by Jamie Beck
Cancer? They were too young to be dealt those cards. A scream locked and loaded in her throat, but she clamped her mouth shut. Steffi picked up her mallet and swung, hitting the frame too hard. She couldn’t be careful now. She had to beat on something.
If Peyton survived, her life would never be the same. Everything would be seen as “before” and “after” the diagnosis. If she were lucky, it’d take years before she’d stop wondering if new mutinous cells were growing. Before she’d stop waiting for that other shoe to drop . . .
Why did bad things have to happen? Out of nowhere, you lose control of your life. You’re caught by surprise, hit—
Steffi’s ears rang and her vision dimmed as if the sun had ducked behind a cloud despite a clear blue sky.
Gun!
Can’t fight.
My hands, my hands. No!
Cold metal. Breathe.
Sweat, pulling. Fingers gripped too tight. Stop!
The mallet landed on Steffi’s foot, snapping her back from wherever she’d gone. A ghostly shiver—the hair-raising kind that takes hold when you suspect someone is spying on you—rippled through her body. Her head throbbed. She could cry from frustration—over Peyton. Over her memory problems. Over how complicated life had become.
She gave in to it all and sank to the grass, knees pulled to her chest, her chin tucked, redirecting her thoughts. Peyton had asked for prayers. Maybe God would listen to Steffi’s this time.
The sound of another car rolling along the gravel driveway caused her to stand and brush away the grass and dirt. Ryan was home, but he must’ve gone in through the front door to avoid seeing her.
Steffi roused herself so she could pound out the last panel and get out of Dodge. She picked the mallet off the ground and began to bang the lower corner, when Ryan stormed out to the patio, tie loosened, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, eyes blazing.
He planted his hands on his hips. “Did you yell at Emmy?”
“No.” Steffi stopped to twist her neck twice before she nudged the first corner loose. “She interrupted my call. I motioned for her to be quiet. When she didn’t listen, I was firm.”
While she’d been talking, his rigid spine softened. He narrowed his gaze and studied her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, covering, tapping on the final corner of the frame.
“Your eyes are red.” He waved two fingers up and down between his brows. “You’re doing that scrunchy thing you do when you’re upset.”
She supposed they’d always know these little details about each other. Old habits, tics, and preferences—like the mint chocolate chip ice cream he’d probably ordered the other night. She’d never been able to hide much from Ryan, and maybe telling him would be good practice for telling Claire.
The words formed a lump in her throat, so she coughed them up before they choked her. “I was on with Peyton. She’s been diagnosed with breast cancer.”
Her voice cracked open as those words, once spoken, cemented the reality she’d rather deny.
Ryan’s shoulders fell, and the tension tugging at his jaw released. Years ago, he would’ve wrapped her in one of his generous hugs. Instead, he rubbed his chin before scrubbing the back of his neck and then crossing his arms. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?” She felt her nostrils flare and fought the stinging in her eyes. The antagonism brewing inside had less to do with Ryan than it did with the news itself, but she couldn’t argue with a diagnosis. She could argue with a man. “A few days ago you’d written her off as irredeemable, just like me. I would’ve guessed you think people like Peyton and me deserve this kind of punishment.”
His head tipped back as if she’d punched him in the nose. “My whole career is about fair prosecution and sentencing. I’m the last person to advocate capital punishment.”
Death. He’d said it in a roundabout way, but it still hit Steffi in the chest as hard as any swing from her mallet. His pinched expression suggested he wished he’d thought harder before blurting that out.
“She’s not going to die!” Steffi shouted, more at the sky than at Ryan, and then took a hard swing at the screen frame, sending it clattering onto the patio.
Ryan had rarely seen Steffi lose her shit. Between her mom’s death and her dad and brothers toughening her up, he used to tease her about the liquid steel in her veins. Seeing her in a fragile state threw him, although he should’ve realized Peyton’s diagnosis would bring back agonizing memories of her mother’s cancer. “Peyton’s a fighter. Her family has the resources to get the best doctors and treatment. She’ll survive. I’m sure of it.”
