by Beck, Jamie
He snapped his fingers. “Earth to Claire.”
“Oh, sorry!” She jerked to attention. “Just thinking about what to do with these.”
She lifted the square vase off the vanity and dashed into the master bedroom, putting much-needed distance between herself and Logan before he caught on to her thoughts. She eyed the long dresser but then set the vase on the mirrored nightstand next to a romance novel. Perfect.
“Are you leaving those here?” Logan stood in the doorway between the bedroom and bathroom with his camera bag slung over his shoulder, the tripod case in his other hand, and a gentle smile on his face.
Another rush of warmth flooded her while she stared at him from beside the large bed, with its sumptuous silk bedding and thick down pillows, and tried not to imagine him standing there in nothing but a towel. “It’s a little thank-you for letting us invade their home again.”
His expression turned cocky. “I told you people would be happy to let me shoot their space.” When he winked, she swallowed hard. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our bet.”
She cleared her throat. “I haven’t heard back from the Wagners yet.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You should be. Mary isn’t a big fan of having ‘strangers’ in her house.”
“Still not worried.” He strolled into the bedroom. “You can’t deny that we make a great team. And seeing this space only makes me happier that I’ve hired you to redo my place. How ’bout we go grab lunch to reward ourselves for a job well done?”
Yes.
“No, thanks.” When he winced, she elaborated. “I’m meeting my mother to make homemade mac and cheese and a cake for my gram. It’s her birthday. She’s eighty-eight.”
“Mac and cheese?” He grinned.
Mac and cheese was no laughing matter in the McKenna house. “With ham and peas. Her favorite.”
“Eighty-eight.” He whistled. “That’s some longevity.”
“A by-product of close family ties,” Claire blurted, a saying her mom repeated often.
In all the years she’d been friendly with Peyton and Logan, she’d never met their grandparents. The Prescott side had died before she moved to town, and their maternal grandparents had lived in California. “Do you miss your grandparents?”
“We saw my mom’s parents only at the holidays, but they never stayed long. And it’s no secret that my dad didn’t respect his father. They couldn’t even get along, so that was always uncomfortable.”
“That’s a shame, especially when there was so much to be thankful for and enjoy.”
“Well, I don’t miss what I never had. Prescott parent-child bonds aren’t as tight as the McKennas’.”
She tipped her head. “If you want to see eighty-eight, maybe try not to repeat that pattern.”
He flattened his hand on his chest. “It’s not my fault my dad’s an ass.”
“I bet your dad would say the same about his dad.” She tucked her hands in her pockets. “Does it matter whose fault it is when it’s your family? Break the cycle so that, someday, your kids will know something better.”
Logan blinked at her as if she’d grown another nose. “Let’s get rolling. I guess I’ll go kayaking this afternoon.”
She let the non sequitur pass without comment because panic took over. “It’s only March, Logan. There’s fresh snow on the ground.”
“I know. No one else will be on the Sound. I can clear my head.”
“Only because no one else is foolish enough to risk hypothermia. If something happens or you tip over, there won’t be anyone there to help.”
“It’s clear skies and calm seas. I’ll be fine skirting the coast.” He started for the door.
“Now I’ll worry all afternoon.” She sighed while following him out of the room and down the stairs. “I wish you wouldn’t go.”
Before he could reply, Nancy met them at the bottom of the stairwell. Claire preferred tea, but the hazelnut coffee aroma coming from Nancy’s cup piqued Claire’s appetite.
“How’d it go?” Nancy asked.
“Once we update the website with these shots, you’ll be sharing the links with all your friends. Even Town & Country will be envious.” Logan bestowed her with one of his charming smiles, and Claire watched her preen.
“Claire and Steffi did a beautiful job, didn’t they?” Nancy touched Logan’s forearm. Claire couldn’t blame her. He was a human magnet. “It’s my sanctuary.”
“Thank you,” Claire said.
“Thank you,” Nancy replied and opened the front door. “Have a wonderful day.”
“You too,” Logan answered as she ushered them outside.
“Bye!” Claire waved.
Before she knew what was happening, Logan shifted the tripod case to his other hand and took Claire by the arm as they made their way around the patches of ice clumped along the walkway. Typically she resisted being treated like an invalid, but the part of her that had always yearned for Logan’s attention couldn’t bring the rest of her to fight him off.
When they arrived at her car, he set down the long case and adjusted her knit scarf, his fingers brushing against her neck and sending tingles down her spine. “Enjoy your birthday party.”
“Logan.” She gripped his arm. “Please don’t go kayaking.”
“Don’t be such a worrywart.” A light breeze blew some of her hair across her face, but he brushed it away before she could. “I’ll be fine.”
“Why are you being so stubborn?” She scowled.
“Honestly?” He shrugged. “I don’t want to go home. My mother’s itching to drag me into the fund-raiser planning, and my father’s working from home. I’m going a little stir-crazy in that house.”
“So find something else to do. Something safe.”
He grinned. “Like baking a cake.”
“Well, no. You’d have to be at home to do that.”
He crossed his arms. “Or at your mom’s with you.”
