The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(29)

She’d done it. She’d faced Peyton in public and let her apologize. She’d taken the one step Logan had asked. One that would make Steffi’s life a little easier, too. Whether it would improve hers was up for debate.

She pulled away from the parking space, her finger pressing the dashboard screen restlessly in search of a decent song and settling for DJ Mike D’s remix of “Let It Go.” The hot air blasting her face was suffocating. She blinked a dozen times in a useless effort to clear the image of Peyton’s distraught face.

Her pointless attempts at comfort prompted a derisive laugh. No song, temperature, or spicy bowl of soup would restore her balance.

The problem with taking one step was that the momentum then pulled you to take another and another. Maybe one day she’d be able to take steps toward Peyton without feeling like a ginormous hypocrite, but not today.

Her stress level shot well past anything she could manage on her own. With a quick left-hand turn, she soon found herself in her parents’ driveway. Hopefully, there’d be some cupcakes on hand for this crisis.



Logan sat in the breakfast room, with its view of the Sound, while selecting photos to go with a section of text Peyton had left for him to read. He took another swig of his midafternoon coffee, when his mother breezed into the kitchen.

Darla Prescott was a beautiful woman by anyone’s standard. Elegant, even at sixty. Today, a random Tuesday when she had no plans to meet anyone, she wore her blonde hair in a French twist. Drop pearl-and-sapphire earrings twinkled in the sunlight, as did her gray-blue eyes. The good fortune of porcelain skin enabled her to resort to only the barest beauty treatments—a little Botox now and then—to keep the wrinkles at bay.

Her black slacks and cashmere sweater emphasized her height and slender build. A practiced smile always played at her lips. Still, Logan never knew if his mother was truly happy in her marriage, or if honoring the commitment was simply easier than giving up the trappings of Prescott life. In any case, his parents and many other longtime marrieds convinced him that commitment eventually sapped the excitement from a relationship and from life.

“Would you like some wine, Logan?” She retrieved a bottle of Malbec from the wine refrigerator, swiftly uncorked it, and poured herself a generous glass.

“No, thanks.” He smiled at her, thinking, as always, that she would look more at home in a movie or magazine shoot than in a kitchen.

She swirled the wine a few times and took a deep whiff before sipping it. “I could use some help with the gala RSVPs.”

God, no.

“Sorry, I’m busy with my own project.” Even absent this excuse, he’d prefer torture to delving into the politics that drove the gala seating charts.

“Is what you’re working on more important than our annual family fund-raiser?” She peered over his shoulder, setting one of her hands on his back.

All the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened against the alien invasion. She was queen of the air-kiss, but he couldn’t remember the last time his mother had touched him. What kind of son flinches at his own mother’s affection? He waged these battles with himself all the time—was it he or she who had the problem?

“I think so,” he finally replied. “It’s Peyton’s memoir.”

Although it had started as a productive distraction for him and his sister, the project kept calling to him. It would be a story of the human condition, of suffering, of true beauty and gratitude. Those thoughts swirled around, but he hadn’t quite honed the message or hook yet. He wanted to create something distinguished that didn’t rely solely on the Prescott name.

His mother reached for one of the photos, her expression morphing from curiosity to displeasure. “Surely Peyton won’t be putting these in a book.”

He snatched it back. “She’s planning to.”

“For others to see?” she sputtered.

“Of course. We plan to donate fifty percent of the proceeds to cancer research.”

Between Peyton’s writing experience and the Prescott name, they hoped to secure an agent and, ultimately, a publishing contract. He and his sister both had healthy social media platforms, too, so that should help convince an editorial board that the book would sell.

When his mother scoffed, he frowned at her. “Your attitude surprises me. I’d assume the family would like the idea of a memoir—another literary fund-raiser, if you will.”

“You assume wrong.” His mom held her hand to her forehead like she was taking her temperature. “Why would she want people to see her like that? If you must be so crass as to air family dirty laundry, please use photos from when she’s feeling better.”

Dirty laundry. As if cancer were a scandal.

And yet another example of his parents’ hypocrisy and feigned interest in literature and art. If they truly respected the arts, they’d applaud his career choice and support this memoir. But no. They merely hosted and attended celebrations to perpetuate Duck’s legend so that they could bask in the glory of their last name.

“It’s not a Vogue shoot, Mom. She’s being courageous and showing other women struggling through this that they are still beautiful and strong. It’s about what’s on the inside, not about her hair or breasts.” He scanned two of the images he’d taken at night in Rembrandt lighting, which had amplified his sister’s inner glow despite her barren scalp.