“Then why’d you say what you said?” she demanded, her voice bleak.
He shrugged, suddenly thirsty as hell. “Seems the only way I know how to talk to you now is to argue. Sorry.”
They stood a few feet apart, speechless. His breath burned inside his chest as he fought his old inclination to comfort her.
Steffi tossed the mallet on the grass and bent over to drag the screen off the patio.
Unable to think of anything else to say, but unsure of whether to leave her alone in this state, Ryan made himself useful and lifted the other side to help her carry it off the porch. “Will you be okay?”
“Yes.” She swiped some of the hairs off her face that had pulled free from her ponytail. “Thanks.”
Her one-word replies didn’t surprise him. “Okay. Guess I’ll see you later.”
He turned to go inside, but before he reached the door, she asked, “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Defend criminals. Set them free so they can commit more crimes, hurt more people.” Her voice sounded hoarse.
“To make sure everyone—not just wealthy people—gets a fair shot at justice.”
“If someone doesn’t want to be arrested, they shouldn’t commit a crime.” She affected a self-righteous expression, then frowned and muttered, “It’d be my luck that you’d end up defending those jerks who jumped me.”
“What?” She’d been attacked? And why did that thought sucker punch him in the gut? “Who jumped you?”
She bent over and dry heaved, her gaze turning unfocused. Her body quivered like it might crumple at any second—like she was there but not there.
“Steffi, you okay?” When she didn’t answer, he crossed to her just in time to catch her before she collapsed. “Hey. Hey now.”
He held on to her, waiting for her to regain her balance. Meanwhile, holding her in his arms opened the door to a thousand memories. The fresh summer scent of her skin, the warmth, the silky texture of her hair on his neck—all assaulted his senses. For years, holding her had been as natural as breathing, so maybe that explained why they stood there, frozen in a sort of silent semihug, neither one quite sure what to do next.
Steffi cleared her throat and eased away first. Of course she did. “I’m sorry I snapped at Emmy. I’ll apologize.”
Ryan waved his hands, still warm from the heat of her, like tumbled sheets after a lover leaves the bed. “I’ll talk to her about respecting when people are on the phone and tell her to quit pestering you while you work.”
“Look, I don’t mind her, Ryan. She’s funny, and feisty.”
“She can be, on a good day.” He chuckled, as he often did when talking about Emmy. It was weird to laugh about her with Steffi—a woman he’d once thought would be the mother of his children.
“I’m sure all the change is hard on her. I get why you want to be careful about who she gets close to. But if ‘helping’ me makes her feel productive and happy, isn’t that a good thing? I won’t become her BFF or make her any promises.”
He tilted his head. “Why do you even care? Wouldn’t it be easier if she stayed out of your way?”
Steffi rolled her eyes in a way that suggested she was disappointed he hadn’t put it together on his own. “She’s basically lost her mom. There’s no changing that fact, but if I can help fill in the gap until Val co
mes to her senses, I’m happy to do it.”
All the hairs on his neck prickled. He didn’t want to discuss Val with her, of all people. He didn’t want her pity or sympathy or help. Not for himself. And maybe not for his daughter, although he no longer felt as certain about that opinion.
The back door opened, and his mom poked her head out. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Be right there,” Ryan replied. For a nanosecond he wondered if his mother would dare invite Steffi to stay, but she didn’t. His mom simply nodded and disappeared, leaving the door cracked open.
“You should go. They want to celebrate your promotion.”
That reminded him of the claim she’d made about being jumped. He wanted to know more, but now wasn’t the time to press. Everything that had happened in the past fifteen minutes had siphoned some heat from his anger, leaving him slightly light-headed. “Have a good night. Give Peyton my best. And stay positive.”
Steffi nodded, color returning to her cheeks and strength in her stance. He’d known she’d tap into that sooner than later. “Good night.”
