by Jamie Beck
“Thirsty?” His voice croaked just a touch as the lead singer began his best Don Henley impression.
Steffi shook her head and glanced around, then looked at him. “Shall we keep dancing?”
Trapped.
Yes. No!
Why did I come?
Answers. He’d come for answers.
“Sure.” He held out his arms, his skin prickling in anticipation of her touch.
She clasped one of his hands and then settled her other hand on his shoulder. For a few measures, neither made eye contact nor said a word. The melody wove them together, and it seemed equally natural and uncomfortable to hold her this close. He wondered if, like his, her throat was dry. Her back sweaty, her heart squeezing hard in her chest?
The lyrics drifted around them like a catalyst for a long-overdue conversation. Damn, it was a sad, sad song. No wonder he’d punched it off whenever he heard it on the radio.
“It’s weird, right?” Steffi’s face was so close that the heat of her breath brushed against his jaw. The hint of some kind of grapefruit or lime perfume wafted around them. She didn’t need it—or earrings or makeup or those heels—to be attractive, but he liked it. Not because of how she looked, but because he knew that she’d done it for him. Arrogant, perhaps, but he still knew her . . . a fact that both comforted and terrified him.
He remembered she’d asked him a question. “What’s weird?”
“This. Us.” She grimaced. “Dancing. Talking. A few weeks ago, I’d never have predicted it.”
He grunted. “Me neither.”
“I’m glad, though.” She took a deep breath, and he felt her hand flex on his shoulder. “I meant it when I apologized and asked if we could be friends.”
He could simply accept her apology, but he needed more. She owed him a better explanation than the simple one she’d shouted at him a couple of weeks ago on the back patio.
“Why, Steffi? Why’d you blow me off that way instead of talking to me and giving me a chance to fix things? And don’t just say you were too young and couldn’t handle it.” When she didn’t answer, he asked that nagging question that had always haunted him. The one that had caused him to spend too many nights drinking that first semester. “Was there another guy?”
He swallowed hard, his heart bruising itself against his ribs while he waited. Maybe he didn’t want the answer. In some ways, it might be easier to never learn the truth.
“There wasn’t anyone else.” She frowned.
“Oh.” Relief loosened the knot in his chest. “I assumed that was the real reason why you couldn’t face me.”
“No. I told you, I wanted freedom.” She wrinkled her nose. “That sounds lame, but if I’d have spoken to you, you could have talked me out of it if you’d wanted to, just like you talked me out of Barcelona. I needed to be my own person for a while, and I didn’t think you’d let me go unless I made you hate me. I’ve regretted that ploy almost since I made it. If I could go back and do things differently, I would.”
“But you’d still have wanted out.” Those words dropped from his lips with the unmistakable sound of dejection before he thought better of them.
“Yes.” She looked away.
Even after all these years, her answer smarted more than it should. He’d always wished she’d regretted her decision, not just the way she’d done it. Hell, an uncharitable part of him had sometimes fantasized that she’d spent nights alone, crying over old photographs.
Her soft voice broke that train of thought. “It was never about you, Ryan. It was about me. As much as I loved fantasizing about a life together, it sometimes felt like my whole future was set before I even got a chance to know my options. I didn’t want to be the small-town girl who’d only had one boyfriend . . . who’d only known a small-town life. I kept thinking of my mom. Of how she’d grown up in Sanctuary Sound, married her high school sweetheart, and died in that house by fifty, having never seen or experienced anything else.
“I know she loved my dad and us kids, but I overheard her talking to Aunt Jess once about how she was really sad that she was going to die without visiting the Louvre, seeing the Grand Canyon, or knowing the thrill of realizing other personal dreams. I don’t know why, but that summer trip to Spain was a trigger. As my twentieth birthday got closer, I kept thinking, What if I’m halfway through my life already? Is this all there is? Is this all I’ll know? It scared me. I needed to see more so I’d know that my life and choices were based on more than habit and familiarity.”
