The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(17)

“I haven’t seen them since then, but if or when I do, there won’t be anything to gossip about. Live and let live. The past is done, and I’m focused solely on building my business and opening a retail shop. There won’t be any hair-pulling or name-calling.”

“Peyton’s lucky she crossed you and not me. I’m not above a little name-calling,” Betsy snickered. Her divorce had been a nasty cliché. When her husband left her for his secretary, Betsy had made things as difficult for him as possible, which didn’t help lessen the sting or make raising her two young kids any easier. “Of course, it’s hard to pick on someone who’s so sick. She looked dreadful, didn’t she?”

“Chemo isn’t a spa treatment, for chrissakes.” Naomi scowled while knocking on wood. “Be careful how you talk about her illness, or karma will kick your ass.”

“Karma or not, I’m not discussing Peyton. Not tonight. Not ever.” Peyton had vilified herself without needing Claire to pile on. Besides, she still hadn’t shaken off that troubling image of Peyton from the bakeshop.

Hearing about her breast cancer last fall and understanding its severity had not motivated Claire to show mercy. But seeing the distorted version of Peyton . . . well, that had chipped away at her resolve.

Peyton’s sickly eyes and quiet shame had revisited Claire for three days, forcing her to draw a few conclusions. First, a person can’t truly hate someone he or she didn’t once love. Sure, mass murderers, crooked politicians, and other things are hateful, but a person won’t feel that intense blistering of acid in her gut when thinking about those folks the way she will when betrayed by a trusted friend. Second, hatred can burn like a hundred suns for an infinite time if stoked with self-pity. Third, even when hate burns the remnants of friendship to the ground, fond childhood memories are sowed so deep in the soul that it takes very little to till that fallow soil.

No, Claire wasn’t willing to talk to Peyton or befriend her again. But she couldn’t deny that the grace Peyton had exhibited by leaving the bakery had shifted the scales the tiniest bit away from hatred. That, and Logan. No matter how hard she resisted, he’d always be her weakness. His love for his sister and his wish to see her forgiven were hard for Claire to ignore.

“Well,” Betsy huffed, slouching back onto the sofa, “that’s . . . mature of you.”

Pat strode in and set the galette on the coffee table, alongside dessert plates and silverware that she’d placed there earlier. Claire’s mouth watered at the first hint of those glistening strawberries.

“Help yourselves,” Pat said. “Claire, would you like some Armagnac?”

Pass! One whiff of that stuff singed her nostrils. “No, thanks. Don’t want to dull the taste buds.”

She helped herself to a large slice and cut into it with her fork, grateful for the sugar rush and book discussion that should sweep the Prescott siblings from her thoughts for a while.

“What did I miss when I went to the kitchen?” Pat settled her well-padded behind on the wingback chair.

“Not much.” Betsy licked her finger after using it to push some of the dessert onto her plate. “Claire isn’t in a sharing mood, even though I heard Logan offer her a job. One she turned down. Call me crazy, but if I had a chance to spend time with that fine-looking man, I’d take it. He wouldn’t even need to pay me.” She cackled, and Pat and Naomi sniggered along with her.

“If I were a few decades younger, I’d fight you for him.” Pat added a dollop of the cream to her plate, then turned to Claire. “Honey, please tell me you aren’t passing on a job opportunity because of Peyton.”

“It’s not just that . . . ,” Claire replied through a mouthful of berries and crust. Deep down she knew she should take that job. The commission would go a long way to fixing the company’s financial trouble, and the job itself would give her a kind of creative challenge and freedom she’d rarely get around here. “The job’s not practical. It’s in New York—almost two hours each way. And we all know he’s trying to buy my forgiveness for his sister. I won’t be manipulated by another Prescott.”

Betsy elbowed Naomi. “I’d let him manipulate me, if you get my drift.”

“We all get your drift, Betsy,” Naomi muttered. “Claire, I respect your integrity.”

“Thank you, Naomi.” One supporter was better than none, she supposed.

“Listen up,” Pat instructed. “I’m the oldest, which makes me the wisest. Who cares about his agenda? Think about your goals, and do whatever is needed to keep your business going. Tell him straight up there won’t be a quid pro quo where his sister’s concerned, but take the job. Refusing it because of Peyton isn’t integrity, it’s fear. And, honestly, you’re better off without a weak, faithless man like Todd, so maybe you should be thanking her instead of holding a grudge.”

“Thank her?” Claire choked before she dropped her gaze to the bottle of Armagnac, which she might actually be willing to toss back now. Might need, even, to get through the night.

“I heard Todd skedaddled as soon as she got sick. He left you, he left her . . .” Pat fluttered her hand in the air. “Who knows how much time you would’ve wasted on that guy had Peyton not been the one that got him to show his true colors? Now you’re free to find a good guy.”