Secrets (5 page)
Through the window, Rese glimpsed Lance heading for the stone structure with the crowbar and ladder he’d requested. He would have his hands full making that place a dwelling. She was skeptical of the outcome, but it was worth a try. “Doing a bit of carpentry” could not compare to the years she had put into the craft—nothing personal. Excellence required a sustained attention and a diligence not many were willing to devote. But if he had construction experience and could make it safe, it might not need to be beautiful.
She could hardly believe she was thinking that, when quality workmanship meant everything to her. She tacked up the last section of ceiling trim and walked around the scaffolding, sinking finishing nails and plugging them with putty so they were all but invisible. The details of her own work were never unimportant.
She disassembled the scaffolding and turned her attention to the baseboards. Measure, cut, and fit. Not everyone would expect perfection in baseboards, but a misaligned fit would grate on her like a paper cut. Her hypercritical attention to detail might not be healthy, as some people had insinuated, but it was as much her nature as brown hair and brown eyes, and she could change those two more easily than the first.
Rese worked through the afternoon and packed up her tools as the last of the daylight faded. She would have turned on a light, except the chandelier for the central fixture had not arrived and only a pair of stiff wires extended from the ceiling. She had work lights, but could not bring herself to use them.
Yet,
she told herself. Yet.
Casting her gaze once more around the room, she heard activity in the kitchen. Her cook?
He was unloading a paper sack of groceries and glanced over as she entered. “Have you eaten?”
She shook her head, then jutted her chin toward the can he’d set on the counter. “I don’t really like artichokes.”
“You will.” He drizzled olive oil into the old copper pan she had hung above the stove for decoration, apparently finding it usable. His fingers were deft as he minced a single clove of garlic and scattered it over the olive oil, then laid two flattened chicken breasts in the pan. The pungent aroma wafted up and tantalized. Maybe he did know how to cook.
Rese went back to her business and left him to his. The more she thought about it, the more delighted she was to relinquish control of the kitchen. She let that role peel away like the flaky skin of his garlic. If she never cooked again, she would not miss it one bit.
Lance bathed the chicken in Chardonnay, then when it had mostly cooked off, he topped the golden meat with sauteéed artichoke hearts and sprinkled it all with a finely minced basil leaf and fresh grated
parmigiano
. The crisp green beans cooked with olive oil and lemon were a perfect complement, and he garnished each plate with a slice of lemon on a trio of basil leaves.
He was hungry, but this meal was also to show Rese what he could do. He wasn’t concerned about her disdain for artichokes. A lot of people thought they didn’t like something because it hadn’t been prepared well. He would be very surprised if she complained.
Earlier that afternoon he had torn off the carriage house roof, then ridden his Harley into town to wash up at his hotel room. The welcome he’d received there was far more genial than Rese Barrett’s. Baxter had been cooped up too long and all but shoved him out the door with his shaggy head. After giving the dog time to run it off, they had shopped for ingredients, then headed back to the bed-and-breakfast together. He was hoping to keep the animal there even before the carriage house was habitable. He would ask Rese after he fed her. Things usually worked better that way.
He poured two glasses of water and went in search of her. The second floor was empty, but he found her just outside the only lower-level bedroom, which must be her own quarters, now that he thought of it. By the state of her hair, she was fresh out of the shower. Since it formed a dark cap around her features and was even shorter than his, he guessed she didn’t fuss much with it. “Dinner’s ready.”
“We need to establish some rules. You’re not allowed past that door.” She indicated the door into the narrow hall that separated her suite from the kitchen.
“Okay.” He started back through it. If she wanted cold food, she could have it cold.
But she followed him out and took a seat in one of the two rickety wooden chairs in the kitchen. Where she had picked them up he could hardly guess, but he hoped she intended to do better for her guests. He sat down, breathing a silent prayer over the food, then watched intently as she took her first bite.
She cut another bite and ate it. No comment, no change of expression. He cut into his succulent chicken, breathed the aroma of blended oil and herbs, cheese and wine, then took the bite. Perfect. What was her deal?
She rubbed the napkin over her mouth. “I’ll need you to fill out an I—9 and a W—2 and produce two types of identification and references.”
“Would you like that before you try your beans?”
She frowned down at her plate. “No, we can eat first.” She stabbed a bean and bit it in half. He could tell by the way her teeth broke through that it was perfectly
al dente
. She chewed and finished the other half, then went back to her chicken.
He sipped his water. What was her game, to intimidate by disinterest? Annoy by lack of expression? How many women had a savory meal cooked just for them and ate it in stoic silence? It wasn’t as if the sheer tantalizing pleasure on her tongue kept her mute. He might have served up a boiled hot dog on a bun.
Baxter barked outside the back door, and she raised her head. Lance laid down his fork. “It’s only Baxter.”
“You have a dog?”
“I was just going to mention that.” If Baxter hadn’t forced the issue he would have worked into it gradually.
Do you like animals? How do you feel about one on the property?
“What does he want?”
“To make sure I haven’t forgotten him. Normally he’s not insecure. But this is all new. We’ve only been in town a couple days.”
She got up and went to the door, peering through the glass to where he had left the cocker-retriever mix under the nut or fruit tree. “Is he hungry?”
“You want to give him your chicken?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I’d rather finish it.”
Well, what do you know
. “I fed him before we came back. He’s just lonely.”
She opened the door and went out. He huffed a short laugh. At this rate the dog held the best chance for wowing her.
Baxter’s plaintive whine ceased as it always did with a good ear scratch.
