by Jamie Beck
“Sweet digs for your recovery.” Steffi crossed to the wall of windows and looked down at the busy, crowded street pulsing with traffic and pedestrians and noise. “Everything at your fingertips.”
“It’s more human than my neighborhood uptown, and I let that lease go because . . . who knows what will happen. I’m counting on Chelsea keeping me connected to life’s energy. On good days, I’ll explore and write some ‘behind the scenes’ pieces since I can’t really travel much in the foreseeable future.” Her chin dropped as she quietly added, “And best of all, no one here hates me.”
“I don’t hate you, Peyton,” Steffi assured her.
“You hate what I did. So do I. I let us all down.” She shook her head, voice thickening. “I was so stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You weren’t thinking.” Steffi approached Peyton and reached for her hand. “People don’t often think when they fall in love.”
Maybe love was the exception to her mom’s deathbed advice. Or maybe the advice wasn’t meant to be so literal. Maybe what her mom had meant to teach her was that she had to learn to forgive herself, and others, for mistakes made.
“Love.” Peyton scoffed, letting go of Steffi’s hand. “We should all be more like you when it comes to that.”
“What’s that mean?” It didn’t sound like a compliment.
“You’ve avoided it—other than your puppy love with Ryan, which ended as soon as you had some space.” Her face grew pensive. “You’ve kept your heart safe. I used to feel sorry for you, but now I envy you.”
“Don’t envy me.” Steffi gestured toward the sofa, needing to get more comfortable if the conversation was heading in this direction.
Peyton sat on a chair, so Steffi sat across from her on a black leather sofa.
“How are you settling in back in the old hood?” Peyton’s question sounded simple enough, but her square shoulders and straight spine marked her tension.
“Pretty well. We’ve rented a little bungalow on Forest Street. Claire fixed it up supercute. The business is up and running, but money is tight. We’re on a constant hunt for new clients.”
“I saw your website. Very Claire, with its preppy colors and traditional fonts.” Peyton mindlessly picked at her shirt. “How do you like being partners with someone so risk averse?”
Claire’s ghost crackled in the space between them.
“We complement each other.” Steffi hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed. She forced herself to make eye contact with Peyton. “Does this hurt you to talk about?”
“It makes me nostalgic for when the three of us ran around town together. But I’ve made my bed. Don’t feel like you can’t talk about your life with Claire just to spare my feelings . . .” Then she added drolly, “Even if I am dying.”
They both laughed in that self-conscious, slightly horrified way one does when making light of something painful. Peyton’s dry humor had always defused tension. Right now that made Steffi grateful as hell.
“I do wonder,” Peyton mused, pulling her legs up onto the cushion to sit with them crisscrossed. “Are there any eligible men in town . . . aside from your brother, that is?”
The short haircut and childlike pose made Peyton look ten years younger, throwing Steffi so off-balance she had to replay the question to answer it. “Well, actually, Ryan’s back in town. At least for a while.”
Peyton’s blue eyes widened as her jaw dropped open. “Seriously? That should’ve been the first thing you told me when you got here.”
“Really?” Steffi’s shirt stuck to the sweat beading from the spotlight of Peyton’s intensified scrutiny. “Seems like we’ve got more important things to talk about.”
“I didn’t ask you to visit so we could sit around fretting together. I want to laugh and forget for a while. Besides, Steffi, nothing is more important than boy talk. Wasn’t that our first rule?”
Steffi grinned, remembering the league scrapbook they’d compiled. Part collage, part journal, part wish list . . . Claire had upholstered that five-inch binder with batting and a green-and-pink plaid fabric.
Throughout the years, they’d stuffed it with cards, notes, camp brochures, and photographs, but the first page had been a list of rules. The second rule had been about boy talk (a “Vegas rules” kiss-and-tell kind of group promise). The first had been about putting friends before boys—no matter what. Peyton must’ve thought of that one at the exact same time, because she turned her face away and stared out the window, her forehead creased.
