by Jamie Beck
Her dad, on the other hand, never thought his kids needed counseling, not even when their mom was sick. He always said life’s hard knocks help a person grow, and shrinks coddle and overmedicate people.
The Lockwoods didn’t coddle each other. That sense of independence and strength had always made her proud, but now she wondered if it had been a liability.
“I’ve been digging, but we’re not getting lucky with this one. The whore—” Billy began.
“The alleged victim,” Ryan corrected. He had no problem digging for evidence to discredit the woman’s testimony, but he wouldn’t tolerate disrespect. He and Billy weren’t in a position to judge her or even understand what drove that woman to prostitution. In his book, an uneducated prostitute who is buying groceries for her kid was a better person than an overeducated politician who harasses female employees.
“Yes, her.” Billy cocked an eyebrow. “Despite a bunch of arrests for solicitation, she’s never filed a rape claim. I hung out around her neighborhood this week to see what else I could learn. Aside from mild recreational drug use and a scuffle with another prostitute, she’s unremarkable. Then there’s your client. No one overheard them transacting. And some might say that, technically, it was rape since O’Malley didn’t pay. I feel bad for the guy, ’cause O’Malley’s kinda fucked.”
When Ryan grimaced, Billy said, “Bad pun, sorry. But physical evidence proves O’Malley screwed her. She’s bruised from when he pushed her out of the way to run from the motel room. My gut says Owen didn’t understand that he was supposed to pay, though. Too bad he freaked out instead of going to an ATM.”
“Too bad our belief isn’t enough, you mean.” Ryan rubbed his forehead. “We can use her prior arrests for prostitution to show a pattern of behavior, but I’d really like to get my client out of solicitation charges, too. O’Malley didn’t have the requisite intent, nor did he try to dupe her into a freebie. I’m convinced he just thought he was getting lucky.”
Owen’s low IQ would make jail that much harder for him. And then to live as a registered sex offender? The guy’s life was already complicated enough.
“One thing is bugging me, though. Why didn’t she get the money up front? Isn’t that standard?” Billy scratched the back of his neck. “Won’t the prosecution use that to argue it wasn’t a pay-to-play?”
“I’m sure they’ll raise it, but I’ll try to shut it down. Her blood tests came back positive for drugs and alcohol, and she’s no rocket scientist. If they were partying together, I can argue that she thought she’d collect at the end of the night after racking up extra services. Maybe I could even use the fact she didn’t collect money up front to prove it was consensual instead of transactional.”
Billy shrugged as if unconvinced. “I’ll keep digging tomorrow. It’s getting late, and I’ve got to run now.”
“I was wondering about that tie.” Ryan smiled. “Big plans?”
When Billy stroked the blue-on-blue striped tie, a little color filled his cheeks. “Dinner with her folks tonight. Their twenty-fifth anniversary.”
“I didn’t know you had a serious girlfriend. You’re as good at keeping secrets as you are at uncovering them.” Ryan tossed a pencil across his desk. “Does ‘her’ have a name?”
Billy shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “Just got back together with my ex, Dina, a few nights ago.”
“I can’t tell if that’s good or bad news.”
“I guess the jury is still out. Truth is, she cheated on me with her ex back in June.”
“Sorry. That sucks. You’re a braver man than I, going back to the hand that bit you.” Ryan wished he had that courage, though. Maybe then he could be with Steffi instead of being tormented by his dreams.
“It’s not easy. When it first happened, she acted like it didn’t mean anything.” Billy’s gaze wandered while he grimaced.
“What made you trust her again?”
“She kept apologizing all summer . . . swore it wouldn’t happen again.” Billy let out a slight chuckle. “Maybe I’m a sucker, but you know, we all make mistakes. I wasn’t the best boyfriend, either. I guess I figure the only way to know for sure if I can trust her again is to trust her. I’m happier today than I was two weeks ago, so I’ll keep my fingers crossed and keep looking forward.”
