The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(107)

He couldn’t stop himself from interrupting. “How’ve you been?”

Her head jerked toward him like an alert bird. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Can I see this house now?” Emmy craned her neck to see inside.

Steffi cast Ryan an inscrutable look, then said, “Sure. Come take a quick peek.”

“I’ll wait out here,” Ryan said, giving her the space she clearly wanted.

Emmy shrugged off her own confusion from his behavior and followed Steffi inside. A few minutes later, they reappeared at the front door.

“It’s like a dollhouse, Dad.” Emmy bounded toward him like a rabbit. “Everything is small!”

“I know. It’s very cozy.” He looked at Steffi, who remained standing inside the open doorway. Her crossed arms gave a clear signal that he wouldn’t ignore. He did meet her cautious gaze as he said, “Sorry to interrupt you tonight, but thanks. She wanted to see the house—and you.”

Steffi’s nostrils flared, adding another layer to her conflicted expression. “Sure. I’d better get back to work.”

Emmy’s gaze bounced from Steffi to him and back, her own expression growing more puzzled by their stilted behavior.

“Good luck.” Ryan then tugged at Emmy’s shoulder. “We’d better go before we’re late for dinner.”

He looked up, praying Steffi would give him a reprieve. She kept her eyes on his daughter, smiling as she closed the door.

The closed door: a trite and overused metaphor, but apt.

He followed Emmy down the lane, back to his mother’s house. The old sadness he’d grown accustomed to when thinking of Steffi returned, swallowing him whole. Once again, his love and intentions hadn’t been enough.

Past experience told him that once she made up her mind to freeze him out, she wouldn’t break down. She’d move on, so maybe he should, too.

“Dad?” Emmy stopped and spun toward him. “Miss Steffi didn’t smile at you like normal. Did you have a fight?”

He couldn’t lie. “Sort of.”

“Was it because I wasn’t nice at the fair?”

“No!” He hugged her to his side. “It’s grown-up stuff. Nothing to do with you.”

“Promise?” Emmy looked up at him with wary eyes.

“I promise. Nothing that happens between Steffi and me, or your mother and me, for that matter, has anything to do with you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

They walked in silence until they reached his mother’s yard. Then Emmy asked, “Can we see a movie this weekend?”

“Of course.” He squeezed her shoulder.

“Maybe Lisa will want to come.” Emmy skipped to the front door while he covered his excited surprise. Perhaps the scheming he’d done weeks ago had turned into a real friendship. He’d take his wins where he could find them these days, like the plea bargain he and the DA had agreed upon after Billy finally dug up a prostitute willing to testify that O’Malley’s accuser had lied.

“She’s welcome to come. We’ll get an extra-large popcorn and sprinkle M&Ms in it.” He opened the door.

Emmy nodded. “You should ask Miss Steffi to come, Daddy. Then she won’t stay mad at you.”

Ryan glanced back at the cottage. His heart stopped for a second when he thought he saw movement in the window. He squinted, but no one was there. Must’ve been an illusion.

He tipped Emmy’s chin up. “You can’t force people to forgive you, Emmy. You can apologize and hope they do, but if they won’t, you have to accept that maybe things won’t be the same.”

“Like you and Mommy.” Emmy scowled.

“Sort of.” He sighed.

He had no idea what he looked like, but it must’ve been quite pathetic, because Emmy wrapped her arms around his waist. “Don’t be sad. I still love you.”

And just like that, a little ray of warmth shot through his lifeless heart.





Chapter Twenty-Three

Steffi couldn’t stop thinking about Ryan and Emmy. Not when she removed the baseboards from the kitchen. Not when she’d taken a utility knife to the pea-green linoleum flooring. Not when she’d tugged twelve-inch strips of vinyl away from the subfloor. Not even when she had to pull out a hammer and chisel to chip at hardened adhesive.

Regardless of her focus on the tedious task at hand, images kept reappearing to distract and slow her. Ryan standing on the porch. Ryan walking with Emmy along the road. Emmy asking if Steffi was mad at her—that one hurt a new part of her heart she’d never even known existed.

“For God’s sake,” she muttered when tears filled her eyes. Until Monday night, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d wept—maybe two hands. In the past three days, she’d need all her toes and more to keep track.

Her confrontation with Ryan had ripped open the seam that she’d glued together when her mom died, and now all kinds of sorrow and regrets kept oozing out.

After she loaded the strips of linoleum into bags and swept the floor, she hit the lights and called it a night. She stood in the kitchen, replaying the barrage of Emmy’s unending questions.

“Who picked this ugly green floor? Where will all the cabinets go? Will you have a metal sink like Memaw or one of those cool white ones that looks like a bathtub? Will you put a glass door here so you can see the backyard better? Which one would be my room if my dad buys this house? Can we paint it pink, just in case?”