Unforgotten (25 page)

“Let me out here,” Rico said at the intersection, unable to sit still any longer. “You’ll never park.”

“I’ll find something.” Lance looked at his watch. “Meet us back at this corner in half an hour. We’ll make a plan from there.”

Rico climbed out as the taxi behind them blared its horn. Lance moved on. God didn’t seem to owe him parking in this district. Rese kept her eyes sharp, but even so she missed the spot Lance darted into almost before it was vacated. Sighing, she got out and waited on the sidewalk.

Lance joined her. “Ready?”

“For what?”

He cocked his head, taking her measure. “It might be pointless, but it matters to Rico.”

And at this moment Rico meant nothing to Star. Nobody did. She was the only thing shining in her sky. Rese seethed.

“Is it the kiss?”

She scowled. “It’s pretty much everything.”

He looked down the street, waiting for her to decide. Why had she come, anyway? Had she thought there’d be anything she could do that would matter?

She clenched her hands and said, “Star could be distraught. She could be in danger, dying in an alley. But she’s not. She’s off dancing, or acting, or making out in a corner, and if she knew we were here searching the streets for her? She’d laugh.” Rese could not contain the bitterness. Where had it come from? Why did all her emotions suddenly emerge in the presence of Lance Michelli? “I’m tired of being what she needs. Giving and forgiving with nothing in return.” When he didn’t answer, she turned on him. “I’m wrong, aren’t I?”

“No.” He shook his head.

“Then what?”

“There’s a name for what you give Star. Unconditional love.”

Rese did not want to hear it. Anger so rarely had the chance to vent, it seemed to ooze from her very pores at the thought of Star’s parting kiss. She groaned. “It was so absurd and spiteful.”

“I know.”

And selfish and overly dramatic. She wanted to swing a sledge hammer, the ring of steel on steel, the reverberation charging up her arms. She blew out her breath. “So where do you think she is?”

“I’d guess making out in a corner.”

It broke the spine of her anger, and she dropped her head back with another groan. “We won’t find her.”

“Let’s hope for Rico’s sake that’s true. And mine.”

She faced him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

His mouth pulled.

“I mean it, Lance. I will not write to you.”

Laughing, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. “You’re not so tough, Theresa.”

It was true. She’d write, she’d visit, she’d bail him out. Unconditional love.

————

Rico wanted something to beat on; Lance could read it in his eyes. He hadn’t anticipated Star’s flight, hadn’t known at the first provocation their idyll would end; no word of explanation, no consideration for him. Through the subway tunnels where goth and punked-up kids loitered, past homeless people and downtown suits, they searched. Rico prowled the bars and restaurants and theater hangouts, his own desertion issues growling inside him.

Fiercely loyal, he expected the same—in spite of all the people who had proved otherwise. He had no claim to Star, except that of consideration. Fear for her safety and emotional condition was foremost in his mind as they searched, but Lance knew there was also the sting of yet another potential rejection.

Momma opened her door in her nightgown when they came back sometime after three in the morning. He had intended to sneak by without disturbing her, but she had a second sense that woke her any time one of her offspring came in late. And she’d have been fitful at best.

“No luck?” The relief in her expression did not mean a lack of concern for Star, but an overabundance for him and Rico.

He shook his head. Rico was ready to ignite, but they’d seen not a shadow of Star. There would have been fireworks if they had.

Momma trained her gaze on Rese as the guardian angel who must have kept him and Rico from the fall. Rese showed none of the anger and hurt she’d expressed before giving in and looking for a friend who used her up and wanted more.

“Thanks.” Lance dropped the car keys into her palm. Rico was already climbing the stairs.

“You want some milk?”

He leaned in and kissed her. “Go back to sleep, Momma. We’re fine.”

She turned to Rese. “When you get up, come down for coffee. We’ll chat.”

“Okay.” Rese nodded. They climbed the stairs without speaking, but at the door, she said, “She means both of us, right?”

Rico had left the door touching but not closed. Lance pushed it open. “She means you.” By the light of the single lamp inside, he glimpsed something close to horror on her face.

“I don’t chat.”

“Sure you do.”

