The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,18

that weighed her down. A bonus would be if he could get her to come to the city, just once. An adventure to break her free from her self-imposed prison.

He’d enjoy seeing the city through her eyes.

“You know where to find me.” He hoped that sounded nonchalant.

“I doubt I’ll have to go looking. Seems certain I’ll be bumping into you wherever I go.”

He grinned. “Lucky me.”

She opened her mouth but then closed it again. He found himself wishing to know what she’d almost said. Funny, because he often found himself bored with what most people said. “Bye, Logan.”

Between her parka, her cane, her purse, and her bag, she barely fit through the narrow door.

When he turned to grab his and Peyton’s coffees, he noticed Claire’s tea. “Thanks,” he mumbled to Betsy as he balanced the third cup in his hands and took off after Claire.

Fortunately the patchy sidewalks had slowed her down. “Claire, you forgot your tea.”

“Oh.” She lumbered back to him, her furtive gaze roving for bystanders. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He smiled. “Have a nice day.”

She nodded and hobbled off, disappearing around the corner.

He stood for a moment, noticing the symmetry of the frame in front of him—a rainbow of awnings, and coal-black street lanterns with empty hanging baskets acting like buckets for the snow. If he returned during the blue hour, maybe he could capture some great Americana photos as long as some stores remained lit with incandescent light. A picture-perfect view that likely obscured some imperfect interactions taking place inside, like the one that had just unfolded in Connecticut Muffin.

How often did pretty outsides hide unseemly truths?

He crossed the street to his car. Peyton had turned it on, so it was toasty warm when he got in and handed her the coffee.

She didn’t ask him why it had taken so long or whether Claire had said anything about her. He started the engine and backed out of the parking spot, pointing the car toward Yale New Haven Hospital.

“I think us being here together will be good for everyone.” He squirted washer fluid on the windshield to clean the grime.

Peyton slid him a glance, her eyes filled with doubt. “Why’s that?”

“It’s peaceful, which you need now. And everywhere you look, we have memories. Mostly good ones, too. Ones other people share. Seeing you—us—here will force them to remember those good times, and that will make it harder to hold on to the bad ones.” He patted her thigh. “You’re going to get a chance to talk to Claire. Maybe not this week or next, but soon. I feel it.”

“What did she say?” Peyton stared ahead. His sister’s distinctive profile, with the slight upturn of her nose and the strong, square line of her jaw, always made him want to reach for a camera.

“Nothing specific.” He thought about that some more and decided to share the catalyst of his hope. “She appreciated that you didn’t confront her. Good move.”

“It wasn’t calculated, Logan.” Peyton threw him a disappointed look. “It was simply the right thing to do.”

“Even better.” He scratched his head. Was his sister really less calculating than he was, and did that matter? It was a useful trait as long as you weren’t a selfish prick about it.

“Logan, don’t get involved. I tried putting Steffi in the middle, and that was wrong. It’s my mess to clean up. I’ll handle it.” She sipped her coffee and let her head drop back against the seat.

Surely, she knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t stop being involved until she was happier. He’d cut his hair for her, for God’s sake. Meddling with Claire would be so much easier, and more pleasant.

A little hum rattled in his chest at the thought of Claire’s fiery eyes. The other day he’d been hurt, but today squaring off had been fun. She had found her voice, and he liked it. He looked forward to her call, which he knew would come. She’d never been stupid, and his offer had been too good to ignore.

Chapter Four

Claire eagerly entered Pat Waltham’s house with her book tucked under her arm. Her fine-tuned olfactory system immediately sniffed out something sweet—berries and baked goods. Few things were better than book group discussions, but pairing them with homemade goodies did top the list. “Smells wonderful, Pat. What did you make?”

“A strawberry galette with basil-infused cream.” Pat helped Claire out of her coat, with a smile. She was seventy-five but more vibrant than most despite the wiry gray curls springing