Steffi supposed she could distract Peyton with some gossip, even if it would be at her own expense. “Ryan and his daughter moved in with his mom. It’s temporary . . . maybe six months or so. I think he’s waiting to see how things shake out with the divorce before he makes any new financial commitments. For now, his mom is helping him with Emmy.”
“Divorce?” Peyton’s mouth dropped open. “And he has custody? Is Val in rehab or something?”
“I don’t know the full scoop, but it’s not rehab. Seems more like Val’s having an early midlife crisis.” Steffi shook her head. “It breaks my heart to see what it’s doing to Emmy.”
“So you’ve seen him and met his daughter?” Peyton’s riveted attention meant she wasn’t thinking about her cancer.
Despite her damp palms and tightening stomach, Steffi kept sharing, knowing more questions would follow. “I’m converting the Quinns’ screened porch into a family room, so I see them every day.”
“Get out!” Peyton slapped the seat cushion and excitedly stamped her feet on the floor a few times. “Holy crap, Steffi. How’s he look?”
“So good,” she moaned, letting her head fall back. Eyes closed, she pictured him—tie loosened at the end of the workday, briefcase in his left hand, a warm smile for his daughter. “So, so good.”
Peyton’s smile broadcast genuine happiness for the first time all afternoon. For those few seconds, she didn’t look like a woman facing chemo. The sight caused Steffi’s eyes to mist.
“Details,” Peyton demanded.
“He looks exactly how you remember, except somehow more handsome with maturity. Same shortish curls, warm eyes . . . same gentle smile.” Steffi didn’t share that she’d seen it only once so far. “And he’s an amazing father. Steady, calm, fair. I can just see his heart melting and breaking over Emmy all at once.”
“I can’t believe he hired you.” Peyton’s voice trailed off, chasing the distance in her eyes as her mind wandered.
“He didn’t. Mrs. Q. surprised us both.” Steffi grimaced. “I almost think she did it on purpose.”
“She definitely did.” Peyton nodded with a light chuckle. “She loved you. She probably hates Val.”
“Well, I hope she isn’t counting on much. Our initial reunion was a bit ugly.” Steffi winced inwardly at the memory of his bitter words. “But the worst is behind us now, I think.”
“He’s forgiven you, then?” Peyton went fairly still, as if the answer would translate to forgiveness from Claire.
Steffi weighed her words, aiming for that narrow space between realistic expectations and optimism. “I think he’s trying to let go of his grudge, although he outright told me he doesn’t trust me. He probably never will.”
Peyton sighed, accepting the death of her not-so-private wish. “What about you? Any old feelings coming back?”
Steffi nodded. “Regret.”
“I know that one.” Peyton grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her stomach.
“I know you do.” Steffi leaned forward, determined to give Peyton the same kind of forgiveness she’d like from Ryan. “I was so, so mad at you at first. I mean, I didn’t know why you would do that to Claire when you could have had any guy you wanted. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized you must’ve really been in love, because I know that you love Claire and would never hurt her on a whim, or for an ego trip. The only explanation is overwhelming love. How could I hate you for that? We can’t choose who we
love.”
“I thought . . . I thought he was my soul mate.” She choked on those words. “How ridiculous, right? Any guy whose affections turned so suddenly couldn’t be a good guy, let alone a soul mate. But I didn’t know his relationship to Claire that first time we met. We’d talked for thirty minutes and had this incredible spark, and then I got caught up in something bigger than myself—we seemed to connect on this whole other level I’d never known before. I rationalized that I hadn’t done anything wrong, because I didn’t make him any promises or cross any lines until after he’d left Claire.” Peyton sighed. “I still wake up from nightmares about the way she screamed at me the last time I saw her.”
“You need to forgive yourself. We all make mistakes. For now, you need to stay positive and focus on your treatment and recovery.”
“But I need to make amends. I want to be forgiven before I die.”
“Peyton, don’t talk like you’re doomed. The next six or nine months will be rough, but you’re going to be okay. You have to be.”
