by Beck, Jamie
When Mitch raised his brows in question, Peyton said, “The engagement party.”
“Oh, yes.” Mitch nodded. “Congratulations. Peyton’s very happy for you both.”
“I’m a lucky guy. But you’ll see for yourself this weekend when you meet Claire. And of course, meeting the rest of the family will round out whatever you think you learned about the Prescotts from the memoir.” He smiled, unaware that his assumption of Peyton having already extended an invitation was akin to a public fart.
Before Mitch could form an answer, Peyton weighed in. “Logan, could you wait for me outside? I’ll be a minute.”
“Sure.” He grabbed the handle of her suitcase and waved at Mitch. “See you Saturday.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, she looked at Mitch. “Sorry. I thought about inviting you but didn’t want to put you on the spot.”
“It’s fine. I understand.”
“I’m serious, Mitch. Until last night, I was merely a client and you had your rules. If I’d invited you, you might’ve felt like you couldn’t say no. If this were weeks from now, after the end of our contract . . . But then last night and today. We still haven’t made any decisions . . .”
He held up a finger, shaking his head. “You haven’t. I know what I want.”
She stared at him, hugging herself like a child standing on the high dive, staring at the water below. “If you could be happy starting slow and keeping it light, I would like to see you again . . . outside of work, I mean.”
If she needed to start slow, he would agree. At least it gave him a chance. “I’d be very happy to see you outside of work.”
“Would you like to come to the party? It’ll be at Arcadia House with my family and friends—which I realize doesn’t feel like a slow start. You should spend the night rather than make the two-hour drive home.”
“Hmm. Spend the night with you at your family’s fabled estate . . .” He reached for her hand. “I can’t imagine anything I’d rather do.”
“Only because you haven’t met Darla and Harrison yet.”
“Your parents?”
“Yep.” She pulled a face.
He pointed at himself because she should know better. “I think I’m pretty good with difficult parents.” That reminded him that his mother would be pissed about his plans because she’d be only five days out from her surgery by Saturday. For once, Lauren might have to step up.
“True.” She smiled. “Why don’t you plan to come up in the afternoon? The party begins at six.”
A yes sat on the tip of his tongue, but her brother had trapped her into this invitation. “I’ll come on one condition.”
She waited with a curious look on her face.
“Be honest with me. Is this invitation what you want, or do you feel pressured because your brother put us on the spot?”
“I would very much like for you to come now that we’re on the same page about expectations.”
The crying babies, screeching luggage carousels, and overhead announcements faded as her words sank in. “Done. We’ll talk tomorrow about next week’s launch and reading, but you should go catch up with Logan now.”
She glanced over her shoulder to the glass doors and then back. “I’d offer a ride, but we’re going the other direction.”
“It’s fine, although I’d like to train Lauren to be as thoughtful as your brother.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek.
She held him there for a hug before easing away.
“Maybe I can help with that, if I ever meet her.” She winked and strolled toward the door, flashing her pretty smile one last time before she disappeared.
Having convinced her to give them a chance—however slight—he made some new vows: she would meet his family, their next event would go well, and her book would hit the NYT bestsellers list. When he put his mind to something, nothing could stop him, and this would be no different.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hello!” Peyton’s voice echoed throughout the kitchen. She threw her purse on the counter while Logan rolled her luggage in through the back door. Neither of her parents replied from any corner of the house. No home-cooked meal was roasting in the oven. No celebratory cake was anywhere to be seen. No hugs. “Some homecoming.”
Logan grimaced in an “are you really surprised” manner. He was right, of course. Peyton had long ago accepted that her parents’ aloof nature had been passed down from the prior generation of Prescotts. They had their busy schedules, and they’d raised their kids to manage their own lives, too. Pretty much the opposite of Mitch’s experience.
After setting her suitcase by the wall, Logan said, “Mom mentioned something about dinner at Lucia’s.”
