by Jamie Beck
He grabbed the mail on his way inside and tossed it and his keys and phone on the table. Dropping his briefcase on the floor, he called out, “Emmy!”
When she didn’t answer, he wandered to the back of the house. Through the window in the kitchen door, he saw Emmy on the patio with Steffi. His daughter looked adorable, bent over in her ruffled dress while taking instructions on the proper use of a socket wrench.
Emmy tried to screw the washer and cap on a giant bolt that fastened the bottom plate that would form the base of the new walls. He had to chuckle at his little princess getting her hands dirty.
Normally, she preferred dolls, teacups, and Disney movies to hard labor. He’d routinely come home to find Val and Emmy doing at-home manicures. Val never gave Emmy real responsibilities, though, as if keeping her dependent would prevent her from growing up. In that wish, he couldn’t quite blame his ex. Days turned into weeks and months and years so fast he could barely believe how quickly the last decade had passed.
He opened the patio door, keeping his eyes on his daughter to give himself time to set his game face before he glanced at Steffi. “Hey. What’s going on out here?”
Emmy picked up her head and waved. “Look, Dad! I’m building a wall.”
Her eyes sparkled with pride and even a little stunned fascination. At a time when Emmy might otherwise be moody and unhappy, Ryan should be grateful to Steffi for keeping his daughter preoccupied. Part of him was, but another part worried about Emmy’s fragile heart.
“That’s great, princess, but is your homework finished?” He crossed his arms, looking like the killjoy he was.
“I’ll do it later.” She resumed winding the wrench handle, her little tongue poking its way out of the corner of her mouth while she concentrated.
Steffi peered down at the bolt. “That’s it. Tug really hard with both hands to make sure it’s extra tight. We don’t want the wall to fall on your head.”
Emmy giggled, and tugged with both hands, as instructed. Seeing her ditch dolls and glitter to happily hunker down with Steffi and a wrench tweaked Ryan’s heart. How different might life have been if things with Steffi and him hadn’t fallen apart?
“Let’s get your homework done before you get too tired.” It’d be okay if these two spent a little time together, but he’d have to keep an eye on this relationship. He didn’t hate Steffi anymore, but he still didn’t trust her. “Maybe you can help Steffi another day, as long as it’s okay with her.”
“Daddy.” Emmy scowled. “Pleeeease!”
He shook his head. “Don’t argue. Wash your hands and hit the books.”
Emmy dropped the wrench on the flagstone and stomped across the patio, her skirt flouncing as she went. “Who cares about stupid social studies anyway?” she grumbled before disappearing into the house.
“Sorry you got stuck watching her. I doubt my mom intended to be gone this long.” Ryan finally met Steffi’s gaze. He wiped his clammy palms on the insides of his pants pockets while standing there staring into her eyes. “I know you’ve got a schedule to keep.”
“How’s your dad?” Steffi broke the spell when she dropped to her knees to finish tightening the bolt.
“Gout. He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t whine too much, in which case my mom will kill him.” Ryan chuckled, then caught himself and stopped.
Too late. When Steffi smiled, her dimples popped into place. He’d always liked those damn indents too much.
She joked, “I’ll keep an eye on Molly so she doesn’t end up needing your services.”
“Thanks.” He paused, seeking to prolong their conversation even as that desire bombarded him with panic. He tugged at his shirt collar, then crouched to her level. “Have you spoken with Peyton again?”
She sat back on her haunches before she answered. “I’m visiting her this weekend.”
“Give her my best wishes.” He stood again, suddenly in need of air that didn’t smell like Steffi’s shampoo. “Is Claire going, too?”
Steffi shook her head. “No.”
He nodded, unsurprised. Claire had lost a lot in her life, and he doubted much would make her willing to forgive and forget her friend’s betrayal. “Must be tough to be in the middle.”
“More so now, that’s for sure.” Steffi grabbed the final set of base plates and fitted them over another section of bolts between two posts. Once she’d slid them into place, she looked up at him and tugged at her ear. “I have something to tell you, but I don’t want you to freak out.”
