The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,41
you and my sister to mend fences, but it isn’t the only reason I spend time with you. We’re two creative single people in a small town full of seniors and young families. Let’s make the most of it. Come on, I’ll only misbehave enough to make you laugh. Your mom won’t mind. She’s always liked me.”
Everybody liked him. That was the problem.
His seeing her as a competent designer—win. Inviting him to her mom’s house to bake, where he’d see the mundane details of her life? She suppressed a shudder. “You’ll be bored.”
“Weren’t you listening earlier? I won’t be bored.” He patted his camera bag. “Maybe I’ll even shoot you and your mom in action.”
She stared at him, and he didn’t look away. The icicles melting off nearby branches reminded her of the icy water she wanted him to avoid. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Savory aromas from the ham and cheese blended with the sweet chocolaty scent of the cake in the oven. Arcadia’s kitchen never smelled like this. Logan sat at the round oak table, stretching out his legs and observing the mother-daughter duo in action.
Back in the day, all the neighborhood boys had agreed that Mrs. McKenna was a milf. She wasn’t sexy, per se, but she’d been chatty, and when she spoke with you, she gave her full attention. She had a gift for making others feel important, one Claire had in a subtler form. He hadn’t made that connection until this afternoon.
“You’re going to be too sick to eat with your grandmother.” Logan watched Claire devour more kettle corn.
“I know my limits.” She stuffed another fistful into her mouth. “Just be glad I shared the cake batter.”
“Oh, I am.” When he licked more off his finger, her gaze homed in on his mouth, making his body warm. His recent responses to Claire intrigued him. Why her? Why now? She had nothing in common with the women of his past. No edge or pretense. No daring clothes or extravagances. Claire didn’t even flirt with him. Yet he wanted to engage her. To hear her astute observations. To make her smile.
Mrs. McKenna finished drying a pot and then came to sit at the table beside him. “Logan, I recently read Lynsey Addario’s memoir and thought of you.”
Lynsey Addario, a Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer from Connecticut and twelve years his senior. Envy niggled. He’d get there, too. Someday.
Mrs. McKenna added, “I saw the Time magazine piece you shot in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria. That must’ve been sad and frightening, but you have a gift for capturing people’s emotions. Still, I hope whatever you’re working on now is less dangerous.”
“Well, my mother’s wrath might be worse than Maria,” he joked, although Hurricane Maria was no joking matter.
Mrs. McKenna chuckled dismissively. “Darla is a dear. I can’t imagine her having wrath.”
A dear? He’d never heard his mother described as such. Clever, ambitious, even gregarious. But dear?
“What’s the project that’s upsetting your mom?” Claire set aside the nearly empty bag of junk food and leaned forward.
Both women ceded him the floor, turning their giant blue gazes on him. Saying the P-word aloud in the McKenna house might be akin to blasphemy, but it could also give him a chance to cast Peyton in a new light.
“When Peyton got diagnosed, I suggested we document her journey with photos and journal entries. We didn’t know if she’d survive, or what the project would turn into, but I thought the process would be cathartic. Once we got started and began discussing a memoir, we also decided to make it philanthropic. If we see it through to publication, we plan to donate a large chunk of any proceeds to cancer research.”
Mrs. McKenna cast Claire a hesitant glance before looking at him. “That’s a remarkable undertaking. Why would it anger your mother?”
“The photographs of Peyton’s experience—the hair loss, mastectomies, and skin discoloration, the pain and terror—are graphic. My mom’s uncomfortable with them. She thinks they’re unflattering . . . embarrassing, even.”
“Peyton let you take them?” Claire held still.
“Reluctantly at times, but she pushed through because she sees the potential value. The question of what makes us beautiful—our faces or our resilience—is compelling and relatable. If we pull this off, something positive will come out of the whole ordeal.”
“She’s always been very proud of her appearance . . .” Claire set her chin and gazed out the sliding glass door. “The photo shoots must be hard for her.”