by Beck, Jamie
She held the green square at arm’s length. Then she thought of Logan, as she’d done nonstop for the past three days. Not only did the onyx resemble his eyes, but he’d never call it green or even jade—not when it contained cream veins and gold flecks, too.
“They’re both so expensive.” Mrs. Brewster pressed her hand to her mouth. The light coming through the single large window behind her shone through her thinning hair, which she’d teased into a sort of curly crown. “I don’t want to make the wrong decision.”
“There is no wrong decision. Both are pretty.” Claire tipped her head. “The onyx is slightly more feminine and unique. Some men might not like it, but you don’t have to make that compromise.”
“Oh, Harold.” When Mrs. Brewster sighed, her eyes turned misty even though her husband had passed almost two years ago. “Maybe I should get the white because he would’ve liked it better.”
Love like that—pure and eternal—did exist for some. If Claire kept picking men like Todd and Logan, she’d never experience its power or joy.
Sympathy for Mrs. Brewster’s loss smoothed the ruffled feathers of Claire’s impatience. The poor woman probably felt alone in the world without her husband of fifty years. “I’m sure Harold would want you to pick whatever made you happiest.”
Mrs. Brewster touched Claire’s hand with her spindly one and smiled. “You’re right. He would. He was always eager to make me happy. Let’s go with the green one.”
“Perfect.” Claire threw the samples back in her bag before Mrs. Brewster had a chance to reconsider. “I’ll reserve a slab of this. Once the new floors and cabinetry are installed, they’ll come measure and make the template. It’ll take a couple of weeks to manufacture the counters. Steffi will give you plywood counters in the interim.”
“Oh, I know it’ll be a while. Stefanie told me four weeks or more. Hard to believe for this little space, but I know it’ll be worth it in the end.” She smiled, revealing a tooth smeared with a bit of poppy-red lipstick. “I’m using the hall bathroom anyway.”
“I promise, when we’re finished, this will be a wonderful little retreat.” Claire turned and began walking out of the bathroom and down the stairs. “I’ll email you some options for ornamental pieces you might like to place on the vanity or near the soaker tub. You let me know if you like anything.”
“I will.” Mrs. Brewster led her to the front door. “Thank you, dear. I’m so glad we’re doing this. I needed a little project to keep me busy and to have something fun to look forward to.”
“Thank you for hiring us. We’ll make sure you’re happy with the final result.” Claire waved, glad for her first whiff of fresh air in thirty minutes. She half thought Mrs. Brewster’s overly sweet floral perfume had seeped into her pores now, too. “Speak to you soon.”
When Mrs. Brewster closed the door, Claire strode to her car with a sigh, thinking of the mountain of details to sift through to complete Logan’s project. She also needed to design new social media ads with the updated website gallery pages. She’d been putting off these tasks for the past three days because any reminder of Logan physically hurt.
While she dug for her keys, her phone rang. “Hello?”
“Claire,” came Mr. Prescott’s familiar voice. She set her bag aside and gripped the steering wheel. “It’s Harrison Prescott.”
“How are you, Mr. Prescott?”
“Well, thank you. I’m following up on our brief discussion at the gala. You wouldn’t happen to have time now, would you? I find myself with a free hour, thanks to a last-minute cancellation.”
“Oh. Well, I . . .” Her heart kicked at her ribs, but then she scowled at herself. She might have given up on pitching him for this project, but who knew what other good might come of this meeting? If she impressed him, he might make introductions to associates with local projects. “Of course.”
“Great. Come to Arcadia. We can use my home office.”
She gulped. Was Logan at home? Peyton? Closing her eyes, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She punched off the phone, tipped back her head, and breathed through her nose. A second shot at rummaging through her purse produced her keys. Within the next few minutes, she found herself on the private end of Lilac Lane, her old stomping ground.