“Oh?” His stomach tightened. No conversation that started that way ever turned into a happy surprise.
“I think Emmy’s having a hard time making new friends at school.” Steffi restlessly shifted her weight while waiting for his response.
He frowned. “Why do you think that?”
“During the past two days, she’s talked about how much better she liked her old school and friends. That seemed pretty normal, but then today she told me something that made it obvious she’s been eating lunch alone.” Steffi wrinkled her nose. “She’s got a strong personality and definite opinions about things. Her life in Boston sounds like it had a lot more excitement than this little town offers. Maybe she’s coming off as a little bossy or snobby to the others? I don’t know. You might want to check in with her teacher.”
“Or just talk to her.” Ryan glanced through the kitchen door but didn’t see his daughter.
“No! If you interrogate her, she’ll know I told you. Isn’t it better if she feels free to talk openly with me?”
“How about we keep our little détente going by you not giving me parenting advice?” He hoped that came out with less sarcasm than he felt at the moment. Her responding frown proved it hadn’t.
“I remember how much I liked talking to your mom when I was younger and didn’t want my dad to know everything. An adult ‘friend’ was an amazing gift. I’m pretty sure your mom was savvy enough to work back channels without my ever knowing.” She tipped her chin up with that challenge. Did she think him obtuse now? “But you do what you want. Emmy’s your daughter.”
He hadn’t ever analyzed Steffi’s relationship with his mom. He’d been too busy being infatuated by all the little things about her to care much about whether or not she got along with his parents. He might’ve even egotistically assumed she was nice to them only because of her feelings for him. It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d had her own reasons for getting close to his mom.
As if her ears were burning, his mom poked her head outside. “Chicken’s here.”
“Coming.” Ryan turned to go inside.
“Can you join us, Stefanie?” His mom smiled, even as Ryan tried not to stumble. He couldn’t rescind her offer, but her heavy-handed meddling stopped his breath.
“Oh, that’s okay. You’ve got your hands full,” Steffi replied, sounding equally surprised.
“No, no. It’s fine. Mick’s upstairs in bed. He’s not hungry because of ‘the pain.’” She rolled her eyes. “Join us.”
Steffi looked at Ryan. He’d rather die than let her think he was uncomfortable, so he shrugged as if he couldn’t care less.
Unfortunately, she knew him too well. He saw the spark of a dare in her eyes right before she looked at his mother. “Thanks. Sounds nice. I’ll be in as soon as I finish cleaning up.”
Chapter Five
Steffi subdued the déjà vu of sitting at the Quinns’ dining table by watching Emmy pull the skin off her drumstick and then smother another roll in butter.
“Emmy, finish your broccoli before you eat more bread,” Ryan said.
That command raised his total word count for the past twenty minutes to a grand total of fifteen. Aside from “Pass the butter” and “No fries, thanks,” he’d kept his eyes on his plate for most of the meal. A stark difference in mood from the years when the two of them would lock feet beneath the table just for the thrill of touching each other. At the moment, she was tempted to run her foot up his calf just to shock him into
sputtering another word or two.
“Claire called me today.” Molly sipped her iced tea, which she served in the same pitcher she’d used a decade ago. The plates were set on the same rooster-shaped place mats, on the same oak table, which sat on the same needlepoint carpet. So much familiarity, yet everything was different. “She’s coming over on Monday with some fabric samples for drapes and pillows and things. I admit, I can’t picture the room yet.”
“I’ll try to have the framing done by then, which should make it easier for you to start visualizing the space,” Steffi said.
“Good.” Molly then flicked her gaze to Emmy. “Is something wrong with that broccoli?”
Emmy nickered like a horse. Then she cast doleful eyes Steffi’s way, silently begging for help.
“Your dad never much liked broccoli, either,” Steffi said, that recollection coming from the far reaches of her mind.
“But I ate it,” he muttered, giving Emmy a pointed look and then saying nothing more. He took a long pull from his Bud Light.
