Secrets (29 page)

“I knew you’d think that.” He took the pack from his pocket and shook out a cigarette.

“Not in here.”

He tucked the cigarette behind his ear. “I want your skill, your eye.” He looked around the room. “Your carving.” He took the cigarette off his ear and said, “Can we go outside?”

She pointed to the door. “Outside, in your truck, down the street; I’m not interested.” And she was starting to shake deep inside.

“Walk out with me.”

It seemed the best way to get him to leave. She preceded him.

He stopped on the porch. “I was surprised as heck when you sold out. I would have stayed on.”

“I didn’t hear Barrett and Plocken.”

He flicked his lighter and lit up. “We can discuss it.”

She snorted. “Let me guess. There’s a bet. Ten bucks says she falls for it.”

He tightened his brows. “There’s no bet, Rese. We just want you back at what you do best.”

She turned away as tears stung. What she did best? That was before every sound, every action, brought panic and pain.

“I’m being up-front here.” He blew the smoke from his lips. “We can take the market back.”

“Who’s going to finance it? I sold the assets.”

He looked up at the villa. “You’d turn something here with the work you’ve done. You know it’s good.”

She swallowed the lump filling her throat. It would be her first solo effort, all the profits hers, all the satisfaction. She had increased the value immeasurably. But she’d shaken and almost passed out every time the memories…. She pushed past him. “Go home, Brad. I’m not selling.”

“At least think about it. You’ve got my number.” He went down the steps, but she was back inside before he reached the walk. She could not begin to guess his motives, or those of the rest of them. Too bad if they didn’t like the new ownership. They hadn’t wanted her either.

Lance chopped the edge of the flower bed with the blade of the shovel, separating the overgrowth and tossing it aside. In the night he had determined his plan of action should Rese retain him. He couldn’t remove the wood from the cellar without an inconspicuous place to put it. But the garden’s condition was such that he could use the wood as borders for new beds and build up existing dividers.

Rese had asked him to take that task on, and he didn’t get the impression she would interfere much. She seemed to leave the things outside her expertise to him—the sign of a decent manager. So he could prepare the grounds for the timbers, then work them in little by little while she focused elsewhere. That suited him fine. The more distance between them the better.

The morning was warm, the overcast burning off sooner than usual. The citrus scent of his sweat mixed with the rich, loamy ground. He hacked another cut through stems and roots and tossed aside the excess. It would take all summer to reclaim the gardens, but he only needed as long as it took to clear out the hole under his floor.

Luckily they’d “reached an understanding” and Rese would “keep him on.” If she’d expected weepy thanks, he’d disappointed her. He had apologized for his recklessness, and now he knew his place—unless he established the real order of things. If Nonna had been driven from her property unlawfully … He wiped sweat from his temple with his shirt sleeve and saw the visitor coming his way. Lance paused.

“Brad Plocken.” The man extended a palm as callused as his these days.

Lance shook it and gave his name, but Brad’s business with Rese did not concern him. She was not his responsibility. She’d made that clear, and he was thankful for the clarification. He could focus on what mattered.

“You work for Rese?”

“That’s right.” By God’s grace and more self-control than he had known he possessed. Interesting Brad hadn’t assumed they were partners or in a relationship. He must know Rese well.

“How’s she doin’?”

Lance looked toward the house. “Fine, I guess.” Terrific now that she’d established control and put him in his place.

“She’s a bear, isn’t she?” Brad grinned. “But she’s good. Too good. Drives guys nuts.”

Lance assumed Brad meant her carpentry.

“She thinks I’m out to get her. I admit there’s competitive juices, but mostly I wanted to know if … well, if she still has it. She was pretty messed up by the time I got to the site.”

Lance leaned on the shovel. “Her dad’s accident?”

Brad nodded. “Sawed right down his forearm—took off his hand.”

Lance winced.

“Arterial blood bursting everywhere. She was covered in it.” Brad drew on his cigarette with his brows pinched together. “Rese tried to tourniquet, but there was too much damage.”

The scene was all too vivid. No wonder she hadn’t been able to talk about it. A quiver of sympathy. He’d feel it for anyone in that position.

“The heck of it was, he’d always harped on safety.”

A message Rese had taken to heart.

Brad shook his head. “There he was cutting with a saw that had lost its guard. Go figure.”

The smallest decisions had consequences a person could never foresee.

“I’ve known Rese since she was twelve. Never seen her cry. And she’d had cause.”

Yes, she had shared some of that cause.

Brad tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. “When I saw her sitting there, tears in sheets through the blood, but not making any sound, no sound at all…”

Lance frowned. The one time he’d seen her cry, she’d stifled it immediately. Obviously not something she did easily.

“Her dad asked me to look out for her if something happened to him, but she wanted no part of that.”

Lance shifted his grip on the shovel. “She likes to do things her way.”

Brad laughed. “Don’t I know.” Then he sobered. “She’s not as tough as she seems. For a while there I thought it might go another way.”

What did he mean by that?

“You know about her mom?” Brad touched his head.

“Not much.” He had sensed a trust level in that disclosure that he didn’t want to betray.

“Schizophrenia.”

“Rese told you that?”

Brad shook his head. “Vernon. Her dad.” He hooked his thumb in his belt loop. “When Vern died, Rese went three weeks without making a sound. And that’s weird, let me tell you.”

