Secrets (15 page)

Lance raised his brows at the next information. Quillan knew the leader of the gang, Shane Dennison? The article claimed Quillan had been involved in a robbery with Dennison years before, but was cleared of the charges.

It’s the old story of a boy enamored with a man, only to be shown the stark truth of that man’s nature. But Quillan Shepard redeemed himself and took action on the side of right against the very one who had shamed him. This stalwart man of doughty countenance is the stuff of today’s hero
.

Lance rubbed the back of his neck. Stalwart man of doughty countenance. He doubted anyone questioned Quillan’s manhood. Of course, until Rese, no one had questioned his own. The article ended with a charge for people to stand for what was right, even in the face of personal risk. A smile tugged his lips. He must have a dose of Quillan after all.

Lance set that article gently aside. The next seemed to be a follow-up to the same story, though it came from a Cheyenne, Wyoming, newspaper.

Headline:
Robber Cut Down by Clerk’s Foresight.
Lance read on.

Notorious bank and train robber, Shane Dennison, was shot dead Wednesday at the Fort Laramie bank. Bank clerk, Simon Blessing, claims he saw the notorious outlaw in a poker game at the saloon. “I recognized the mole under his lip from the new posters.” Certain there could be trouble he alerted bank owner, Thaddeus Marsh. Law officers were ready when Dennison made his move on the bank. Dennison was shot trying to exit the window. Two partners were captured and await trial
.

It read like an old western dime novel. But the next were even more impressive. They were articles about Quillan from the
Harper’s Monthly Magazine
that included pieces of his poetry. Conchessa had let him take a book of Quillan’s poetry, which he had read on the plane ride home, finding a connection with his own song lyrics. Had he inherited his poetic nature from this man of long ago?

Lance was fitting the pieces together as in his dream. Maybe it was a prophetic dream, the Lord promising resolution. It nagged a little that even when he’d assembled the shards, the mirror was still broken. But right now he was finding pieces.

He picked up a packet of letters and untied the string. The first smelled of musty age, and he was glad it had been protected by the metal box. The thick paper unfolded with difficulty. It had been hand ornamented with roses at the bottom, but they were faded almost unrecognizably.

March 13, 1883

My dearest Carina,

Felicitations on the birth of your son, Vittorio DiGratia Shepard. And congratulations to your husband. I accept with gratitude your request to be godfather to the child. He will benefit from my tutelage in ways your Quillan falls short, pride in the old country, and the history of our people.
In this and all, I will fulfill the holy task as though he were my own.

Fondly,

Flavio

Lance raised his eyebrows at the man’s swagger. That guy had courted Carina and seemed to think of Quillan as an afterthought. Interesting they had chosen him for such an important role in Vittorio’s life. Quillan must have been confident of his relationship with his wife. He carefully folded the letter and slid it into the envelope.

The next was on thin vellum with no ornamentation at all. It had the same smell of age, but felt brittle rather than stiff. With careful fingers, Lance unfolded it.

October 12, 1925

Darling Antonia,

How pleased I am to celebrate your fifteenth birthday. Today the house will be filled with good cheer and well wishers, but there will be none who look upon you with more joy, not even the young rascals whose heads you have turned, than your own papa. You are still my ragazza picola.

With love and tenderness
,

Papa

His grandmother’s fifteenth birthday. And the Vittorio born to Quillan and Carina was her father. Ragazza picola: her papa’s little girl. He’d obviously doted on her. Why had she hardly mentioned him?

Something stirred inside, deeper than family pride. This was his past, his ancestry, and he knew so little about the lives that went before him, the lives that made him. He closed his eyes and imagined his grandmother Antonia as a fifteen-year-old beauty. But there came instead to his mind a brownhaired, brown-eyed woman.

Lance opened his eyes with a jolt. He did not want to picture Rese just now. Not while he was keeping this secret. How would she react if he showed her the box and its contents? If he told her who these people were, who he was….

The next letter was definitely in a woman’s hand. He stared a moment at the form and shape of the words, not even caring what sentences they formed, just appreciating the beauty of the strokes. Then he began to read.

Dear Mr. Michelli
. Lance jerked, an almost electrical thrill passing through him.

My nonno is the least of your concerns. He is very forward thinking and accepting. It is my papa you will have to convince, and since he is no less discerning than I, your chances remain bleak.

Most sincerely,

Antonia DiGratia Shepard

His grandmother had a sense of humor—and a healthy self-image. He turned the paper over.

Bella Antonia,

I am up to the task, I assure you. I will call tonight at eight.

Your ardent admirer,

Marco Michelli

Nonno Marco. He’d used her own letter to reply. Self-assured. Passionate. Lance had always felt an affinity. He smiled. His grandfather had come to America with nothing but “my mandolin across my back and my good looks”—in his own words. Apparently, he didn’t even have money for paper or postage. But in spite of Nonna’s dismissive tone, he had made enough of an impression for her to keep this scrap of correspondence.

Lance closed the letter and put it with the others. The only things left in the box were two photos. A sepia picture of a blond woman with
Helena
penciled on the back and another of an older man with a shock of white hair, sitting at a desk with a pen in hand. Lance’s throat tightened. It had to be Quillan Shepard, though there was no name inscribed.

He took out the packet from Conchessa that he had also stashed in his drawer. From it he drew the small book of poetry with pages worn as soft and pliable as cloth. He opened the book and gently turned the first leaves to an etched illustration of his great-great-grandfather. The hair was the same length and thickness, and the expression equally compelling. Lance studied the photographs again, then carefully put everything into the box.

