The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(15)
All the hairs on his neck prickled. He didn’t want to discuss Val with her, of all people. He didn’t want her pity or sympathy or help. Not for himself. And maybe not for his daughter, although he no longer felt as certain about that opinion.
The back door opened, and his mom poked her head out. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Be right there,” Ryan replied. For a nanosecond he wondered if his mother would dare invite Steffi to stay, but she didn’t. His mom simply nodded and disappeared, leaving the door cracked open.
“You should go. They want to celebrate your promotion.”
That reminded him of the claim she’d made about being jumped. He wanted to know more, but now wasn’t the time to press. Everything that had happened in the past fifteen minutes had siphoned some heat from his anger, leaving him slightly light-headed. “Have a good night. Give Peyton my best. And stay positive.”
Steffi nodded, color returning to her cheeks and strength in her stance. He’d known she’d tap into that sooner than later. “Good night.”
He wandered inside and made his way to the dining room, where his parents and daughter were seated. One hour and eleven million calories later, he was helping his mom with the dishes while his dad read with Emmy.
His thoughts meandered to Steffi again, like they’d done a few times since he’d first seen her on the back porch after so many years apart. Years during which they’d both been changed by their different experiences. Until now, he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that because it’d been easier to hate her than to wonder who she’d become. To consider that maybe she had her own set of troubles and regrets, just like him.
“Mom, did you ever hear anything about Steffi getting jumped?” He kept his eyes on the pot he was scrubbing.
“Word is she got mugged in Hartford about three or four months ago. Bad concussion, lots of bruises.”
No doubt she’d fought back. Steffi never yielded. Not when her mom died and she took over managing laundry and meals for her father and brothers. Not when facing down the most fearsome strikers of any Division I soccer team. And apparently not even in the face of the impossible task of mending Claire and Peyton’s broken friendship.
He wondered why his mother had never mentioned the attack, though. Of course, that would’ve been around the same time that he’d first become suspicious of Val and had been otherwise preoccupied with his own life unraveling. Plus, he’d pretty much instituted a “Never mention Steffi’s name again” policy not long after their breakup. “Did they arrest anyone?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know.” She took the wet pot from the drying rack and rubbed it dry with a dish towel. “You know the Lockwoods are private people.”
“Oh, I know.” It’d been his one complaint about Steffi when they dated. Emotional intimacy didn’t come easy to her. After her mom’s death, she’d spent the rest of her formative years living with four men, none of whom were big talkers. Ryan had sat through family dinners where Mr. Lockwood barely said ten words. What talking did occur while passing the peas generally consisted of a friendly fire of sarcasm between brothers, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced with his sister and mom.
His chances of getting Steffi to share details about that attack were less than nil. Tonight he’d run her name through the system and see if he could find an open assault case and learn who was defending the perps. If it had been a random act with no witnesses or suspects, she’d probably never get closure.
Having gone years without closure about the reasons for their breakup, he could understand that particular kind of frustration. A few days ago, he might’ve thought turnabout was a form of fair play. Tonight? Not so much.
Chapter Four
Steffi sat on the porch swing of the vintage yellow Craftsman bungalow she and Claire were renting, sipping a cup of tea. Across the street, the Marsh boys were tossing a football in their yard. Their French bulldog, Bubba, bolted back and forth, jumping as if he had a shot at catching that ball.
The evening sun tinted the late summer sky with swaths of peach and lilac, setting the stage for a tranquil kind of mood, were it not for the memory of Peyton’s wobbly voice looping through her thoughts. Steffi had never handled sorrow well, preferring to “man up” and move on. But this news—cancer—brought back too many memories she couldn’t escape.
Now her friend—someone with whom she’d played on these very streets—might not exist in a year or two. Might never have the chance to repair relationships, accomplish goals, marry, have kids, or do any of the other things people their age still took for granted. The randomness and finality of it all made her head pound.
Claire’s orange convertible VW Beetle pulled up to the curb, blaring Wesley Shultz’s voice singing “Angela.” The diminutive car suited Claire, who stood a full seven inches shorter than Steffi’s five-nine frame.
She waved at Steffi before grabbing a large fabric-sample book from the passenger seat, along with her cane, which Claire had long ago dubbed “Rosie.” Steffi would offer to help, but Claire’s pride made her chafe at unsolicited assistance. Right now, Steffi needed to conserve her energy for the ensuing conversation.
“Gorgeous night!” Claire smiled broadly, looking like she’d stepped out of the pages of a Vineyard Vines catalog in her colorful, boxy dress and tassel-embellished flats.