The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(9)
“I wasn’t a fan of her going into business with a friend because of the risks. Now you want us to get involved, too?” He patted his wife’s hand before looking at Claire. “But if you get into a real bind, come talk to me, and we’ll see how we can help.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I’ll solve my own problems.” She hated that the first thing most people thought of when they saw her and Rosie coming was how to make things easier for her. “Needy” and “incapable” weren’t words she associated with herself.
She’d been a fierce competitor before the accident. Disciplined. Strong. Ambitious. Those traits didn’t disappear just because she’d healed funny, post-traumatic arthritis sliced through her hip like a hot knife, and nerve damage sent a jolt of lightning through her back and leg every now and then.
She’d survived the bullet, blood loss, and surgeries. She’d learned to walk again, graduated high school on schedule despite missing many classes during rehab, and gone on to have a satisfying career. The only battles she’d lost were some mental ones—missing what had been, and fearing what else could happen. But she’d hidden those blues from most everyone, so why did people still treat her as less than?
Her dad smiled. “Just because you can take care of yourself doesn’t mean you can’t lean on others sometimes, too.”
“True. And on that note, Mom, have you spoken with Mrs. Brewster lately?”
“No, honey. Why?” Her mom slid onto an empty chair and sipped from her coffee cup.
“Rumor has it that she might be looking to remodel her master bathroom. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, so I wondered if you’d heard anything.”
Her mom shook her head. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” Claire’s book group—an odd assortment of local women spanning a few decades—met in a week. They might know something. “She still works at Earth Garden, doesn’t she?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe it’s time to spruce up my porch with a new plant.” Claire downed her sixth Reese’s with a long swallow of milk before rising and setting the glass in the dishwasher. She always felt better after chocolate, and now she had a goal. Goals were good. Goals kept her moving forward so her mind didn’t dwell on things that couldn’t be changed. “See you later!”
“Um, honey,” her dad said. “You might want to change your pants first.”
Oh yeah.
“I’ll go dress in the laundry room.” Claire meandered around the bend to the back hall. Few things felt better than sliding into a pair of warm pants. It would’ve been pure bliss if not for the unpleasant memories of why they’d gotten wet in the first place.
Hopefully she wouldn’t run into Logan—or Peyton—anytime soon.
Gravel ground beneath the tires of Logan’s Wrangler as he drove along the winding driveway that led to Arcadia House, Duck’s rambling summer retreat. Originally occupying a fifty-acre pie-shaped lot along Connecticut’s shoreline, it’d been that man’s place of peace, where he’d continued writing best sellers after the success of his most famous work, A Shadow on Sand. Sixteen million copies later, that book’s royalties still helped pad the Prescott coffers, despite Logan’s grandfather’s profligate lifestyle nearly stripping them bare at one point. Logan’s dad had saved the estate in the midnineties by subdividing forty-five acres for a residential development.
That deal had resulted in the dedication of Lilac Lane as a public road, which, along with the creation of a few other streets, turned the former estate into a neighborhood.
Logan didn’t mind the new neighbors. In fact, thanks to his father’s transaction, families like the Lockwoods and McKennas had given Peyton and him nearby friends. Yet a part of Logan mourned for the earliest days of his childhood, when the entire acreage—wooded areas, grassy fields, and one thousand feet of private beach—had led to hours of discovery. He’d caught turtles and snails, climbed trees for hours, and made art from broken shells and sand and the occasional piece of trash that would wash ashore.
Duck had always told Logan that creativity came alive when the body and soul were at peace. He’d never been much interested in the fame or money that his work derived, except for how they enabled him to keep doing what he loved. Logan’s dad, on the other hand, cared very much for the wealth and societal position, and very little for creativity. Thus, the bastardized version of the onetime refuge of a great writer.
Now Logan parked beneath a gleaming white portico at the far right side of the antique-gray shingle-style home. From there, he could see down the sloped lawn to the remaining four-hundred-foot-wide private shoreline on Long Island Sound. His father’s carbon-gray GranTurismo was parked in front of the newly constructed detached four-car garage.
Dealing with his dad always involved a risk of nausea, which could be a bad thing given how much lasagna he’d gobbled at Ryan’s today. Logan drew a deep breath before grabbing his computer and camera bags from his back seat.
Arcadia House’s interior maintained its vintage style. Any remodeling done throughout the years had preserved the home’s heritage. His mother, in particular, insisted on refinishing and recovering older furniture rather than replacing it with more comfortable, modern pieces. One of his favorite bathrooms still retained the original turquoise-and-black tile work.