by Beck, Jamie
Of course, she was being a hypocrite, because if she really meant everything she’d just said, then she needn’t have sent Logan packing so soon.
“Loud and clear. I’m sorry I overstepped. I was trying to be a friend.” Peyton looked down at the ground. She didn’t say it, but Claire heard the unspoken sentiment—that she wanted to be the friend she hadn’t been a year ago.
Claire wanted to reject the idea that Peyton actually cared. That she’d come here with good intentions in her ongoing campaign to mend fences. Then a memory of Peyton pranking Beau Miller junior year surged forward. She’d signed him up for a bunch of weird Craigslist stuff after he called Claire gimpy.
Before Peyton reached for the door to leave, Claire asked, “If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been a homebody, would you still think I’m a bad fit for your brother?”
Peyton stared at Claire, neither smiling nor frowning. “Does my opinion matter to you?”
“I’m not sure.” She hugged herself. “You do know Logan better than anyone else.”
Peyton flashed a sad smile. “But I don’t know you as well anymore.”
“True.” An ocean of conflicted emotions rolled through the living room like a tidal wave.
“I shouldn’t have butted in, especially since there aren’t any guarantees when it comes to love . . . or life, for that matter.”
Cancer. Whenever Claire thought about what Peyton was facing, she felt not only weak for her attitude about risk but also petty for her inability to be more forgiving. “Logan said the same thing.”
Peyton smiled. “Well, we are a lot alike.”
That’s exactly what scared Claire, but it was also probably why it seemed like she knew Logan better than she otherwise would based solely on the time they’d spent together.
Peyton must’ve read Claire’s mind because she quipped, “Don’t hold that against him, though.”
Under other circumstances, Claire might’ve chuckled at her friend’s sarcasm. But she had been holding it against Logan, even if subconsciously.
“You look a little better than you did the other week.” Claire’s abrupt change of subject caught Peyton by surprise, judging from the way she quickly opened and closed her mouth.
“I suppose a backhanded compliment is better than none at all.” She winked and then sucked her lips inward as if remembering that they were no longer on joking terms. “I am stronger today. More rested. Maybe the sea air is working.”
“Well . . .” She wanted to say that she was glad to hear it, but that would sound phony given the resentment she’d clung to for so long. “Steffi and Logan will be happy to hear it.”
“Steffi and Logan . . . ,” Peyton repeated quietly. “Yes, I think so.”
Claire nodded, a hard lump forming in her throat. “Thanks for considering my feelings about the wedding stuff. I’ll call you in a couple of days to talk about party ideas, although Steffi’s always hated bachelorette parties. Maybe we need to think up some other way to celebrate.”
“I’ll give it more thought.” Peyton tightened her scarf and stepped outside, glancing over her shoulder. “Good luck, Claire.”
Claire closed the door but then went to the living room window and watched Peyton drive away. Her empty, quiet house closed in from all sides. She tugged at the collar of her turtleneck in search of oxygen.
No one was there to upset her, but no one was there to comfort her, either. The African violets, though living, were hardly a substitute for a confidante. She was alone, as usual. The difference today was that she knew she didn’t have to be if she could only follow Logan’s advice and let go . . . of it all.
By four o’clock, she was suffocating. After pulling her hair into a short ponytail, she slipped on shoes, grabbed her keys, and headed to the library. A new book or two would give her the perfect escape hatch.
Naomi was at the checkout desk wearing a T-shirt that read “Me? Weird? Always.” She looked up when she heard Rosie thumping along the carpet. “Hey, you. Loading up or unloading?”
“Loading up.” Claire set down three new novels. Two dukes and one rogue earl—historical-romance nirvana.
Naomi flipped open the first cover and scanned the code. “Guess you already read next month’s discussion book?”
“I did.” The memoir Educated had reminded her, in some ways, of The Glass Castle.
“What did you think?” Naomi scanned the second book.
“I can’t believe how she triumphed despite all she endured.” There’d been moments while reading it that Claire had needed to physically put it down and walk away.
The author had been raised by paranoid Mormon survivalists in Idaho who’d forbidden her to go to school. Despite that and many other crazy things, she eventually became a Brigham Young graduate who earned a PhD from Cambridge. Although the author’s tale of transformation was inspiring, Claire also had an unpleasant recognition that her family’s PTSD and paranoia resulting from her accident—if taken to extremes—could turn out to be very bad. She saw herself as if standing at the top of a sliding board, and if she kept on her current path, she might slide closer to an extreme place of isolation and fear before she realized what was happening.
“You know I’ve got a healthy paranoia about our government, but her dad made me look like a poster child for patriotism and pop culture.” Naomi scanned Claire’s final book, checked her screen, and typed something. She passed the stack across the counter. “These should be a nice change of pace.”
“Romantic, escapist, and happy.” Claire dumped the books into her tote bag.
“If romance is what you crave, you might be better off with a real man instead of those book boyfriends.” Naomi set her elbows on the counter and leaned forward.
“Easier said than done.”
