by Beck, Jamie
“Well, at least we have one thing in common, pathetic as it is.” Peyton grimaced. Two things, Claire silently amended, because they’d both been fooled by Todd. Peyton sighed. “Who would’ve ever believed Steffi would be the first of us to get married?”
Claire might’ve married first had Todd not met Peyton. Then again, after being with Logan, she knew she hadn’t belonged with Todd. Not only was he a troll, but also, in retrospect, theirs had been a tepid kind of love. Not one that could sustain them year after year. Not even one that could sustain his meeting Peyton.
“Maybe it’s all for the best, though,” Peyton continued. “Logan needs someone who can deal with him even when—especially when—he doesn’t know what he wants or needs. You like certainty and security. I hope you find that with someone worthy.”
Her words echoed what Claire had argued to Logan, but hearing it coming from Peyton made it sound so lame . . . and really, really boring.
Besides, Logan might not know what he needed, but Claire did. Despite his desire to sail the seas and win awards, Logan craved a real home. He didn’t yet realize that, and he might never see it, so Claire had yanked her heart safely ashore.
Sitting in Arcadia House, she couldn’t help but remember how Logan had spoken of his great-grandfather—the hero who’d inspired his ambition and also the man who’d made him feel treasured right here in this place.
“Peyton, before I go, do you have any old photos of Logan and your great-grandfather lying around? I want to put a personal touch on his condo design.”
She shrugged. “We could check some old boxes in the attic. My mom isn’t the most sentimental, but she never throws away anything to do with Duck.”
Claire dug into the peach pie and ice cream her mom had set in front of her after dinner, because the three brownies she’d scarfed down earlier hadn’t quite managed to quell her nerves about the impending cruise or Logan’s safety. “This is delicious.”
“Well, you’ve been so busy lately I needed to lure you into hanging out with Dad and me awhile longer.” She sat beside Claire and smiled at her husband from across the table.
This scene had repeated weekly throughout most of Claire’s life. Love. Family. Familiarity. It reassured her even though she’d started to yearn for more than mere comfort.
“Sounds like you’ve worked out your business issues on your own.” Her dad took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m proud of you, Claire Bear.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She sipped her decaf coffee. It never took much to earn her parents’ praise. Poor Logan, on the other hand, never got any from his father. No wonder he was always risking his life to find proof of his worth elsewhere. “Redecorating Logan’s apartment got the ball rolling, and then Mrs. Brewster. Did I tell you she sent us a referral? Another nice bathroom-remodeling job. Now, if Mr. Prescott accepts my proposal for those hotels, I’ll be able to afford a small retail space in town this year.”
“What hotels?” Her mom’s brows arched.
This would go over like the Hindenburg, which was probably why she’d never before mentioned the possibility to her parents. “He’s buying a chain of old inns along the Atlantic coast and asked for my advice about giving them an interior face-lift. I just submitted a formal proposal for the work today. Six hotels will yield a nice commission and get Lockwood & McKenna some really nice press.”
“But . . . won’t you have to travel to visit those places in order to do a good job?” Worry lines gathered on her mom’s forehead and around her mouth.
Even her father’s smile transformed to a concerned frown. “How far will you have to go? You said old . . . are they in run-down neighborhoods?”
Their words stoked her own fear, but she had to fight the cycle. “They’re in small beach communities like in Mystic.”
Her mom stared into her coffee cup, her face taking on a judgmental expression. “I’m surprised you’d want to work with the Prescotts after everything with Peyton and Logan . . .”
Claire pushed her empty plate away and shoved her seat back an inch or two to make room for her expanding stomach. “Peyton hurt me, and believe me, I haven’t forgotten. But she’s been through a lot, and maybe we’ve all suffered enough. Lately, holding on to a grudge seems pointless. It’s not making me happier and, in fact, might be keeping me from being happy. She’s home for a while, and we have to get along to plan Steffi’s bridal shower, so I’m trying to find forgiveness. Today we decided to rent a yacht and plan a sunset cruise for the party.”