“I hope you’re right. She’s a lucky woman.” Very lucky, he thought. He wouldn’t have pegged Billy as one to hand out second chances.
“I’m feeling pretty lucky, too.” He flicked his tie and joked, “Except when I have to dress like this.”
Ryan waved him off. “Have a good night.”
He organized his file and then shut off his computer.
On his way to his car, Ryan hugged himself to keep warm in the face of an autumn wind. His thoughts turned to Billy, whose youth allowed romantic optimism to flourish.
Unlike Billy, Ryan wouldn’t be spending a romantic evening with a woman his own age. Nope. His inability to trust meant the only women he’d be spending the night with were his kid and his mom.
“Thank you, Steffi.” Claire hugged her. “I’m so relieved that it’s not epilepsy or a tumor. Not that the tests solved the problem. I wish they had more answers for you.”
“I’m more concerned about answers to our scheduling dilemmas.” Steffi took a seat at the dining table, where Claire had strewn a bunch of estimates she’d worked up for the Hightop Road house.
“Has anyone replied to your want ad?” Claire asked.
“Yes, but they’re all men.”
“That never bothered you before.” She began setting the estimates into piles: tile and granite, fabrics, furnishings, fixtures.
“I’m not bothered, but I’ve spent my whole career working for and with men. I wouldn’t mind a few more women in the mix.” She reviewed the logistics plan for the project. “You’d think a women-owned business would attract at least one.”
Claire wrinkled her nose. “Is there a big pool of female construction workers around here?”
“Obviously not.” Steffi scribbled some notes on the plan. “I’ll put a crew together in another week or two. Perfect timing for this job and the upcoming closing on the Weber property.”
“The Weber property.” Claire pressed her fingers to her temples, shaking her head. “You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a sister, and that’s the only reason—real reason—I caved on that project. If I didn’t see you falling back in love with Ryan, I would’ve put my foot down. But despite my cynicism about love, I’d be happy to be proven wrong in this case.”
Claire would see through any denial, so Steffi didn’t protest. “I’m not holding my breath. He’s come a long way since last month, but he still doesn’t trust me. I hurt him—betrayed him—just like Peyton did to you.”
Claire’s expression turned icy. “When you put it that way, I can hardly believe that he can be in the same room as you.”
“So you don’t think I deserve a chance to prove I’ve changed?” Steffi bristled.
“It’s not my place to judge you, or what Ryan should or shouldn’t do.” Claire sighed. “I love you, and I know you regret the way you handled that breakup, so I want to see you get your second chance.”
“Thanks.” Steffi considered her last call with Peyton two days earlier. Claire’s name had come up only once. Then Peyton dropped it, but not before Steffi heard the desperation in her voice. “You loved Peyton like a sister, too, and believe me when I tell you she regrets what she did. Can’t you make any room in your heart for forgiveness?”
“Please stop pushing me.” Claire balled her hands into fists on the tabletop.
“Pushing? I’ve tiptoed around this for a year. But Claire, there’s no guarantee that her treatments will work. Are you so full of hatred that you’d let her die without talking to her? Without even giving her a chance to apologize? And if she dies without you two ever speaking again, can you live with that?” She clasped one of Claire’s fists with her hand and squeezed it. �
��I want you to forgive her—not just for her sake and mine, but for yours, too.”
Except for the rising flush in her neck and cheeks, Claire’s face looked like it had been carved in stone. She withdrew her fist before she spoke, her voice brittle. “Am I now the guilty party and Peyton the victim?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Steffi began, but Claire cut her off.
“You two don’t get it, and you don’t get me. This is just like after that bullet struck. ‘Claire, you’ll be fine,’” Claire mimicked. “And, ‘There’s more to life than tennis. You have other talents.’ Or my favorite, ‘Claire, you have to go away to college. Why would you want to stay here?’ Meanwhile, you both went off in search of more exciting lives, yet neither of you ended up any better off than me. And still you push, trying to convince me to do things your way. Why don’t you try to understand me instead of trying to change me?” Her voice cracked.