Her emotion-thick voice tugged at his empathy, and he found himself holding her a little closer. Her explanation, while understandable, didn’t erase the pain she’d caused, but that context certainly shone a new light on their past.
Unlike her, he’d gone farther away to college. His family had traveled more widely. He’d been content, thinking they’d explore the world together. But she’d been sheltered—maybe even smothered—by her dad and brothers . . . and, to some extent, by him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
She’d been honest, so he owed her the same. “I wish you would’ve at least written me a letter at some point just to explain all that. It sucked to have no clue . . . no closure. And if I’d understood . . .” He thought of how he’d channeled his pain into the comfort of another woman. “I might’ve been patient. Things might’ve turned out differently.” Of course, he’d never wish away Emmy.
“I was ashamed and embarrassed, and then once I knew I’d succeeded and you hated me, there wasn’t anything to say or do to make it better.”
“I almost got in my car and stormed your campus, but pride kept me in Boston.”
“And then you met Val.” Her gaze dropped over his shoulder.
His body recoiled at the mention of his ex-wife. So much so, Steffi probably felt his muscles tighten. “Actually, I’d known her for a couple of years. Val was a cheerleader, so she’d been at all of my games. She came on strong once she’d heard I was free, and my broken ego welcomed her attention. She was about as opposite of you as could be—blonde, girlie as hell, treating me like some kind of God—which made her perfect at the time. Not so perfect as time went by, though. Obviously.”
“Her loss.” Steffi flashed an ironic smile. “Trust me, I know.”
He almost tripped over her words. If she’d truly missed him, it meant that their love hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. It hadn’t been one-sided. “So you never met anyone special in all these years?”
“No one that made what I did worthwhile.” Another sheepish smile emerged. “Turns out maybe my mom’s choices were a lot smarter than I realized.”
Ryan hesitated to read between the lines. That way lay danger, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But maybe the time Steffi had taken to discover what she wanted had taught her that she’d actually had everything she’d needed. She’d just learned it too late.
Now they were back in Sanctuary Sound. Both single. Both starting over.
Much as he wanted to resist it, he could feel the hand of fate in play. John crossed Val’s path so Ryan would end up here now. Emmy had taken to Steffi so quickly. He didn’t know, though, just like he wasn’t sure whether this battle between his heart and mind was one worth fighting.
He’d come tonight for answers, although those answers only led to more questions—ones without easy answers. The most important of which was: Had he ever really gotten over Steffi Lockwood?
Her arm settled over his shoulder. His leg slid between hers as he turned her in a circle. When their bodies fitted together almost as if they’d never been apart, he suspected he knew the answer, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it aloud.
Chapter Nine
It could’ve been the familiarity of their bodies finding the rhythm together, or his musing over her explanation, that caused Ryan’s softening, but for those precious beats of time dancing in close comfort, Steffi held her breath. When the final notes of the ballad faded and his self-awareness return
ed, he eased away from her, and the invisible fence between them reassembled.
“Think I’ll sit the next one out,” he said, gesturing toward the table.
“Sure.” She remained still on the floor even after he’d started toward the table, as if standing there could extend the dance that ended too soon.
When she reached the table, Ryan refilled her glass and then retreated to small talk. “So, do you and Claire have your eye on any interesting projects?”
“We’re submitting a bid for a substantial renovation on Hightop Road. I need to hire another set or two of hands before we can really grow.”
He nodded, staring into his cup again. Then he glanced at her with a funny look in his eyes. “Gretta Weber told my mom she’s putting her mom’s house on the market soon.”
“Really?” She sat forward, alert, her heart thumping back to life after its postdance slump. He knew that Wedgewood-blue cottage at the end of his street had long been her favorite house in town. “When?”
“Soon, I guess. Gretta wants to move her mom into a nursing home because she can’t take care of her there. Dementia . . .”
“That’s sad.” Steffi’s sympathy for the Webers, while genuine, quickly took a back seat to her interest in getting her hands on that house. “I wonder if they’ve already got a broker, and how much they want.”
