The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(62)
“I can’t believe how she triumphed despite all she endured.” There’d been moments while reading it that Claire had needed to physically put it down and walk away.
The author had been raised by paranoid Mormon survivalists in Idaho who’d forbidden her to go to school. Despite that and many other crazy things, she eventually became a Brigham Young graduate who earned a PhD from Cambridge. Although the author’s tale of transformation was inspiring, Claire also had an unpleasant recognition that her family’s PTSD and paranoia resulting from her accident—if taken to extremes—could turn out to be very bad. She saw herself as if standing at the top of a sliding board, and if she kept on her current path, she might slide closer to an extreme place of isolation and fear before she realized what was happening.
“You know I’ve got a healthy paranoia about our government, but her dad made me look like a poster child for patriotism and pop culture.” Naomi scanned Claire’s final book, checked her screen, and typed something. She passed the stack across the counter. “These should be a nice change of pace.”
“Romantic, escapist, and happy.” Claire dumped the books into her tote bag.
“If romance is what you crave, you might be better off with a real man instead of those book boyfriends.” Naomi set her elbows on the counter and leaned forward.
“Easier said than done.”
“I heard you took that job for Logan Prescott.” Naomi eyed her. “Pat and her pragmatism got to you, or maybe something more motivated your decision, eh?”
“Just bills. Lots and lots of bills.” She knew her blush gave her away, which made her feel doubly foolish.
“I doubt that.” With a shrug, Naomi drummed the countertop with her hands. “Want a little advice from an old spinster?”
“Sure.”
“You and I, we’re not the same kind of people. You’re not cut out for the solo gig. You need people, Claire, and you deserve something better than books to keep you up at night. Don’t let one bad apple make you run screaming from the orchard. Grab hold and experiment with all kinds of apples until you find one with the perfect bite—or in your case, maybe you’d prefer one covered in caramel.”
Claire laughed for the first time all day, although she wondered if Naomi had been hurt deeply in the past. “That does sound tempting. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“See you later.” Naomi waved goodbye and wandered into the admin office behind the circulation desk.
Claire tossed the bag of books on the passenger seat when she got to her car and mulled over Naomi’s advice.
Face it, Claire. The only way to get people to stop feeling sorry for her was if she acted bolder and took risks. She had to show people that she could handle life’s ups and downs on her own—in business and in her personal life. No one would ever believe her if she didn’t believe in herself enough to try.
On her way home, she dialed Steffi but got dumped into her voice mail. “Steffi, give me a buzz. I want to talk to you about making a big pitch.”
High, thin clouds lent brightness to the late afternoon without creating hot spots. Luck had smiled on Logan, who’d wanted to shoot photos of Peyton on the beach where they’d spent their childhood.
Dressed in jeans, a wool coat, and a black wool bowler cap, his sister looked striking today, and strong. Determined. Maybe even a little pissed at him about the Claire situation. That was okay, though, because anger had put fire in her eyes. A spark of life that had been absent for too long.
She’d been a trouper, taking orders from him about this position or that rocky outcropping, but now she was shivering.
He detached the telephoto lens from his Canon. “Go inside. I’ll pack up and follow in a bit.”
“I’ll make some tea.” Her teeth chattered. “Want some?”
“Nah.”
“See you inside.” She trotted across the shallow beach and up the lawn to the house.
It didn’t take long to put his things into the camera bag, but he was in no hurry to go inside. If anything, he welcomed some time alone to think about what to do with Claire. He’d gone to sleep angry and awakened with regrets.
He glanced down the beach a few hundred yards to where a father and his daughter were flying a kite as if it were summer. The contrast of its primary colors against the near-white sky drew the eye. But that wasn’t what reached into his chest to squeeze his heart. The bubble of the little girl’s laughter carried along the wind from where her dad had crouched to gently support her arms and shoulders.
Logan had no memory of gentle support from his parents, but the scene prompted a foggy memory of Duck, who’d died before Logan’s seventh birthday. Logan had been about four, back when many more trees stood along the edge of the property bordering the sea. There’d been a woven hammock strung between two oak trees near the beach, and Duck would let Logan curl up beside him while he read aloud.
The William H. Prescott in Logan’s memory was a kind, frail man with a soft voice and a shock of white hair. Photographs of the younger version typically showed his handsome face in a serious state of concentration, but he’d actually laughed easily, sharing the same wry humor as Peyton.
How different might Logan be if Duck had lived longer? Or if his own father had shown him that kind of easygoing attention?