Another failed attempt at conversation. He still hadn’t breached the twenty-word mark. If he kept this up, she might have to dub him Big Mike because he was reminding her of her father. And Chris and Matt, for that matter. Thank God for Benny or she would’ve grown up believing no man ever spoke unless he had to for survival.
At least the chicken tasted good. Crispy on the outside, tender inside. Flaky biscuits and fries, to boot. Not the healthiest meal, but the salty, greasy comfort food hit the spot.
Emmy pushed her broccoli around the plate while Ryan continued eating and staring into space. Steffi’s plan to rebuild some kind of friendship was going nowhere, just like that broccoli. Her appetite waned as she considered the most polite way to make a break for it.
Molly cleared her throat. “I’ve never been good at visualizing a room. In truth, I never much cared about decorating. We didn’t entertain often, so there were always more important reasons to spend or save. Maybe it’s my age, or just being tired of staring at the same old stuff around here, but I’m excited about our little project.” She then leaned toward Steffi. “Once the room is done, we hope to see Ryan more. He spends too much time upstairs poring over case files.”
Ryan tapped his silverware on the table and shot his mother a look that could get him arrested for assault.
“Mom also says Dad’s always working,” Emmy moaned, gazing longingly at her buttered roll.
Molly raised her brows at her son, then turned her palms up as if to say, “See the problem?”
Ignoring his mother’s silent reproach, Ryan spoke to Emmy. “I’m sorry I’ve been busy, but I have to make a good impression on my new boss. In a couple of months, I’ll have a better handle on things, and we’ll plan some fun activities. For now, you should focus on your transition in school.”
“School’s boring,” Emmy huffed. “When are we going sailing like you promised? It’s almost September.”
“That sounds like fun,” Molly encouraged. “We can pack a picnic.”
“Soon.” Ryan didn’t spare Steffi a glance, but his pause and stiffness hinted that he was trying hard not to make eye contact with her before he smiled at Emmy. “Do you have a new friend you’d like to invite?”
Steffi’s heart sank right along with little Emmy’s chin. It was as if the pressure to make new friends grabbed the kid and pushed her head down.
Emmy slid a gaze at her dad. “Let’s bring Miss Lockwood.”
Before Steffi could decline, Ryan said, “Honey, you should bring someone your age.”
“Why?” Emmy said, now raising that chin in defiance. “I want to bring Miss Lockwood.”
“Thank you, sweetie, but your dad is right,” Steffi interjected. “Kids around here love to go sailing. Is there anyone in your class that you’d like to get to know better?”
“No.” Emmy slunk down in her chair, slipping a quick glance at Ryan before stealing a bite of that roll she’d been eyeing.
“Emmy, don’t push me.” He took it from her plate and pointed at her broccoli with his fork.
“You said I could bring a friend, and she’s my friend.” Emmy pointed at Steffi. “And she knows how to sail, right?”
Steffi nodded, having learned from Ryan. She’d learned a lot from Ryan on that boat, actually. Things she’d practically forgotten, it had been so long since she’d had a date.
Ryan sat, fork and knife in hand, his gaze darting around the room, seeking some escape. Then the house phone rang, startling everyone.
“I’ll get it.” Molly rose and went into the kitchen. Two seconds later she returned and handed the phone to Emmy. “It’s your mother.”
Emmy’s face brightened as she leaped off her seat, grabbed the receiver, and started walking toward the living room. “Hi, Mommy. Guess what? I’m going sailing with Daddy and our special friend, Miss Lockwood. You should come with us.”
Ryan’s silverware clattered to the table. “Oh, for the love of God.”
He glared at his mother.
“What? I didn’t encourage that invitation,” Molly defended.
“I’m certain I never referred to Steffi as my ‘special’ friend.” He scowled. “Inviting her to dinner and sailing is sending weird signals to Emmy . . . and now to Val.”
“Don’t take that tone with me in my house. I’ve got enough to handle now with your father.” Molly stood and took her plate to the kitchen. When she didn’t return, Steffi tossed her napkin on the table.