“Ha ha.” Her heart thudded to a stop until she told herself he’d been joking.
“I’m serious.”
She paused, resisting the search for candid cameramen waiting to embarrass her. “You do not want to spend your afternoon in my mom’s kitchen.”
“Why not?” He leaned against her car, staring into her eyes in a way that made her feel overexposed.
“You’d be bored out of your mind.” Not a proud admission, but an honest one.
He winked, lowering his voice to a sultry tone. “I’m never bored around women and food, Claire.”
The flare of heat in his eyes ignited something daring inside her until she doused it with reality.
“Be serious, please.” She opened the driver’s door and tossed her purse and Rosie onto the passenger seat.
Logan pushed off her car. “If you won’t invite me to join you, then I guess it’s back to kayaking.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is this another ploy?”
“Ploy?” He fixed an innocent expression on his face, but she knew that manipulative streak too well to be fooled.
“Yes, all this cozying up to me so you can convince me to befriend Peyton again.”
“Do you see hidden agendas in everything I do?” He huffed. “Aren’t we friends? Don’t friends do things together?”
“We’re friendly, but until recently, we’d never hung out without Peyton.” Except that one time, when they’d kissed.
He shrugged, one hand turned outward. “That was then and this is now.”
“Only because you want to influence me.”
He hesitated, which confirmed her suspicions. “It’s no secret that I’d love for you and my sister to mend fences, but it isn’t the only reason I spend time with you. We’re two creative single people in a small town full of seniors and young families. Let’s make the most of it. Come on, I’ll only misbehave enough to make you laugh. Your mom won’t mind. She’s always liked me.”
Everybody liked him. That was the problem.
“Weren’t you listening earlier? I won’t be bored.” He patted his camera bag. “Maybe I’ll even shoot you and your mom in action.”
She stared at him, and he didn’t look away. The icicles melting off nearby branches reminded her of the icy water she wanted him to avoid. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Savory aromas from the ham and cheese blended with the sweet chocolaty scent of the cake in the oven. Arcadia’s kitchen never smelled like this. Logan sat at the round oak table, stretching out his legs and observing the mother-daughter duo in action.
Back in the day, all the neighborhood boys had agreed that Mrs. McKenna was a milf. She wasn’t sexy, per se, but she’d been chatty, and when she spoke with you, she gave her full attention. She had a gift for making others feel important, one Claire had in a subtler form. He hadn’t made that connection until this afternoon.
“You’re going to be too sick to eat with your grandmother.” Logan watched Claire devour more kettle corn.
“I know my limits.” She stuffed another fistful into her mouth. “Just be glad I shared the cake batter.”
“Oh, I am.” When he licked more off his finger, her gaze homed in on his mouth, making his body warm. His recent responses to Claire intrigued him. Why her? Why now? She had nothing in common with the women of his past. No edge or pretense. No daring clothes or extravagances. Claire didn’t even flirt with him. Yet he wanted to engage her. To hear her astute observations. To make her smile.
Mrs. McKenna finished drying a pot and then came to sit at the table beside him. “Logan, I recently read Lynsey Addario’s memoir and thought of you.”
Lynsey Addario, a Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer from Connecticut and twelve years his senior. Envy niggled. He’d get there, too. Someday.
Mrs. McKenna added, “I saw the Time magazine piece you shot in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria. That must’ve been sad and frightening, but you have a gift for capturing people’s emotions. Still, I hope whatever you’re working on now is less dangerous.”
“Well, my mother’s wrath might be worse than Maria,” he joked, although Hurricane Maria was no joking matter.
Mrs. McKenna chuckled dismissively. “Darla is a dear. I can’t imagine her having wrath.”
A dear? He’d never heard his mother described as such. Clever, ambitious, even gregarious. But dear?
“What’s the project that’s upsetting your mom?” Claire set aside the nearly empty bag of junk food and leaned forward.
Both women ceded him the floor, turning their giant blue gazes on him. Saying the P-word aloud in the McKenna house might be akin to blasphemy, but it could also give him a chance to cast Peyton in a new light.
“When Peyton got diagnosed, I suggested we document her journey with photos and journal entries. We didn’t know if she’d survive, or what the project would turn into, but I thought the process would be cathartic. Once we got started and began discussing a memoir, we also decided to make it philanthropic. If we see it through to publication, we plan to donate a large chunk of any proceeds to cancer research.”
Mrs. McKenna cast Claire a hesitant glance before looking at him. “That’s a remarkable undertaking. Why would it anger your mother?”
“The photographs of Peyton’s experience—the hair loss, mastectomies, and skin discoloration, the pain and terror—are graphic. My mom’s uncomfortable with them. She thinks they’re unflattering . . . embarrassing, even.”
“Peyton let you take them?” Claire held still.
“Reluctantly at times, but she pushed through because she sees the potential value. The question of what makes us beautiful—our faces or our resilience—is compelling and relatable. If we pull this off, something positive will come out of the whole ordeal.”
“She’s always been very proud of her appearance . . .” Claire set her chin and gazed out the sliding glass door. “The photo shoots must be hard for her.”