“Relax—”
“Don’t tell me to relax.” Her voice turned shrill. “You don’t know what it’s like to be shot by a madman. To rebuild a new life after your dreams are stolen.” Claire gripped her cane, staring into the distance. “To live with a daily reminder and pain. To wake from dreams that I’m healthy and playing tennis, and see ugly scars, feel the ache, and grab this.” Claire shook her cane.
“Claire . . .” Steffi reached out, but Claire withdrew further.
“I don’t need your pity. I made peace with it—or I had.” She smoothed her hands along the tabletop. “I had carved out a pleasant life here with a job I enjoyed, a family I love, and a man I loved. Someone who overlooked my disfigurement and lived in quiet contentedness like me. I was finally happy and had ‘it all’—more than either of you at the time, actually. It might not have been much by your standards, but I was planning the future . . . a family. Then Peyton deigned to return to this ‘pitiful little town,’ with her teasing ways, and her larger-than-life stories, and perfect, healthy body that never held her back. Just like that gunshot that changed my life, so did she.” Claire thumped her fist on the table.
Steffi waited, sensing Claire had more to say.
Claire’s scowl deepened, and her voice fell so low it sounded hoarse. “She already had so much, why’d she have to take Todd? And I don’t care if they didn’t get together until after he broke up with me. If she’d been any kind of friend, Todd would’ve been one hundred percent off-limits. She wouldn’t have given him any signals or encouraged any hope. So don’t guilt-trip me because I won’t talk to her. I told you, I don’t wish her harm, but I don’t owe her anything, either.”
Claire’s gush of anguish swept away every argument Steffi might’ve posed, leaving her speechless. And she was right; Steffi and Peyton had been too busy making Claire “better” to have seen things from her perspective.
“I’m sorry I’ve been the kind of friend that made your recovery harder rather than easier. I never meant to make you feel alone, downplay what you lost, or belittle the way you chose to cope. I should’ve listened to you instead of trying to convince you to do things my way.” Although heartfelt words and softness never came easily to her, Steffi scooted to the edge of her seat and held Claire’s gaze. “I hear you now. I love you, whether or not you ever forgive Peyton. All I want is for everyone to be happy. For all of us to find what we need in life. I wish life—happiness—wasn’t so complicated, don’t you?”
“It’s not complicated,” Claire snapped. “Just be honest—with others and yourself. If you do that, then you should be able to get what you need.”
Steffi drummed her thumbs on the table, musing softly, “That would mean I’d have to tell Ryan how I feel.”
“Maybe he deserves that from you—for you to take the risk. It could be what gets him over his mistrust.” Claire patted Steffi’s hand and then pushed herself up with her cane. The lines of her face curved downward, as if the gravity of the conversation had pulled at her cheeks and mouth. In a wistful tone, she said, “You don’t have much to lose at this point.”
Claire turned and started for the stairs, the heavy thump of every other step drilling home the story she’d unloaded this afternoon. Steffi sat at the table and filed the paperwork her friend had uncharacteristically left behind.
Ryan had warned that Peyton would have to be the one to find a way back into Claire’s life. He’d been right.
Was Claire right, too? Could life be simpler if she was honest with Ryan?
Claire had blithely said Steffi had nothing to lose, but Steffi’s pride was at stake, even though pride didn’t keep you warm. Vanity could wreak havoc on a life, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
And even if she got over that hurdle, honesty wouldn’t budge two others: Emmy and Val. No matter what she wanted, she had no control over how those two would react.
Chapter Fourteen
“Why are you wearing that mask?” Emmy asked from where she’d drawn back the clear plastic curtain Steffi had put in the new archway between the not-yet-finished family room and the home’s central hallway.
