by Beck, Jamie
“You’re here now. You came to the city alone. If there weren’t so much to say, I’d be speechless. But I can bend, too. What if we split our time? Weekdays in Connecticut, so you can work with Steffi and see your family, and weekends here. When I travel for work, you’d be at home, too.”
“You won’t get bored in Sanctuary Sound?”
“I’ve told you many times, Claire—you never bore me.” He caressed her face. “Never.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him so hard he stumbled backward. “How do you like your new bed?”
“It’s amazing.” He kissed her nose. “Want to test it out?”
She nodded with a smile, so he lifted her off the ground, saying, “Let’s go christen our new home.”
Epilogue
Ryan, Steffi, and Claire stood near the stern of the yacht’s second-story deck, whispering to each other beneath the dusky sky, painted in brilliant shades of orange and magenta, as the boat made its way back toward the marina. Caterers worked quietly on both levels to clear the few tables while guests enjoyed their final glasses of champagne.
Claire’s parents sat inside the cabin below with some other guests. Claire didn’t recall seeing them outside except before the ship left the marina, but at least they’d come to celebrate.
Peyton appeared beside Claire, tugging her aside before she pulled her silver silk organza wrap around her shoulders. The wind ruffled her short bangs as she leaned in to whisper, “I think they loved this.”
“It was a great idea. I’m glad you talked me into it. Thank you.” There. She’d done what she’d said she’d never do. She’d thanked Peyton for something. It hadn’t been as hard as she would’ve expected. They’d seen more of each other these past two months, planning for this event, and because of Logan.
“I’m known to have some now and then,” she joked. Her old smile flickered, and Claire couldn’t help but return it. She did rejoice in seeing Peyton looking healthier. Her skin no longer looked sickly.
Claire knew from Logan that she still suffered from bouts of lethargy and depression, and that her weight wouldn’t normalize until after she’d finished the full course of medication. But Peyton put on a brave face in public.
Logan joined them now, having been temporarily detained by Steffi’s father, and wrapped his arms around Claire’s waist. After planting a quick kiss on her neck, he asked, “Peyton, have you heard back from the two agents who asked for the full manuscript yet?”
“No, but it’s only been a few days. I’m sure they have many submissions to read, not to mention work for existing clients.” She squeezed his forearm. “Chill.”
“Imagine how antsy he’d be if he weren’t busy pulling together the installation at KRM Gallery.” Claire craned her neck to catch his eye, proud of the show he hoped would raise money and awareness for the unaccompanied minors still stuck in the refugee camps. His images had tugged at Claire’s heartstrings, and she was certain the installation would be well received.
He released her and nodded. “Patience isn’t really in my DNA.”
“No kidding,” Claire teased.
More people had filled the deck now, eager to catch the vista and the last rays of sun before darkness closed in.
The clanking of a spoon against a glass hushed all conversation as the crowd turned toward the stern, where Ryan had his arm draped over Steffi’s shoulders. He raised his glass and, above the dull roar of the engine, called out, “We want to thank Claire and Peyton for planning this beautiful celebration. We are blessed to have the support of friends and family who wish us well. Who’ve traveled along the winding road that brought us all back together. We can only hope that each of you find as much happiness as we have.”
“Cheers!” cried the crowd before they gulped down their drinks.
Peyton sipped from her glass and smiled, but Claire noted wistfulness in her gaze.
Logan kissed Claire’s temple and whispered, “I’m as happy as Ryan and more.” Then he turned to Peyton. “Sis, how about you? You’ve been living here in a sort of limbo.”
“I’m not in limbo.” She frowned. “I’ve been busy with all of this, revising the manuscript, and preparing for my reconstruction surgery.”
“But are you happy? Are you chasing your dreams?” he asked, referring to her earlier pledge not to waste a single day.
Peyton shrugged. “Everything’s changed. I don’t look at the future the same way as you. I’m just trying to get from one day to the next. I no longer know what my dream is, so how can I chase it?”
