Secrets (38 page)

L
ance rocked the turns home from church the next morning to get breakfast prepared. He had baked the almond focaccia and kept it warming in the oven with a pan of water to keep it moist. Now he sliced the delicate strawberry and honeydew fans to garnish the plates. Beautiful and edible.

Last he cooked the sausage frittata and served it steaming when the Taylors came down to the dining room. There was no sign of Rese, so he greeted them and asked if they’d slept comfortably.

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Taylor beamed. “Like a dream in that down bedding.” His neck ached worse than ever.

“Enjoyed the music last night,” Mr. Taylor said.

“Thanks.”

They chatted about where they were from and where they’d been. Lance had gotten around with the Peace Corps and Habitat, but the Taylors liked fancier getaways. They lived in Ohio, but escaped whenever they could.

“Well, I’ll let you enjoy your breakfast.”

“You are a wonderful chef.” Mrs. Taylor dabbed her mouth. “It was the food pictures on the Web site that made us choose this place.”

“Thank you.” He went back to the kitchen as Rese dragged herself through the door, no doubt intending to greet her guests.

He headed her off with a hand to her elbow. “Huh-uh.”

She sent him a glare. “Huh-uh, what?”

“Don’t go out there. Not like that.”

“Like what?”

He eased her into a chair. “Like you spent the better part of the night wrestling.” A surge of concern caught him square in the chest.

She dropped her chin and pressed her elbows to the table. “I didn’t sleep until seven.”

Since it was now ten after eight, that made for a very short night. “Go back to bed. I have it under control.”

She shook her head. “I have to take care of the Taylors.”

“I already did. They’re doing just fine. Slept wonderfully.”

She dropped her face to her hands. “Something smells good.”

“I’ll serve yours fresh when you wake up for real.” He raised her to her feet and led her to the door off the kitchen. “Sleep, Rese.” Her fatigue was painful. He watched her into her room. The door closed softly, and he hoped she would drop right off. That was the worst he’d seen her yet. What was with that insomnia?

He checked to see if the Taylors needed anything, refreshed their coffee and inquired as to their plans for the day. Full, as he’d hoped. With them gone and Rese sleeping, he’d have time to work. Even if Star came out and watched as she had the day before, he was simply landscaping.

It was almost titillating to use the wood as he removed it, slowing his descent to a ritual pace. It imparted a ceremonial quality that eased his doubts. He was accounting to Nonna, but keeping his word to Rese as well, bringing back the garden and doing anything and everything else she needed.

The vines he had trimmed back to get at the carriage house were leafing. He hadn’t been sure if they were even alive when he decided to keep some of them. Rese had assumed he knew a lot more about landscaping than he did. He knew a little gardening from Nonna and a little herb lore from Conchessa. He could box a flower bed, and Evvy had instructed him on hedge trimming. But mostly he was working with what was there—a lot more than he’d ever had to work with before in his Belmont neighborhood in the Bronx. This small garden in Sonoma was practically Eden compared to that.

Dogwood and forsythia had already bloomed, but their scent seemed to linger with the honeysuckle hanging heavy now and the whole garden bursting with life and vitality. But as he opened the carriage house door, that smell of age wafted over him. It had to be the cellar. It was stronger than ever since he’d opened the hatch. He glanced up at the portrait he’d hung on the wall separating the bedroom from the sitting room. His ancestor’s dark eyes scrutinized him.

There was no nameplate on the portrait, but by the clothing and expression, he guessed Vittorio Shepard had sat for the artist. “Were you a gangster, old man?” But the man in the portrait wasn’t old, had never grown old, if the story was right. Only old enough, Lance thought, to produce Antonia and through her his father and him. “Who did you torque off?”

He shook his head. “You haven’t left me much to go on. Any of you.” Maybe there were things he shouldn’t learn. Vittorio had died for whatever might be down there. But these were his people, his secrets. Who had a better right to pursue it than he?

He opened the hatch and took a step down, pulling out a board as long as himself. He laid it beside the opening and went down three steep stone steps, anticipation building. He pulled another board free and the rest tumbled to a pile at the bottom.