“Lance, you know … you’ve seen …”

“That was with strangers. Momma’s family.” He stretched. Rico must have gone straight to bed. Chaz was probably home from work and sleeping already. Worrying about Nonna all day and Rico all evening, Lance had expended enough energy to sleep for a year, but not Rese. He reached for her hand. “Want to make out in a corner?”

She raised her jaw. “I don’t appreciate the comparison.”

So she was still stung. “How about the couch in the middle of the room?”

“Lance.”

He took her into his arms, felt her stiffness. She was far from sleep, as he’d guessed. “Neck rub?”

“You need one?” She meant it as a taunt, reversing his offer, asserting her self-sufficiency.

But he tipped his head. “Sure.” His answer took her by surprise, but he headed for the couch anyway. The cushions sighed as he sat sideways and waited.

Chaz’s sonorous snores seeped through the closed door as Rese dropped reluctantly. “I won’t be any good at it.”

“Close your eyes.” He closed his too. “Now grip my neck and feel the muscles.”

Her hand was cold.

“Just work your thumb and fingers into what you feel.” Her hands had carved beauty into wood, and he felt the strength of that now as she rubbed, not just his neck, but after a time moving down his back, using both hands. The fact that she would go beyond his instructions said a lot. He hadn’t needed sore muscles rubbed, but he reveled in her touch.

So many times he’d worked out her knots and she’d never reciprocated. But her hands were ungrudging now, working up and down the long muscles of his back, her breath warming his neck as she rubbed his shoulders. Something wet struck his shoulder, and he turned.

She sniffed, angry at being discovered. “Is there such a thing as emotional anorexia?”

He half smiled. “Starved emotions?”

“More like refusing to feel until it’s hard to know what to feel.”

He rested his wrist on her shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with how you feel.”

“But I don’t, Lance. I care about Star, but I’m not worried. I’m sorry for Rico, but there’s no … ache. Even when you left—”

“When you kicked me out.”

“It hurt so much that I … felt nothing.”

“That’s how you cope. You had a lot of junk at a very young age, emotional expectations no child is equipped to handle.”

“What if it’s just broken?”

He cupped her face. “You’re not broken. Why do you think there are tears in your eyes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you care.”

She pulled away and slid back on the couch. “As we were looking for Star I kept imagining finding her in a really bad way. Killed, even. And Lance, I wondered how I would feel. I wondered.”

“It’s a protection. You shut yourself off.”

She sat silent a long time, then turned. “Why can’t Star? Why would she keep putting herself in danger and degradation again and again when that’s what messed her up in the first place?”

“Ever heard of cutting? Burning?”

Rese’s brow pinched.

“Using physical pain to self-medicate emotional wounds.”

“But …”

“Sofie could explain it better. She’s got the science. But it’s basically that injury triggers something in the brain that anesthetizes. You said Star doesn’t use drugs, but she’s finding a way to numb herself.”

“So sex is a drug for her?”

He shrugged. “I’m guessing.”

“Like stomping your toe when you’ve hammered your thumb.”

He smiled. “Sure. If what you told her triggered memories, her reaction makes sense.”

Rese shook her head. “But Rico …”

“Rico is safe, like you. She needed pain.”

She leaned her head back. “How do you stop it all?”

“I don’t know.” He slid his arm around and nestled her into his shoulder. “Pain has a life of its own and comes out in ways you never expect. Even when you think it’s over.”

“Then what hope is there?”

He caressed her upper arm. “I keep trying to find out.”

————

“I can’t do this.” Rese paced the living room the next morning in the beige rayon shell and cargo shorts she had debated over far longer than her few choices required.

Lance showed no sympathy whatsoever. Perched on the arm of the couch, he looked annoyingly amused. “It’s just Momma, Rese. She’ll do all the talking anyway.”

Chaz came out of the bathroom, shower fresh and smiling. She did not need his cheerfulness on top of Lance’s assurances. If she hadn’t been dazed at three in the morning, she might have said no, or at least made sure Lance was included. Why should she have to face his mother alone?

“ ‘This is the day the Lord has made.’ ” Chaz beamed. “ ‘Let us rejoice and be glad in it.’ ” He had obviously overheard their argument. “She’s waiting.” Lance’s tone was gentle but insistent. He was not going to get her out of it, or help in any way besides pushing her out the door.