“Maybe I could help.” Claire set her glass down on a tray.
“Oh?” Both Peyton and Logan turned curious gazes her way.
“Well, when I lost my way, I dug out our old Lilac Lane League binder. Flipping through those pages put me back in touch with parts of myself that I’d forgotten about. Maybe it’d help you rediscover things about yourself, too. I could drop it off tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Claire. I’d love to see it again.” Peyton’s voice cracked, and her eyes were misty. “Would you two excuse me for a second?”
Before they could answer, she’d ducked down the stairs out of view.
“I think you made her cry . . . happy tears.” Logan squeezed Claire. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but I didn’t do it for you. Well, not only for you. It’s time—really time—to forgive. Pat was right. In a backward way, Peyton did me a favor by getting Todd to show his true colors. And I’m so happy now, how can I stay bitter?”
“I love you more every single day.” Logan kissed her.
She nestled against him. “Good, because I have a request.”
“Should I be nervous?” He smiled.
“No. With going in and out of the city and taking the few trips to visit your dad’s inns these past two months, I’m feeling bolder. I was thinking, after the gallery opening, maybe we’d finally take our first big trip together, and I know where I want to go.”
His grin broadened. “I’m all ears.”
“You can’t guess?”
He thought for a moment, then remembered their conversation at the bistro. “The Seychelles.”
She nodded. The romantic honeymoon spot they’d talked about had drifted through her thoughts many times in recent weeks. They needn’t be married to enjoy it, although maybe someday . . .
“Done.” He smiled broadly. “And you said the romantic in you had died.”
“You revived it.”
“I’m glad.” He glanced at Ryan and Steffi. “I could never go back to the life I had before you, so don’t ever think about leaving me.”
“I won’t.” She kissed him. “Promise.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I have many people to thank for helping me bring this book to all of you, not the least of whom are my family and friends for their continued love, encouragement, and support.
Thanks, also, to my agent, Jill Marsal, as well as to my patient editors, Megan Mulder and Krista Stroever, and the entire Montlake family for believing in me and working so hard on my behalf.
A special thanks to Jane Beiles, a wonderful photographer, who met me for coffee one day and not only taught me some basics about her profession but also gave me great fodder for developing Logan’s character. Also, thank you to Jason W. Nascone, MD, for his help in understanding the potential effects of Claire’s injury and postsurgical recovery. I owe Laura Sigg, a wonderful friend and fabulous decorator, for helping me come up with the new palette for Logan’s apartment, and for teaching me about Claire’s career. My sister-in-law, Brooke Simpson Beck, a former USTA Middle States–ranked youth tennis player, provided insight into Claire’s tennis competition history. And finally, a big thank-you to Ally Dunlap for sharing her journey with breast cancer so that I could weave Peyton’s story throughout this series.
I couldn’t produce any of my work without the MTBs, who help me plot and keep my spirits up when doubt grabs hold. I also have a new gr
oup of writer friends, my Fiction From The Heart gals, who’ve brought another dimension of support and encouragement to my life. I’m so grateful!
And I can’t leave out the wonderful members of my CTRWA chapter. Year after year, all the CTRWA members provide endless hours of support, feedback, and guidance. I love and thank them for that.
Finally, and most importantly, thank you, readers, for making my work worthwhile. Considering all your options, I’m honored by your choice to spend your time with me.
AN EXCERPT FROM
THE WONDER OF NOW
(THE THIRD BOOK IN THE SANCTUARY SOUND SERIES)
EDITOR’S NOTE: THIS IS AN EARLY EXCERPT AND MAY NOT REFLECT THE FINISHED BOOK.
CHAPTER ONE
Om Namah Shivaya.
“Let me photograph the treatment,” he’d begged.
Om Namah Shivaya.
“We’ll make art, raise money,” he’d promised.
Om Namah Shivaya.