“I hope, but if not . . .” Peyton looked right at Steffi. “Can you help me?”
Steffi leaned forward, elbows on her knees, unhappy to be put in this position, but not really seeing any better option. “I don’t know if I can. She doesn’t wish this illness on you, but she still can’t forgive you. She won’t talk about you with me, or anyone else, as far as I know.”
“Maybe Ryan will be an example . . . she always respected him.”
“It’s not really the same situation.” Steffi slouched back in her seat.
“Isn’t it? You shredded him when you shut him out without any explanation. I know he was devastated. Logan was his friend, don’t forget.”
Reminders of her behavior always made Steffi gag a little. She supposed Peyton felt the same way anytime she thought about Claire. Maybe their situations weren’t as different as Steffi would like to believe. “I hate how I handled that.”
“I get that. Trust me.”
Steffi sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “I can’t make any promises, but if I see an opening, I’ll try again.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry to ask, but she’s refused my calls, emails, and even returned a handwritten letter.”
“I know.”
Peyton waved her hands in the air, signaling a change of subject. “Let’s get back to Ryan. What’s your plan to win him back?”
“Who says I’m trying to win him back?” she deflected.
Peyton simply raised one brow. “Everything from the look on your face to the color of your cheeks says so.”
The front door opened before Steffi had to respond. Logan entered carrying multiple takeout bags. “Tapas delivery.”
She’d forgotten how drop-dead gorgeous he was—if a bit on the pretty side. He had perfectly smooth skin, sandy-blond hair that hung below his jaw, and beautiful green eyes. Tall, slim, and always dressed sharp, she wondered what kind of woman could handle dating him.
Peyton rose from the chair. “Originally, I’d thought we’d go out to eat, but then I decided it’d be more relaxing to stay in. Hope tapas is okay with you.”
“Of course.” Steffi took another minute to study her friend. Pale-purple circles shadowed her eyes. Beneath a strained smile, Steffi saw fear, too. Gossiping about Ryan and Claire had been a temporary distraction at best. Steffi needed to let Peyton know she had friends who cared. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”
Logan set the bags on the counter and gave Steffi a friendly hug. He then threw his arm around Peyton’s shoulder and kissed her head. “How are you?”
“Good. Maybe we can take a walk and shop after lunch.”
“Don’t push.” He began unloading black plastic containers with clear lids from the bags. “Remember what the doctor said.”
“What’s that?” Steffi asked.
“Nothing,” Peyton interjected. “Logan’s a nervous mother hen. You know the drill. I need to stay well rested and away from germs because my immune system will be so compromised.”
Steffi smiled at Logan, whose sunny personality should be helpful in this situation. “I’m glad you’re here for her.”
Peyton clucked. “I warned him he’ll be tossed off a balcony if he tries to document this process.”
When Steffi looked to him for clarification, he said, “I think we should take photos and she should keep a journal.” Then he addressed his sister, “At the very least, a project would occupy us. And, who knows? It could be a great memoir or inspirational story when you’re well. Photos will keep it real.”
When you’re well, he’d said. Yes, please, God, let him be right about that.
“He has a point.” Steffi spooned a bit of seafood paella onto a plate and then forked a beef empanada.
“Can we eat lunch without talking about my cancer? This might be the last meal I actually enjoy for a long while.”
“As you wish.” Logan loaded his plate with chorizo and shrimp.
Peyton finished swallowing her first spoonful of paella. With a sassy look in her eye, she said, “Logan, did you know Ryan Quinn moved back to Sanctuary Sound? Apparently, he’s getting divorced.”
Logan’s brows rose, and he slid a glance to Steffi. “Well, isn’t that an interesting tidbit. Sounds like I need to take a road trip soon to organize a big ol’ high school reunion.” He speared a shrimp and winked at his sister. “I’ve always liked a good challenge.”
“I thought alimony was capped at sixty percent of the length of time we were married?” Ryan tamped down the growl building in his chest and smiled at the mediator, Ross Wallingford, a kindly, bald gentleman wearing a pink bow tie.
