Secrets (10 page)
He cleared some more. Not just one stone, but several. He moved to another area, and another. A floor—one that great-great-grandfather Quillan might have laid himself, with stones cut from the nearby quarry.
Lance bent and stroked the stones, feeling the labor that had laid them, the care and pride that put such a floor in a carriage house. He pressed his palm there, eyes closed, purpose and connection surging once again.
Lord
. In spite of Rese and her attitude, in spite of his own shortcomings, there was something here that mattered, and it was all part of a plan. He carefully cleared stone after stone, cut so precisely and set so tightly he might not need grout at all. He’d rather keep it in its original condition.
It was a gift unsought. The property offering itself, saving him time and effort by the work of hands that came before. An inheritance. Lance swallowed the swelling in his throat, humbled and grateful. He was making too much of a simple thing, but he couldn’t help it. Life was fragile, and the shadows left behind touched those who came after.
Hooves and feet had trodden this floor, but Lance knelt on it now and blessed those feet, those hands that laid the stones to make his floor. He had no right to think of it as his, but Conchessa had told him to trust the urgings within and sense his way. He pressed his forehead to the stone wall.
Show me
.
After several heartbeats, he opened his eyes. Enough dreaming. Back to work. He pulled himself up by the shovel. Strange so much sand had accumulated. He almost suspected it had been intentional, though even if the place had been used as a garage or stable or animal pen later on, it would have been better to keep the stone floor.
He continued to clear it, filling another wheelbarrow. He emptied it into the shallow gully behind the structure, then took up the shovel again. He didn’t mind the work now. It was a labor of love.
Do it simply; do it well
. And appreciate what came of it because nothing was sure. Nothing in this life.
He cleared the rest of the floor in a few wheelbarrow loads, then set about sweeping. The large flat stones were well laid, level and tightly fitted, and he cleaned them off now with due care. Whisking the broom, he glimpsed something metallic wedged into the corner.
Like an archeologist on a dig, he squatted down and dug it out of the crusted dirt with his fingers. Breath catching, he turned the skeleton shape over in his hands, then tapped the dirt from the filigreed base blackened with age. A key! How symbolic was that? But a key to what?
He glanced around him. The lost carriage house doors or a carriage itself? Maybe a trunk or something in the house—in the attic? Lance rubbed it with his fingers, heart rushing with heightened hope. He didn’t know yet, but he
would
put the pieces together and learn what he’d come for. He closed the key into his palm. A key to unlock secrets…
Baxter ran in, frisking, then ran back out. A moment later, Rese appeared in the doorway. “Your lumber’s here.”
He slipped the key into his pocket and turned. “Okay.” He pushed past her to accept the delivery. Rese, of course, would pay.
No surprise that she oversaw the lumber unloaded beside the carriage house, but she did surprise him with, “You estimated that well.”
He stared. A word of praise?
I have found favor in your eyes, O great one?
She paid the drivers and sent them on their way. “You’ll want a tarp on the drywall overnight. I have some in the truck.” She motioned toward her vehicle. “Help yourself.”
He started to thank her, but she was already heading back to the house. “How’s your side?”
“It’s fine.” She kept walking.
And he had to agree, at least the glimpse he’d gotten of it earlier. He looked away. What was he thinking? She’d have a royal fit if she read his thoughts. Heaven forbid he think of her as a girl, much less a woman. Better he remember she was his means to an end.
He covered the drywall, then whistled for Baxter. Lunch time. He’d been petty yesterday, ignoring Rese’s obvious request for an evening meal. But the same reluctance nagged him now. She wasn’t insulting or critical of his cooking, just so irritatingly blank.
With the dog before him, he drove into town and ate lunch at the Cucina Viansa on the plaza. The focaccia sandwich wasn’t anything to rave about. No one made focaccia bread like Nonna, not even Conchessa, though even hers would put this one to shame. But Baxter wouldn’t know the difference. Lance carried the remainder outside where the retriever had attracted a crowd. “Entertaining again, Baxter?”
The three women turned. “Is he yours? He’s adorable. What a great dog.”
