The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(78)
She slammed the clock back on the nightstand and threw off the blankets. She rummaged her drawers to find clean underwear and a long-sleeve shirt.
Claire didn’t budge from the doorway. “Hang on, I want details! You were in bed when I got home. I half wondered if Ryan was in here with you. How’d it go?”
Steffi rolled her eyes and shook her head as she replied, “I’ll fill you in later on how I sent him running, but right now I have to get to Molly’s.”
“I’m sorry.” Claire’s face pinched like she’d swallowed lemon juice. “I hope it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
“Maybe it can be salvaged, but I’m not sure.” Steffi tugged the blanket up over the mattress in a half-assed attempt to make her bed, then wondered why the hell she bothered. “I need a cold shower to wake up. Save me some coffee?”
“Sure. I’ll fix you a to-go cup. I’m on my way out to meet with Helena Briggs to look at kitchen counters for the Hightop Road house.”
“Great. I have two guys starting on demolition over there today. I need to check on them this afternoon, too.” She waved Claire off and dashed into the bathroom to engage in a record-breaking three-minute-long shower-and-go routine.
Fifteen minutes later, her stomach flipped as she crossed the Quinns’ backyard. She mumbled to herself, “Be brave and friendly, despite the pity dinner date he offered.” She couldn’t blame him for that. What man would put up with being hit while kissing? Especially after the way she’d abused his trust in the past.
She entered the back of the house through the new French doors and went straight to the supply pile she’d left in the corner yesterday afternoon. Like a dog’s, her ears remained alert for any sign of Ryan.
After dragging the box of drywall mud over to the five-gallon paint pail, she then laid out the tape dispenser, joint and mud knives, mud pan, and electric mud mixer. Once she’d organized herself, she took the other empty paint pail outside to fill it from the hose.
When she came back indoors, she found Emmy hunched over the row of supplies. Often Ryan would wander in to retrieve her, but Steffi didn’t hear him in the kitchen.
“What’s that?” Emmy pointed at the mixer.
“It’s a mixer.” Steffi lugged the heavy bucket of water to the center of the room. “I’m mixing drywall mud today.”
“Mud?” Emmy wrinkled her nose in distaste. Today she sported pink sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Her so-called work clothes led Steffi to believe Emmy’d been waiting for her arrival. “Why do you need mud?”
Steffi transferred the mud to the empty paint pail, her body twitching at any sound, thinking each to be Ryan’s footsteps. “See all the places where the sections of drywall connect? I have to fill in all those cracks so it looks smooth when we paint. Those cracks get filled in with special mud and tape.”
“Can I help?” This had become Emmy’s daily refrain.
Most days Steffi didn’t mind, but this part of the job could be tricky. She was having enough difficulty concentrating as it was, let alone having to deal with Emmy. But she was tough. She could handle this.
“A little, but this has to be done just right or the tape can bubble, so I have to do most of it. You’re welcome to watch and learn, though.”
Emmy’s shoulders slumped, but she raised the mixer, which came up to her chest and probably weighed about a third of her body weight. “Can I mix?”
“I need to handle that, but you can help me with the sponge and water.” Steffi grasped the mixer before Emmy let it drop, in her zeal to choose among the large yellow sponges. After a surreptitious glance through the opening to the living room—a fruitless one because Ryan didn’t appear—she said, “Soak that sponge in the bucket of water, and then squeeze it out over the top of this mud bucket. I’ll start mixing. We want the mud to be on the soupy side.”
“Soupy?” Emmy grimaced again. She buried the sponge until the water was up to her elbows, and then brought it over to the mud bucket—dripping water all over the flagstone floor—and squeezed.
Steffi fired up the mixer and let Emmy watch her stir the mud. “A little more water. Just a little, okay?”
Emmy complied. “Can I touch it?”
“Sure, but just with the tips of your fingers. It’s messy, and you don’t want to get it everywhere.”
While Steffi heaped a scoop of the mud into the pan with the knife, Emmy tested the mud in the bucket. She got it all over one palm and then clapped her hands together to test its stickiness. Once both hands were dirty, she plunged them into the water bucket and wiped them on her shirt, creating a mess.
When Steffi began mudding and taping, her miniature shadow came to her side. A minute passed, maybe two, before Steffi broke down and asked, “Where’s your dad?”
“Out.” Emmy picked up another mud knife and studied it, slashing it through the air.
“Where?” Steffi blurted out, shamelessly pumping the child for information.
Emmy shrugged, completely oblivious to Steffi’s anxiety. “Can I please try to fill a crack?”
She didn’t have time for teaching, but she knew that Emmy missed her mother, had almost no friends, and felt completely displaced. There was no way Steffi could turn the kid away.