“That’s correct, but that’s duration of payments, not the amount.”
“I’m owed some support, Ryan.” Val sat ramrod straight. She’d put on quite a show so far: dressed in her least expensive clothes, ditched the fancy shoes and purses and jewelry, and even toned down her makeup. To look at her today, you’d think she was two pennies shy of needing food stamps. “We were married for almost ten years, plus the fact that I stayed home with Emmy to let you be successful in your career.”
Wallingford nodded with a pleasant smile. “Yes, that’s part of the point of alimony.”
Ryan shifted. “You worked part-time for a few years, so you’ve only been out of work for about six years. You’re college educated and employable, and living rent-free. Meanwhile, I’m the full-time caregiver for our daughter, which means I’ll be out all the money for day care. You’re getting half the equity in our home. How much more do you need? For chrissakes, you can’t get blood from a stone.”
“You’re a lawyer, Ryan. A criminal defense lawyer, for God’s sake. You could quit the PD office and hire yourself out to white-collar criminals. You could be rolling in dough.”
He barked a laugh, although part of him couldn’t ignore the idea for Emmy’s sake. The other part might want to make a ton of money to spite Val. But that wasn’t who he was or why he went to work. It had never been about money. Now, however, his capped income presented challenges he hadn’t anticipated.
He gestured to Val while looking at Wallingford. “She cheats, leaves me to go live in a multimillion-dollar penthouse with her lover, leaves our daughter in her wake, and has the nerve to sit there and demand anything from me.” Ryan tossed his pencil on his pad, completely aware of, yet uncaring about, his unprofessional behavior. “You are a serious piece of work, Val.”
Wallingford held up his hands to staunch another tirade. “Folks, I know this is difficult. I presume you both agreed to mediation in order to avoid the lengthy and costly court battle that can ensue in these situations. Let’s remember our goal, which is to come to a fair compromise so that you can both move on and concentrate on your child.”
“I am thinking about my child. I make eighty-two grand a year. After taxes I clear a little over four grand per month. Housing near my mother, who has offered to help me watch our daughter after school, is not inexpensive. Modest Ca
pe Cod homes are still between three and four hundred thousand. Plus bills, food, and clothes for Emmy, gas and things I need for work and my life. I won’t have any disposable income at all.” He looked at Val now. “You don’t need my salary, Val. John is taking care of you now. Can’t you just take half of the equity in the house and half of our savings and walk away? Come on . . . think about Emmy. Do you want her living in a hovel?”
For a second, he saw a waver in Val’s gaze. Maybe he’d struck a chord.
Wallingford weighed in. “I will take all of this into consideration, along with the other information you both supplied, and come up with some recommendations.”
Val sat back. “Thank you. So that’s all for today?”
That’s all, she’d asked, sitting there calm and carefree. Meanwhile, sweat dripped down Ryan’s back. He knew he shouldn’t let his emotions control him or this process. But anytime he looked at Val, resentment grabbed him by the throat. Her betrayal of their vows, of their daughter . . . it didn’t make sense. She’d never been the perfect woman for him, but he hadn’t thought her so heartless, either. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, and that drove him crazy. He didn’t have the energy to waste on this now, though. Not when he had to drive back to Hartford and get in a few hours of work on the O’Malley case.
“I’ll get back in touch to set up another meeting.” Wallingford smiled at Val as if he were her grandfather. God, she could pull any man’s strings. Most of his gender could be a complete sucker for a gorgeous face and a tight ass.
“Next time I’d like to attend by videoconference or something.” At least that way, he wouldn’t have to breathe the same air as Val. “I can’t keep skipping out on my new job like this.”
“That’s amenable to me.” Wallingford looked at Val.
She leveled Ryan with a skeptical look, as if trying to figure out what he was hiding. That would be nothing—not that she and her scheming brain would accept it. “Fine.”
“Good.” Wallingford stood and collected the tax returns and other documents they’d supplied. “Have a good day.”
