Secrets (65 page)

Rese battled back the anger, then carried the card to the pantry and gathered the ingredients. She had it all set out and was halfway through preparing the batter when Star stopped in the doorway and gaped.

“Lance’s recipe.” Rese shoved the card her way. “There’s some fruit in the refrigerator. Why don’t you try designing a garnish?”

Star beamed, reaching for a paring knife and fruit as she might her paints and palette knife. She spent the next hour cutting berries and pears and apples and arranging them on the edges of plates as she’d seen Lance do and then improvised her own. Rese had the three parts of the crepes mixed up; now she had to cook them.

He’d made a special note to cook it over medium-low heat, and she recalled the burnt oatmeal she’d served him. She was not going to burn these crepes after all that work. She had almost scorched the sauce but caught it just in time.

Not too much, he’d written, just a little batter went a long way. She poured, then swirled, let it set a moment, then slipped the spatula underneath and flipped. It was a pretty golden color, and as light and flimsy as his had been. Her heart raced. Taking it from the heat, she slid the crepe onto a plate, filled and rolled it, and spooned the sauce over. Then she handed Star a fork, and they started on opposite ends.

The sauce did have a bit of a burnt taste, but Star stared into her face. “You did it.”

Rese nodded, hardly daring to believe it. “One, at least.” It would be different with a room full of paying guests, but they had staggered their arrivals this morning within the hour allotted for breakfast. That would help. She got up to make another, and another until all the batter and filling was used. Star went to find Chaz and Rico, and they made a late lunch of crepes and lots and lots of fruit garnishes.

She managed to sleep five hours that night, then prepared to face her doom. Could she repeat it under pressure? It was just a meal.
“A ritual found
in every culture on earth. The breaking of bread signifying connection, acceptance, relationship.”
She shook her head. Not anymore.

The effort wasn’t flawless, especially in the timing, but the guests were pleased and gracious. Chaz and Rico carried out the plates that Rese filled and Star decorated. It irked that it took four of them to replace Lance, but they were doing it.

That day another blank envelope was in the mailbox. She tore it open and took out the card.
Frittata di carciofi
—artichoke omelets.
These are easy, but you have to watch them, Rese, so they don’t dry out. You know what they
look like. You can do it
. She slammed the card onto the counter. She didn’t want his encouragement.

But she did remember how they looked and tasted. Fewer ingredients than the crepes, and clear directions. They had omelets for lunch, a little burnt at the edges and dry as Lance had warned, but she served them nicely golden the next morning. Star added yogurt to her garnishes.

Another morning down. No complaints. Each time she completed a meal, Rese felt as though she were putting pieces back inside herself. She just wished it didn’t seem so futile.

Lance was not surprised the small church was filled for Evvy’s funeral, nor that the tone of the service was so joyous. The testimonies reflected a life filled with wisdom and service, seasoned with humor and spark. Standing at the back, he listened to the stories of Evvy’s life from those who knew her best and longest. His few interactions could hardly be compared, but he had still developed a tenderness.

What did surprise him was seeing Rese in the middle of the church. Even surrounded by people, she looked alone, and he ached to be at her side. That wasn’t possible, he knew. But it had to be positive that she could come and honor Evvy’s passing. In spite of the grief that filled the church, it was a celebration of a life well lived, of someone who’d gotten it right.

Once he’d seen Rese, he had kept to the back so his presence wouldn’t distract or irritate her, or worse, make her leave. Even under sad circumstances, this body of believers demonstrated the life-changing power of God’s love, and he desperately wanted Rese to experience that, especially after he’d fallen so short. He prayed she wouldn’t equate his failing with God’s.

When the service ended, he caught a glimpse of her speaking to a woman in a brown ponytail, and that was his cue to slip out. But once outside the doors, it hit him how much he’d lost. Evvy was in heaven, but he and Rese still had to struggle on. He’d made her life worse, and at the moment trying to fix it seemed a monumental task.

He wanted to go to her, talk to her, lay it all out. Make his case, make her see the intentions behind the poor judgment. But even that was selfish. He’d be defending himself by trying to make her understand. He knew what he had to do; he just didn’t want to do it.
Lord, I don’t want to do it
. And he had no confidence he’d be able to. Why should this time be any different?

He could not begin to think what stories would be told after his death, but he imagined Rese there enumerating his sins. They might be forgiven, but their effects were everlasting. He got on the bike and drove off just as people were emerging from the church. There’d be a banquet in Evvy’s honor—besides the one in heaven.

Maybe Rese would go, make some friends, people to help her walk in faith—and he found a new area to relinquish. Did each loss have to hurt so much? He needed the road. He wanted to ride long and far before more wrongs came to light. That was the problem with possibilities. But it was God’s way: total freedom, no decision forced upon an unwilling servant. No walls and traps set out to entangle the disobedient, only the sad consequences of their own wrong choices.

