The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,73
in mind.”
“See you later.” Naomi waved goodbye and wandered into the admin office behind the circulation desk.
Claire tossed the bag of books on the passenger seat when she got to her car and mulled over Naomi’s advice.
Face it, Claire. The only way to get people to stop feeling sorry for her was if she acted bolder and took risks. She had to show people that she could handle life’s ups and downs on her own—in business and in her personal life. No one would ever believe her if she didn’t believe in herself enough to try.
On her way home, she dialed Steffi but got dumped into her voice mail. “Steffi, give me a buzz. I want to talk to you about making a big pitch.”
High, thin clouds lent brightness to the late afternoon without creating hot spots. Luck had smiled on Logan, who’d wanted to shoot photos of Peyton on the beach where they’d spent their childhood.
Dressed in jeans, a wool coat, and a black wool bowler cap, his sister looked striking today, and strong. Determined. Maybe even a little pissed at him about the Claire situation. That was okay, though, because anger had put fire in her eyes. A spark of life that had been absent for too long.
She’d been a trouper, taking orders from him about this position or that rocky outcropping, but now she was shivering.
He detached the telephoto lens from his Canon. “Go inside. I’ll pack up and follow in a bit.”
“I’ll make some tea.” Her teeth chattered. “Want some?”
“Nah.”
“See you inside.” She trotted across the shallow beach and up the lawn to the house.
It didn’t take long to put his things into the camera bag, but he was in no hurry to go inside. If anything, he welcomed some time alone to think about what to do with Claire. He’d gone to sleep angry and awakened with regrets.
He glanced down the beach a few hundred yards to where a father and his daughter were flying a kite as if it were summer. The contrast of its primary colors against the near-white sky drew the eye. But that wasn’t what reached into his chest to squeeze his heart. The bubble of the little girl’s laughter carried along the wind from where her dad had crouched to gently support her arms and shoulders.
Logan had no memory of gentle support from his parents, but the scene prompted a foggy memory of Duck, who’d died before Logan’s seventh birthday. Logan had been about four, back when many more trees stood along the edge of the property bordering the sea. There’d been a woven hammock strung between two oak trees near the beach, and Duck would let Logan curl up beside him while he read aloud.
The William H. Prescott in Logan’s memory was a kind, frail man with a soft voice and a shock of white hair. Photographs of the younger version typically showed his handsome face in a serious state of concentration, but he’d actually laughed easily, sharing the same wry humor as Peyton.
How different might Logan be if Duck had lived longer? Or if his own father had shown him that kind of easygoing attention?
The man who’d written with passion and eloquence—with sharp observations—had carried a deep well of love to draw upon. One can’t write fiction that grabs readers’ hearts if he has an empty tank.
Maybe that was why Logan hadn’t yet found the kind of storytelling success he’d been chasing for a decade. His tank was low on deep love, except for his feelings for Peyton, anyway.
“Logan!” she called from the house behind him, holding his cell phone overhead.
He turned and trotted toward her. “What?”
“Claire’s calling.” She extended his phone toward him when he reached the back patio, one brow arched. “Please be careful.”
He followed her inside as he answered the phone. “Claire.”
“Hi.”
He cast a glance at Peyton and then strode into the front parlor and closed the double doors. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “Any chance you’re free now?”
His heart skipped. “What’s up?”
“I completed a few design plans, and I want your opinion before I keep going.”
Work, nothing more. His chest hurt. “That was fast.”
“I had a breakthrough.”
Well, great. He’d put himself to bed because he’d felt shitty; meanwhile, she’d turned their fight into a creative tour de force. “Okay. I’ll be over shortly.”
He opened the doors to find Peyton sitting on a bench in the entry hall. She stood when he crossed to the stairs. “I’m sorry.”