouldn’t have believed I was capable of hurting someone I loved. The fact that I’d convinced myself that I had a good excuse is not something I’ll ever get over. I’ve hated myself for it, but I can’t undo it or escape the truth of how selfish I was . . . I am.” She then met Claire’s gaze.
Claire struggled to maintain eye contact but wouldn’t break away. She had to finish what she’d started and remain strong throughout.
Peyton continued, “I don’t expect you to get over it, either. You have the right to all of your feelings. But please believe that I deeply regret what I did. If ever you’re willing to let me be some small part of your life again, I would prove how much I value you. I’ve missed our friendship so much. I swear, I’d never hurt you again, and I’d do anything for the chance to rebuild your trust.”
If only pretty words could erase pain and betrayal. If they could undo the damage and turn back time to the way things used to be, Claire would rejoice.
Warm tears swam in her eyes. Her throat grew thick and sore, her chest heavy. She couldn’t pretend some part of her didn’t miss Peyton—the Peyton from before the Todd debacle. The wild friend who’d always made Claire laugh. But the bigger part simply could not open up her heart to forgiveness. “I accept your apology.”
Peyton broke into a teary smile and stood to hug her, but she stepped back.
“I accept the apology, Peyton, but I’m not ready to be friends. I might never be ready.” Claire watched Peyton’s contrite nod as she took her seat again and readjusted her head scarf. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but when I look at you, I see Judas. I don’t know how to let you rebuild the bridge you burned. But I won’t hate you, and I’m glad that you’re recovering. I hope, when all is said and done, that you never have to go through another health scare.”
“Claire!” called Lawana.
“You should get your food while it’s hot.” Peyton refolded her napkin across her lap. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
“You’re welcome.” Claire glanced toward the bathroom. “Tell Steffi I’ll speak with her later.”
She turned and went to the hostess station to pick up her lunch, then left the restaurant without looking over her shoulder. She gulped for air as adrenaline ebbed. Thank God for Rosie or she might’ve stumbled all the way to her car. When she got there, she set the takeout bag on the passenger seat and buried her face in her hands.
She’d done it. She’d faced Peyton in public and let her apologize. She’d taken the one step Logan had asked. One that would make Steffi’s life a little easier, too. Whether it would improve hers was up for debate.
She pulled away from the parking space, her finger pressing the dashboard screen restlessly in search of a decent song and settling for DJ Mike D’s remix of “Let It Go.” The hot air blasting her face was suffocating. She blinked a dozen times in a useless effort to clear the image of Peyton’s distraught face.
Her pointless attempts at comfort prompted a derisive laugh. No song, temperature, or spicy bowl of soup would restore her balance.
The problem with taking one step was that the momentum then pulled you to take another and another. Maybe one day she’d be able to take steps toward Peyton without feeling like a ginormous hypocrite, but not today.
Her stress level shot well past anything she could manage on her own. With a quick left-hand turn, she soon found herself in her parents’ driveway. Hopefully, there’d be some cupcakes on hand for this crisis.
Logan sat in the breakfast room, with its view of the Sound, while selecting photos to go with a section of text Peyton had left for him to read. He took another swig of his midafternoon coffee, when his mother breezed into the kitchen.
Darla Prescott was a beautiful woman by anyone’s standard. Elegant, even at sixty. Today, a random Tuesday when she had no plans to meet anyone, she wore her blonde hair in a French twist. Drop pearl-and-sapphire earrings twinkled in the sunlight, as did her gray-blue eyes. The good fortune of porcelain skin enabled her to resort to only the barest beauty treatments—a little Botox now and then—to keep the wrinkles at bay.
Her black slacks and cashmere sweater emphasized her height and slender build. A practiced smile always played at her lips. Still, Logan never knew if his mother was truly happy in her marriage, or if honoring the commitment was simply easier than giving up the trappings of Prescott life. In any case, his parents and many other longtime marrieds convinced him that commitment eventually sapped the excitement from a relationship and from life.
“Would you like some wine, Logan?” She retrieved a bottle of Malbec from the wine refrigerator, swiftly uncorked it, and poured herself a generous glass.
“No, thanks.” He smiled at her, thinking, as always, that she would look more at home in a movie or magazine shoot than in a kitchen.
She swirled the wine a few times and took a deep whiff before sipping it. “I could use some help with the gala RSVPs.”
God, no.
“Sorry, I’m busy with my own project.” Even absent this excuse, he’d prefer torture to delving into the politics that drove the gala seating charts.
“Is what you’re working on more important than our annual family fund-raiser?” She peered over his shoulder, setting one of her hands on his back.
All the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened against the alien invasion. She was queen of the air-kiss, but he couldn’t remember the last time his mother had touched him. What kind of son flinches at his own mother’s affection? He waged these battles with himself all the time—was it he or she who had the problem?
“I think so,” he finally replied. “It’s Peyton’s memoir.”
Although it had started as a productive distraction for him and his sister, the project kept calling to him. It would be a story of the human condition, of suffering, of true beauty and gratitude. Those thoughts swirled around, but he hadn’t quite honed the message or hook yet. He wanted to create something distinguished that didn’t rely solely on the Prescott name.
His mother reached for one of the photos, her expression morphing from curiosity to displeasure. “Surely Peyton won’t be putting these in a book.”
He snatched it back. “She’s planning to.”
“For others to see?” she sputtered.
“Of course. We plan to donate fifty percent of the proceeds to cancer research.”
Between Peyton’s writing experience and the Prescott name, they hoped to secure an agent and, ultimately, a publishing contract. He and his sister both had healthy social media platforms, too, so that should help convince an editorial board that the book would sell.
When his mother scoffed, he frowned at her. “Your attitude surprises me. I’d assume the family would like the idea of a memoir—another literary fund-raiser, if you will.”
“You assume wrong.” His mom held her hand to her forehead like she was taking her temperature. “Why would she want people to see her like that? If you must be so crass as to air family dirty laun
dry, please use photos from when she’s feeling better.”
Dirty laundry. As if cancer were a scandal.
And yet another example of his parents’ hypocrisy and feigned interest in literature and art. If they truly respected the arts, they’d applaud his career choice and support this memoir. But no. They merely hosted and attended celebrations to perpetuate Duck’s legend so that they could bask in the glory of their last name.
“It’s not a Vogue shoot, Mom. She’s being courageous and showing other women struggling through this that they are still beautiful and strong. It’s about what’s on the inside, not about her hair or breasts.” He scanned two of the images he’d taken at night in Rembrandt lighting, which had amplified his sister’s inner glow despite her barren scalp.
His mother cast him a doubtful look. “Another one of our ‘agree to disagree’ moments, I suppose.” She rubbed his head, tugging at his hair as if she could make it longer by pulling at it. “But I don’t fault you for this supportive gesture. Your father is thrilled you lost the ponytail.”
Peyton came in through the back door, humming, almost as if she’d known when to show up and prevent an argument. She unwrapped the pink wool scarf from her neck, draped it over a chair, then slung her winter coat over it. Her skin still looked ruddy, and her upper-body movement was slow and deliberate, but that should all recede in the coming weeks.
“What’s with the powwow?” She looked at the table and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I see. The project.”
“These pages are great, Peyton.” Logan riffled through some diary entries, but his mother interrupted.
“Honey.” She held Peyton by the chin. Touching two of her kids in one day . . . a new record. “You’re very sweet to try to be an inspiration, but won’t you regret sharing all of these images with the world? Once they’re out there, you’ll never be able to put this all behind you.”
His mother’s face lit with maternal concern. She really could have been quite successful onstage if she’d ever had any real interest in the arts.