A freckled blonde said, “Aren’t you worried he’ll run off?”
Lance shrugged. “He knows I’m inside. He’d be insulted if I tied him.”
They laughed. “He’s so friendly.”
“And gentle.” That from the taller brunette.
“Hear that, Baxter?” Lance handed over the sandwich that Baxter accepted in a gulp. “They’ve got your number.”
Baxter wagged, eating up the praise as readily as he’d taken the food. Lance mounted the motorcycle parked at the curb and the dog jumped aboard. Not one person scolded. They laughed and exclaimed and waved as he secured Baxter and drove away.
Rese was nowhere in sight when he parked and went back to the carriage house, but she had set up a workspace along the outer wall with the tools he’d need to begin framing. He glanced at the house with a guilty twinge. She’d prepared it while he had lunch in town? He sighed. Her meals were not his responsibility.
She had probably set up the workstation to make sure it was done right, though she could have expected him back in the attic. His excitement now was for the old structure, but she wouldn’t have known that, would she? He looked toward the house. Maybe she wasn’t as oblivious as he’d thought.
He pulled the tape measure from his belt and got to work. As afternoon drew on to evening, he cut and built the struts and beams for the roof, framing out skylights to supplement the one small window in the back wall. French doors in the front where the old carriage doors had hung would also keep the feel open. He framed out standard sizes there, thankful for the two summers he’d worked with Habitat for Humanity. Building the kingdom of God—literally.
This was not unlike the basic places he’d built for people needing decent housing, except for the existing stone walls and the incredible floor. Tomorrow he would frame out the bedroom and bath, and after that he’d trench for plumbing, gas, and electrical. He laid down Rese’s hammer and looked at the walls lying flat across the stone floor. What would Quillan Shepard think of the changes made here? Thinking of his ancestor made him want to do it well, to make him proud. Lance clenched his hands and closed his eyes.
Lord, help—
“You’ve made progress.” He spun.
Rese stood in the opening, but squatted suddenly. “Oh wow. I didn’t know there was a stone floor.” She touched it with near reverence. “I thought you’d have to pour a slab.”
‘I have no idea why it was buried in sand.”
“It’s great. Look how well the stones fit together.”
She looked so utterly likable he had to bite back the announcement that his great-great-grandfather might have laid it. He didn’t know that for sure. Quillan could have hired a team of Italian stoneworkers. Sonoma had plenty of them working the quarry, since those stones had also paved the streets of San Francisco. The floor might even have been added later, by another relative, or not.
Her gaze went over the framework lying across the stone. “You’re glassing the front? I thought you might.” She was good.
He asked, “Where did you learn construction?”
She stood up. “My dad. Where did you?”
“Habitat.”
She pressed her hands to her hips. “You built homes for the poor?”
She didn’t have to look so incredulous. “What part has you stunned— that I would, or that I could?”
“Both frankly. You don’t look the type.”
And there he’d been thinking positive thoughts about her. “What’s the type?”
She shrugged. “Bigger, stronger, less … stylish.”
Good thing he wasn’t violent.
She noticed his scribbled plan lying among the two-by-fours. “You’re partitioning?”
With a sigh, he picked it up and showed her. “Bed and bath.” He’d done plenty of plumbing work in Pop’s building, where much of his family still lived.
She looked up. “I didn’t budget a bathroom.”
I didn’t budget a bathroom,
he mocked. “What did you think I’d use?”
She frowned. “It’s an expense I didn’t plan on.”
“You’re getting a heck of a deal here.” She knew it too. Labor far outweighed materials.
She stood a long moment, then nodded. “Okay.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She slanted him a glance. “It’s not like any of this was in my original plans.”
He swung his arm. “Say the word, I’ll go away.” Where had that come from? He wasn’t going anywhere. But she irritated him more than anyone he’d known.
She faced him full on. “No need to get emotional.”
Now his hands were on his hips. “Emotional? You know that word?”
She raised her hands. “Cool it. I’ll budget the fixtures.” She turned to leave.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She looked back over her shoulder. “What question?”
“Got a concept of emotion?”