Rese left the funeral in Michelle’s cramped car. The woman had insisted she join them for the “feast” and claimed driving her to the house was easier than giving directions. Rese had intended to slip into the funeral and out, but they had engulfed her like white blood cells on a germ.

The only one dressed in black—a skirt and top she had bought for the occasion—Rese squeezed into the house, teaming with exuberant people. It was more like a birth than a death, everyone talking about their “sister’s” joy. Or maybe it was a wedding because there was a lot about brides and grooms too.

Rese had been sorry she missed seeing Evvy that one last time, but everyone else was looking forward to the next time they met. Michelle handed her a plate. “Just start at one end and eat your way to the other.”

The table was spread with meats and cheeses and rolls and salads and casseroles and desserts. Nothing fancy like Lance’s fare, but hearty homey food.

“Evvy was so happy to have you next door.”

Michelle’s comment startled her. Evvy had talked about her? Positively?

“It was hard for her when Ralph went away. Seeing the house empty just made her think how much she missed him.” Michelle added olives to Rese’s plate. “You have to try these. They’re stuffed with jalapenos. Anyway, she just loved watching you work. I think that’s what got her over that first bout of pneumonia. She wanted to meet the determined woman and her knavish companion. Evvy’s words, not mine.”

Michelle scooped up a wad of potato salad, oblivious to the blade she’d just sunk. “Evvy was always looking out, not stuck inside like some old people. To her everyone was an opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” Rese’s plate could hold no more, but Michelle tucked a strawberry under the lettuce.

“To share the love of Jesus.” Michelle led her to the patio where all the chairs were taken, but there was standing room against the lattice. The house wasn’t that small, but it stored the food pantry, coat drive, and donations for the crisis pregnancy center in every room and the patio. Like her car, Michelle had said, it was packed ready to meet any need.

“Evvy knew what mattered most. To put her trust in the Lord.”

“There is but one thing that stands. When all else fails, He will never fail you.”
Rese swallowed the tightening in her throat and fought back tears. She was so tired of holding it together. The anger inside had become a lead weight. Everyone had failed her. Mom, Dad, Lance … and now she was failing herself.

“Of course, you have to admit your need.”
If she did that, she would crumble altogether. She’d been proving herself since she was nine. No one would want to kill her if she was good enough, strong enough, more capable, more talented than any other person.

But she wasn’t. Evvy had seen it. Like Lance, she’d seen through what Rese pretended to be, right through to the truth. Tears stung, and in small, broken sentences, she admitted her need.

Lance looked up at the villa as he tucked the note into the mailbox. It didn’t surprise him that he never saw Rese when he came. She probably heard the bike and stayed out of sight.

Baxter came bounding as usual, but after getting his due, he didn’t beg to come along. He knew where he wanted to be. At least one of them had gotten it right. Lance got back on the bike, imagining Rese’s hands on his waist as he drove to his hotel room. It could have been so different. So right. He had told her there was no place for should-haves, but he ate, drank, and slept with everything he should have done. And not done.

He got back to his room and picked up Sybil’s letter, still unopened. If it was the final piece in his search, he had wanted to do everything he could for Rese before he completed his task. But Nonna was waiting, and maybe it was time.

Given what he’d deduced from the dossiers, the letter might contain answers he didn’t like. Misdeeds and mistakes. But who was he to judge? He’d have been the first to walk away when Jesus said, “Let him among you who is without sin cast the first stone.”

But he couldn’t avoid it forever, and besides, he felt an affinity with Vito, someone else who didn’t get it right. He turned the envelope over, slit the seal with his thumb, then unfolded the letter. The greeting was blacked out, but he guessed it was addressed to Arthur Tremaine Jackson. And if this had to do with Vittorio, maybe that was what Sybil meant by a connection, her family and his.

He moved his gaze to the body of the letter and read:

Since you are reading this you must have taken me seriously enough
to pick it up from the depot. You won’t regret it. My information is accurate and valuable. How valuable, I leave to you.

First point, Marco Michelli is a fed
.

Nonno was a fed? Lance stared at the letter, picturing his grandfather in his uniform. NYPD. He had told every story imaginable, but never that he’d been a federal agent.

He read on:

Second point, you got a rat. Someone who shall remain unnamed unless we reach an agreement. Since this situation could jeopardize your future, you should consider my services very valuable. To have the problem eliminated, meet me at the depot tomorrow at noon
.

No signature. But the last sentence was telling. A hit man? Hired by Arthur Jackson to murder Marco? Had he killed Vittorio by mistake? Or… Lance sat down on the bed.
You got a rat
. Was Vito the inside man? Working with Marco?