She hadn’t been to this house in more than two years. Nothing had changed, from what she could see. The elegant curve of its pea-stone driveway led her to the sprawling shingle-style mansion. She could see remnants of the old tree house that had been the Lilac Lane League clubhouse in a large oak tree near the edge of the lawn, although the ladder once nailed to its trunk no longer existed.
The architect and designers who’d built the imposing home, with its tall flagpole set to the side and handsome balustrades around the patios and porches, had created an American dream by the sea. Of course, apparently, it hadn’t been a dream life or family for Logan or Peyton, both of whom had taken off as soon as possible.
Every second since she’d ended things with Logan, she’d wondered how and where he was, and with whom was he doing whatever it was that he was doing. At present, she didn’t see his car on the property. Relief filled her lungs, then regret immediately deflated them.
You can do this. She exited the car, made her way up the cobblestone stairs to the front door, and rang the doorbell.
Mr. Prescott answered while on the phone, waving her inside with a quick smile. The lemony-clean aroma shot her back to the days when she’d hung out here with her friends. They’d made pitchers of iced tea and baked cookies. They’d had sleepovers often, scribbling in the Lilac Lane League binder, laughing, and falling in love with Colin Firth in Bridget Jones’s Diary.
But even Colin hadn’t made Claire’s heart skip like it had whenever Logan had joined them, nor had the handsome Brit made her restless at night the way that knowing Logan was sleeping across the hall had. She knew every crack on Peyton’s bedroom ceiling from staring at it for so many sleepless hours.
Bittersweet memories kept coming, reminding her of how much of her life had been shaped here by the Prescott siblings, and yet now they were both out of her life.
She followed Mr. Prescott to his office, where he finally ended his call. This place—
frozen in time with its 1930s walnut writing desk and bookshelves loaded with musty classics—had always been off-limits to all kids.
Claire still remembered the way her heart had beat fast when Peyton had opened the creaky door after midnight the one time she’d sneaked them in here senior year. She vividly recalled the nubby feel of the Aubusson carpet beneath her bare feet, the taste of the bourbon on her finger as they’d each sampled Mr. Prescott’s stash.
That night, Peyton had rolled a blank sheet of paper through her great-grandfather’s typewriter and let them each take a turn typing on it. Peyton had written, “Never say never.” Steffi had written, “I hope my mom can hear my thoughts.” Claire had typed, “I’m grateful to be alive.” That note remained safely tucked within the Lilac Lane League’s binder to this day somewhere in Claire’s old room at her parents’ house.
Now, being invited into the sanctuary felt a little like going to church. Except here one worshipped from the comfort of a worn leather chair, surrounded by the symbols of the greatness that had brought this house—and family prominence—into being. This strange reverence gave her a better appreciation for Logan’s otherwise inexplicable sense of inadequacy.
Mr. Prescott closed the office door and poured himself a drink. “Would you like one?”
“No thank you.” She cleared the cobwebs from her throat.
“Then let’s get right to it.” He crossed to his desk and turned his large desktop screen around to face her. “As you know, I’m buying a chain of small, aging inns along the Atlantic seaboard. Most of my budget must go to upgrading software, hiring and training new personnel, and other operational items. Of course, as you can see, they also all need a face-lift. If I thought it could be supported,
I’d completely renovate them. But there’s a cap on the room rates tertiary beach-town inns can charge, so it’d be foolhardy to completely upgrade everything. I need less expensive options that will still make a big impact.”
Claire scooted her chair closer. She hadn’t researched the inns Logan had described because she’d dropped the idea of pitching her services. Now she needed to see what she was up against in order to offer advice. “May I scroll through these for a few minutes?”
“Of course.” He gestured with his hands, then sat behind his desk and made himself busy with his phone.
The Portsmouth, New Hampshire, inn’s exterior—two stories of neutral clapboard with white trim—looked attractive enough. A fresh coat of paint and some flower boxes and landscaping would perk it up plenty. The square building also included an ample, welcoming wraparound porch and a handsome wood-and-glass front door. The exterior promised something airy and homey inside, which made the sedate mustards and hunter greens, and bold floral wallpaper, all the more depressing. Add to that the old-fashioned rag carpets, heavy mahogany furniture, and antiquated bathrooms and fixtures, and “oppressive” was the only word to describe the emotion it evoked.