The contents had proved his family’s connection to the house and matched the things Conchessa had told him. Though there was nothing in the box that answered his questions or solved the problem he’d come to solve, it was a start. Anticipation rose up. The Lord had brought him there for a reason.
Show me. Let me do your will
.

Lance put the papers back into the box and slid it once again into the drawer. He flipped open his cell phone, pressed the number for Nonna’s room and waited. She wouldn’t answer herself, but there was usually someone with her. If she was up to it, they’d hold the phone for her and he could tell her what he’d found.

But the phone rang with no answer. Maybe she was in therapy, raising and lowering her arms in the pool, whatever little steps she was taking back to health. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what he should tell her.

The last time he had spoken with her directly, she had tried to talk, and the effort had frustrated and weakened her. It was better in that respect to talk to the others, but this information was for Nonna alone. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, just a sense they’d had between them from the start, his knowing what she needed without her asking, and vice versa.

He would wait until he had something more, something solid to tell her. He only hoped whatever it was would bring her peace.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

The crushing of the grapes.

Juice and remains divided;

one to its lauded use, the other humble.

Stems and skin returned to the land, renewing its vigor.

But the juice, ah, the juice. Cana’s treasure.

Always we strive for the miracle.

R
ese was vaguely aware of Lance going out the kitchen door, probably to work on the carriage house, but she was preoccupied. Carpentry had become a bittersweet love, the sounds and smells rife with memories that came no matter how hard she tried to block them.

The first months of renovation had been a welcome blur of activity, but every day now the numbness wore off. The pangs grew sharper, the images more debilitating. Wasn’t time supposed to lessen pain?

She heard a car outside and looked through the front window from her perch on the scaffolding. A loose-hipped blonde climbed out. What was she selling? The woman didn’t come to the door, but started around the side of the villa. Rese tightened her brow. She must have seen Lance and assumed he was in charge. Typical.

He would no doubt redirect her, but when the woman still didn’t appear at the door, Rese climbed down and passed through to the kitchen. The woman was there with Lance, all right, one hand on the small of her back in a feminine posture intended to show it all without appearing to.
The name’s Blonde, Dumb Blonde
.

The woman laughed with Lance as Baxter nosed into her other hand.
Traitor
. Lance was animated as he turned and gestured toward the carriage house, obviously describing the work in progress. The woman nodded and smiled as though they knew each other already. Something tightened inside Rese’s ribs.

Lance motioned toward the villa, and Rese ducked out of sight, mortified that he might have caught her watching. She climbed back onto the scaffolding and measured the space at three different heights. The old walls were more plumb than newer construction.

She loved the quality that had gone into things in times past. Maybe that was her problem; she’d been born in the wrong century. Of course, she would have been banned from carpentry altogether a hundred years ago by virtue of her gender. So, she was simply a misfit, and when it came down to it, she didn’t care.

Voices sounded in the kitchen, then Lance called, “Rese?”

She swallowed the tightening in her throat. What was wrong with her? “In here.”

They came in together. Lance said, “This is Sybil Jackson. Do you care if I show her around?” Yes, she cared.

Sybil flipped her hair back with that lithe gesture Rese despised. “I freelance for the
Index Tribune
. Lance said this house has history. Maybe I could do a story on it.”

Rese looked from her to Lance. “What history?”

He shrugged. “Any house this old has history. You ought to look into having it registered.”

“It would cost me too much to renovate. I couldn’t use any materials except those specified authentic and appropriate.” Rese dropped the heavyduty measuring tape with a loud clatter, pleased when Sybil jumped.

Lance handed it back, then walked Sybil to the stairs. “The guest rooms are finished. They’ll give you a better idea.”

I just bet
. Rese traversed the scaffolding as Lance and Sybil went upstairs. Sybil’s slinky glide had brought up a dark memory. Alanna. Mom had taken the role of Alanna too far, pretending sometimes even after Dad came home. He had not enjoyed it, either, the way Mom slid herself around him, talking in that husky voice not her own. Sometimes he had put her forcefully away from him, ordering her to stop acting that way. Then Mom would laugh, Alanna’s hateful laugh.

Rese forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.
Do not lose your focus
. But that thought only brought worse images to mind. A wave of dizziness spun her head. She gripped the metal framing, her legs weak with the sheer suffocating helplessness.

She pressed her hand to her face, trying not to recall the blood pumping into her lap, the coppery tang of life escaping. She staggered, went down on her sore knee, her breath coming sharp and shallow. Tears welled up behind her eyelids, a sensation as foreign as it was unwelcome. She resisted the pain as she would a hammer blow to her thumb, but she couldn’t shake the sight and smell of blood seeping through her fingers.

“Rese?”

She couldn’t respond. The scaffolding shook.

“Rese?” Lance climbed onto the plank and took her arm. “Are you hurt?”

She forced her eyes to open. “No.” She glanced down at Sybil, then pushed up to standing. “Just lost my balance.”

He studied her, but didn’t press the issue. “We’re going to grab some dinner. You want to come?”

“No.” She knew well enough three was a crowd, and she had work to do.

“Sure?”

She nodded. The sooner they were gone the better. She didn’t need an audience.

Lance left on his motorcycle with Sybil Jackson holding on around his waist and Baxter barking forlornly in the circular drive. Rese climbed down the scaffolding and called the dog into the parlor. Once the furniture was in place and the inn open for business, Baxter could not be allowed inside. But at the moment, in the empty room, she and the dog would commiserate.