The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(3)
She’d suffered multiple concussions throughout her high school and college soccer career. Then, three months ago, she’d taken another harsh blow to the head when some assholes jumped her in an alley at gunpoint, beat her unconscious, and made off with her purse.
A sudden burst of acid surged up her esophagus, but she breathed through the burning sensation. Molly returned and handed her a glass of water, which she chugged.
Determined to wipe that worried look off Molly’s face and be professional, she flipped to a clean page of her notebook and said, “Tell me what kinds of finishes you envision.”
Molly blinked but didn’t press her concerns. “Nothing modern. I’d like the windows and floors to blend in with the 1940s construction, if possible. Same with the exterior.”
Steffi opened the screen door to go out to the yard and look at the structure. Molly shadowed her. Together they squinted in the August sunlight. “Shouldn’t be hard to match these double-hung windows and standard-shingle siding. I’m thinking we pull out all the floor-to-ceiling screens and build half walls and windows, unless you prefer a series of French doors?”
“I’d like it to be bright and have views of my garden.” Molly pointed to her massive pink polyantha rose bushes. “One set of doors is fine. Add as many windows as you can include without making it impossible to heat in the winter.”
“No problem.” Steffi went back into the screened porch, which was formed on two sides by exterior walls of the house, and two sides of screening. She crossed to the longest section of shingled wall and pointed over at the kitchen door on the shorter wall. “We’ll remove that door to create an opening there, and another one here, for better flow.” She pounded on the section of wall that would lead into the hallway beside the stairwell.
“Good idea.” Molly checked her watch and bit her lip. She flitted her hands after clearing her throat. “Ballpark me . . . How much, and how long will it take?”
“Depends on whether you want to connect to the home’s HVAC or go with the new portable units, among other things.” She put away her notebook and withdrew a tape measure to verify her estimates.
“I’m not picky. Functional and basic is fine.” Molly’s gaze darted to the kitchen door and back again. “What’s the timing on all of this?”
“Maybe six to eight weeks. We’re working right on the slab and can keep much of the porch framing and roof, which saves time and expense.”
“Great.” Molly crossed to the kitchen door, preparing to go inside while Steffi continued measuring. “Let’s get it started ASAP.”
Steffi remained on the porch, tape measure retracting. “Molly, I haven’t even given you a bid.”
Molly waved that comment away. “Honey, I know you’ll be fair.”
Surprise tugged at her brows. “Do you mind if I ask what’s the rush?”
Molly stood in the open doorway and cast Steffi a peculiar look before affecting a half-hearted shrug. “Ryan and Emmy are moving in. We’ll need the extra space sooner rather than later.”
“Ryan’s moving home?” A steady rush of heat rose from Steffi’s toes to her head. Her body tensed into the defensive posture she’d assumed as her team’s goalie, ready to jump or run or do whatever it took to protect the net—or, in this case, her pride and heart. Ryan was coming home? And why hadn’t Molly mentioned Val?
Before Molly could expound, the front door slammed open, and a young girl’s voice called out, “Memaw, I smell cookies!”
Five seconds later, little Emmy Quinn raced into the kitchen and skidded to a halt.
Ryan tossed his keys on the walnut entry table that had long ago given him the small scar toward the back of his head and kicked off his flip-flops, keeping the damp, sandy beach towels slung over his shoulders.
“We’re home,” he called out, as if Emmy’s dash to the kitchen hadn’t already warned his mom of an oncoming storm. And Emmy was a storm these days—a raging sea of emotion that could turn from frothy giggles to waves of hysterics without notice. Val’s decision to run off with her new lover had done a real job on their daughter, leaving him and his family groping to fill the void.
He didn’t relish moving in with his parents but couldn’t deny the comfort of coming home to fresh-baked cookies and his mom’s support. More important, her help with Emmy would be invaluable; and more than anything, Emmy needed a positive, stable woman in her life.
He glanced at the unpacked boxes, sighed, and kept walking. Those could wait another thirty minutes. Sharing warm cookies with his daughter would be a better use of his time.
The transition from their eclectic suburb outside Boston to the tiny beach community of his childhood wouldn’t be a cakewalk. Next week he’d start his new job, and Emmy fourth grade at a new school, which was sure to bring another round of highs and lows while she struggled to make new friends. Between now and then, he hoped he and his parents could swaddle Emmy in some old-fashioned love and discipline. Two things Val had never consistently provided their child.
He rounded the corner and spotted Emmy standing in her flamingo-pink swimsuit, brunette curls springy as ever as she tipped her head from side to side while staring out to the porch.
“What’s up, buttercup?” Ryan swiped a cookie for himself and took a giant bite.