The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(67)
“You and your sister are always running far away from home.” She made a moue before she reached out and grabbed his hand. Once again, he froze from the unusual contact. The only explanation he could come up with for her recent behavior was that Peyton’s illness had made her slightly more aware of the fact that she shouldn’t take her kids for granted. “Were we such bad parents that you can’t stand to be around us?”
Bad? No. A bit neglectful. A bit standoffish. A bit more concerned with how the family “looked” to others than how it actually functioned.
“I’m not running away from my family.” He offered a reassuring squeeze of the hand, having no interest in a heart-to-heart or in making her feel guilty. “I’m doing what I love. Traveling. Seeing other perspectives. Searching for a new story to tell.”
She flashed a skeptical smile and dropped his hand. “If you say so.”
He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, the sudden affection making her go still, too. “Talk later.”
What was happening? Claire’s outlook on family must’ve infected him.
He wandered out of the kitchen and through the entry to the walnut-paneled office with large windows that offered idyllic views of the Sound—his great-grandfather’s personal sanctuary. Duck’s old typewriter remained on a bookcase along with signed editions of his work. His Pulitzer Prize certificate hung on the wall in a handsome gilt frame.
Logan wanted to win a Pulitzer for photography more than almost anything else in his life. It’d be validation that he deserved the name he bore, and proof that he hadn’t been wasting his time like his dad believed.
His father looked up from behind the desk and paused. “Did you make a wrong turn?”
“Good morning to you, too, Dad.” Logan nodded to an empty chair. “May I sit?”
His father’s wary expression would be comical if it weren’t such a sad statement on their relationship. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Logan cleared his throat. Claire’s warning about repeating bad patterns, and her willingness to try new things, might’ve persuaded him to attempt this fact-finding mission, but he’d have to wade in carefully. “Since I’m here for a while, I thought it’d be nice if we tried to understand each other a little better . . . get along. I know you think I’m a slacker, but I do have goals.” He pointed at Duck’s award. “That right there is one of mine. My photography might not be as lucrative as your work, but that doesn’t make it nonsense. This house is a testament to the value others assign the creative arts.”
“You know the odds against any creative endeavor breaking through and making money. They don’t call them starving artists for nothing, Logan.” His chair rocked back as he shifted, its hinge squeaking under his weight. “If it weren’t for your trust fund, you’d be living with six people in a walk-up studio.”
“I make money. Not huge money, but I can comfortably support myself.” He paused. “But if the trust went away, I’d still pursue my art—even if it meant living in squalor. I’m compelled to do it, whether you understand that or not. You don’t have to agree with that choice, but you could stop treating me, and my passion, with disdain. Is that so much to ask?”
“You tell me.” His dad rose from his desk, crossed to the antique beverage cart, and opened a bottle of bourbon. He poured two tumblers full and handed one to Logan before taking his seat again. “From where I sit, you’ve shown equal disdain toward me and my business, and taken no more interest in my projects than I have in yours.”
“Point taken.” Logan sipped the bourbon, sensing he’d be leaving this office with more than he’d bargained for when he’d come in. “Tell me about your vision for these hotels.”
“Eager to criticize me?” His dad threw back a healthy swallow and set the glass on a coaster.
“No. I’m being sincere.” Logan drew one foot across the opposite knee, settling in for a longer conversation. “Why does this project excite you?”
His dad shrugged with an expression that suggested the answer was obvious. “Because I can take something that’s failing and make it a success.”
“Like you did with the family fortune after Grandpa practically lost this house.” Logan had to admit that had taken courage and tremendous effort.
“I suppose yes, exactly like that.” He swiveled in his chair and glanced out the windows at the property he’d saved. From Logan’s angle, his dad’s partial profile made him look like he’d been carved in marble. Hard. Intense. Indomitable. His dad turned back to face Logan with a soft sigh. “I’m always sorry that I had to sell off so much of this land to do it, but, ultimately, that call saved this house and secured the funds to build something more for our family. Something that didn’t require talent and luck to maintain, like publishing and pictures. I didn’t inherit a creative gene, but I’m smart, savvy, and not afraid to roll up my sleeves and put in long hours.”
At first blush, that speech sounded prideful. But its tone hinted at a bit of envy, too. Despite his protests, perhaps his dad would’ve liked to follow in his grandfather’s shoes but couldn’t.
Thanks to his dad’s choices—sacrifices, even—Logan had had the financial freedom to pursue his passion. Maybe it wasn’t disdain, but resentment, that his father felt toward him now.