“Shoot. I’m on London time. Not really up for going out on the town.” Then again, Lucia’s served awesome meatballs. “Are you staying dressed like that?”
“Oh, sorry. I’ve got plans with Claire.”
She would love an invitation but knew he couldn’t yet extend one without checking with Claire. Peyton wouldn’t complain, though. Claire had come a long way toward mending fences, but some betrayals run too deep. Claire might not ever be able to love, or even like, her again. “What plans?”
“Anything but dinner at Lucia’s.” Logan snickered.
She slapped his chest. “Not nice.”
“Gimme a break. I’ve dealt with Mom more these past few weeks than I have this entire year.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Trust me, she and I need a breather. I can’t pretend to be interested in one more decision about figs with bacon and chile versus lobster toasts with avocado. In what world would I care whether the table linens are blush silk organza or white with gold trim? Thank God Claire and her parents get to plan the wedding.”
Peyton smothered a giggle at the image of him sitting with their mom at the kitchen table, ticking through what could be a thirty-page party-planning checklist.
“Go then. Make your getaway.” She opened the Big Chill retro refrigerator and found a pitcher of lemonade, so she poured herself a tall glass. “It’s for the best, because if you stick around, I might put your head on a spit for interfering with Mitch and me.”
“Liar. I wouldn’t have jumped in if the sparks firing between you hadn’t burned me. Thank me for the push and be done with the ruse.”
He knew her too well, yet it would take more than sparks to bridge the things separating her and Mitch.
“You don’t understand, Logan.” She gulped the lemonade to cool down. “It’s complicated.”
“You think I don’t understand complicated relationships?” He crossed his arms, brows raised so high she couldn’t miss the incredulous expression. Yes, dating Claire when she’d hated Peyton had been incredibly complicated.
“Fine. I don’t want to argue. I need a hot shower.” She walked around the island and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s good to be home, and you are wonderful to have come to greet me.”
“That’s more like it.” He hugged her. “I’m excited for the domestic launch next week. It’ll be great to finally do an event together.”
It would be a nice change of pace to have a partner with her who could talk about the project and answer questions. Logan had always been better with a crowd that way. She nodded and patted his shoulder, then grabbed her suitcase.
“Want me to carry it up for you?” Logan reached for it, but she waved him off.
“I’ve got it. If you don’t leave before Mom and Dad show up, you’ll get stuck coming with us.”
Logan gave an exaggerated shudder and then a quick wave. “Ciao!”
Peyton rolled her suitcase through the kitchen and across the foyer’s oak floors—where she used to play a form of hopscotch on its stained harlequin pattern—to the grand curved staircase. Step by step, she started up the stairs to the childhood bedroom she’d reclaimed after giving up her apartment in the city when she got sick. Usually she bounded up and down, passing the photos on the wall without a glance. Today her homecoming put her in a no
stalgic mood as she ran her hand along the hand-carved mahogany banister smoothed by decades of use.
She passed the black-and-white photos of Duck. Her gaze then caught her grandparents’ image, reminding her of the awful fights she’d overheard between her dad and his profligate father. Ugly times, but her dad had seized control of the assets and saved the house and family from public embarrassment. Logan had never quite appreciated how that decade had shaped and hardened their dad like forged iron, but Mitch would.
Continuing her journey, she smiled at the gorgeous picture of her parents on their Italian honeymoon, then came to a stop at a sweet image of her and her brother hanging out the window of the old tree house on the property. The site of many Lilac Lane League secret meetings and sleepovers. Innocent young girls who’d never envisioned the kinds of heartbreak awaiting them outside this gated estate.
Her smiling face, with its missing tooth, stared back at her from a lifetime ago. That girl—the queen bee who’d run around town breaking hearts, mapping out dreams, looking for the next wild adventure—was long gone.