Dammit, Logan.
Peyton opened one eye and stared across the undulating surface of Long Island Sound, which glittered all the way to the horizon. Six hundred thirty-two attempts at meditation in as many days, and she still couldn’t master her own mind. Maybe she could blame it on the aftereffects of chemo.
Since childhood, she forced herself to look for silver linings in her darkest moments. By thirty-one, she’d mastered that ritual. Last year, she even found two for chemo, like the way she could blame it for all kinds of personal failings. Its other plus? Chemo had been a handy excuse for opting out of her mother’s endless list of social and philanthropic invitations. Of course, those benefits didn’t outweigh the weight gain, skin discoloration, nausea, mouth ulcers, and hair loss she’d experienced while undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Dwelling for months in a decaying body had forced an existential dread that produced few answers, but she’d never been a quitter.
Peyton curled a jaw-length strand of oddly wavy hair around her finger. Still short, but progress nonetheless.
She uncrossed her legs while taking a deep breath of briny air and then stretched them out, digging her toes into the warm sand, her gaze fixed on the line where sea met sky. These past few months, she’d stared at that distant place for hours, contemplating her life and purpose and other things she’d never before given much thought.
Late afternoon had become her favorite time of day. Lazy hours bookmarked by the high activity of midday and the lonesome stretches of night. These moments of peace and presence were probably the closest she’d ever get to nirvana or zen, or wherever it was one is supposed to arrive at through meditation.
“Peyton!” her brother called from the patio. When she glanced over her shoulder, Logan waved her toward the house. “They’re here. Come see!”
A few days after her initial diagnosis two years ago, he’d cornered her with his camera and big idea. He’d always been able to talk her into anything, and she’d relished his schemes until now. If she didn’t love him so much, she’d seriously consider lining his shower with shaving cream later.
Logan turned and went back through the French doors without waiting for her. She hugged her legs to her chest, pressing her forehead to her knees. Why bother with meditation? She had no time for serenity. Not with her brother and Mitchell Mathis—PR pain in the butt—constantly coming at her with to-do lists.
Peyton pushed herself up and brushed the sand from her bottom, slipped on her sandals, and strolled up the lawn toward the rambling old mansion. Only recently had she really understood why her great-grandfather built Arcadia House and why he’d come here—away from most of the world—to write. She barely remembered Duck, as Logan had nicknamed him, but his legendary work and name lived on—not just here, but all around the world.
She hadn’t even closed the doors when Logan bellowed from the vicinity of their father’s office, “Back here.”
She found him standing at Duck’s old walnut writing desk, surrounded by overstuffed bookshelves imbued with the faintest hint of tobacco, with his hands on either side of a large cardboard box. When she was a child, this room had been off-limits and, consequently, a place she’d snuck into time and again, tempting fate. Funny how, back then, she’d perceived fate and consequence as a game. Checkmate.
“Aren’t you blown away?” His smile, warmer and more promising than a summer sunrise on the Sound, temporarily settled her. Then he lifted a copy of A Journey through Shadows from the open carton.
Her gaze skittered away from the cover image and landed on her Birkenstocks. Before cancer, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in such footwear. Lots had changed since her Joie-sandal days. Some for the better and—she wiggled her toes—possibly some for the worse.
“Yes,” she replied dryly. Blown away, all right, but not the way he meant it.
Like any little sister who’d ever worshipped her older brother would, she’d agreed to his plan. She’d thought she was dying and had little to lose.
The result? The memoir in his hands. A combination of his pictures—including the austere black-and-white midchemo cover photo she now actively avoided—alongside her most personal fears and naked emotions. The sight of it reminded her that, in a matter of days, people around the world would have access to every nook and cranny of her soul.
And to think, just before her illness, few had thought she still had one.
“Come on.” He waved the book in front of her. “Have a look.”