“Ryan,” Steffi sighed, “don’t fight with your mom. She’s only trying to be polite. I should’ve declined the dinner invitation. I’m sorry.”
“Why’d you accept?” He leaned forward on his elbows. “This can’t be any more comfortable for you than it is for me.”
Her mind riffled through her options and, after thinking about Peyton, settled on the truth. “I like your mom and your daughter. I hoped staying would melt more of the ice between you and me.”
He sat back, one arm dropping to his lap, the other hand twisting his glass on the table. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
She shrugged. “I’m not asking you on a date, Ryan. I’m just suggesting we try to be friends. It’s a small town. It’d be nice not to carry this sick feeling in my stomach every time I see you.”
Before Ryan could erase the surprised look off his face, Emmy marched back into the room and handed him the phone. “Mom wants to talk to you now.”
He snatched it while still looking at Steffi, then closed his eyes as if praying for patience. “Hello?”
Steffi smiled at Emmy, who stood at her father’s knee, looking happy for the first time all evening. Emmy glanced over her shoulder toward Steffi and said, “If my mom sees Dad sailing, she’ll have fun and we can be a family again.”
The pained, panicked look in Ryan’s eyes suggested he’d heard Emmy’s wish. It also mirrored Steffi’s queasiness when thinking about Ryan reuniting with Val.
“Of course not, Val,” he said, giving a tight reply to whatever she’d said. Ryan’s brows lowered. “Yes, we have a child’s life vest.”
Steffi thought he’d prefer some privacy, so she removed her dishes from the table and went into the kitchen. She saw Molly outside watering her rose bushes, which left her alone to eavesdrop on Ryan.
“Yes, that Lockwood.” Ryan’s voice remained even.
There was a pause, during which Steffi couldn’t help celebrate the fact that she’d gotten under Val’s skin, even if Val was totally off base with her suspicion or possible jealousy. But the victory was short-lived when Steffi remembered Emmy’s hopeful face and the harsh reality of the situation.
“In case you forget, I work all day,” Ryan sighed. “I can’t supervise Emmy every second she’s here, but she won’t get hurt using a wrench.”
Another pause preceded Ryan saying, “I’m sure Emmy would love to spend a weekend with you,” at which point Steffi heard Emmy yelp, “Yay! When, when?”
Stef imagined E
mmy had jumped and clapped, too.
More silence followed.
“Happy to.” Ryan sounded drained. “Here you go.”
He must’ve handed the phone back to Emmy, because Emmy asked, “When can I visit, Mommy?”
Steffi wondered about the way Emmy reverted to baby talk with her mom. Was that normal for them or a result of the separation? Maybe both.
Ryan barreled around the corner into the kitchen, nearly knocking into her.
“Spying?” He crossed his arms.
“Not like I had much choice.” She supposed she could’ve gone outside to chat with Molly, but she’d wanted to listen. Rude and wrong, but honest—with herself, anyway.
He gripped the edge of the sink before looking at Steffi again. His expression resembled that of a man being served his least favorite meal. In Ryan’s case, that would be meat loaf. Any meat with onions, really.
He hung his head and shook it, as if disbelieving what he was about to say. “Can you come sailing on Sunday?”
“No.” And not just because of his offensive demeanor.
“Five minutes ago you said you wanted to be friends, yet already you’re backpedaling on me.” He thrust one hand toward her, eyes brimming with disappointment. “This is why I worry about Emmy getting close to you.”
“I told you earlier I’ve made plans to see Peyton on Sunday.”
“Oh yeah.” His face paled as he grimaced. “Sorry.”
Determined not to be a shrew like his wife, she graciously let his insult go.
“I could go sailing next Sunday, provided you make me a promise.” She raked her fingers through her ponytail. If they were ever going to be friendly, he needed a major attitude adjustment.
He crossed his arms. “What kind of promise?”
“You’ll stop assuming the worst about me.”
He fell back against the counter as if she’d shoved him, which she’d wanted to but hadn’t. Then his face filled with an emotion she couldn’t quite name—something caught between melancholy and hopeful. “Deal.”