Originally she’d planned a temporary return home for her reconstruction surgery and recovery. Yet weeks had slipped into months, and the months then stacked and burned like logs on a bonfire. Working on the memoir with Logan, reconnecting with Steffi and, to a lesser extent, Claire, learning to meditate—all excuses that allowed her to wallow in limbo. For all the writing and speaking about seizing the moment and appreciating the little things, in truth she’d done very little of that. She’d become complacent, as if hiding at Arcadia could keep her safe. Another glance at the tree-house photo reminded her of how foolish that was.
As she rolled her suitcase along the long hallway and over the needlepoint carpet to her room, she recalled Mitch’s lusty expression in that bedroom in London. Her heart beat a little faster, urging her to embrace a new and better life with her second chance. When she reached her room, she set her bag aside and flopped onto her mattress to close her eyes for five seconds and simply breathe.
An hour later, her mother burst into her bedroom, waking her from an unintended deep sleep.
“Oh, honey, you know better than to fall asleep after returning from Europe. You’ve got to stay up to shorten the jet lag. I’m sorry we weren’t here to greet you, but I’m swamped with last-minute party details and your dad’s driven up to Mystic to check on some issue with that hotel.” She waved her manicured, diamond-laden hands with a look on her face that proved she’d yet to get excited about the six or so seaside inns he’d folded into the real estate portfolio. “Now hurry up and get dressed. Dad and I made reservations at Lucia’s.”
“Go without me.” Peyton sat up, stretching with a generous yawn. “I’m not up for dining out.”
“Don’t be silly.” Her mother walked to the windows to draw open the curtains. Rosy summer evening light glinted off her blonde hair, which she’d pinned in a French twist. After straightening the folds of the floor-length drapes into a neat accordion pattern, she smoothed her gray pencil skirt. “You need to eat, and your father and I want to hear about the trip.”
“Then let’s get takeout. I don’t feel like getting dressed after my long travel day. Can’t we chill?”
“Chill?” Her mother rolled her eyes and strode to Peyton’s closet, picking through a few things until she settled on a simple blue dress. She laid it on the bed. “You know your father hates takeout because the steam overcooks the food and makes it soggy.”
“Then you two enjoy a romantic meal and bring me back some spaghetti carbonara. We can talk later.”
“Why am I getting a sick feeling, like you’re trying to avoid telling us about this trip? Did something happen? I knew it. I knew this memoir was a terrible idea. Everyone—everyone—will be picking over the details of your life like crows on a carcass. And those photographs . . .” Her mother slapped one hand to her forehead. “I could strangle your brother. But, honey, the good news is that in six months or so, people will move on to the next thing. This will be the one and only occasion we’ll be praying that a Prescott work doesn’t hit a list or win an award. You can stay here, where people will respect your privacy, for the next few months and then leave once you’re no longer being talked about.”
On the surface, those words sounded almost cruel, but the genuine relief on her mom’s face told Peyton she had no idea how the statement might’ve hurt someone with thinner skin.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but nothing bad happened, Mom.” Well, that Barcelona Bastard hadn’t been pleasant, but nothing terrible had happened. All in all, the trip had been good for her. She couldn’t suppress the smile that flickered when she thought about Square du Vert-Galant and London. “In fact, something quite special happened. Something that could be life-changing in a positive way.”
As soon as she let that slip, she gave herself a mental kick.
Her mother’s gaze sharpened as she played with the lustrous strand of Tahitian pearls around her neck. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s the good news?”
“I have a date for Logan’s party.” She gulped at the thought of how Mitch might respond to her family, this house, her friends.
Her mother looked over her shoulder as if she could see down the hallway, then whipped her head back toward Peyton. “Is there some European in one of the guest rooms? Oh, you are so like your great-grandfather, gallivanting around, foisting strangers on Arcadia like it’s one of your dad’s new inns.”
“Settle down, Mom. There’s no one here now. My publicist, Mitch Mathis, is coming up on Saturday for the party. I invited him to stay the night so he wouldn’t face that long drive home at midnight.”