She doubted she could afford it for herself, but maybe she could remodel and flip it.
When she and Ryan had been younger, they’d agreed that, if they ever had the chance, they’d make it their home. She’d walked past it a zillion times, always noting things she would change. Move the garden here. Put in flagstone pavers there. Add a flower box beneath the second-story dormer. Build an in-ground fire pit. The sweetness of those youthful dreams throbbed painfully in her chest, the same way indulging in sugary icing, while delicious, produced a toothache. Ryan and she had been starry-eyed about their future with the zeal reserved for teen invincibility.
Those old dreams were dead, but she might at least have a hand in making the place sparkle.
“No idea. It can’t be in great shape, though. I doubt Mrs. Weber did much maintenance in the past decade. In fact, I bet they’ve never updated the place once in all these years.”
“Just imagine it cleaned up.” Her eyelids grew heavy with pleasure from the thought of restoring it. “That’s one of my favorite front porches of all time.”
The front door sat on the right side of the home, with the wide porch running to the left along the front. It had two thick white columns, a porch swing, and French doors that probably led directly into the living room. The whole place looked to be no more than twelve hundred square feet. A story and a half, with a shed-style dormered roofline, and ivy climbing up one side. She’d pictured so many lazy nights with Ryan on that swing.
“You should buy it,” Steffi blurted out.
His brows rose. “I can’t buy anything until my divorce is final. At this rate, mediation expenses, alimony, and day care will likely eat up the equity I got out of my last house.”
“I’m sorry, Ryan.” She sipped her beer, her mind torn between fantasies about the cottage and consolation for Ryan’s dilemma. She couldn’t let go of her idea. “But seriously, how perfect would it be for you to be on the same street as your mom? Emmy could hop off the bus and hang with your parents for a couple of hours, which means no day care. And you’d be waterfront and easy biking distance to the marina.”
His expression turned glum, but he kept quiet.
“You don’t agree?” she asked.
“In my experience, it’s better not to waste time wishing for things you can’t have, that’s all.” A shallow grin appeared before he gestured with one hand. “But you go ahead and dream away if it makes you happy.”
Dreaming about that house had always made her happy. Staring at it and projecting had softened the blow when he’d left for college a year ahead of her. Ironically, back then she’d been convinced he’d meet someone new in Boston and dump her. He’d promised the distance wouldn’t break them up. Promised he’d love her forever and that someday they’d get married and buy that house.
But Steffi had destroyed that love, and now the cottage would become some other young couple’s dream.
Benny and Claire returned to the table then and flopped onto their chairs with sweat-soaked hair. Steffi noticed Claire rub her hip while Benny dabbed his forehead with a napkin.
Steffi turned to Claire, firing words out like a machine gun. “We need to talk. The Weber cottage is going on the market, and I want to buy it and flip it.”
“Are you insane?” Claire’s eyes flashed her disbelief. “Real estate speculation isn’t our business plan. We do work for hire.”
“I know, but it’s such a great little house, there’s no risk! I know it’ll be snapped up, especially after we renovate. Perfect location. Unique. And small enough to be more affordable for most.”
“No.” Claire shook her head. “There’s no such thing as a risk-free flip. And you have no idea how much work needs to be done, or what kinds of nightmares are hidden in those ancient walls.”
“That’s what an inspection is for.” She looked to Ryan and Benny for support. “Tell her. This could be a great opportunity, especially if we can avoid paying broker fees.”
Benny held up his hands. “Don’t look at me.”
“Chicken!” Steffi barked.
“Hey, I don’t want any blame if it goes south.” Benny smiled and chugged some beer.
Steffi waved him off, aware of Ryan’s intent stare. She gripped Claire’s forearm. “Let me ask Gretta what she’s thinking in terms of price. If it’s not astronomical, I’ll take a look to see if the house is salvageable. Don’t say no yet. Just trust me.”