“I heard you took that job for Logan Prescott.” Naomi eyed her. “Pat and her pragmatism got to you, or maybe something more motivated your decision, eh?”
“Just bills. Lots and lots of bills.” She knew her blush gave her away, which made her feel doubly foolish.
“I doubt that.” With a shrug, Naomi drummed the countertop with her hands. “Want a little advice from an old spinster?”
“Sure.”
“You and I, we’re not the same kind of people. You’re not cut out for the solo gig. You need people, Claire, and you deserve something better than books to keep you up at night. Don’t let one bad apple make you run screaming from the orchard. Grab hold and experiment with all kinds of apples until you find one with the perfect bite—or in your case, maybe you’d prefer one covered in caramel.”
Claire laughed for the first time all day, although she wondered if Naomi had been hurt deeply in the past. “That does sound tempting. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“See you later.” Naomi waved goodbye and wandered into the admin office behind the circulation desk.
Claire tossed the bag of books on the passenger seat when she got to her car and mulled over Naomi’s advice.
Face it, Claire. The only way to get people to stop feeling sorry for her was if she acted bolder and took risks. She had to show people that she could handle life’s ups and downs on her own—in business and in her personal life. No one would ever believe her if she didn’t believe in herself enough to try.
On her way home, she dialed Steffi but got dumped into her voice mail. “Steffi, give me a buzz. I want to talk to you about making a big pitch.”
High, thin clouds lent brightness to the late afternoon without creating hot spots. Luck had smiled on Logan, who’d wanted to shoot photos of Peyton on the beach where they’d spent their childhood.
Dressed in jeans, a wool coat, and a black wool bowler cap, his sister looked striking today, and strong. Determined. Maybe even a little pissed at him about the Claire situation. That was okay, though, because anger had put fire in her eyes. A spark of life that had been absent for too long.
She’d been a trouper, taking orders from him about this position or that rocky
outcropping, but now she was shivering.
He detached the telephoto lens from his Canon. “Go inside. I’ll pack up and follow in a bit.”
“I’ll make some tea.” Her teeth chattered. “Want some?”
“Nah.”
“See you inside.” She trotted across the shallow beach and up the lawn to the house.
It didn’t take long to put his things into the camera bag, but he was in no hurry to go inside. If anything, he welcomed some time alone to think about what to do with Claire. He’d gone to sleep angry and awakened with regrets.
He glanced down the beach a few hundred yards to where a father and his daughter were flying a kite as if it were summer. The contrast of its primary colors against the near-white sky drew the eye. But that wasn’t what reached into his chest to squeeze his heart. The bubble of the little girl’s laughter carried along the wind from where her dad had crouched to gently support her arms and shoulders.
Logan had no memory of gentle support from his parents, but the scene prompted a foggy memory of Duck, who’d died before Logan’s seventh birthday. Logan had been about four, back when many more trees stood along the edge of the property bordering the sea. There’d been a woven hammock strung between two oak trees near the beach, and Duck would let Logan curl up beside him while he read aloud.
The William H. Prescott in Logan’s memory was a kind, frail man with a soft voice and a shock of white hair. Photographs of the younger version typically showed his handsome face in a serious state of concentration, but he’d actually laughed easily, sharing the same wry humor as Peyton.
How different might Logan be if Duck had lived longer? Or if his own father had shown him that kind of easygoing attention?
The man who’d written with passion and eloquence—with sharp observations—had carried a deep well of love to draw upon. One can’t write fiction that grabs readers’ hearts if he has an empty tank.
Maybe that was why Logan hadn’t yet found the kind of storytelling success he’d been chasing for a decade. His tank was low on deep love, except for his feelings for Peyton, anyway.
“Logan!” she called from the house behind him, holding his cell phone overhead.
He turned and trotted toward her. “What?”
“Claire’s calling.” She extended his phone toward him when he reached the back patio, one brow arched. “Please be careful.”
He followed her inside as he answered the phone. “Claire.”
“Hi.”
He cast a glance at Peyton and then strode into the front parlor and closed the double doors. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “Any chance you’re free now?”
His heart skipped. “What’s up?”
“I completed a few design plans, and I want your opinion before I keep going.”
Work, nothing more. His chest hurt. “That was fast.”
“I had a breakthrough.”
Well, great. He’d put himself to bed because he’d felt shitty; meanwhile, she’d turned their fight into a creative tour de force. “Okay. I’ll be over shortly.”
He opened the doors to find Peyton sitting on a bench in the entry hall. She stood when he crossed to the stairs. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He halted, a sick pit opening in his gut.
“Oh . . . Claire didn’t . . .”
“Claire didn’t what?” He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes.
She sighed, shoulders slumping. “I went to see her while you napped.”
“You did what?” He ran one hand over his hair.
“I had to talk to her about being in Steffi’s wedding party, and then I brought up your little tryst.”
“Tryst?” He pressed his fingers to his temple to keep from throttling her. “Did you actually use that word?”
“No.”
“Thank God.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “I asked you to butt out.”
“If it’s any consolation, so did Claire.”
“Good.” He turned and started up the stairs.
