The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(18)

“It’s not much fun being free in a town where there aren’t many available men,” Betsy moaned. “Ben Lockwood’s cute, though. Why don’t you date him?”

“He’s like my brother,” Claire said.

“Logan’s available.” Naomi shrugged. “Never heard a mean word about him, and he’s got that sexy artistic thing going for him.”

“Logan Prescott goes through women faster than I inhale a sleeve of Oreos.” Claire set her empty plate on the table for emphasis. It’d taken months for the ache of losing Todd to go away. If she ever let herself get close to Logan, she’d never recover when he left her. And it would be when, not if. Logan didn’t settle down. Not for anyone. “Let’s please change the subject and talk about the book.”

“Fair enough,” Pat conceded. “I don’t know about all of you, but the descriptions riveted me. It might sound crazy, but I think we should take an Alaskan cruise.”

The others began to chatter excitedly about that fantasy, while Claire spent the next few moments talking herself down. Pat had a fair point about taking the job. Logan couldn’t force Claire to talk to Peyton, and she’d been clear that she wouldn’t be pressured.

If he wanted to take the gamble and pay her, why shouldn’t she profit off his misguided loyalty? Claire could avoid the transit and work off architectural drawings and photographs. Visions of racks of Scalamandré fabric and shelves of trendy home accessories danced before her.

And, after years of wondering about where Logan lived, she’d finally learn every nook and cranny. She could make it a true home for him. Pick the fabrics, the styles, his bedding . . .

Therein lay the only real danger—the risk to her heart. Rationally, she knew she had no future with Logan, but working closely with him could make that hard to forget. Make her miss him anew when he and Peyton finally took off again, like when they’d all left home after college.

“Claire, are you even listening?” Betsy snapped her fingers right in front of Claire’s nose.

“Sorry.” Claire puckered her lips.

“If we’re seriously going to plan a trip together, let’s choose a book set in Italy or Greece or some other warm Mediterranean location. Why spend a week of summer vacation being cold in Alaska?” Betsy shook her head.

“Didn’t this book strike a chord with your sense of adventure? I kept picturing the vastness of Alaska. It seemed so freeing.” Pat drummed her fingers on the book cover. “I really want to visit.”

“I’d go,” Naomi said. “Assuming we could get a reasonable cruise package.”

“Well, I have read that men outnumber women by a lot in Alaska. Maybe it’d be worth a visit,” Betsy conceded.

Everyone looked at Claire, who’d remained silent. “Sorry. I can’t go.”

“Why not?” Pat asked.

“I need every spare penny for my business this year.”

“Unless you take that job with Logan.” Pat shot her a pointed look.

“Even if I do”—Claire couldn’t believe she was even contemplating that—“I can’t take that kind of trip. Hiking? No. Even being on a ship . . . I wouldn’t feel safe.” She slid a glance at Rosie.

“Honey, life isn’t about being safe.” Pat filled her plate with a second slice of the galette and more cream. “One of these days I really hope you spread your wings again. Don’t you miss taking flight?”

“That’s what books are for. I got to know Alaska well enough. I walked in Leni’s shoes and experienced her courage.” She opened the book to her first tabbed page. “And I think we should read Tara Westover’s memoir, Educated, next. We’ll get to ‘visit’ Idaho in that one.”

“When do we get to go to the Mediterranean?” Betsy whined.



Logan paced the living room floor while Peyton sifted through the batch of photographs he’d taken of her after the doctor removed her bandages. She’d looked right into the camera, but he could see the wall she’d put between herself and the lens. He couldn’t blame her. She’d shown remarkable bravery and vulnerability by even letting him shoot the pictures. Still, he’d wanted her to drop her guard.

Now she’d spread them out on the Aubusson rug, beneath the rows she’d created from the best of his earlier work. All around them lay pictorial evidence of her battle, from the first appointments through the most recent. The past six months had been a blur, yet these photos forced him to recall particular moments in excruciating detail.

Light flooded the spacious room through its oversize windows and reflected off the shiny surfaces of the polished wood and mirrors. The brightness imbued the images with a sort of starkness that made him restless and uncomfortable. Apt, since nothing in the living room was comfortable. Antique, fussy furnishings with hard, tufted cushions. The opposite of welcoming . . . or of “living.”

He missed the sweet, smoky scent of Duck’s cigar and the sound of his rumbly voice reading aloud. Missed the way his aging eyes lit with delight whenever Logan had shown him something he’d built or drawn or written. Once he died, this house had become a war zone between Logan’s father and Grandpa, with his dad emerging as the victor.

Logan shook his head and refocused on his sister, whose gaze lingered longer on certain photos than on others. Her mouth remained slightly downturned, her eyes distant and muddied.