The Promise of Us

by Beck, Jamie

  Her eyes ached from the strain of searching for him and Peyton everywhere she went. This anxiety was exactly why she hadn’t wanted Peyton coming back to town to recuperate.

  No amount of junk food or reality TV had driven away Logan’s disappointed words—worse, the disillusionment in his eyes when he’d said them. She’d scarcely slept for the way she replayed that conversation over and over, each time coming up with a better, classier, stronger means to have handled the unexpected run-in.

  Next time she’d be prepared.

  As she traversed a small opening in the plowed snow and neared the store, two women in yoga pants and Bean Boots walked out, carrying steaming to-go cups while chatting. In their wake, the aroma of fresh-baked goods warmed the cold air as it wafted out to the sidewalk, curled around Claire, and dragged her inside. Heaven.

  She shouldn’t waste five dollars on anything these days, let alone pastries. But, oh, how she wanted one. Needed one.

  The small storefront’s scuffed wood floors creaked beneath her and Rosie. She circumnavigated three small café tables to get to the display case, which was filled with muffins, cookies, and a variety of bread. Warm, buttery delights made more golden by the soft light coming through the shaded plateglass window.

  Betsy Gamble, a forty-year-old divorced mother of two and member of Claire’s book group, was working the counter. “Hey, Claire. Croissant and Earl Grey?”

  “Am I so predictable?” Claire snickered while loosening the scarf around her neck and removing her mittens so she could fish for her wallet. Weak, weak, weak!

  “You’ll be glad today because these puppies are still warm.” Betsy used the tongs to nab the fattest croissant and slip it into the thin paper bag. While she turned to fill a to-go cup with hot water, she asked, “Did you finish The Great Alone yet? Meeting’s coming up.”

  “Almost.” Thank God for books. Her safe way to explore other places and time periods. No one gets hurt from reading a book.

  Betsy pushed the bag and cup of hot tea in front of her, then took her cash. “I tell you this much, I could never, ever live in the wilds of Homer, Alaska.”

  Frankly, right now that almost sounded easier than living in Sanctuary Sound with the Prescott siblings circling.

  Claire tapped Rosie. “I certainly couldn’t hack it in those conditions, nor would I put up with Ernt!”

  Betsy handed Claire her change. “Should be a good discussion.”

  Claire had just snapped her wallet shut and picked up the croissant bag when the bell above the door rang. She looked over her shoulder to find Logan and Peyton standing just inside the glass door. Her body electrified as if she’d been plugged into a high-voltage power line. The room even seemed to brighten during the second that Claire’s breath hitched. Her grip on Rosie could well snap the ivory handle if she didn’t loosen her fingers.

  Betsy’s obvious interest in this unexpected run-in caused Claire’s hair to tingle. Everyone in town knew the story. Everyone pitied her—poor gimpy Claire, who’d lost her man to the glamorous Peyton Prescott. And now, everyone would gossip about any encounter between the two ex-friends.

  She couldn’t even blame Betsy for her curiosity. Juicy scandals didn’t come along all that often around here. And Claire couldn’t lie to herself. Rumors and gossip were kind of fun when they weren’t about you, which explained the popularity of reality TV. Fortunately there were no cameras in the bakeshop. Being the next viral sensation would not be a good way to build her professional reputation.

  Claire felt Logan’s presence, but her gaze had locked with Peyton’s. The blue head scarf didn’t flatter Peyton’s new scarlet skin rashes, and her eyes no longer sparkled with life and wit. Her coat and clothing fit more snugly than normal thanks to chemo weight gain, which Claire was sure Peyton hated as well.

  Memories bombarded Claire, starting with the first time she’d met Peyton, when Steffi had invited them both for a sleepover, and Peyton had arrived looking like Britney Spears in a Juicy Couture velour tracksuit, like the coolest girl on the planet would. And when they all celebrated their high school graduation with a spa day at the Norwich Inn.

