The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(96)

It was so her. Subtle and soft, yet intensely engaged and sincere. Everything he was not, but everything he coveted.

If there was any chance she hadn’t yet given up on him, he had to seize it. He opened his email, attached the photo, and typed a note:

Claire,

I’ve been staring at this image for weeks, missing you and your delicate beauty, curiosity, and imagination. Look at your awe at that ceiling mural. When I see this picture, I find myself wishing you would spring to life and turn that same gaze on me.

Now I’m back and surrounded by you in this beautiful home you created—yet it feels strangely empty without you.

If any part of you has missed me, please call me. I am changed because of you. I hope you’ll let me prove it.

Yours,

Logan

He hit “Send” and blew out a breath, staring at the screen, hoping . . .



Claire exchanged a silent look with Steffi upon their seeing Peyton get out of her parked car as they pulled up to the curb in front of Claire’s house.

“Were you expecting her?” Steffi asked, brows drawn together.

“No.” Claire’s heart pounded with worry that Peyton had come to share bad news about Logan. A slight tremor whipped through her, but she managed to open the car door when Steffi did the same.

“Why are you here?” Claire blurted, scanning Peyton’s face for signs of grief. Her heart settled at the lack of any, but her stomach tightened in anticipation of dealing with Peyton yet again.

“I wanted to talk to you, but you weren’t answering my texts.” Peyton clasped her hands in front of her body. Dressed in fine gray slacks and a loose-fitting pink spring sweater, she’d also donned the wig made of Logan’s hair, all of which made her look more like her old self.

“My phone died and we didn’t bring a charger.” Claire crossed her arms. “What’s the urgency?”

“Logan got home an hour ago.” Peyton searched Claire’s face now—for what, Claire wasn’t sure.

“Is he all right?” Steffi asked.

“He’s fine.” Peyton looked back to Claire. “Physically, anyway.”

“Thank God.” A huge weight lifted upon confirming he’d made it home in one piece. “You sound perturbed, though.”

“I am. He’s not his normal happy self, and I think it’s because of you.”

“Me?” Claire glowered at the accusation.

“Yes, Claire.” Peyton crossed her arms. “Because of you.”

“Should I stay and ref?” Steffi darted a glance from Peyton to Claire.

“No,” Claire said at the same time Peyton answered, “You can go.”

Claire and Peyton stared at each other, a challenge forming in the space between them.

“Please keep it civil.” Steffi clasped her hands together in prayer. “I love you both and don’t want the truce to end so soon.”

Claire closed her eyes and counted to three so she wouldn’t argue. She’d made such strides these past several weeks on all fronts. She wouldn’t let Peyton derail her, for God’s sake.

Before climbing into her car, Steffi flashed an uneasy smile. She started the engine and slowly drove away while watching them as if she expected them to burst into flame.

When the car turned the corner, Claire turned back to Peyton. She’d said Logan was unhappy. “Does he hate the apartment?”

“No, he loves it.” She grinned.

Claire flipped one hand over. “Then why are you here? I know we’ve been working together to plan Steffi’s party, but I told you before, I don’t want to discuss him with you.”

“Let’s not have this conversation on the sidewalk, okay? May I come inside for five minutes?” Peyton’s calm expression challenged Claire’s self-control, even though the last thing she wanted was to invite Peyton inside.

“Fine.” Claire led the way into her house, then set Rosie and her bag down by the door and shot Peyton an “out with it” look.

“Here’s the thing. I love my brother. His happiness matters to me, and since I think you’re an integral part of that for him now, I must get involved.” Peyton sank onto a chair with a huff, as if they were old friends—which they were, or had been. “I’d like to think I’ve learned something from months of pondering my own death, planning a funeral, writing an obituary . . . you know, all the morbid things one thinks about when hit with the big C.”

With no ready rebuttal to such macabre candor, Claire sat on the sofa and waited. Her living room grew uncommonly warm, but she didn’t want to offer Peyton a drink or do anything else that might extend this visit.

“These physical changes”—Peyton gestured to her hair and chest—“have also made me see myself, people, beauty, and love differently. The memoir—one of Logan’s great ideas—is definitely adjusting my filter and my priorities.”

“This is all . . . interesting, but what’s it have to do with me?” Claire scratched at the arm of the sofa, although it was her body that itched.

“You’ve been where I am—survived something tragic. Until I fought my own battle, I never understood why you’ve lived scared. Now I get it. For the past several months, I’ve taken only calculated risks. Afraid of loss. I craved security and stability. But today I’ve had an epiphany. Timidity only leads to a different kind of suffering—the kind made up of regrets and ‘could have beens.’”