He wandered inside and made his way to the dining room, where his parents and daughter were seated. One hour and eleven million calories later, he was helping his mom with the dishes while his dad read with Emmy.
His thoughts meandered to Steffi again, like they’d done a few times since he’d first seen her on the back porch after so many years apart. Years during which they’d both been changed by their different experiences. Until now, he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that because it’d been easier to hate her than to wonder who she’d become. To consider that maybe she had her own set of troubles and regrets, just like him.
“Mom, did you ever hear anything about Steffi getting jumped?” He kept his eyes on the pot he was scrubbing.
“Word is she got mugged in Hartford about three or four months ago. Bad concussion, lots of bruises.”
No doubt she’d fought back. Steffi never yielded. Not when her mom died and she took over managing laundry and meals for her father and brothers. Not when facing down the most fearsome strikers of any Division I soccer team. And apparently not even in the face of the impossible task of mending Claire and Peyton’s broken friendship.
He wondered why his mother had never mentioned the attack, though. Of course, that would’ve been around the same time that he’d first become suspicious of Val and had been otherwise preoccupied with his own life unraveling. Plus, he’d pretty much instituted a “Never mention Steffi’s name again” policy not long after their breakup. “Did they arrest anyone?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know.” She took the wet pot from the drying rack and rubbed it dry with a dish towel. “You know the Lockwoods are private people.”
“Oh, I know.” It’d been his one complaint about Steffi when they dated. Emotional intimacy didn’t come easy to her. After her mom’s death, she’d spent the rest of her formative years living with four men, none of whom were big talkers. Ryan had sat through family dinners where Mr. Lockwood barely said ten words. What talking did occur while passing the peas generally consisted of a friendly fire of sarcasm between brothers, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced with his sister and mom.
His chances of getting Steffi to share details about that attack were less than nil. Tonight he’d run her name through the system and see if he could find an open assault case and learn who was defending the perps. If it had been a random act with no witnesses or suspects, she’d probably never get closure.
Having gone years without closure about the reasons for their breakup, he could understand that particular kind of frustration. A few days ago, he might’ve thought turnabout was a form of fair play. Tonight? Not so much.
Chapter Four
Steffi sat on the porch swing of the vintage yellow Craftsman bungalow she and Claire were renting, sipping a cup of tea. Across the street, the Marsh boys were tossing a football in their yard. Their French bulldog, Bubba, bolted back and forth, jumping as if he had a shot at catching that ball.
The evening sun tinted the late summer sky with swaths of peach and lilac, setting the stage for a tranquil kind of mood, were it not for the memory of Peyton’s wobbly voice looping through her thoughts. Steffi had never handled sorrow well, preferring to “man up” and move on. But this news—cancer—brought back too many memories she couldn’t escape.
Now her friend—someone with whom she’d played on these very streets—might not exist in a year or two. Might never have the chance to repair relationships, accomplish goals, marry, have kids, or do any of the other things people their age still took for granted. The randomness and finality of it all made her head pound.
Claire’s orange convertible VW Beetle pulled up to the curb, blaring Wesley Shultz’s voice singing “Angela.” The diminutive car suited Claire, who stood a full seven inches shorter than Steffi’s five-nine frame.
She waved at Steffi before grabbing a large fabric-sample book from the passenger seat, along with her cane, which Claire had long ago dubbed “Rosie.” Steffi would offer to help, but Claire’s pride made her chafe at unsolicited assistance. Right now, Steffi needed to conserve her energy for the ensuing conversation.
“Gorgeous night!” Claire smiled broadly, looking like she’d stepped out of the pages of a Vineyard Vines catalog in her colorful, boxy dress and tassel-embellished flats.
Quite a different look from the tennis whites she’d worn years ago when in training. That was before Claire had been one of the victims of the sociopath who’d unloaded his gun at an outlet mall thirty minutes from town. At fifteen, she’d undergone multiple surgeries to repair all the damage the bullet had done when it shattered her acetabulum, and months of rehab before she could walk again.