Her stomach would’ve lurched again if it hadn’t been stuffed full of sugary baked goods.
“On the ocean?” Her mother’s fingers clutched her coffee mug so tightly the tips turned white. “What’s wrong with the private party room at Lucia’s?”
“Steffi and Ryan overcame a lot of heartache and past mistakes to reunite.” She didn’t elaborate because very few people knew about the sexual assault. “They deserve something special. Something memorable.”
“It’ll be memorable if someone falls overboard!” Her mom huffed.
“Mom.” Claire forced a chuckle to ease the tension, although she still battled her own anxiety. “No one will fall overboard.”
“You never know. Things happen.” She pointed a finger at Claire. “Drunk people do stupid things.”
Her dad was now popping giant red grapes like Claire did M&M’s, but remained silent on the subject.
“We’re not throwing a frat party.” Claire reached for her mom’s hand and squeezed. “Please, I’m almost thirty-one, not ten.”
Her dad started choking and pounding on his chest, drawing her and her mother’s concerned attention.
“Dad, are you okay?” Claire’s pulse sped up.
His face turned pale blue, and he raised one hand in the air as the choking stopped and no air went in or out of his chest.
“Oh my God, Tom!” her mom shrieked, although panic seemed to paralyze her, as she sat there, blinking and shaking.
Claire sprang from her seat and circled her dad from behind. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around him, clasping her fist just beneath his sternum, and attempted the Heimlich. She’d never done that before.
What if she failed? Oh God, please.
The first attempt produced nothing but a spike in her own panic. She adjusted her grip and jerked again. Still not hard enough. With all of her strength, she yanked her fists up into his sternum and finally popped the grape loose.
He gasped for air, touching his forehead to his forearms, which rested on the table. Tears of relief slid down Claire’s face while she caught her breath and let her own heart settle. When her mom rounded the table to tend to her father, Claire hugged them both.
Thank God. Thank God.
“Let me get you some water,” her mom finally said to her dad after kissing his face several times.
While her mom poured a small glass of ice water, Claire pulled her seat closer to her dad and stroked his arm.
“Thank you, honey. You saved my life.” His watery eyes set off another round of grateful tears.
“I love you, Daddy.” Claire set her cheek on his shoulder.
He patted her head. “I love you, too.”
Her mother set the water in front of her dad and collapsed in another chair. Like snow in the moonlight, the sheen on her pale face looked icy. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if Claire hadn’t dislodged that stupid grape. I’m getting too old to handle scares like that. You need to be more careful, Tom.”
There it was again. The “careful” mantra her family had repeated for the past sixteen years. The one that had cultivated the fear that had become an invisible fence, keeping them all hemmed in.
“My heart.” Her mom looked at Claire while patting her chest. “Please reconsider taking a job that requires so much travel. There are drifters in those touristy beach towns.”
She studied her parents, her mind churning with its sudden realization. “Dad could’ve just died right here in
this kitchen, a place where, according to you, he should be perfectly safe. Peyton’s own body is trying to kill her. Accidents and illnesses don’t respect a safety zone. They just happen. Risk is everywhere, every day. And drifters could come into this community as easily as any other.
“I can’t keep living my life in a bubble. I want to be normal. To drive on the highway. To go to a crowded place and not drown in my own sweat. Maybe I need therapy. Maybe we all do. I’m not sure, but I do know I can’t take the guilt of feeling like I’m ruining your life by trying to live mine, Mom.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, but I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt again. That was the worst phone call of my life, Claire. You can’t understand because you don’t have children yet—”
“And I never will if I let fear make my life so small no interesting man will want to be part of it.” Claire pressed her hands flat on the table.
Her mom huffed, her eyes brimming with tears. “Is that why Logan left? Is he behind this sudden burst of resentment?”
