The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(68)
More silence. “You should come visit and help. There’s still lots to do. It’s a mess!”
Steffi frowned to herself. It was hardly a mess. She kept her work space neat as a pin, and the project had progressed nicely. Not that she cared about Val’s opinion or approval.
“Okay, Mommy. I love you, too.” Emmy hit “Off” and pushed the phone back into her pants pocket. Without skipping a beat, she put the mask and gloves back on, and then picked up a section of freshly cut batt and started working.
Steffi kept her questions to herself, but Val’s motives gnawed at her. If she planned to be honest with Ryan, she ought to do so before Val changed her mind. Ryan deserved someone better than his wife, but if he wasn’t dating anyone when Val came calling, he might take her back for Emmy’s sake.
“Why are you breathing funny?” Emmy asked, hovering over Steffi’s shoulder, wearing a frown.
“Am I?” Steffi worked to regulate her breath. “Some of the fiberglass dust must be tickling my lungs,” she fibbed.
Emmy inhaled deeply, then blew it out and shrugged. “Not mine.”
“Good. You don’t want it in there.” Steffi handed her the final section of batt. Funny thing. It could keep you toasty warm, but it could also irritate and hurt you if you weren’t careful with it. “Go on, finish it up.”
Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic in the Quinn house. Her appointment at the Weber home couldn’t come soon enough.
Ryan pulled onto Echo Hill Lane, barely able to keep his eyes open. Some days he felt like a hero—helping the underprivileged community get justice or rescuing the wrongly accused from convictions. Other days, like today, he had a slate of clients—repeat offenders and all-around bad seeds—that he’d just as well see thrown in jail for as long as possible.
On those days, it took every ounce of integrity in his bones to provide the best defense possible. It wore him down and raised questions he didn’t want to ask himself. Questions like whether the guys who hurt Steffi had been career criminals who played the system.
He was parking in his mother’s driveway when, in his peripheral vision, he noticed Steffi’s van down the street in front of the Weber home. The photos he’d seen hadn’t quite satisfied the itch to explore that place.
Ryan left his briefcase on the front seat and locked the door before strolling down the lane and up the porch steps of the antique bungalow. He knocked on the door, then finger brushed his hair and smoothed his tie.
He heard the sound of heavy footsteps approach the door from inside the house.
“Oh, hi!” Steffi’s bright-eyed smile eased his self-consciousness.
“Saw your van and thought I’d take a peek . . . if that’s okay.” Once again, his mouth went dry around her. It never had in the past. This limbo—a friendship complicated by uncertain yearning—had him by the throat.
“Of course. The home inspector just left . . . no big surprises, so I’m moving ahead with the sale. Now I’m sketching out some plans.” She waved him inside. “In fact, I’m glad you’re here. Maybe my vision will convince you to buy it when I’m done.”
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” He chuckled, wishing he had the money to give Emmy a sweet little place to call home.
This place, however, smelled worse than a locker room after an August practice. He supposed that would be resolved once they removed the furniture, opened some windows, and tore out old carpets. “Give me the grand tour.”
“Yay.” She clapped her hands with no small amount of glee, like a grown-up version of Emmy. “Okay, so as we saw through the window, this is the main living area. It’s cluttered as hell right now, but it’s a decent size and anchored by that amazing hearth. Imagine it stripped of her chintz and tchotchkes, with gleaming refinished floors, a simple L-shaped sofa here, maybe a swivel bucket chair here. A nice ottoman there, and over here you could hang a decent flat-screen television.”
She flashed a quick smile and motioned for him to follow her. “Then I’d widen this archway between the living and dining room by eighteen inches or more to open the flow a little. In here, I’d replace the window on the back wall with French doors for a view of the backyard. When we clear some of the overgrowth, we might even get some view of the sound. Now, picture a simple round dining table with six chairs and an updated dining chandelier. Claire has great taste, so I know she’ll find something perfect to suit the home. Maybe I’d add some texture to one wall, like reclaimed wood or something, just to give it a hip look. Again, Claire is great with those details.”
“That’d be cool. Trendy, though.”
She shrugged, winking. “If we knew the buyer in advance, we could customize to his taste.”
“Keep movin’,” he urged, partly because he didn’t want to fall in love with the idea of this house—or of Steffi being the one to remodel it for him.
“Fine.” She gestured toward the door leading to the kitchen. “The kitchen is small and dark because it’s closed in. I’d open up this wall and either do an island or a peninsula here. It would create better flow for entertaining. I think a greenhouse window over the sink would be cute, and I’d swap a single glass door for that wooden one to the backyard. Those fixes will make the kitchen feel bigger and brighter even though the floor plan won’t be enlarged. I think pale-gray cabinets with white quartz counters, a farmhouse sink, maybe some funky drawer pulls or open shelves here for a bit of contemporary flair. Oil-rubbed bronze fixtures might be cool, too.”