The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(2)

She couldn’t say that, of course. “You look great, Mrs. Q.”

“Thanks. You too.” She transferred the last batch of cookies to a cooling rack. “We’re both adults now. Call me Molly.”

“Okay.” Steffi mentally tested it, but it was hard to think of Mrs. Q. as Molly. Especially with so much unsaid between them.

“Molly” turned off the oven. “So tell me, how are you?”

“Same as always.” Not exactly true, but she wasn’t about to confess that life now was nothing like she’d once imagined. Standing in this kitchen, she couldn’t escape the irony of her running off to pursue a “big” life, yet ending up back at home, while Ryan and his legal career thrived in a major city with his family.

Molly crossed her arms. “Sanctuary Sound must seem sleepy after life up in Hartford.”

“Not really.” She hoped that would be the last half truth she’d need to utter. “It’s nice to be home.”

Her hometown—five thousand residents nestled on the central Connecticut coastline—certainly differed from city life. She’d hurried home two or so months ago, eager to surround herself with the familiar, after . . .

“No boyfriend left behind?” Molly’s voice pulled her out of that rabbit hole. Her even gaze betrayed no bitterness—probably because Ryan had given her a beautiful grandchild—but Steffi didn’t like the conversation heading in this direction.

“Nope.” She dug her fingernails into her palms while she recalled the cruel way she’d dumped Ryan. To this day, thinking about that made her stomach burn as much as it had back then when she’d ignored his calls and texts. Now seemed like a good time to change the subject. “No time for that, anyway. Claire and I are super busy getting things off the ground.”

“It’s brave of you girls to start your own business.”

“The town’s little renaissance made it the perfect time to take the risk.”

“We’ve certainly seen an influx of newcomers.” Molly’s brittle smile and tone carried the same hint of disenchantment as Steffi’s dad and other longtime residents bemoaning the armada of wealthy young families who’d sniffed out the undervalued, aging homes near the beach. But those whom old-timers saw as outsiders, Steffi deemed target customers.

Molly set the empty mixing bowl and spoon in the sink, along with the cookie sheet.

“Most of the old gang has up and gone.” Molly’s gaze turned distant, perhaps wishing both of her kids hadn’t moved away. “It’s the curse of a small-town childhood. You think the rest of the world is more exciting, taking for granted the deep relationships that make life rich.”

Steffi had come to understand that better with age. She almost asked about Ryan, because not talking about him seemed awkward and cowardly. Something stopped her, though. “I should look at the back porch and familiarize myself with it again so I can determine the project’s scope.”

Converting a screened porch to a family room would be a straightforward job, and a nice addition to the gallery of work she could show prospective clients.

“I’ll come with you so we can talk through my ideas.” Molly untied her apron and hung it neatly on its hook. She cast a hesitant glance at the dirty bakeware abandoned in the sink but walked on.

Steffi covered a smile, recalling how nasty-neat Molly had always been. Ryan had driven his mother crazy with his piles of shoes, clothes, sports gear, and the trail of crumbs he and Steffi had left behind whenever they’d raided the cookie jar and the junk food cabinet after soccer practice.

When she followed Molly through the kitchen door onto the screened porch, the distant wail of an ambulance siren split the air.

A sudden burst of sunlight—or something—blinded Steffi. Time shifted to a slow pulse while short, sharp breaths chafed her lungs.

That’s wrong. There shouldn’t be sunlight.

Should be black. No sun. Not even moonlight.

Something—a shadow—lurking at the edges . . . cold metal, grunting, cigarette smoke and pain . . .

“Stefanie?” Molly’s touch broke through Steffi’s haze. “Are you okay?”

A trickle of the perspiration gathering along Steffi’s hairline rolled down her temple. “Yes.”

She forced herself to focus on the clusters of terra-cotta pots, which overflowed with sunny-yellow begonias, on the flagstone floor. Then she noticed the faux rattan outdoor sofa and two gliders that had replaced the old teak furniture Steffi remembered.

“You looked stricken.” Concern colored Molly’s eyes. She reached out as if to pat Steffi’s shoulder, then withdrew her hand uncertainly.

Steffi shrugged off Molly’s unspoken questions. She couldn’t answer them even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

“About what?”

Steffi reached for her notebook, avoiding Molly’s questioning gaze. As always, remembering any detail of her zone-outs was like trying to catch fog. “Ideas for the project.”

Molly hesitated, a disbelieving look crossing her face, then clasped her hands together. “Let me get you some water.”

Steffi waited on the porch and caught her breath. She’d been losing track of time now and then for the past few months. Her hazy moments didn’t follow a discernible pattern, so she chalked them up to the aftereffects of her most recent concussion.