Secrets (4 page)

A noise from behind brought Rese sharply around to the figure standing in the doorway with a look of belonging on his face, as though
she
had walked in on
him
. For a moment, under his dark-eyed scrutiny, she felt herself the trespasser. No way. She had spent too many years as the odd man out to accept it in her own dining room. “Did you want something?”

He hung his hands in his jeans pockets. “I’m looking for Rese Barrett.”

“Yes?”

“You’re Rese?”

“No doubt you expected a burly man with a crew.” He didn’t deny it, nor did he appear chagrinned at falling into the stereotypical mindset. He was probably another neighbor concerned about an inn, eager to instruct her on his personal expectations, as if she didn’t know to provide enough offstreet parking for guests and curtail late-night noise. On this fringe-of-town street only one house was close enough to be affected by what happened on her property, and that closest neighbor had yet to appear. Until now?

But the guy looked up to the cornice she held and said, “You need help.”

“No, I don’t.” She sent a last nail nearly through the cornice and let go. Help and need were not in her vocabulary. Even now.

“You said so.”

“Said so?”

He motioned through the wide doorway to the sign in the front-parlor window. The sun-backed, reversed letters did form a Help Wanted sign, and along with her name and phone number she had written in bold black the position available: maid/cook.

He came forward and reached up. “I’m Lance. Lance Michelli.”

Sighing, Rese climbed down the scaffolding, hung the hammer in her belt and gave his hand a decisive grip. “You’re a maid?”
She
did not make assumptions according to gender.

He said, “Cook,” and before she could set him straight, added, “I’ve trained with two of the best chefs in Italy and New York.” He glanced at the freshly hung cornice. “I can also do some carpentry.”

She took in his spare frame, the stylish cut of his dark hair, and especially the diamond in his ear and tried not to snort. “I do the carpentry. And if your other claim is true, you’re overqualified for my opening. Why don’t you apply at the fancy restaurants on the plaza?”

He looked around the dining room’s long, multi-paned windows and his tone deepened. Again she sensed his belonging as he said, “This place is just what I’m looking for.”

She clamped down on her concern. “This place is a bed-and-breakfast— muffins, fruit. I don’t need a chef.”

“Why not espresso and pastries? Frittatas and crepes, almond focaccia and tarts?”

The idea sprang up with a life of its own. She tried to slap it down, but it slid into her mind as though it belonged there, much the same way he’d slid into her dining room. She frowned. She had not intended anything that fancy. Good breakfasts, yes, but…

“Or a nightly special,” he went on. “
Saltimbocca
or
pollo marengo
or lasagna. What other bed-and-breakfast offers that?”

Her stomach growled. How long since she had stopped to eat? She didn’t know half of what he was saying, but lasagna—she imagined the aroma seeping from the kitchen. She had not planned to serve full meals, though the kitchen was certainly sufficient for it. The family who built the villa must have considered that room the social hub of their lives. Personally, the less time she spent in any kitchen the better.

She looked him over again. She hadn’t expected a response to the sign so soon after putting it in the window, had only just called in the ad. It was crazy to choose the first person through the door just because he talked a good line and appealed to her hollow stomach. But his idea did intrigue her.

Sonoma had its share of bed-and-breakfast establishments, and her competition was stiff. Most were within walking distance of the historic plaza; hers was nearer the outskirts of town. It wasn’t a long drive in, but people would need incentive to choose hers over a closer inn. She hadn’t opened yet, but she had put enough work into the place to form a protective attitude. Even when she renovated other people’s property, she felt as though it was a little bit hers when she’d finished.

This time it was all hers, and she wanted it to work—needed it to. Again she felt the vise at her throat; again she forced it away. She wouldn’t want a hoity-toity chef, but what about one who would produce irresistible food? Was this man capable of irresistible?

Maybe, but he was sidetracking her from the real issue. “Look, I’m sorry, but it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a dual position, maid
and
cook. I can only afford one person.”

He considered that a moment, then shrugged. “Okay.”

“Not okay.”

“You can be a carpenter, but I can’t be a maid?”

“That’s not what I meant.” And she flushed that he would think it. She was more fair-minded than any person on the planet. “The job is minimum wage plus room and board. I’m sure you can do better than that … and frankly, I’m looking for a woman.” Let him sue her. It wasn’t job discrimination; it was practical. She was not sharing her quarters with a guy. She had worked with men exclusively for too many years to choose that situation again.

His eyes flashed. “You won’t be having male guests?”

“Male guests will use the upper-level guest rooms. And they leave.”

“What about the building out back?”

“What?” Rese turned and followed his gaze through the tall, arched windows to the stone tumble almost completely surrounded by old grapevines. “It’s not habitable.”

“I’ll make you a deal. You provide the materials and tools, and I’ll do the work.”

He’d make
her
a deal? She stared out the window as yet another thought wormed in to curl up with the last. She hated to lose the old structure but would not have time to restore it before opening if she wanted to have any track record before the main season began.

She glanced again at the diamond in his ear, his chic jeans and leather jacket—not the sort she would ever hire on to her crew. Besides, the building wouldn’t pass code. “It would have to be wired for power and—”

He hung his thumbs in his belt loops. “I can run an electrical line.”