The space was dim, even with the sun shining through the skylight, so he climbed back up and got the flashlight from his bedroom. When he reached the bottom, he was grateful to see only the neck of the passage had been blocked.

Shining the flashlight into the narrow tunnel, he sensed the lives that had passed that way before. He was about to follow when he heard knocking upstairs. His heart hammered. Rese? He had promised her breakfast, but he hadn’t expected her to wake up so soon.

He switched off the light and clambered up the stairs and through the hatch. It now seemed so evident that it was there. How could anyone miss it? The boards he’d removed lay there as well. He had taped a couple sheets up over the French doors and through the gap he saw Star, not Rese. He closed the hatch and opened the door.

“Morning, Star.”

She spread her arms wide. “I am Morning Star.”

She wore a turquoise shift that hung to her ankles but split at the bottom into broad ribbons. Her feet were bare.

He smiled. Whatever her issues, she was original. “Hungry?”

“I helped myself.”

He glanced at the villa. “Is Rese up?”

Star shook her tangerine mane, then caught his hand and pulled him out the door. “Choose your scene.”

“My scene?”

She swung her arm across the garden, and he noticed an easel and canvas ready. She was going to paint, as she’d said. He studied the areas not plundered by his spade and chose the most colorful patch.

She clapped her hands. “The elf grove.”

She must be seeing something besides the yellow buttercups and California poppies, the feathery plumes and purple lupine. But then, maybe not. She turned her canvas and prepared her pallet.

Since he was out now, Lance headed for the villa. The sound of running water came from Rese’s suite, so he cut her some focaccia and started her frittata. She looked better than she had before, but he wouldn’t call her serene now.

She took the latté he offered but didn’t sit down. “The Taylors?”

“Off and running.”

Her face was tight. “I should have handled it.”

“Everything was fine.”

She frowned. “Nonetheless—”

“I’m seeing ‘managing partner.’ ” He arced his hands like a marquee.

She frowned.

Undaunted, he caught hold of her waist. “Repeat after me. Lance, you’re just what I need to run this place.”

She pulled away from his grasp and sat down. Where was last night’s rapport? He had sung her the most personal song he’d written, the one about losing Tony. He’d done it late after Evvy’s group was gone and only a handful of listeners remained. He could have sworn she understood.

He moved behind her and rubbed the knots from her shoulders. This would become a morning ritual if they didn’t solve her insomnia. “Why didn’t you sleep?”

“I don’t know.” She bit into her focaccia.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

She shook her head. “It’s not every night.”

“It’s often enough. What are you, twenty …”

“Four.”

“That’s way too young to have sleep issues. Are you afraid?”

“No.”

But he felt her tense. Interesting. He worked the shoulders again, then moved up her neck.

She took a bite. “I slept like the dead the last two hours.”

He cocked his head. “Maybe daylight helps. Are you afraid of the dark?”

She twisted to look up. “I’m not afraid, Lance; I just can’t sleep.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t believe me.”

He pressed his thumbs between her shoulder blades with a rolling motion. “It’s not what I feel.”

She huffed. “You think you know what I feel and what I need and what I want. But you don’t.”

He stopped massaging. “What’s the matter, Rese?”

“You’re the matter.” She turned on him. “I told you I didn’t want to get involved.” She pushed up from her seat, leveling the field.

“I only said partners.”

“That’s what you said, but it isn’t what you meant. I saw it all last night.”

He slacked a hip. “Saw what?” What had he done?

“The way you drew everyone in and held them right here.” She raised and clenched her hand. “Everyone under control, everyone—”

He caught her hand in his. “This isn’t about everyone, is it?”

Her glance shifted sideways. Tendons twitched beneath the skin of her face, its contours reminding him of the stone virgin in the convent courtyard. A sweeping tenderness seized him as he tucked a finger under her chin. “I’m not trying to take control. I care about you.”

Her eyes jerked back. “What?”

He was wondering the same thing. Caring was different from attraction, more hazardous than chemistry. With all the secrets between them, all their differences and animosity, it was the last thing he’d intended. “It’s as much a shock to me.”

She stiffened. “Lance Michelli…”

“Oh, Rese, give it a rest.” He pulled her into his arms. With the words out he may as well finish the job. Kissing her plumbed depths he had doubted he possessed. He’d fallen in love a dozen times before he realized feelings weren’t what made you cleave to one person, become one body. That was some mysterious element he had skirted every time.