“You hate it.” His gaze was now fixed on her face, which made her aware of how she’d wrinkled her nose while viewing the images.
She gave a slight shrug. “It’s very dated.”
“Hopelessly so?” He folded his hands on the desk.
“Nothing’s hopeless,” she assured him.
“Will I need to replace everything?” When he ran his hand through his hair, he looked like Logan.
She gave herself a mental headshake and refocused. “No. There are quick fixes that won’t break the bank yet will give everything a fresh look.”
“Such as . . .”
“First and foremost, paint. Strip all the wallpaper and repaint everything in lighter, soothing tones. New England and the mid-Atlantic aren’t the Caribbean, so I’d stick to a neutral but sophisticated beach palette, like creams, lilacs, ice blues, and taupes. If you like wallpaper, go for texture—like linen, not bold patterns. People who choose small inns over hotel chains typically want a sense of romance and intimacy. They should feel it the instant they walk through the door, so make sure the mattresses, pillows, and comforters are high quality. Sumptuous linens are a must.”
“This sounds good, Claire. What about these old bathrooms? My wife has a fondness for this stuff, but . . .”
The bold green-and-white 1950s tile and fixtures could still work. “Honestly, many people like nostalgia when they’re on vacation. You can easily clean up these old sinks and tub showers by getting them reglazed. Even the vivid flooring can be fun if properly cleaned. Green works at the beach, but to help tone it down, I’d repaint the walls—possibly a pale seashell pink or iridescent cream—and perhaps sink a little money into cosmetic upgrades like more-modern faucets and lighting. Glam it up a bit and people will love it.
“The older case goods—dressers and such—won’t look as heavy once you have the lighter color scheme with new linens and drapes to distract the eyes. Simplicity—color and texture—works best. You can recover some of the lobby furniture, maybe replace or simply remove other pieces. That’s still going to take some money and thought, but it is a lot less than starting from scratch.” She sat back.
“And would you recommend that we do all of the inns the same—to create a brand?”
She bobbed her head side to side, thinking. “If you do that, you should be able to negotiate bulk-buy prices for the linens and drapes. But I might add something unique to each inn in the guest rooms. For example, Mystic is known for its aquarium and seaport, while Annapolis is known for its naval academy. Maybe in Annapolis, you work the military naval theme in with throw pillows or pictures, while going with cute octopus-themed and antique-sailboat pillows in Mystic.”
“Sounds simple.”
“It should be. And lastly, one free way to give any room a totally new look is to reposition the furniture. Surprise guests with an unexpected but comfortable floor plan and it will feel more special than a typical hotel room.”
“Those are all great ideas.” He leaned forward. “Thank you for sharing them so freely.”
“Happy to help.” She smiled, pleased to have impressed a man who’d been an intimidating enigma for most of her life. A small but meaningful confidence boost, making this trip worth her initial discomfort.
His expression turned more thoughtful. “I’m surprised you came to help, given how Peyton and Logan have treated you.”
“Logan?” She felt her brows pinch together.
“Obviously, he offended you at the gala.”
“Mr. Prescott,” she said, pausing to swallow. “First of all, I came here as a professional courtesy because you and your wife are always kind to me. I enjoy what I do, so it’s my pleasure to think through these kinds of problems. As for Peyton, I’m saddened by what’s been lost, and I hope the worst is behind us. But Logan never did anything to hurt me. He’s been nothing but honest and respectful.”
He swallowed the last of his drink, brows skeptically raised. “I just assumed . . . you left the gala with your parents. He came home mulish as ever and took off for New York the next morning.”