Guess the dog won’t be a problem
. Lance cut another bite of the fragrant chicken. Maybe he just had to find the right meal. Everyone had some food they couldn’t resist. Rese came back in and washed her hands, then sat.
He said, “Tell me what you like to eat.”
She shrugged. “Anything I don’t have to cook.”
“There must be something you prefer.”
Again that direct gaze. “Food doesn’t excite me.”
Did she have any idea how disagreeable she was? She wouldn’t last a week in the hospitality business with that attitude and personality. “Well, then what does?”
She looked up and studied the walls and ceiling with mute captivation. “This place,” she whispered finally, with a wash of emotion that caught him off guard.
Lance’s chest tightened. He did not want to hear that tone in her voice, the same emotion he felt for the villa—a house that might not be hers at all. He stabbed a bean and bit it in half. The meal had lost its appeal.
T
hrough the gray mist that had settled on the valley over the past two days, Rese supervised the delivery of the beds and dressers. She had ordered the pieces from an estate selling through eBay, and this first batch had arrived in the Ryder truck three hours earlier.
She’d spent the morning hours with the movers, checking each piece for damage, directing placement, then overseeing the setup. As soon as the mattresses were in place, she made up each bed with that room’s linens. Home deécor wasn’t her passion, but she had enough of an eye to create themed rooms that her Web site could display by name.
She entered the Jasmine Garden and stretched out across a slenderframed, king-size canopy bed twined with white gauzy veils. The brand new, top-quality mattress felt deep and welcoming, the down comforters and duvets extravagant. Maybe she’d gone overboard. She didn’t really know what was expected.
But it was her nature to use the best base elements to create the finest finish. Working on that assumption, she could hardly choose cheap bedding for a bed-and-breakfast. Wasn’t that the point? “Bed” and “breakfast.” Her part was satisfactory, and if the food she’d sampled the other night was any indication, Lance would hold up his end.
He was volatile, though. The way he’d glowered through that meal—did he hate to cook? Then why take the position? Serious second thoughts flooded in. Her initial impression had been mixed, but he’d talked his way through her doubts—not necessarily a good thing. She had called his references, and though he hadn’t stayed anywhere very long, people liked him. Popularity didn’t count for much; it was effectiveness that mattered.
She sat up and looked out the bedroom window. Baxter came out the carriage house door, tail wagging, head high, assessing the situation, then went back inside where Lance was working. Definitely a bonus, there. He should have said he had a dog first thing.
She went back to work, unpacking the boxes of photographs and lamps, decorative items and books to match each room’s motif. She had not yet purchased TVs or the units to hold them. That was another sort of shopping altogether.
Her stomach growled. Lance had not demonstrated any of the breakfasts he’d mentioned. After arriving both days, he’d gone straight to work on his project. It shouldn’t matter. She’d gone a long time without eating much of anything. Now suddenly food was important?
Rese went down and made a piece of toast—hardly a tantalizing breakfast. She would not have noticed its bland ordinariness before Lance had arrived. Chewing the crisp but mostly tasteless offering, she wandered into the dining room and surveyed the work still to be done. The furniture’s arrival had interrupted her progress, but she studied the room with a critical eye.
The wood floor needed sanding and a fresh treatment of polyurethane, though most of it would be covered by an area rug in muted ecru beige, and greens that would complement the soft butter-colored walls. She had stained the woodwork a natural maple, and the carved pieces to ornament the doorways would get a rubbed finish when they were ready.
Elegance without stuffiness. It was certainly spacious, unlike modern dining rooms scarcely sufficient for a family meal. Well, families were larger and closer in the days this house was built. She’d be knocking around in it without guests.
Turning slowly around, she wondered about the people who had eaten together in this room, cooked in the vacuous kitchen, planted the overgrown garden. Who had slept in the rooms above? This house had a story so thick she could feel it. Some structures were like old sachets with no scent left; this one emoted something powerful yet just beyond her grasp. That was why she chose it—that and the deplorable condition she had found it in.
She wished she knew more about it. Maybe the clutter in the attic where she’d found the kitchen chairs would offer some history. With it right above the freshly finished bedrooms, she should clean it out and make certain there were no rodents and as few spiders as possible. As the day was already interrupted, she would just have a look and see what she was up against. At the walk-through, she’d been told it held junk, but there had been no access to see for herself. She doubted anyone had been up there in years, maybe decades. No doubt anything valuable had been plundered long ago.
She stopped at the base of the attic stairs, glancing through the doors to the now-furnished bedrooms. A whisper of excitement stirred in her. It was coming together—almost too quickly. Soon the work would be done. But she didn’t want to think about that.
Rese climbed the dark flight and stepped into the attic. Two small windows allowed weak daylight, and a single bulb dangled from the center beam. There were stacks of newspapers, several broken chairs that matched the two she had salvaged for the kitchen, some thoroughly disgusting drapes, and an electric fan plugged into the outlet that held the overhead bulb.
The air was stuffy, which was probably the purpose of the fan. She reached down and pushed the On button. It buzzed loudly to life and stirred the dust and items near it. Everything she spied from the near end was newer than the villa by decades, at least, yet was still trash. It should all be hauled out, but her stomach clenched at that thought. What if she grabbed the drapes and something wiggled? She squeezed her fists. She had not been born with a fear of mice, spiders, and things that jumped out; it had been spitefully developed. But…
She sensed movement behind her and shrieked, spinning around, fists clenched. Lance stepped back, hands raised in surrender as adrenaline transformed her fear to anger.