The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(86)

Every second since she’d ended things with Logan, she’d wondered how and where he was, and with whom was he doing whatever it was that he was doing. At present, she didn’t see his car on the property. Relief filled her lungs, then regret immediately deflated them.

You can do this. She exited the car, made her way up the cobblestone stairs to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

Mr. Prescott answered while on the phone, waving her inside with a quick smile. The lemony-clean aroma shot her back to the days when she’d hung out here with her friends. They’d made pitchers of iced tea and baked cookies. They’d had sleepovers often, scribbling in the Lilac Lane League binder, laughing, and falling in love with Colin Firth in Bridget Jones’s Diary.

But even Colin hadn’t made Claire’s heart skip like it had whenever Logan had joined them, nor had the handsome Brit made her restless at night the way that knowing Logan was sleeping across the hall had. She knew every crack on Peyton’s bedroom ceiling from staring at it for so many sleepless hours.

Bittersweet memories kept coming, reminding her of how much of her life had been shaped here by the Prescott siblings, and yet now they were both out of her life.

She followed Mr. Prescott to his office, where he finally ended his call. This place—

frozen in time with its 1930s walnut writing desk and bookshelves loaded with musty classics—had always been off-limits to all kids.

Claire still remembered the way her heart had beat fast when Peyton had opened the creaky door after midnight the one time she’d sneaked them in here senior year. She vividly recalled the nubby feel of the Aubusson carpet beneath her bare feet, the taste of the bourbon on her finger as they’d each sampled Mr. Prescott’s stash.

That night, Peyton had rolled a blank sheet of paper through her great-grandfather’s typewriter and let them each take a turn typing on it. Peyton had written, “Never say never.” Steffi had written, “I hope my mom can hear my thoughts.” Claire had typed, “I’m grateful to be alive.” That note remained safely tucked within the Lilac Lane League’s binder to this day somewhere in Claire’s old room at her parents’ house.

Now, being invited into the sanctuary felt a little like going to church. Except here one worshipped from the comfort of a worn leather chair, surrounded by the symbols of the greatness that had brought this house—and family prominence—into being. This strange reverence gave her a better appreciation for Logan’s otherwise inexplicable sense of inadequacy.

Mr. Prescott closed the office door and poured himself a drink. “Would you like one?”

“No thank you.” She cleared the cobwebs from her throat.

“Then let’s get right to it.” He crossed to his desk and turned his large desktop screen around to face her. “As you know, I’m buying a chain of small, aging inns along the Atlantic seaboard. Most of my budget must go to upgrading software, hiring and training new personnel, and other operational items. Of course, as you can see, they also all need a face-lift. If I thought it could be supported, I’d completely renovate them. But there’s a cap on the room rates tertiary beach-town inns can charge, so it’d be foolhardy to completely upgrade everything. I need less expensive options that will still make a big impact.”

Claire scooted her chair closer. She hadn’t researched the inns Logan had described because she’d dropped the idea of pitching her services. Now she needed to see what she was up against in order to offer advice. “May I scroll through these for a few minutes?”

“Of course.” He gestured with his hands, then sat behind his desk and made himself busy with his phone.

The Portsmouth, New Hampshire, inn’s exterior—two stories of neutral clapboard with white trim—looked attractive enough. A fresh coat of paint and some flower boxes and landscaping would perk it up plenty. The square building also included an ample, welcoming wraparound porch and a handsome wood-and-glass front door. The exterior promised something airy and homey inside, which made the sedate mustards and hunter greens, and bold floral wallpaper, all the more depressing. Add to that the old-fashioned rag carpets, heavy mahogany furniture, and antiquated bathrooms and fixtures, and “oppressive” was the only word to describe the emotion it evoked.

“You hate it.” His gaze was now fixed on her face, which made her aware of how she’d wrinkled her nose while viewing the images.

She gave a slight shrug. “It’s very dated.”

“Hopelessly so?” He folded his hands on the desk.

“Nothing’s hopeless,” she assured him.

“Will I need to replace everything?” When he ran his hand through his hair, he looked like Logan.

She gave herself a mental headshake and refocused. “No. There are quick fixes that won’t break the bank yet will give everything a fresh look.”

“Such as . . .”

“First and foremost, paint. Strip all the wallpaper and repaint everything in lighter, soothing tones. New England and the mid-Atlantic aren’t the Caribbean, so I’d stick to a neutral but sophisticated beach palette, like creams, lilacs, ice blues, and taupes. If you like wallpaper, go for texture—like linen, not bold patterns. People who choose small inns over hotel chains typically want a sense of romance and intimacy. They should feel it the instant they walk through the door, so make sure the mattresses, pillows, and comforters are high quality. Sumptuous linens are a must.”