  Hopeful, happy times filled with sisterhood and support. But then Claire remembered Todd breaking up with her. His deceptively kind face, glistening with the sheen of nervous perspiration, as he handed her a box of the things that she’d kept at his apartment. Even now, she went numb with the same dismay and pain as when she realized the reason behind his sudden change of heart. At least today there wouldn’t be a days-long crying jag that followed. Or the whispers and consolations of well-intentioned neighbors and friends. Or the shame. Oh, the shame.

  The details of Peyton’s current appearance turned blurry as tears coated Claire’s eyes. She squeezed them closed to stave off crying. When she opened them, she saw Peyton whisper something to Logan before she turned and left the store.

  Breathe.

  Her lungs burned—a feeling she’d once loved after an intense tennis match, but not one she welcomed now. Her muscles were tight. Honestly, she couldn’t believe that Peyton didn’t force a conversation. That woman never backed down from anything in her life before today.

  “Claire.” Logan started toward her. Only then did she notice that he’d shorn his hair. All that gorgeous hair, gone!

  She dropped the croissant bag. Shoot. She’d just promised herself she’d be prepared when she saw him next. He’d better not say one word about his sister. She wasn’t ready to defend herself, especially not after seeing Peyton look so sick and defeated.

  Crouching hurt Claire’s hip, but she needed that croissant more than ever.

  Logan leaned forward just as she bent over to pick up the bag, so they bumped into each other. His strong hands gripped her shoulders to steady her, then he handed her the croissant. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, eyes downcast, gripping the bag so tightly the chocolate had probably squirted out of the pastry. She’d have to lick the paper, or smear the chocolate over the top of the crust. She peeked up at Logan again. Short hair only emphasized his refined bone structure and those penetrating green eyes. Who knew he could be even better looking? She didn’t want him so close. “You cut your hair.”

  The right side of his mouth turned up as he ran his hand over his shorn head. “You noticed.”

  Impossible not to. Many of her fantasies about him had involved her hands playing with all that hair. Now she’d never get the chance. Not that she would’ve been offered the chance anyway. Or wanted it anymore, darn it. She was an independent woman Logan Prescott could not hold sway over anymore.

  “Trying to keep the peace at home?” She knew his father disliked Logan’s artsy side, and she knew Logan both loved and hated that fact. But if he wanted to help Peyton transition and rest, he probably needed to appease his father while they were all living beneath one roof.

  Logan tipped his head, his eyes searching hers, almost smiling. “This wasn’t for my dad. I did it for Peyton.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire’s palm itched to feel the tickle of his short hair.

  He shrugged one shoulder, his voice wistful. “Solidarity.”

  Oh.

  They’d all envied Logan’s hair for years, but now that Peyton had lost hers . . . Claire’s heart swelled with respect and awe for the depth of love and commitment he had for his sister. Having a big brother must be such a comfort. Then again, given the unfamilial feelings she harbored for Logan, she thanked God he wasn’t her brother.

  Her thoughts continued to ping-pong, proving she’d lost her mind this morning. First, the disappointing news from Mrs. Brewster, then this run-in with Logan and Peyton.

  Peyton, who left because she couldn’t face Claire . . . or didn’t think Claire could face her. That thought was rather lowering.

  She noticed Betsy wiping down the counter, pretending not to be taking copious mental notes. This was all too much. She had to get outside so she could breathe. Nothing like cold, salty air
to stimulate the senses. Of course, Peyton might be waiting for her on the sidewalk.

  “Where’d your sister go?” Her words spilled out fast and hard.

  He sighed. “To wait in the car.”

  “Why?”

  “We planned to have a coffee before going to her post-op appointment, but she didn’t want to upset you. She asked me to get the coffee to go.” Logan’s expression gave no hint of his feelings about that, which made her squirm. Maybe that’s what he wanted. He nodded at Betsy and raised two fingers. “One caffeine-free mocha latte and one red eye to go, please.”

  Claire didn’t want to think about the fact that Peyton just lost both of her breasts last week. The scars. The pain. The sorrow. Absently, she rubbed her left hip.