Fine. She didn’t need him. She stalked to the door and went out, then drew a long breath and went down to his parents’ door. She knocked.

“It’s open. Come in.” Doria was dressed in a burgundy leotard and wrap skirt. “I’m teaching in an hour.”

Rese nodded. Should she apologize for being late? “What do you teach? I mean, what kind of dance?” Not that she would know one from another.

“Oh, some of everything. Except the break dancing. We have a man for that.”

Rese nodded again. “Oh.”

“Sit down. You want cream … sugar?” Doria set a cup before her with biscotti on the saucer.

“Yes. Thank you.” Rese sat. The kitchen was cluttered with knickknacks, the refrigerator papered with photographs. Children and grandchildren, Rese guessed, recognizing many without being able to name them.

Noticing her gaze, Doria touched a photo. “This one’s Lance.”

A little boy with large brown eyes, an impish smile, and baseball mitt. Rese wanted to reach out and hold him. Something was happening to her, something she hadn’t expected when Lance said they needed to “square things away with his grandmother.”

“And this was his high school graduation.” Doria picked up a photo on the windowsill next to an urn that Rese prayed didn’t hold ashes but sure looked like it could.

“And his baby shoe.” She picked up the bronzed shoe.

Did people do that? Rese nodded and smiled, then her eyes went once again to the kitchen ceiling. “Have you had that sag checked out?”

Doria looked from the shoe in her hand to the ceiling over her head. “I’ve been talking to Roman. He’s got no time. Lance and the boys take care of things, but they’re everywhere else these days. No one has time.”

“I could look at it.”

Doria waved her off. “A guest of my son’s?” She shook her head.

“I have experience. It’s what I do … did. Renovation. That looks like a leak. It could cause trouble.”

“Roman will get to it.” Doria sat down with a cup of her own. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

“Lance was my born dancer.”

Naturally.

“He wouldn’t stay with it, though. Tony told him he wasn’t big enough to dance like that without getting hit.”

“Lance thought a lot of Tony.”

“Everyone did.” Doria stared into her cup. “But he was wrong about Lance. There’s life in that boy that has to come out. Why shouldn’t he dance?”

Rese sipped her coffee, then startled when Doria tucked a finger under her chin and raised her face.

“You have a good form. You just need to loosen.” She moved the chin in circles. “Stand up.”

“I really don’t—”

“Shh, shh.” Doria raised her to her feet and motioned for her to turn.

Rese did a jerky pirouette, arms clamped at her sides.
“It’s only Momma. She’ll do all the talking anyway.”

“Come out with the elbows.” Doria pulled until Rese’s hands were on her hips. “Up with the chin.” Again the finger positioning her. “Perfect for the cha-cha.”

Rese snorted.

“Give me six weeks; I’ll have you performing the two-sided break with a man wrap.”

Rese shook her head. “No way.”

“You have balance.”

“Walking roofs.”

“Good musculature.”

“Swinging a hammer.”

They laughed.

Doria turned. “You really know how to fix the ceiling?”

Rese stepped under the sag a short distance out from the sink and looked up. “Never came across one I couldn’t handle. At least I could get in there and tell you what it needs.”

Doria looked her over slowly, then spread her hands. “Ah well, things are different now. If a woman wants to be a plumber, why not?” She sat back down and dipped her biscotti. “What does Lance do at the inn?”

Rese rejoined her at the table. “We haven’t worked it all out yet. Cook, of course. Maybe something with his music. He handles the customers.” In other words, the whole operation. Without Lance there was no inn, even if she had faked breakfast a few weeks. Left to her, the business would collapse. But together … They should be back there, getting established before the grape harvest brought tourists in droves.

Doria frowned. “It’s so far.”

Rese paused with the cup near her lips. For the first time she considered how it would be for Doria if Lance moved across the country. This woman who didn’t want her children scattered, who stayed in the old neighborhood just to keep them all close. “You could come any time. There’s room.”

Doria pressed a crumb with her fingertip. “When do you leave?”

They’d been there six days, and it looked as though they’d need a few more. But that wasn’t what Doria was asking, so Rese told her, “When Lance is ready.”