Claire reached for her mom’s hand again. “I don’t resent you or Dad. I’m just asking you to hear what I’m saying and support me. We all went through something tragic together. But after all these years, we need a new way to cope before it’s too late to enjoy the life we still have.”
Her father nodded. “Claire’s got a point, Ruth. Maybe we could try family counseling.”
“We can’t control the monsters out there, and no amount of therapy will change that,” her mom replied.
“The truth is that we can’t control much of anything, Mom,” Claire said. “Only the choices we make.”
Chapter Twenty
Logan roamed the narrow streets of Athens’s Plaka district, hoping the bustle of excited tourists and shopping would help to subdue memories of the misery he’d seen at the Moria refugee camp. Today he’d perused endless rows of stores and alleys, each strung with bright-colored clothing for sale, all waving like flags along the sidewalk. An excess of distractions—sunlight, the high-pitched drone of passing motorcycles, ancient ruins in plain view—yet none of them quieted the overwhelming questions he had about what would happen to unaccompanied minors, like twelve-year-old Aya Khateb, who were two- and threefold victims of a failing system.
Thank God he hadn’t succeeded in convincing Claire to meet him in Italy this week. He’d been out of his mind to think he’d be able to vacation immediately after spending several weeks photographing people trapped in a situation with little human dignity at best, and death or trafficking at worst.
The Council of State’s recent ruling might’ve been lauded by human rights organizations, but the government’s swift reactionary imposition of an administrative order to reinstate the containment policy maintained the standstill that had existed for two years. Thousands of refugees imprisoned in hell.
A vibrant sun beat down on the busy streets now, but although temperatures hovered at a mere eighty degrees, Logan felt depleted while forcing himself to pick up a few gifts to take home: olive-oil beauty products and soaps for Peyton and olive-wood salad servers for his parents. Normally, that would be the end of his shopping list, but he’d stumbled upon a beautiful set of lapis lazuli–and–silver kombolói, or “worry beads.”
Its design resembled a lariat, but the set was actually meant to relieve stress by giving one’s hands something to play with. The color of its beads reminded him of Claire’s eyes, and kombolói seemed the perfect gift for someone with her constant concerns.
Now he toyed with it as he wandered back to the hotel to grab a shower and a meal.
Claire. Prior to arriving on Lesbos, he’d thought of her often, but then he got swept up in the work, the stories, the pictures, leaving only the wee hours available for missing her. During sleepless nights, he’d stared at the photos he’d snapped of her at the Breakers, wondering if he should send them to her with a note. But what could he say?
Nothing that would comfort her or give her more faith in the world or the goodness of people, although he’d encountered remarkable volunteers who’d come to supply aid to those in need. Even within the camps, many refugees would band together to help each other. But death, illness, and violence went hand in hand in overpopulated, underprepared, sequestered conditions, too.
And the children . . .
Shaking those images loose, he took the hotel stairs two at a time up to his room, eager for a cool shower to wash away his discomfort. Ten minutes later, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower right before Karina banged on his door.
“Logan . . . are you in there?”
“Hang on.” He jogged to the door in his towel, opened it, and then walked to his suitcase to locate shorts and a T-shirt.
“Did it work?” Her gaze lingered on his abdomen, but he felt no stir of interest from it.
He impatiently snagged his underwear, too. “Did what work?”
“Sleeping, shopping, showering? Did any of it make you feel better about what we’ve learned?” She sank onto his bed and leaned back on her elbows, restlessly fluttering her feet.
“Not really.”
“Me neither.” She tapped her toes on the floor and sprouted a saucy smile as she pointedly looked at his towel. “There’s one S-word we haven’t tried yet. It’s always worked in the past.”
That gratifying human connection had been a sort of ritual for them at this juncture of other projects, but it wouldn’t help today. After being with Claire, his shallow connection to Karina would be too obvious for him to ignore or enjoy.
