The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(101)

Her gaze skittered away from the cover image and landed on her Birkenstocks. Before cancer, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in such footwear. Lots had changed since her Joie-sandal days. Some for the better and—she wiggled her toes—possibly some for the worse.

“Yes,” she replied dryly. Blown away, all right, but not the way he meant it.

Like any little sister who’d ever worshipped her older brother would, she’d agreed to his plan. She’d thought she was dying and had little to lose.

The result? The memoir in his hands. A combination of his pictures—including the austere black-and-white midchemo cover photo she now actively avoided—alongside her most personal fears and naked emotions. The sight of it reminded her that, in a matter of days, people around the world would have access to every nook and cranny of her soul.

And to think, just before her illness, few had thought she still had one.

“Come on.” He waved the book in front of her. “Have a look.”

She reluctantly accepted the hefty hardcover tome from him and sat in the chair opposite the desk. Duck’s framed Pulitzer hung on the paneled wall beside her, mocking the hubris of his great-grandkids’ latest undertaking.

In contrast to her desire to hide, soft light filtered through the large open windows behind Logan, setting him aglow. He removed another copy from the box and shook his head in amazement.

“This image was totally the right choice for the cover.” His green eyes twinkled, no longer burdened by the alarm they’d reflected when first learning of her illness. “Talk about arresting.”

He began leafing through the pages, pausing occasionally to stare at his own work. She couldn’t blame him. Every person she knew, including herself, defaulted to self-interest from time to time. It took two minutes for him to notice her utter stillness.

Logan placed his copy back in the box and then pressed his fingertips on the desk, bowing forward a bit—a pose he struck often, putting his lean build and casual elegance on full display. “What’s wrong? We should be celebrating, but you look like you want to kill somebody. Me, in fact.”

Peyton smoothed the frown lines between her brows with her fingers and then shifted beneath the weight of the book on her thighs. “You know exactly what I’m thinking.”

He pushed away from the desk and came to sit in the worn leather chair beside her, running one hand through his hair. His sandy locks would take another few months to grow back to the eight-inch length he’d sported before he’d shorn it off last year in a show of moral support.

“You’re anxious about the public response, but early trade reviews have been stellar.” He offered a reassuring nod. “You’re a fantastic writer.”

Travel writer, she thought wryly. Not an author. Not like Duck.

She’d never aspired, nor could she ever hope, to live up to her great-grandfather’s legacy. Writing witty pieces about hotels, restaurants, and tourist spots around the world had never forced a comparison to his body of work. Venturing into true-author territory would unintentionally invite it, though. Especially after she’d let the publisher talk her into keying off her great-grandfather’s most famous book, A Shadow on Sand, with her memoir’s title. Not that that was her biggest concern.

“Thanks, but this isn’t fiction. It’s my life—my heart—on display for others to judge.” She pressed her hand to her stomach and drew a yoga breath. This sick pit in her gut was trepidation, not self-pity.

Her brother shot her a wry look of humor. “A quick scroll through your Insta posts proves you’ve never been exactly shy.”

“I never flashed my boobs—or lack thereof—before.” Joking kept an onslaught of less-pleasant feelings at bay, but Logan’s silence proved her attempt had fallen flat. No pun intended. Her carefully cultivated social media presence—one of beauty and privilege and daring—would soon be smashed to bits. Then again, that’s probably to be expected after a person receives the kind of news that nobody anticipates or wants.

Everybody dreads bad news. They learn of another’s misfortune and, after a quick thanks to God for their own safety, ponder what they would do if handed a worst-case scenario. She’d drawn the short straw and now knew exactly how she would respond—with motionlessness caused by the bitter combination of disbelief, panic, and prayer that had pushed through her veins like arctic slush.

Chances were good that the frigid plea would remain her occasional companion until—if—she reached the five-year cancer-free milestone. As it stood, her one-year scans were a month away. Cancer cells could be sneaky bitches, traveling, hiding, and replicating like bunnies. Her once playful journal now cataloged every cough, ache, rash, and other symptom so she wouldn’t forget to report anything to the doctor.

Peyton knew another truth about bad news. After getting one bit, she could no longer skirt above the fray. No longer feel safe. She expected more bad news at every turn. Consequently, she shivered anytime she projected ahead to those scans.

But she wouldn’t burden Logan with her concerns. Not after everything he’d already sacrificed for her.

“I get that this is hard—but you’ve got courage. Focus on the money we’ll be donating to cancer research. And the hope that your story will give other women in your shoes.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You’re my hero, sis. I’ve never been prouder of you than while watching you go through treatment and work on this project.”