He felt Rese go soft and realized the power he held. Some balance between them had shifted, and with it he felt responsibility. He cupped her face. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.” He would be her shield, her guard— even from himself.

Distance was definitely in order. With Rese working in the shed, Lance headed for Evvy’s front door. He had leads to follow up. He’d half expected Sybil to come hear him play last night, but it seemed that if he wanted what she had for him, he’d have to take the next step. That would be tricky though. He’d start with Evvy.

She answered the door in a blue print pant suit and Oriental slippers. Her hair was swept up in a twist that framed her face in a soft cloud. And he noticed now that her eyes were a china blue with graying rims. It was a face you had to love, or at least straighten up and pay attention to.

She leaned on her cane. “Lance Michelli.”

“Good morning, Evvy.”

“Morning? It’s almost noon.”

It could be. He wouldn’t be surprised if she told him it was midnight, even with the sun shining down. He’d maxed out his surprise function moments ago with Rese.

“Come in.” She motioned with her free hand.

He stepped into her home and breathed the aroma she carried around with her. It was hard to put a word to it, not a bad odor, just noticeable, like fading mums.

“I was having cheese and crackers.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“There’s enough for two.” She hobbled on her cane. “I have a whole box of Saltines.”

Lance smiled. “I didn’t expect you to feed me.”

“Well, it’s not lasagna or any of those fancy drinks your girlfriend serves.”

“She’s my partner.” He was still trying to grasp the rest. He followed Evvy into the spacious but cluttered kitchen, the only room, of those he’d seen, with more than it could hold.

“I can’t keep up with the lingo. Partner, girlfriend, whatever you like.”

“My business partner, Evvy.” Though Rese hadn’t exactly agreed to that yet.

“Well, you’re certainly working up to more.” She took out a square of cheddar and pulled a paring knife from the sink, then smiled, innocent as a dove. Wily as a serpent?

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to thank you for coming last night.”

“We had a lovely time. I’ll let you cut.”

He took the knife and cut himself a few squares of cheese. “You have a great group.”

“Oh yes.” She slid the package of crackers his way. “We keep each other hopping. Except poor Ralph.”

A better segue he couldn’t have found himself. “Would you like to visit him?”

“Visit Ralph?” She actually blushed. “Why, I haven’t seen him in months. What if he doesn’t remember me?”

Lance sat back and eyed her. “Evvy, you are unforgettable.”

She reached over and patted his hand. “I know why that girl’s smitten.”

“What girl?”

“Your Rese.”

He opened his mouth to explain again, but Evvy raised a hand.

“I saw her when you sang.”

Then he hadn’t imagined the current. Maybe that was why Rese hadn’t slept. If she was as scared as she seemed, she’d have beaten herself up all night with it. But he hadn’t come to talk about Rese. “I could take you to see Ralph. We could hear his stories.”

“Oh.” Evvy’s eyes turned misty. “He’d like that.”

“Do you have a car?”

“I haven’t driven in years.”

“No problem.” Lance munched a cracker with cheese, looked around until he saw the cabinet that held glasses. The door hung partway open; something he could fix for her. He got up and poured them both a drink from the sink. “What do you say?”

“Well.” She touched her hair. “We could, I suppose. I’m not doing much else today.” She dabbed a few cracker crumbs with her finger and put them into her mouth.

“Okay, then.” Lance helped her to stand.

She reached for her cane.

“You can use my arm.”

She looked up into his face. “I didn’t know they made men like you anymore.”

He smiled and walked her carefully to the door. “Do you have a jacket?”

She took a waterproof zip-up from the closet. He helped her put it on, then walked her from her house to the front of Rese’s. Baxter jumped up when he saw them approach the bike. Lance fondled his head. “Not this time, boy.” He took the helmet and turned to Evvy.

“We’re driving this?” She eyed the bike, askance.

He tipped his head. “You’ll have something to tell Ralph.” He could ask Rese if they could borrow her truck … but that might lead to questions he didn’t want to answer. Evvy would be fine; she might even enjoy the ride.