They were colleagues and sex buddies, but sex wouldn’t fill the space Claire had left in his chest by tunneling in there before pushing him away. In fact, it might make that cavern bigger. The question he couldn’t answer yet was why he’d let her go. Each week since the gala, he’d grown more convinced that only she could fill that gap.
“Sorry, but I’m not up to it.” He shimmied into his underwear beneath the towel, then tossed it aside and finished dressing.
Karina raised her brows and pushed herself upright. “Didn’t see that coming. May I ask why not?”
He supposed he could’ve been more tactful. Sighing, he defaulted to the world’s worst explanation because he hadn’t the mental energy to do better. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
She covered her face while chuckling, then waved both hands in the air. “Spare me the platitudes, Logan. We know each other too well for that. I’m not in love with you. I just need to take the edge off.”
He chuckled, relieved that he hadn’t hurt her feelings. “I’m sure there are plenty of guys who’d happily help you out with that.”
“Probably.” She stood, holding out one hand. “But I’m not up for strangers at the moment. I’m stuck with you. Let’s at least go get a few drinks to celebrate our last day in Greece. I know you wanted to focus on the unaccompanied kids, but we got better information on the long-tail mental-health crisis from our series of interviews with Dr. Passodelis and his patients. Those are the images I want. Do what you want with the others.”
He would. Maybe he’d partner with a gallery and an organization that assisted with refugee adoption to put on an exhibition to raise money and awareness. Perhaps that could lead to the rescue of children like young Aya and to the creation of new families.
Gesturing to the door, he said, “Let’s go. I saw a café on the corner.”
Logan swung open his condo door and rolled his luggage and equipment inside, grateful to bring an end to an interminable flight. He would need a good night’s sleep in his own bed after a month of practical insomnia, but jet lag would likely wreak havoc with his circadian rhythms for some time.
He tossed his keys on the counter, hit the lights, and went still.
Rich midnight-blue walls enveloped him, glowing in the warmth of soft lighting from new brass fixtures. He walked into the sophisticated yet comfortable living room, noting the handsome wool area rug and two square hammered copper planters in the corners,
each now home to some kind of miniature citrus tree.
Floating shelves housed an antique camera, a collection of Duck’s first editions, and small pots of ivy. The entire room seemed anchored by the vibrant green sofa, which contained colorful pillows. Only one—a rectangular needlepoint pillow—looked a bit out of place.
He narrowed his gaze, then crossed to lift the pillow off the sofa to read the quote, which he immediately recognized from Duck’s work. “Her love kept him company, even in her absence.” A rush of warmth flooded Logan. He cradled the handmade pillow to his chest, his thumb gently stroking its stitching. Blinking three times, he pinched his nose to quiet the tingling sensation gathering there.
Continuing his tour, he admired his new round dining table and chairs, although he’d need more friends to make good use of them. His gaze bounced around the entire space, taking everything in while he walked toward the bedroom.
It looked strikingly similar to the images Claire’d shown him, so he wasn’t surprised until he took a closer look at the set of shadow boxes hung above the headboard. With the needlepoint pillow still tucked under one arm, he crawled across the mattress for a closer inspection of the two enlarged, beautifully matted images.
The first was of him and Duck sitting on the sandy shore near that old hammock; in the second, a family photo he didn’t recall, he straddled his father’s shoulders and Peyton was in their mother’s arms. He had no memory of that kind of family life. They all looked so happy in that photo it almost hurt to see. Family. Connection. Love.
For all the ways he’d criticized Claire for letting fear stop her from trying new things, he’d let fear stop him from grasping on to love.
He squeezed the pillow against his chest as if it could soften the blows of his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. This had all begun as a way to manage a happy ending for his sister, but his manipulations had led to highs and lows—and endings—he’d never imagined.
Still, Claire had thought of everything—mementos, family photographs, plants, and the handmade pillow—in an attempt to infuse his cold apartment with life and love and family. To make it a real home. Yet he saw the illusion for what it was. This apartment would never be a home without love.