Not weird if silence was already a coping mechanism.

“I thought she’d gone under. But she came out of it, all of a sudden, and sold the company. Just like that.” He clicked his fingers and ashes fell from the cigarette.

That was her business. Why was Brad telling him? “I can see why she wouldn’t want to do it anymore.”

“With anyone else, yeah. But not Rese. It’s what she lives for.” Lance swallowed. “Not anymore.”

Brad looked toward the house. “She thinks she can let it go. But it’s all she’s got of him, and he’s all she ever had. She should sell this and come back.”

Sell it? “She’s happy with this place. She’ll do a good job.” Why was he defending her?

Brad shrugged. “I don’t see it happening.”

Who asked him anyway? So what if it was the same things he’d thought. Rese wasn’t a natural innkeeper, and she probably would go crazy without something to hammer. But it was her business. Lance raised the shovel.

Brad said, “Remind her she’s got options, okay?”

Lance nodded. If she took that option and sold the villa, could he buy it? He flashed to Sybil saying her family owned the bank. Impossible; he’d never qualify. But if it was truly Nonna’s property as he’d begun to suspect, could he contest the deal, prove an unlawful sale? And where did that leave Rese?

He understood now why she had almost passed out that day on the scaffolding. How could she go back to renovation with such horrific memories? But he was not allowed to think of her in sympathetic terms. That became personal. Personal was taboo.

He could only work for her. No more chats, no sharing thoughts or fears or hopes. It was business. And now that he’d found the cellar, he was glad for it. She would have no reason to enter his place once they had it done. His purpose was once again clear.

It was more than an hour before Rese came out and headed for the carriage house. Lance had worked where he could see her coming. He had agreed to let her trim it, but now he had to be part of the process. As much as he would like to avoid sharing the same space, he needed to guard the floor device.

She looked up as he joined her. “I’m going to trim it out now.”

“If you cut and fit, I’ll tack it on.”

“I can do it, Lance.”

“I know. But I’d like to work on it.” She hadn’t actually ordered him off. It was not insubordinate to assist her. In fact, it showed good faith. He might have avoided her completely.

She started to say something, but stopped herself. She was tight as a cat, crouched and ready to spring, as she set up her workspace and gathered her tools. She measured the lengths and marked them on trim boards. He let her do it all herself, not lending a hand where he would have before, but becoming as unobtrusive as the spider that climbed the wall. If she wanted blind obedience, he could give her that.

She put on her safety goggles and made sure everything was right, then fitted the first stained board into the miter box. Her tension was tangible. Maybe she’d wanted to work alone so he wouldn’t see her struggle.

She gripped the saw. The noise filled the space, and he wondered how she could stand it. A moment’s hesitation before she cut, a ragged breath at the end of it. She was fragile—probably more so after Brad’s visit. He’d churned things up.

And, of course, their own dealings had been stressful. Lance wished he could undo that part. He should never have made it personal. It could have been simple. Do what Rese said; find what he came for. Trying to befriend her had mucked things up.

They worked efficiently together, but it went slower than if he’d done the job himself. She was meticulous to a painful degree. Every cut, every fit perfect. The sun climbed the sky, but she didn’t mention lunch. Stretched taut, she worked hard to look relaxed.

Star brought them lemonade but didn’t stay. “This friction makes my hair stand up.” She forked her fingertips to her skull and walked out.

Rese looked over. “Brad told you why he came?”

She must have seen them talking. “He wants you to go back to work.”

“Dad’s reputation was stellar. While you were building homes for the poor, we were doing million-dollar remodels on weekend houses, renovations on historic Nob Hill.” She sounded bitter.

“There’s a place for everything.”

“Brad wants my name so he can take the market back from the upstarts I sold to.”

Why was she telling him this? She’d been ready to fire him that morning for wanting to get to know her. She would have too.

Rese shook her head. “Rosita told him. I guess that’s how Star knew also.” She sighed. “She probably thinks it could be like it was. She doesn’t understand it can never …” Her voice caught.

Lance would have reached out. Did she realize the position she kept putting him in? Another woman, sure. Rese? Probably not. He looked away.

She drained her lemonade and set the glass by the door out of their way. He did the same with his, and they went back to work. A minute later she said, “Lance…” Her brow creased as she fought for words.

“We’ve reached an understanding, Rese.” She couldn’t have it both ways.

She nodded, swallowing, then used the saw. Her hand shook, no doubt a new phenomenon for steady, self-controlled Rese Barrett. She’d have to find her way, make up her own mind. If this place mattered to her, as it should, she would not let it go. But if it mattered to her, his actions would be that much worse. He couldn’t worry about that. If he was in God’s will, things would happen the way they had to.

Her neighbor, the nurse, stood outside her door, as he often did before heading to his night shift at the hospital. “Anything you need, Evvy?” His smile was soft as the rest of him, the sort of body type that smoothed out muscle as though he was made of dough and baked to a golden brown with fine blond hairs on his forearms and a thin covering of the same atop his head. His eyes were green candied cherries pressed into his face, with a caring in their depths that would be comforting beside your bed.

He had tried to persuade her into the hospital, especially when Dr. Beldham had ordered it. But they both knew she was not leaving her home for the sterile comfort of a hospital room. Her own might be simple and bare, but it was hers.