She met and held his eyes, but didn’t answer, just turned and stalked toward the house. Lance ran a hand over his mouth and jaw. Stone. Obsidian. Marble. He could plant her in the garden for a fountain. A tune started in his head, and words joined to the notes.
In the garden cold as stone a woman, skin of bronze. Heartbeat still and silent, and scorn is in her gaze
. He shook his head. In spite of her lean curves, she was totally devoid of feminine softness. He frowned as she disappeared into the inn. No man in his right mind would take her on. Good thing she had a business to run.
His heart skipped stride. No, wait a minute. She did not need this house more than he. Nothing personal. It was ancestral.
R
ese did not appreciate his insinuation. Just because she didn’t laugh her head off or cry her eyes out didn’t mean she was without emotion. She’d worked hard for her self-control, too hard. And these last months, harder still.
He had no idea what a strain this whole project had been, a daunting exercise in determination and fortitude after … Her throat clenched. Capable of emotion? He should climb inside her skin for a day, see how hard she worked just to go on. She hadn’t expected sympathy from the guys, and when it came it was harder to take than their taunting. But she hadn’t shown that either. She wouldn’t. Rese raised her chin, thinking how surprised they had been when she sold the company and walked away.
Her stomach growled. She had hoped Lance might make dinner. He hadn’t cooked since yesterday’s lunch, and wasn’t that what she’d hired him for? She jerked open the cabinet and studied the scant assortment of canned vegetables and packaged soup. She closed it and went to the refrigerator. She’d had a sandwich for lunch and didn’t relish repeating it.
She huffed. When did that begin to matter? Food was food. It kept a body working. She had wanted more of Lance’s cooking, but there was no way she’d go out and ask him now. He wasn’t on the clock while he built his own place. Materials and tools. That was their deal.
She supposed materials did include bathroom fixtures, and the stove to heat the place as she’d seen on his drawing. She should have thought of that, and would have under ordinary circumstances. If she had planned the carriage house remodel, she would have considered all the details and their cost.
She’d been scrupulously on budget until Lance came. But it was true she was getting a deal—labor for materials, and the carriage house finished. She closed the refrigerator and stalked to her suite to shower. The water stung the gouge on her side and reminded her of her carelessness. That would not happen again. If she kept her mind on her work, there would be no room for accidents.
When she came back out, she found Lance washing at the kitchen sink. She searched his face quickly for signs of irritation, but he seemed to be over it. “Are you going to make dinner?”
He shook his hands dry. “No.”
“I’ll buy the ingredients.”
He grabbed a towel and rubbed his forearms. “I’m tired.”
She knew how that was. How many times had she dragged into the kitchen, wanting nothing more than to have the meal materialize like magic?
As she had wanted just now? Lance’s magic.
Rese shoved down the disappointment. She’d grab something to eat, spend the evening trying to get tired enough to sleep … She drew herself up. “I was thinking. You don’t have to keep your hotel room. You could stay upstairs until your place is done.” She caught hold of her upper arms. “That way Baxter wouldn’t have to be cooped up.”
“He’s fine.”
She glanced out the kitchen window to where the dog lay, head on his paws, under the almond tree. “Why pay for a room when mine are furnished and ready? You could choose—”
“I thought you didn’t want me in the house.”
Rese dropped her gaze to the floor. She had made that point, but last night had been eerie and more sleepless than usual. She didn’t want to go through that again. If Lance heard noises, she’d know she wasn’t imagining it. “If you are all the way upstairs—”
“I’m not likely to molest you?” She turned, surprised.
“You don’t have a high opinion of men, do you?”
Where did he get that idea? “Look, it was just a thought. Don’t get—”
“Emotional?”
“Can I ever finish my own sentences?”
He crossed his arms. “All right. Don’t get what?”
“Upset.”
He rolled his eyes to the side.
“I was going to say if you were upstairs and I was down here, we’d each have our own space. By the time you’re finished out back, I’ll be taking guests, so I won’t be alone…” She hadn’t meant to say that.
He cocked his head. “Are you scared?”
She huffed out a breath. “No.”