“Logan, she didn’t say it, but I saw how much she cares for you written all over her face. She’s not like Karina and the others.”
“I know that, Peyton.” It was precisely why he liked spending time with her. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to shower and go.”
Chapter Fourteen
Claire couldn’t deny that having Logan in her bed last night had been better than any of the tingles she’d gotten from her very best book boyfriends. She stashed her new romance novels in a drawer before taking one last look around her house—newly cleared of empty junk-food wrappers.
Two glasses of pinot noir sat by her laptop, waiting for Logan’s arrival without accompanying candles or anything else. Just a hint of her intentions or, rather, an attempt at a new attitude toward their relationship.
Naomi would be proud.
The phone rang. She glanced at the screen, closed her eyes, and let loose a shallow huff. “Mom, this isn’t a great time. Can I call you later or tomorrow?”
“Sure. I just wanted to warn you that Nora Williams told me that a burglar tried to break into Janie Jones’s house last night. He got away without getting caught, which means he could be on the hunt for a new target. Lock your doors.”
“I always do.” Claire could practically hear her mom making the sign of the cross. “Please don’t worry so much about me.”
“Oh, honey, I can’t help it,” she said on a sigh, but Claire heard the loving smile in her voice, too. “What did you do today?”
“Worked a little. Went to the library.”
“Sounds like a wonderful, relaxing day.” Her bright voice vibrated genuine happiness. If she knew how miserable Claire had actually been, it would crush her.
“Mom, I’m sorry to rush you, but I’m expecting someone.” She stole a glimpse at the door as if it would make Logan appear.
“Who?”
“A client,” Claire covered rather than field yet another of her mom’s complaints about Logan carting her off to New York. If her mom knew about Newport, she might have a stroke. “I’ll swing by tomorrow to see you and Dad. Maybe we can grab dinner.”
“Lovely. I’ll bake a cheesecake!”
“Make it a chocolate one.” If tonight didn’t go well, Claire would need that all to herself. “Bye!”
She muted her phone and tossed it onto a bookshelf, then checked herself in the mirror, frowning at the blonde highlights she shouldn’t have had done. The fact that she’d thought, even for a moment, that her hair color would magically change her life made her embarrassed.
She started at the bang from the brass knocker outside. Tugging at the miniskirt she’d worn over tights, she then took Rosie in hand. She crossed the room on shaky legs and opened the door. Logan stood in the warm glow of the porch lights with his hands tucked into the pockets of his handsome black wool peacoat.
She let the simple joy of seeing him again fill her. “Thanks for coming.”
Logan’s green eyes gave no hint of his mood. “Sure.”
“Come on in. You can toss your coat on the rack, then join me at the dining table.” With her back to him, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, loosening her grip on Rosie with each step. “I poured some wine.”
She handed him a wineglass and then sipped from the other.
“Thanks.” He took a full swallow, staring at her over the glass’s rim, and waited for her to lead the discussion. When she gestured to his chair and opened her laptop, his eyes dimmed. Apparently, he’d hoped for something more.
“I know we should talk about this morning,” she began, her toes curling inside her shoes, “but let’s get business out of the way first.”
He nodded and set his wineglass on the table, giving her his full attention. This was it—her one chance to dazzle him with her design. Her finger hovered over the “Return” key, paralyzed by a bout of nerves.
“I want to walk you through two potential floor pla
ns and a color scheme I chose.” She pressed the key, and her favorite living room image filled the screen.
She studied the design, trying to see it through fresh eyes. The virtual staging depicted navy-blue walls. Two square brown leather LC2 chairs with brass frames flanked an emerald-green tuxedo-style sofa. Beneath an ivory-and-gray coffee table lay a cream-and-navy rug. Embellished throw pillows in the corners of the sofa pulled all the colors of the room together. Mock art and lighting options gave some sense of how the space could look when finished.
When he didn’t say anything, she reached for her wine before continuing. “It may seem a bit much at first glance, but give the palette a minute to grow on you. It’s very current and handsome.” Like you, she wanted to add, but didn’t. “I’m thinking we play with texture, like mohair, velvet, and tabby, which can be masculine. We could also add texture to one wall with some picture-frame molding, but painted in navy so the pattern doesn’t jump out or look too busy.”
His gaze roamed the screen.
Sweat dotted her back. He’d asked her to design something just for him, but his silence suggested she’d totally missed the mark. He hated it. Her stomach turned rock hard. “Logan?”
She breathed through the knot tightening in her gut.
He turned to her as a wide smile emerged. “If you would’ve told me to buy a jewel-toned green sofa, I’d have balked. But seeing all this, it’s sophisticated and warm. Spectacular. Exactly the kind of place I’d want to spend my free time.”
The praise cascaded over her like warm water. She let loose a whoosh of air as the buzz of his approval breathed new life into her body.
“I’m so relieved. When you were quiet, I got nervous.” She laid her hand on his forearm to command his attention. “You know it won’t hurt my feelings, though, if you don’t like something. You need to be honest with me because it’s your house, not mine.”
