The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,19
from her head. Typically clad in turtlenecks and khakis, she’d sometimes wear a chunky necklace for oomph. She liked her brandy and loved to travel, so she often shared the best stories.
“Is it too soon to ask for seconds?” Claire teased while following Pat into the living room, where Betsy was seated beside Naomi Tinio, the local librarian. At sixty, Naomi was something of a hipster, a rarity in their conservative New England town. Claire’s mom might call Naomi groovy, with her jet-black hair with bright-purple swaths, bucket hat, oversize glasses, and wacky T-shirts, like the green-and-white “If you don’t eat tacos, I’m nacho type” one she was wearing tonight.
“I’ll cut you an extra-large slice,” Pat promised. “Let me finish bringing everything into the living room. Then we’ll get started.”
Pat had just left the room when Betsy patted the cushion of the chair to the right of the sofa. “Sit here.”
Claire rested Rosie against the sofa arm and plopped onto the comfortable recliner. She set the massive orange hardcover book on her lap. “I’m so interested in hearing what everyone thought of this book. I have some pretty strong opinions about Cora.”
“And I’m so interested in knowing whether you’ve run into Peyton or Logan since my shop.” Betsy’s eyes glittered with interest. “I thought you handled yourself beautifully, except for when you dropped the croissant . . . and left behind your tea.”
Well, thanks for the reminders. Claire slid a brief glance at Naomi, whose gorgeous, warm Filipino skin tone filled Claire with envy, but she seemed more interested in her tumbler of Armagnac than gossip about the Prescott siblings.
“I haven’t seen them since then, but if or when I do, there won’t be anything to gossip about. Live and let live. The past is done, and I’m focused solely on building my business and opening a retail shop. There won’t be any hair-pulling or name-calling.”
“Peyton’s lucky she crossed you and not me. I’m not above a little name-calling,” Betsy snickered. Her divorce had been a nasty cliché. When her husband left her for his secretary, Betsy had made things as difficult for him as possible, which didn’t help lessen the sting or make raising her two young kids any easier. “Of course, it’s hard to pick on someone who’s so sick. She looked dreadful, didn’t she?”
“Chemo isn’t a spa treatment, for chrissakes.” Naomi scowled while knocking on wood. “Be careful how you talk about her illness, or karma will kick your ass.”
“Karma or not, I’m not discussing Peyton. Not tonight. Not ever.” Peyton had vilified herself without needing Claire to pile on. Besides, she still hadn’t shaken off that troubling image of Peyton from the bakeshop.
Hearing about her breast cancer last fall and understanding its severity had not motivated Claire to show mercy. But seeing the distorted version of Peyton . . . well, that had chipped away at her resolve.
Peyton’s sickly eyes and quiet shame had revisited Claire for three days, forcing her to draw a few conclusions. First, a person can’t truly hate someone he or she didn’t once love. Sure, mass murderers, crooked politicians, and other things are hateful, but a person won’t feel that intense blistering of acid in her gut when thinking about those folks the way she will when betrayed by a trusted friend. Second, hatred can burn like a hundred suns for an infinite time if stoked with self-pity. Third, even when hate burns the remnants of friendship to the ground, fond childhood memories are sowed so deep in the soul that it takes very little to till that fallow soil.
No, Claire wasn’t willing to talk to Peyton or befriend her again. But she couldn’t deny that the grace Peyton had exhibited by leaving the bakery had shifted the scales the tiniest bit away from hatred. That, and Logan. No matter how hard she resisted, he’d always be her weakness. His love for his sister and his wish to see her forgiven were hard for Claire to ignore.
“Well,” Betsy huffed, slouching back onto the sofa, “that’s . . . mature of you.”
Pat strode in and set the galette on the coffee table, alongside dessert plates and silverware that she’d placed there earlier. Claire’s mouth watered at the first hint of those glistening strawberries.
“Help yourselves,” Pat said. “Claire, would you like some Armagnac?”
Pass! One whiff of that stuff singed her nostrils. “No, thanks. Don’t want to dull the taste buds.”
She helped herself to a large slice and cut into it with her fork,