Was it four o’clock already? That meant Steffi had an hour until her appointment with Gretta. The elder Mrs. Weber had already moved into the nursing home, so Gretta agreed to let Steffi and a home inspector into the bungalow this afternoon.
“Hold up, Emmy. Don’t come in here.” Steffi finished wedging the insulation between the studs before climbing down from the ladder. “The fiberglass can irritate your eyes, skin, and throat.”
“It looks fluffy.” Emmy inched closer, fingers outstretched to touch the deceptive pink batt. She glanced up at Steffi’s stern glare and whipped her hands behind her back. “Can I help you stuff it into the walls?”
Steffi studied the remaining wall—half wall, really—running beneath the windows. She supposed she could supervise Emmy without losing too much time.
“Go put on pants, long sleeves, and gloves. You’ll need eye protection, too.” Steffi’s would be too large.
“Okay,” she called, already running toward the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
Steffi chuckled to herself.
“You have a nice way with her,” Molly said. Apparently, she’d been listening from the kitchen. Now that the kitchen door and other wall had been removed, Steffi could also smell all her cooking. Today, the aroma of beef broth had piqued her hunger.
“She’s pretty easy,” Steffi demurred.
Molly peeked through that plastic drape and chuckled. “Oh, Stefanie, I love her dearly, but few people would call Emmy Quinn easy to handle.”
“Considering all of the recent changes in her life, I think she’s a marvel. No self-pity. No whining. She keeps truckin’ along.” In that way, she supposed she and Emmy had something in common. Of course, Emmy hadn’t given up hope that her family would be reunited. Once that dream died, her attitude could change.
“That’s true.” Molly then teased, “She must get that from me.”
“Absolutely,” Steffi laughed. Molly embodied resilience. Perhaps that was why they’d always gotten along. “Has she mentioned anything about Lisa since our sailing trip?”
“They’ve been eating lunch together. It’s a good step.” Molly’s expression warmed. “Ryan mentioned that you pushed him to meddle.”
Steffi felt her lips part in surprise before she could stop herself. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“Nonsense. You’re helping him and Emmy. Both of their moods have improved these past several weeks.”
“I’m sure that has more to do with your support than mine.” She deflected the compliment. Her father didn’t hand them out often, and her brothers usually dealt them with a heavy dose of sarcasm, so to her, they always sounded like false praise.
“As good as I am . . . and I am good”—Molly winked—“I can’t take full credit. Trust me, you’ve played a big part in easing this transition.”
Their conversation came to an abrupt halt when Emmy raced back into the room. Steffi had to smother her laughter. Emmy cam
e to a full stop, arms and legs spread wide, wearing jeans, a pink-and-red-striped shirt, purple knit mittens, and swim goggles.
“You look prepared!” Molly exclaimed. “I’ll let you two get back to it.”
Steffi knew those mittens wouldn’t do the job. “Molly, do you have gardening gloves that might not be too big for her?”
“Let’s see.” Molly disappeared into the garage and then reappeared with green-and-white gloves. “Try these.”
They nearly came up to Emmy’s elbows but provided better protection and mobility than the mittens.
“Come on, Emmy. Let’s cover your mouth and nose with a face mask.” Steffi had more in the pack, so she fitted one securely onto Emmy’s head. “Now, take the tape measure and determine the exact distance from the bottom of this row to here.” She touched her fingers to the underside of the window frame.
While Emmy measured, Steffi unspooled more batt.
“Thirty-three and a half,” Emmy announced.
“Is that perfect?” Steffi asked, resisting the temptation to double-check. It seemed important to trust Emmy. If she’d made a mistake, Steffi could fix the problem easily enough.
“Yes.” Emmy snapped the tape measure back into place.
“Okay, come over here and I’ll show you how to cut the batt with a utility knife.”
Emmy watched with rapt attention, and then Steffi showed her how to properly install batt and gently push it into place. “I’ll cut a bunch more to fit these sections, and you can be my stuffer.”