“I’m sure it’s not easy coming to terms with physical changes, but you know that already.” He waited for her to face him again, holding his breath.
Mrs. McKenna blew out a quick breath.
“Well, as a mom, I can tell you that nothing was more painful than watching my baby suffer. Darla’s probably having a visceral response to seeing Peyton’s pain preserved. In time, maybe she’ll see the project’s value.” Mrs. McKenna patted his hand.
“How many photos would be in the memoir?” Claire asked, her voice tinged with dismay.
“Not sure. Honestly, lately I’ve been getting an itch to use some of the images in a multimedia project. Peyton could record some of the passages, and I’d incorporate other memorabilia like pill bottles and parking stubs and receipts—you know, comparing the emotional ‘cost’ of medical treatment with the financial cost kind of concept. We lacked focus in the beginning, so we’re both struggling to give it the right voice now.”
“Peyton could always write well. Her travelogues were vivid. Your combined creative talent should produce something special.” Claire clasped her hands together tightly on the table.
“Your support must’ve been very comforting to Peyton. She’s lucky to have you.” Mrs. McKenna offered a proud smile. “When this is finished, what are your plans?”
“Not exactly sure, but it needs to be big because I’ve been out of the game for too long. Politics have been wild lately. I’ve missed some great opportunities here at home. But I’m craving a trip abroad, too. Been looking at different conflicts, but haven’t quite done enough research to find the right one.” He thought about Karina’s enthusiasm for going to refugee camps in Lesbos to interview the poor migrants hoping for asylum in Europe. “On the other hand, sometimes showing up somewhere and just digging in can produce more spontaneous and genuine work.”
“Traveling abroad.” Mrs. McKenna’s uneasy smile appeared. “That’s far from home.”
“Have you ever been?” Logan couldn’t recall the McKennas traveling outside the United States.
“Oh no.” Mrs. McKenna smoothed her hands across the table. “I’ve heard stories about everything from pickpockets to sex trafficking overseas.”
“You just need to follow basic precautions and stick to the safest areas.”
Without hesitation, she dismissively shook her head. “I almost lost my daughter once at that crowded outlet mall less than an hour away. I never, ever want to go through another scare like that. We’ve got a pretty beach right down the road. No need to go halfway around the world, closer to the hub of the terrorists.”
She covered Claire’s hands and squeezed.
“Don’t you ever feel confined in this one small corner of the world?” He frowned. Did getting married and becoming parents lobotomize the part of the brain that craved adventure?
“No.” She rose from her seat when the oven timer dinged, took the cake from the oven, and set it on a cooling rack. “Everything I need is here, most importantly the people I love. And on that note, I’d better go change before we go pick up my mom. Excuse me.”
After she left the room, Logan looked at Claire. “Do you agree with her?”
She didn’t answer quickly.
“Mostly.” That one word confirmed what he suspected about her, though. Somewhere in there Claire wanted more. “Sometimes I hear or read about something that I get an itch to see, but then I weigh the risk and can’t take it.”
“You’re giving in to irrational levels of fear.”
She twisted a paper napkin around her fingers. “Well, after you’ve been blindsided and had to fight for your life, then you can judge me.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “Bull.”
“Pardon me?” She scowled.
“I would’ve bought that argument ten or twelve years ago, but not now. You’re way tougher than this,
Claire. Don’t let your parents’ fears hem you in.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, the world has only become more dangerous in the past fifteen years. More mass shootings, bombings. Did you know that one hundred ten thousand are shot annually? That’s one person every five minutes, and a third of them die. And that’s just gun violence. Cripes, last year that crazy guy drove his car into a crowd in Times Square. And don’t get me started on school shootings and political discord ramping up tensions. My fear isn’t about weakness or irrationality. It’s about reality.”
“In reality, the vast majority of people who live in cities and travel extensively never get hurt, robbed, or experience anything other than poor transit service,” he shot back. “I can’t believe you’re actually content to live out all of your days never seeing the colors of the Caribbean, or floating down the canals in Amsterdam, or drinking wine on the banks of the Seine. I don’t believe it. You’re not that unimaginative. It’s got to get monotonous and lonely here year after year—same people, same events. And I don’t know many men who have no desire to venture outside this area, even if only for a vacation.” As soon as he said that, he regretted it. No doubt she thought of Todd.
Claire shot out of her chair and grabbed Rosie, her mouth fixed in a harsh line, jaw tight. “Thank you for taking the photographs today, but as pedestrian as it must seem to you, I need to freshen up before we get my gram. I’ll call you if I hear from the Wagners. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch once I’ve got design options ready for your place.”
She took two steps before he caught her by the arm.
“Claire, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.” He gripped her chin and saw a shimmer in her eyes. “Shit. Call me an ass, but don’t cry.”
She jerked free, blinking back her tears. “It’s a good reminder of why we can’t be true friends, Logan. Even if we took Peyton out of the equation, you expect me to see the world as you do—with far-flung adventures and body paints—but I’m content with a quiet, comfortable life near my family. Besides, we don’t all have trust funds that enable us to globe-trot.”