“I have trusted you. A ‘quit my job, moved out of my parents’ house to rent a place with you, and invested in a new business’ level of trust. I keep trusting you even though you refuse to go back to the doctor. Now you want to take this kind of chance? Seriously, Steffi, I really wonder what’s going on in your head.”
“Doctor?” Benny frowned before Steffi could defend herself. “Why do you need a doctor?”
Bother. Now she’d have to deal with her overprotective brother on top of dealing with her anxious friend.
“I don’t,” Steffi said at the same time Claire answered, “She zones out a lot.”
Steffi ignored both men, who were both staring at her with some measure of concern.
“Like a seizure?” Ryan’s brows pulled tight.
“No!” She hadn’t actually seen herself in a trance, but seizures came with convulsions, saliva, and other complications that she would have to notice, didn’t they? That couldn’t be her problem. Head trauma couldn’t cause them . . . could it? “The concussion from last spring has left me a little fuzzier than prior ones.”
“How much fuzzier?” Ryan had some experience with concussions.
“Fuzzy enough to upset Claire.” When neither man looked pacified by that attempted joke, she insisted, “It’s not that bad. Momentary lapses.”
“Get it checked, Steffi,” her brother commanded. “Does Dad know?”
“No, and don’t tell him. I don’t want him worrying.” She whipped her gaze to Claire and waved her index finger. “Just for this, now I’m definitely calling Gretta.”
“Call whomever you want, but we only have so much cash on hand. First you want to hire help, and now you want to buy a house? You must think Monopoly money will pay for these things.” Claire crossed her arms.
“Ha ha.” Steffi chugged her drink.
“It’s not funny,” Benny said. “Promise me you won’t ignore it.”
“I’m not a kid. I can handle my own health care, thank you very much,” Steffi grumbled.
Fortunately, the conversation ended when Melanie Westwood, a divorced brunette MILF, appeared out of nowhere and laid her hand on Benny’s shoulder. “Hey, you.”
His flirtatious smile appeared, which
meant he’d be leaving them for his regular booty call. Steffi didn’t love their ongoing no-strings fling, but she didn’t judge them, either. Maybe casual affairs were the only kind a Lockwood could sustain. She’d made do with them for years without feeling like she’d missed out on much . . . until she’d been handed front-row seats to watching Ryan and Emmy.
Benny nodded to the group as he rose from his chair. “I’ll catch you all later.”
As he wandered away with Mel, Claire shifted in her chair, reaching for her cane. “I’m kind of beat, too. Do you mind leaving early, or maybe Ryan can give you a ride home?”
Going home at nine thirty on a Saturday night made Steffi remember why she’d initially wanted to leave her small-town life. She didn’t look at Ryan but guessed he bristled at the thought of being left alone with her. “It’s early, Claire. Stay another half hour.”
She shook her head. “The dancing wore me out, and my hip and leg are throbbing. I want to lie down.”
“Oh.” Sometimes she suspected Claire used her injury to get out of doing things she didn’t want to do. The uncharitable thought might be disloyal, but still . . .
“I’ll take you home,” Ryan offered.
She felt a smile pop into place before she could rein it in. “Are you sure?”
He nodded and sipped his beer, casting his gaze downward.
“Thanks.” She looked at Claire. “Guess I’ll see you at home later.”
Claire nodded and gave Ryan a friendly hug goodbye.
“I’ll see you to your car,” he told her.
Steffi watched them go out the door, unsurprised by Ryan’s gallantry. Sanctuary Sound wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t late by any stretch—but better safe than sorry. Another random act of violence might break Claire. If only Steffi hadn’t left that bar in Hartford alone . . . her stomach clenched.
Ryan returned, giving her something more pleasant to think about. Now that she was alone with him, an awkward silence expanded while she fidgeted and fumbled for a way to reestablish a familiar rapport. The people at the table behind them laughed raucously, and a couple to their left was three seconds shy of jumping each other’s bones right there in the bar. Meanwhile, crickets populated their table.