And juggle burning torches and play a harmonica with his toes, no doubt
. “You’d have to come off the box in the kitchen, and there’s a problem in the wiring. The appliances work, but the other breaker’s messed up. I haven’t gotten to it, and I’m not sure when I will.”

“I’ll look at it.”

She didn’t hide her skepticism. “You’ve done that sort of work?”

“I’ve done a bit of everything.”

Rese snorted. “Jack-of-all-trades and master of none?”

He jerked his chin and blazed her with his eyes. Talk about intense. He would be trouble, she could tell. Trouble she didn’t need. She wasn’t judging, but his hands were too expressive for manual labor, not a callus in sight. It was obvious.

But he said, “If I can rebuild the carriage house, I get the job?”

She perceived a keen desire that didn’t quite make sense. It wasn’t that great a job. He’d make more money at any restaurant in town, though he couldn’t live in town on that. Room and board was a substantial perk, and one she had hoped would get her an appreciative employee.

She hadn’t expected the woman she hired to build her own room, but if he wanted the job enough to tackle the carriage house, it would free the second room of her suite for an office. That thought of her own fit snugly with his implants. No doubt he would have suggested it himself if she’d voiced the need for computer space.

Rese expelled her breath. No point scrutinizing him further; she wouldn’t tell anything more by appearance. It was productivity that mattered. “
If
you can do that, we’ll make it a trial period, to see that you can also cook. And clean.”

“Deal.” His grip was firm and confident. “When do I start?”

“I’m opening the first of May.” Just over three weeks to finish the renovation, a Web site, and other advertising and promotion. If he hadn’t rendered the carriage house habitable by then, he’d be on his own for lodging. “Your compensated hours will depend on reservations.”

“Okay.” He glanced about. “Mind if I take a look around?”

“Go ahead.” She slid a fresh board onto the worktable. “You might change your mind. It’s a lot of house to take care of.” And she was not compromising on the maid part.

Rese aligned the pencil mark while he wandered off. Three more sections and she’d have the cornice up. This room and the front parlor had been the most work, requiring both structural and surface repairs over the last few months, but the bulk of it was done and she was down to the finish work.

The six bedrooms upstairs had not been as damaged by time and vandals as the lower level. Her guests would sleep in mostly original architecture, not counting the bathrooms that had been added before her. Rese had determined that earlier remodel adequate, since there was only so much she could accomplish alone. With a jolt, she realized that had just changed.

Jack-of-all-trades and master of none?
Did she know how condescending she sounded, her scornful gaze, that mocking snort? Rese Barrett had scoped him out and judged. In those few minutes, she’d seen … more than he intended? Lance frowned. Maybe it wasn’t personal; maybe she thought the worst of everyone.

Walking through the rooms of the old villa confirmed his first impressions. Not an architectural marvel compared to its European forebears, but a stately structure nonetheless. His pulse quickened as he roamed the rooms, freshly papered and painted, though not yet furnished.

He’d learned from the people at his hotel that the address he asked about was being renovated as a bed-and-breakfast. Then he’d seen the truck outside and expected a construction crew, not a one-woman operation—formidable as she was. Rese Barrett’s work was competent and interesting, but she could have no idea what secrets the old place held, what memories she’d papered over. She could not know the house had a story, or that the story was his.

He hadn’t even known it until recently. Three weeks in Liguria had brought him here, unsure of what, if anything, he’d find. He hadn’t anticipated employment right on the property, but he should have. From the time he’d left Nonna’s side, every step seemed to be orchestrated. For once he might just be doing exactly what he was meant to do.

Lance went down to the kitchen. No other room welcomed him as this one, and he guessed it was more than the scant amount of attention it seemed to have received. The tile floor might even be original. The gas stove and oversized sink basin were dated, but that suited him just fine. He closed his eyes and imagined the life this room had held, a young Antonia with her mother, her grandmother? Sisters, cousins? He could almost hear the laughter, the scolding.

He laid his palms on the stone counter and breathed deeply. The cook position was clearly a godsend. The maid portion—divine comedy. Rese Barrett? Penance. He could picture Nonna agreeing. But he’d live with that; he’d live with anything in order to do what he’d come for. Nonna Antonia was depending on him, and her need sharpened the razor edge of his own and kept him from feeling guilty. He’d have the chance to find whatever Nonna needed, and then Rese could hire the woman she wanted.

He went out the back door and fought through the tangled vines and other brush to the carriage house, imagining the scents of leather and polish, horsehair and manure, the squeak of harness and a creaking wheel. Instead, he ducked beneath the sagging roof only to have weeds and mildewed wood assault his nose, and there was no sound but the buzzing of a fly.

The walls would probably not cave in, though in places the mortar had chunked out completely between the stones. The remnant of roof, however, might very well come down on him. That was the place to start. Though he hadn’t planned on it, he had done this sort of labor before, among other things. His experience was broad, and that would benefit him now, whatever his new employer thought.

He could work on the carriage house as long as he was there, even if she wasn’t paying for his time. That way they’d both get something out of this. The thought eased his conscience. She had put a lot of work into the villa, and he was not averse to adding his own sweat. The place deserved it. How much of its history did she know? It seemed she had recently acquired the property. He might kick himself for bad timing, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he had found it for sale. He could never have afforded it.

So for better or worse, Rese Barrett was his immediate future—which might explain the premonition he’d had the moment he saw her, the sense that she was part of his quest. Of course, that was before she opened her mouth.