He almost confessed his motive, because an ally would be ideal, but he hadn’t cleared it with Claire. “Is he home?”
“Can you tell me why you need to see him? If I have to brace for World War Three, I’d like to know.”
“I come in peace, Mom.” His mother and he had gone years without sharing secrets, and he saw no reason to confide in her now.
She sipped from her coffee cup, waiting. When he didn’t offer more, she conceded. “He’s in the office. Please don’t rile him up.”
“I won’t.” He tossed the empty container in the trash and crossed to look over her notebook. “Did you finish the seating chart for the gala?”
“Yes, why?”
“Where’d you put me?”
“With Peyton . . .” Her eyes scanned his face as if he were an imposter with his sudden interest in his father and the gala. He might’ve laughed if he hadn’t been working so hard at nonchalance. “And Karina.”
Shit. He’d forgotten about Karina. He owed her a call to follow up on her interest in going to interview refugees in Lesbos, Greece, too. “How about our friends, like Ryan, Ben, Steffi . . . Claire?”
“They’re at a table together with the Quinns and Mike Lockwood.”
“Is it near us?” He strolled to her and glanced over her shoulder to the notebook.
“It can be.” She sat back, drumming her fingers on the table. “Is there a reason for this request?”
“You know I’m not a huge fan of this shindig. It’d help to be close to my friends, especially because I’m likely to be leaving for work soon.” Karina had mentioned that a court decision on the refugee-migration thing was expected anytime now. If they were going to go, it’d be best to be there when the ruling came down. “I could be gone for several weeks.”
“You and your sister are always running far away from home.” She made a moue before she reached out and grabbed his hand. Once again, he froze from the unusual contact. The only explanation he could come up with for her recent behavior was that Peyton’s illness had made her slightly more aware of the fact that she shouldn’t take her kids for granted. “Were we such bad parents that you can’t stand to be around us?”
Bad? No. A bit neglectful. A bit standoffish. A bit more concerned with how the family “looked” to others than how it actually functioned.
“I’m not running away from my family.” He offered a reassuring squeeze of the hand, having no interest in a heart-to-heart or in making her feel guilty. “I’m doing what I love. Traveling. Seeing other perspectives. Searching for a new story to tell.”
She flashed a skeptical smile and dropped his hand. “If you say so.”
He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, the sudden affection making her go still, too. “Talk later.”
What was happening? Claire’s outlook on family must’ve infected him.
He wandered out of the kitchen and through the entry to the walnut-paneled office with large windows that offered idyllic views of the Sound—his great-grandfather’s personal sanctuary. Duck’s old typewriter remained on a bookcase along with signed editions of his work. His Pulitzer Prize certificate hung on the wall in a handsome gilt frame.
Logan wanted to win a Pulitzer for photography more than almost anything else in his life. It’d be validation that he deserved the name he bore, and proof that he hadn’t been wasting his time like his dad believed.
His father looked up from behind the desk and paused. “Did you make a wrong turn?”
“Good morning to you, too, Dad.” Logan nodded to an empty chair. “May I sit?”
His father’s wary expression would be comical if it weren’t such a sad statement on their relationship. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Logan cleared his throat. Claire’s warning about repeating bad patterns, and her willingness to try new things, might’ve persuaded him to attempt this fact-finding mission, but he’d have to wade in carefully. “Since I’m here for a while, I thought it’d be nice if we tried to understand each other a little better . . . get along. I know you think I’m a slacker, but I do have goals.” He pointed at Duck’s award. “That right there is one of mine. My photography might not be as lucrative as your work, but that doesn’t make it nonsense. This house is a testament to the value others assign the creative arts.”
“You know the odds against any creative endeavor breaking through and making money.