  “I’m leaving, so Peyton can come inside and you two can relax here with coffee and whatever.” She sidestepped him and started for the door, then paused. A few yards away, Peyton sat alone in a cold car. A small kindness that, even with Claire’s vault full of anger, she couldn’t dismiss. “I appreciate that she didn’t force me to talk to her today and hope the appointment goes well.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pass it along, but you could thank her yourself,” he suggested.

  Behind him, Claire noticed Betsy’s eyes bug for a second while she made the mocha latte.

  Claire met Logan’s assessing gaze and, despite the sympathy for Peyton’s medical situation, found her voice. “Sorry, Logan, but it’ll be a long time—if ever—before I thank Peyton for anything.”

  Logan didn’t care what Claire said. He heard a hint of a softening. Long time. If ever. Equivocal words. Proof that she wasn’t as hard and cynical as she’d led him to believe just before she’d landed on her ass in the snow.

  The friend he’d known still existed somewhere beneath the distant gaze and layers of clothes—at the moment she was dressed like Nanook of the North. He couldn’t deny admiring—enjoying, even—her candor. But just now she’d given him an opening, however narrow. Logan never let any opening go. “Don’t suppose you’ve given more thought to decorating my apartment? I could also introduce you to other people in the city with bare walls and money to burn.”

  She hesitated. Good. The opening kept widening.

  “I don’t see how it would work, Logan. Putting aside the whole Peyton situation, I’m not inclined to go to the city.”

  “Seven fifty, Logan,” Betsy interjected.

  “Keep the change,” he said, tossing her a ten-dollar bill. He returned his attention to Claire. “You have a thing against Manhattan?”

  “I have a thing against danger.” She tipped her head toward Rosie.

  She’d remained a hometown girl, but he hadn’t realized she avoided all urban areas. At first blush, it made sense, but her logic was flawed. Yankee Crossing wasn’t, in and of itself, a dangerous or even urban locale, and yet she’d been shot there.

  “I’ve lived in New York for years without injury.” At least not physical injury. Wounds to the soul were an issue open to debate. “It’s not that dangerous.”

  “Any place with crowds can be dangerous.” She stared at him, calm and assured, leaving no opening whatsoever.

  He could work with that, though. He didn’t need her to go to New York. Hell, he didn’t even need to have his apartment redone. He just needed to spend time with her. Wear her down, little by little, until she had enough sympathy for Peyton to be willing to extend some forgiveness. “Well, what about floor plans and photographs? If you had dimensions and images, could you work with that?”

  A responding spark flickered in her eyes, like sunlight hitting a sapphire. Curiosity. Suspicion. Even a dash of excitement. Her response ignited a little unexpected curiosity in him, too.

  But her white-knuckle grip on Rosie also spoke volumes. “It’s not ideal. I couldn’t get a true feel for the space without physically seeing it.”

  He understood that, of course. Space, light, the feel of the area—these things all mattered in any good design or photo. But a perfect apartment wasn’t his ultimate goal. “But it is possible.”

  She crossed her arms now, the little paper bag dangling from her fingers. “You could easily hire someone in the city instead of playing games with me.”

  “Games? Why can’t I help an old friend keep her new business going? We are old friends, aren’t we?” He’d known her since before her braces had been removed. Played volleyball in the side yard of Arcadia with her and others on warm summer nights in middle school. Even traveled with a group of friends to Yale to watch her win a sectional championship mere months before the shooting that changed everything.

  “Exactly. Old friends, which means I know you, so I know what you’re really about.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. She did know him. He’d always liked that best about her. He wouldn’t sully their past by denying it now.

  Instead, he tore a page from her playbook of avoidance. “I’ve got a budget of fifty grand to spend on new living room, dining room, and bedroom furniture and whatnot. That should provide a nice fee. I don’t care what the split is, as long as the place looks and feels like me when you’re finished. And of all the designers out there, I doubt any know me as well as you—as you’ve pointed out.”

  Few, if any, women had ever paid as much quiet attention to him as Claire used to.