She reluctantly accepted the hefty hardcover tome from him and sat in the chair opposite the desk. Duck’s framed Pulitzer hung on the paneled wall beside her, mocking the hubris of his great-grandkids’ latest undertaking.
In contrast to her desire to hide, soft light filtered through the large open windows behind Logan, setting him aglow. He removed another copy from the box and shook his head in amazement.
“This image was totally the right choice for the cover.” His green eyes twinkled, no longer burdened by the alarm they’d reflected when first learning of her illness. “Talk about arresting.”
He began leafing through the pages, pausing occasionally to stare at his own work. She couldn’t blame him. Every person she knew, including herself, defaulted to self-interest from time to time. It took two minutes for him to notice her utter stillness.
Logan placed his copy back in the box and then pressed his fingertips on the desk, bowing forward a bit—a pose he struck often, putting his lean build and casual elegance on full display. “What’s wrong? We should be celebrating, but you look like you want to kill somebody. Me, in fact.”
Peyton smoothed the frown lines between her brows with her fingers and then shifted beneath the weight of the book on her thighs. “You know exactly what I’m thinking.”
He pushed away from the desk and came to sit in the worn leather chair beside her, running one hand through his hair. His sandy locks would take another few months to grow back to the eight-inch length he’d sported before he’d shorn it off last year in a show of moral support.
“You’re anxious about the public response, but early trade reviews have been stellar.” He offered a reassuring nod. “You’re a fantastic writer.”
Travel writer, she thought wryly. Not an author. Not like Duck.
She’d never aspired, nor could she ever hope, to live up to her great-grandfather’s legacy. Writing witty pieces about hotels, restaurants, and tourist spots around the world had never forced a comparison to his body of work. Venturing into true-author territory would unintentionally invite it, though. Especially after she’d let the publisher talk her into keying off her great-grandfather’s most famous book, A Shadow on Sand, with her memoir’s title. Not that that was her biggest concern.
“Thanks, but this isn’t fiction. It’s my life—my heart—on display for others to judge.” She pressed her hand to her stomach and drew a yoga breath. This sick pit in her gut was trepidation, not self-pity.
Her brother shot her a wry look of humor. “A quick scroll through your Insta post
s proves you’ve never been exactly shy.”
“I never flashed my boobs—or lack thereof—before.” Joking kept an onslaught of less-pleasant feelings at bay, but Logan’s silence proved her attempt had fallen flat. No pun intended. Her carefully cultivated social media presence—one of beauty and privilege and daring—would soon be smashed to bits. Then again, that’s probably to be expected after a person receives the kind of news that nobody anticipates or wants.
Everybody dreads bad news. They learn of another’s misfortune and, after a quick thanks to God for their own safety, ponder what they would do if handed a worst-case scenario. She’d drawn the short straw and now knew exactly how she would respond—with motionlessness caused by the bitter combination of disbelief, panic, and prayer that had pushed through her veins like arctic slush.
Chances were good that the frigid plea would remain her occasional companion until—if—she reached the five-year cancer-free milestone. As it stood, her one-year scans were a month away. Cancer cells could be sneaky bitches, traveling, hiding, and replicating like bunnies. Her once playful journal now cataloged every cough, ache, rash, and other symptom so she wouldn’t forget to report anything to the doctor.
Peyton knew another truth about bad news. After getting one bit, she could no longer skirt above the fray. No longer feel safe. She expected more bad news at every turn. Consequently, she shivered anytime she projected ahead to those scans.
But she wouldn’t burden Logan with her concerns. Not after everything he’d already sacrificed for her.
“I get that this is hard—but you’ve got courage. Focus on the money we’ll be donating to cancer research. And the hope that your story will give other women in your shoes.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You’re my hero, sis. I’ve never been prouder of you than while watching you go through treatment and work on this project.”
“Thank you.” She raised his hand to her cheek and held tight. For most of their lives, he’d been her hero, but she deflected from a deeper conversation. “But clearly you need higher standards.”