Her breath caught in her chest. Logan had left town without saying goodbye—not that she expected it after the way she’d pleaded with him to let her go. But the fact that there was no opportunity for a chance encounter—even though she’d been anxious about what she’d do or say—crushed her. She glanced at the framed Pulitzer. “I’m sure he has a lot of preparations to make before going to Greece.”
“I suppose.”
She didn’t want to discuss Logan or Peyton, so she sat forward, wearing a polite smile. “Well, unless you have other questions for me with regard to your hotels, I should probably make myself scarce.”
“I have only one last question.”
“Yes?”
He grinned. It was the first time she’d ever noticed he had a shallow dimple on his right cheek. “What’s your fee?”
“This one’s on the house. Truly.” She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder.
He waved her back into her seat. “No, I mean, what would you charge to oversee the updates you described?”
“Oh!” She sank onto the chair, mostly from surprise. “Steffi and I don’t really have the workforce to take on a multistate project.”
“Couldn’t my hotel GMs outsource the local painters and plumbers and such? I’m just talking about having you coordinate the design scheme, the colors, pick the bedding, all that stuff. You’d only have to go see each location at the beginning, and maybe once or twice more to make sure it was all coming together.”
“Well . . .” She paused, thinking about the retail space she desperately wanted and about her vow to create a life of her own choosing, not one hampered by her fear or pushed on her by a man. “Send me the floor plans and images from each hotel and let me talk to Steffi. If we think we can manage it, I’ll work up an estimate.”
“Fine. But don’t delay. I do need to start moving on this. The closing is scheduled in six weeks. It’d be great if we could go in quickly with updates and reopen with the new name and look before the summer season gets underway in mid-June.”
“When we get to Lesbos, I want to meet with Dr. Passodelis first.” Karina folded another pair of shorts and set them next to all the other stuff she’d collected on her dining table, apparently to test what she could cram into her lightweight carry-on. A far cry from the sturdy, sizable equipment cases Logan would be lugging around to keep his camera equipment and editing gear safe.
Logan chugged his IPA, swinging the leg he’d thrown over the arm of her living room chair. They’d finalized last-minute details earlier, but he was lingering at her place to avoid his apartment and Steffi, who was there prepping its walls.
“Who’s he?” He didn’t recall that name in their research notes.
�
�That psychologist I mentioned when you showed up—the one who’s working with the refugees through Doctors Without Borders. He’s helping them unpack all the trauma they’ve endured—rape, torture, war, and more.” Karina then set a bunch of SIM cards, an extra battery charger, and several charging cables on the table.
He finished his third beer, but the buzz he’d been hoping would kill his restlessness hadn’t taken hold yet.
“How much torture is happening in the camps?” Unlike Karina, who seemed eager to delve into that pain, he didn’t relish the idea of taking close-ups of strangers who’d been raped and tortured. Mining for anguish walked a delicate and uncomfortable line, taking a toll on his soul. He’d prefer to seek out an uplifting, hopeful subject for their story.
“Some, but the more common pattern is torture and war PTSD from the refugees’ homeland, then something traumatic happens on the journey to Greece, like an assault or a boat that sinks or something, then they get to camp and the camp guards use tear gas and clubs to beat rioters into submission. The compounding effect of multiple traumas becomes another tragedy refugees must overcome. It’s horrible. There has to be a better way to give these unfortunate people a chance at a good life.”
Logan stared out the window in Karina’s apartment, thinking about trauma. He’d never suffered any, except for an early burst of panic when he’d first learned of Peyton’s diagnosis. Deep down, though, he’d always believed she’d beat it. His sister was and remained somewhat invincible so far, thank God.
But Claire knew firsthand about how unexpected trauma could forever change the trajectory of a life.
He’d gone so many years without realizing that in her fervor to heal physically, she’d neglected her psychological and emotional recovery. She’d hidden those wounds like a champ, but year after year, fear had become her closest companion, shutting her off from many facets of life. Now it was one of several things keeping them apart. That and his own reticence about commitment.