  “Fifty . . . I . . . that’s . . .” She clamped her mouth shut. He doubted she noticed her toe tapping at this point.

  “I won’t push, but I hope you say yes. It’d be nice to pool our creative forces on a project, wouldn’t it?” He meant that despite his ulterior motives.

  Her eyes clouded with spinning thoughts, and he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her response. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

  Yes. She might not know it yet, but he’d just won the first battle in the war for forgiveness. He didn’t even feel bad about it. Claire would be better off when he was done. Her business would be intact, and she’d be unburdened by the resentment that weighed her down. A bonus would be if he could get her to come to the city, just once. An adventure to break her free from her self-imposed prison.

  He’d enjoy seeing the city through her eyes.

  “You know where to find me.” He hoped that sounded nonchalant.

  “I doubt I’ll have to go looking. Seems certain I’ll be bumping into you wherever I go.”

  He grinned. “Lucky me.”

  She opened her mouth but then closed it again. He found himself wishing to know what she’d almost said. Funny, because he often found himself bored with what most people said. “Bye, Logan.”

  Between her parka, her cane, her purse, and her bag, she barely fit through the narrow door.

  When he turned to grab his and Peyton’s coffees, he noticed Claire’s tea. “Thanks,” he mumbled to Betsy as he balanced the third cup in his hands and took off after Claire.

  Fortunately the patchy sidewalks had slowed her down. “Claire, you forgot your tea.”

  “Oh.” She lumbered back to him, her furtive gaze roving for bystanders. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He smiled. “Have a nice day.”

  She nodded and hobbled off, disappearing around the corner.

  He stood for a moment, noticing the symmetry of the frame in front of him—a rainbow of awnings, and coal-black street lanterns with empty hanging baskets acting like buckets for the snow. If he returned during the blue hour, maybe he could capture some great Americana photos as long as some stores remained lit with incandescent light. A picture-perfect view that likely obscured some imperfect interactions taking place inside, like the one that had just unfolded in Connecticut Muffin.

  How often did pretty outsides hide unseemly truths?

  He crossed the street to his car. Peyton had turned it on, so it was toasty warm when he got in and handed her the coffee.

  She didn’t ask him why it had taken so long or whether Claire had said anything about her. He started the engine and backed out of the parking
spot, pointing the car toward Yale New Haven Hospital.

  “I think us being here together will be good for everyone.” He squirted washer fluid on the windshield to clean the grime.

  Peyton slid him a glance, her eyes filled with doubt. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s peaceful, which you need now. And everywhere you look, we have memories. Mostly good ones, too. Ones other people share. Seeing you—us—here will force them to remember those good times, and that will make it harder to hold on to the bad ones.” He patted her thigh. “You’re going to get a chance to talk to Claire. Maybe not this week or next, but soon. I feel it.”

  “What did she say?” Peyton stared ahead. His sister’s distinctive profile, with the slight upturn of her nose and the strong, square line of her jaw, always made him want to reach for a camera.

  “Nothing specific.” He thought about that some more and decided to share the catalyst of his hope. “She appreciated that you didn’t confront her. Good move.”

  “It wasn’t calculated, Logan.” Peyton threw him a disappointed look. “It was simply the right thing to do.”

  “Even better.” He scratched his head. Was his sister really less calculating than he was, and did that matter? It was a useful trait as long as you weren’t a selfish prick about it.

  “Logan, don’t get involved. I tried putting Steffi in the middle, and that was wrong. It’s my mess to clean up. I’ll handle it.” She sipped her coffee and let her head drop back against the seat.

  Surely, she knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t stop being involved until she was happier. He’d cut his hair for her, for God’s sake. Meddling with Claire would be so much easier, and more pleasant.

  A little hum rattled in his chest at the thought of Claire’s fiery eyes. The other day he’d been hurt, but today squaring off had been fun. She had found her voice, and he liked it. He looked forward to her call, which he knew would come. She’d never been stupid, and his offer had been too good to ignore.