The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(11)
“Logan.” His father stopped upon the sight of him. “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” His shoulders tightened, preparing for the inevitable sparring.
His father raised his brows before frowning. “How long will you be staying with us?”
“Not sure.” Logan interlocked his hands atop the kitchen island, squeezing them together.
His father huffed. “Must be nice.”
“What’s that mean?” Logan watched him pour himself two fingers of Michter’s.
“Most of us have schedules to keep—a job that requires us to show up.” His dad knocked back half the glass. It wasn’t the first time he’d whipped Logan with that kind of remark, nor would it be the last.
“Lucky for me I’ve got autonomy.” He forced a smile, even as he fought the urge to knock that drink from his dad’s hand.
His dad’s gaze went straight to Logan’s long hair, collarless shirt, and discarded camera bags. “Yes. Like my father.”
In many families, that might sound like a compliment, but Logan knew his father had nothing but disdain for the “feckless” man who’d nearly bankrupted the Prescott family with his expensive hobbies and contempt for work. How many times had he heard his parents deride Grandpa for “farting around” with paints and charcoal in France, Italy, and Sedona?
“No, Dad. Like my great-grandfather.” He unclenched his hands and spread them on the marble counter. Peyton set her hand on his thigh, silently asking him to stand down.
“Dad, please,” Peyton implored, touching her head scarf. “Can’t our family enjoy a relaxed afternoon?”
Their dad finished his drink, set the glass in the sink, and crossed to kiss Peyton’s forehead. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got a call in ten minutes.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“Development work never ends, and I’m this close to signing a deal for a string of boutique inns.” He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “They need work, but the property and bones are stellar, and I’m going to get them for a song.”
“Really?” Peyton sat up straighter. “Where are they located? Maybe once I’m a bit stronger I can visit them and put together a great write-up.”
It would be good for her to get back to her travel-writing work. She had always loved exploring new places and had built up quite a healthy social media following as a result of her witty accounts of interesting adventures. Still, Logan bristled at the thought of her helping their dad.
His dad shot Logan a derisive glance, as if saying, “Now there’s a working Prescott.” He then smiled at Peyton just before gesturing around the room. “Thank you for taking an interest in what I do to keep all this over our heads. The inns are strategically located along the Atlantic coast, from Maine down through Maryland.”
“Sounds idyllic.” She grasped Logan’s hand. “Maybe Logan can come with me and take photographs for brochures and promotional materials.”
Logan flinched. “I don’t take architectural photographs.”
“Of course not.” His father scoffed. “Why take a paying gig when you can fart around with artistic development?”
There it was—the gassy comparison.
“Daddy!” Peyton admonished her father, and he quickly tucked his chin and frowned.
“I’ll leave you two to your lunch while I make my call.” He started to leave but then stopped at the kitchen door and turned to Logan. “Your mother wanted me to run to town to pick up some things. How about you make yourself useful and run those errands for me? List is on the fridge.”
He tapped the woodwork twice and exited without awaiting a response.
Logan inhaled slowly and blew out a loud breath.
“I know he’s hard on you, but please try to see it from his side.” Peyton swiveled to face him. “His sense of security was shaken by Grandpa’s spendthrift ways. I think he truly worries about your future, and is hurt that you never show any interest in what he does.”
Perhaps she had a point. That didn’t make his father less of a dick, though. Any man who could withhold affection as a way of manipulating his kids and their choices should not be a father. Logan had no idea if he would be a decent father, but he doubted he’d find out. He wasn’t made for staying put, and the example of his parents’ marriage hadn’t provided much in the way of motivation, either.
Like Duck, Logan was a storyteller, and storytellers seek freedom and adventure. He expressed himself through images instead of words. Duck hadn’t written A Shadow on Sand until he hit his thirties. This would be Logan’s decade, too. He just needed the right story. The right project.
He rose from the stool and carried Peyton’s bowl and spoon to the dishwasher for her. “Go rest. I’ll run these errands, and then, when I return, maybe we can work a bit on the memoir.”
He’d convinced his sister to document her journey from diagnosis through remission with a journal and weekly photographs. She’d even gone so far as to allow him to take raw pictures in the hospital and at home. Neither knew exactly how the project would ultimately come together, but it had given them a vehicle for so many emotions throughout the trying experience. Beneath his tears, hugs, and occasional sarcasm had lain a bone-deep terror of losing the person he most adored in life. His only confidante. In a twisted way, he was almost grateful for all of it, though, because he’d never felt closer to her than he did now.