Steffi remembered helping pack boxes with Claire’s tennis rackets, outfits, and other gear. Mrs. McKenna had wanted all reminders of that promising tennis career put away before Claire came home. But as difficult as that time had been, what Peyton now faced would be worse, and the future less certain.
Steffi nodded, unable to speak, thanks to the increasing thickness in her throat. She couldn’t predict how Claire would react to the news, but Steffi had to tell her.
Claire hobbled up the two steps to the porch and flung the thick book on the rattan chair. She fingered the leaves of the potted soft shield fern in the hanging basket. “Are things on schedule at the Quinns’?”
“Yes, taskmaster,” Steffi teased, latching on to the opportunity to procrastinate. “Demolition is on track.”
“I don’t mean to push, but you know we’ve sunk everything into this business. Can’t afford to fail.” Claire adjusted her headband to keep her auburn hair out of her eyes and grinned again, unburdened by the bad news that had tied Steffi into a giant knot.
“We won’t fail.” She had never failed at anything and didn’t plan to start now.
“Don’t jinx us with that kind of talk.” Claire’s anxiety—also a side effect of what had happened to her—colored most of her thoughts. She’d remained in the bubble of Sanctuary Sound all these years. Although she’d never quite regained all the spirit she’d had before that incident, Steffi admired Claire’s ability to channel her energy into a new passion. “While I was at Donatella’s Tile Emporium, I met a woman who was browsing for countertops. Apparently, she and her husband just put money in escrow on a place on Hightop Road. We talked for a while, so I gave her my card. I think we’ll be hearing from her.”
“That’s great.” Steffi worked up a smile for her eager, earnest friend, who was better at client leads and relationships than she could ever be. Their complementary skills would no doubt help them succeed.
“I wish we had a few more projects completed so we could revamp our website gallery page. But between the Quinns and this potential project, we’ll have some new work to show prospective customers by Christmas. New business stress aside, this is all much more fun than working at the Ethan Allen store in Madison.” Then, as if finally taking
a minute to look at Steffi, she asked, “What’s got your tongue?”
Steffi drew a deep breath, rocking slightly while clutching her stomach. “I spoke with Peyton earlier.”
Claire’s face paled so much even her freckles turned white. Her entire being stiffened as she held up one hand. “Stop!”
“Wait, Claire. This is important.”
Claire covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean it. I don’t want to know if she’s getting engaged or anything else. Drop it.”
“Claire!” Steffi’s voice boomed with the force of a good left hook, at which point Claire’s eyes popped open and she dropped her arms to her sides. Before Steffi lost courage, she blurted, “Peyton has breast cancer.”
If she hadn’t been watching very carefully, she would’ve missed Claire’s thick swallow. Otherwise, Claire stood motionless and speechless for several seconds.
The world around them moved on as if that statement meant nothing. Bubba barked when Sammy Marsh bolted into the street to retrieve the errant football. The Mannings’ car crunched against the gravel next door when it pulled into the driveway. Meanwhile, Steffi waited.
“I’m hungry,” Claire finally said, her voice rough, as if those words had been dragged across sandpaper. “I’ll fix us a salad.”
She crossed to the screen door, cane thumping on the wood porch with her uneven gait, and went inside, leaving the sample book behind.
Well, that went well.
If she’d hoped that the news would’ve tugged at some sympathetic cord in Claire’s heart and opened a door to reconciliation, she’d been mistaken. Steffi eased off the swing and snatched the sample book.
Once inside, she set it on the entry table. The tiny rented home’s bright and airy appeal didn’t decrease the tension. Steffi stood in the living room, counting to ten, letting her gaze wander from the creamy-white walls to the dove-gray woodwork and brick fireplace to the sparse charcoal-colored furnishings with pops of turquoise. Breathe.
Steffi strode to the back of the house, shoes thudding against the hardwood, where she found Claire standing at the kitchen sink, staring blankly out the back window. Without facing Steffi, she said, “I can’t forgive her just because she’s sick. I don’t wish cancer on her, though.”