Her mom dropped her chin with a sigh. “You and your brother assume it’s so easy to rearrange table seating. And really . . . your publicist? He doesn’t even know Claire and has no personal relationship with Logan, so what is he hoping to get out of this? Does he plan to share insider pictures in order to boost your sales?”
It wasn’t that Peyton didn’t understand her mother’s paranoia. Throughout the years, they’d all had run-ins with users who were more interested in associating with a Prescott than actually befriending one. Still, the fact her mother made no room for the possibility that Mitch might care about Peyton stung.
Peyton sat upright on the bed now, hugging her knees while smiling beatifically to offset her sarcastic tone. “Why, yes, Mother, it is a nice surprise to have a date to my brother’s engagement party. And, yes, he’s very nice and quite handsome. Smart, hardworking, loyal. A great guy. I feel very lucky to have met him.”
“Don’t be cute.” Her mom crossed her arms. “Honey, really. Is this a good idea? I’ve worked with plenty of PR people. Don’t let him lead you down a merry path only to drop you once his goal is met.”
Peyton scowled and tossed a bolster pillow at her mother. “Why would you say something that awful?”
Her mom caught the pillow before it rolled off the bed.
“Don’t throw this! You’ll crack the mother-of-pearl shells.” She laid it aside and then sat beside Peyton and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you. I want to protect you. You’ve been through so much with that Todd and the whole thing—”
“By ‘thing’ you mean breast cancer.” Peyton watched her mother wince.
“Yes.” Her mother closed her eyes. “I don’t know why you delight in tormenting me. I’m your mother. You have no idea how terrifying it is when your child has a life-threatening disease. Why is it shocking that I don’t like to talk about it?”
Peyton had no reply. She had never yearned for kids but now wondered if she would like them and if she’d be any good at motherhood, or would she bumble through awkwardly like her own mother—well intentioned but so often wrong?
Mitch would be a fabulous father, though. He’d already had more than a decade of practice.
“Peyton, I worry. This man—Mitchell—he needs to sell you and your book. His reputation depends
on how well he does that. I think it’s a mistake to take him at face value.”
“He’s not using me.”
One of her mother’s brows arced. “You said the same thing about Todd when I warned you not to risk your friendship over him.”
Low blow, but an absolute truth. Now that her mom had ripped open that scab, another pit of self-doubt oozed. “I don’t need reminders, thanks. But you’ll have to trust me. Mitch is not Todd. And it’s just a date.”
Her mom shrugged and threw up her hands. “Have it your way. And don’t worry. When it turns out badly, you can come cry to me and I promise I won’t say ‘I told you so.’”
Peyton fell backward and covered her face, shaking her head. Logan might be right about Mom, after all. “Can you please make room for him at the table? And go have dinner with Dad. I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Stubborn as ever. Why couldn’t the cancer change that?” Her mom leaned forward as if they’d just traded cookie recipes and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll bring you back the carbonara. And some garlic sticks. I know you love those. Now, don’t fall asleep again or you’ll be up all night.”
She turned and left the room, leaving a trail of Joy Parfum’s powdery scent in her wake.
Mitch and his mother walked beneath the canopy of electrical and telephone wires and across Madison Street to his mom’s apartment after her postsurgical checkup. Katherine Brafman, his mother’s longtime friend and neighbor, was sweeping the stoop of her adjacent building, one of many apartment buildings lining the urban street where he’d grown up.
Mrs. Brafman stopped and held the end of her broomstick. “Mitch, so nice to see you.”
“Hi, Mrs. Brafman. Nice to see you, too.”
“What did the doctor say, Janey?” she asked his mom.
“The eye looks good. The blurry vision is mostly cleared up, too.” His mom fished around in her purse for her keys. “Looks like I’ll be back at work soon.”
Mitch wished he had a way to help his mother retire soon so she wouldn’t have to stand on her feet all day as a grocery store cashier. She’d worked so many different jobs for so long; she deserved a chance to relax.