Unforgotten (4 page)

“We’re business partners. An inn, a bed-and-breakfast in Sonoma.”

Monica cocked an eyebrow in just the manner Rese always wished she could master. It showed disbelief, irreverence, and humor all at once.

The scrutiny annoyed her. “That’s what we came to talk to your grandmother about. It’s complicated.”

“I’ll bet.” Monica turned back to her son and brother playing in the sand.

“Hey, look at that,” Lance called as Nicky held up a quarter. “Dig up enough of those and you can go to Ida’s candy store for an egg cream.”

“He’s planting them,” Monica said. “He always does. Nicky can’t understand why he never finds quarters when Lance isn’t here.”

Rese considered that. “You could plant them.”

“And spoil him? I leave that to Lance.” Monica slid her fingers through her hair. “So, how does this partnership work?”

Rese drew her thoughts back to the subject. She hadn’t had much time to see how it would work. They had barely established a plan when she learned Lance had come there under false pretenses and ordered him out. They’d been reconciled for two awkward weeks before taking advantage of a gap in reservations to come find closure with his grandmother. “Lance cooks and manages the business.”

“What do you do?”

“I renovated it. I own the property.”

“So he works for you?”

Rese shook her head. “No. I made him a partner.” Though she was less sure than ever what that meant.

“Keep it out of your mouth, Nicky,” Monica called.

“He’s just getting his pound of dirt,” Lance called back.

“Yeah, you gotta eat a pound of dirt before you die.” Monica wagged her finger at him. “You pay his dentist bill when he thinks he can eat rocks.”

“I told him people used to bite coins to see if they were gold.”

“You find any gold in there, we’ll all retire.” She turned back. “Do you always wear your hair so short?”

Rese touched the fringe of hair above her ear. It was actually needing a trim. “When you work a construction site you don’t want anything getting in your way.”

Monica gave her a curious look. “Well, you got the ears for it. They don’t stick out.”

Rese touched an earlobe that Lance had dared her into piercing. She hadn’t really cared how her ears, or anything else, looked with the short haircuts. It was simply practical.

Lance left the toddler in the sandbox and rejoined them. “So did you learn everything you wanted to know?”

“Momma thinks you’ve brought home a prospective bride.”

He tipped his head and traveled Rese with his eyes. “Sure. Why not?”

Rese raised her chin defensively.

He said, “You want to marry me?” His supposed penitence had obviously evaporated on his home turf.

She scowled. “I already answered that.”

He turned to Monica and shrugged. “She said fagedda-bout-it.”

Monica laughed.

Yeah, great joke. Rese seethed.

Lance touched her elbow. “Let’s see if Nonna’s awake.” He headed for the door and waved her in. She stomped past, but he pulled her aside at the base of the stairs. “Monica’s my oldest sister. She takes bossy and conniving to new heights. If she thought I meant it, she would hound us, plotting every scenario to throw us together.” In the dimness of the narrow hall, he stroked her with his gaze. “I prefer to make my own time.”

He’d wasted no time from the start.

“Besides, third time’s a charm. Next time I ask, you’ll say yes.”

Just like that the air left the building.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

The smell of crushed grapes wafting on night air.

Crickets sing from the vines to the fog.

Another voice joins in gossamer tones,

one heart calling to another.

A
ntonia woke. She didn’t want to. Each dream memory was precious, and becoming more so with every playing. Such a carefree time. What halcyon days and dulcet nights—until the day Marco came walking up the lane dressed like a picture from
Vanity Fair,
complete with cocked fedora, his arched nose cutting the air like a prow… .

He moves with the gait of a person who knows his place in life and means to take it, and my interest is capped only by my instant desire to thwart him.

He tips his hat and flashes his smile. “Hello there. I’m looking for Vittorio Shepard. This the place?”

I nudge the porch swing with my heel. “Vittorio Shepard is my papa. What do you want from him?” I am smug in my rudeness, but then Nonno Quillan comes out the door.

“Where is your hospitality, Antonia? It’s hot. Offer the young man a drink.”

Young? He is not so young. And lately I have scrutinized Papa’s companions with caution. Without rising, I ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

In his arrogance he ignores me, turns to Nonno instead. “Vittorio Shepard?”

“I’m Quillan Shepard. Vittorio is my son.” He steadies himself with the silver-headed cane. “He’s at work in town, but we expect him soon.” A balmy breeze lifts Nonno’s full white hair from his shoulders and buoys my heart with love for him.

The man approaches and extends his hand. “I’m Marco Michelli.”

Their hands come together under Nonno’s careful scrutiny, his gray eyes absorbing details this Marco doesn’t realize he surrenders. But then Mr. Michelli turns his gaze on me, and every thought flutters up like quail startled from the brush.

“Something cold would suit nicely.” He smiles.

I take my time rising, then go inside to perform my duty. I squeeze lemons and sugar the juice, then pick ice chips and add cool water. I could have just given him water, but I want to show that we are above that. Even a vagabond swaggering up the drive can receive something special from the DiGratia Shepards.

I carry the glass out and hand it over, then return to my place on the swing while Nonno and the stranger discuss the weather, the economy, and the political landscape. “Quillan Shepard.” Mr. Michelli snaps his fingers. “The poet?”

Nonno tips his head. I want to ask what this man has read, to make him prove he knows my grandfather’s work. But then it would seem I am interested—which I’m not, in spite of the sideways glances I can’t resist. What business does he have with my papa?

“Antonia also writes,” Nonno says, and I frown because now Mr. Michelli fixes me once again in his sight. “And she’s an excellent cook.”

“You sound like you’re auctioning me off.” But that is his way, always deflecting attention from himself—unlike Mr. Michelli, who seems to soak it up like parched ground.

Both Nonno and the stranger laugh, and I have to admit he has a pleasant laugh, no hoot or guffaw. He asks a few polite questions about my writing, which is hardly more than a diary I keep of poems and snippets of thoughts and tales that come into my head.

Mr. Michelli nods. “Talent must run in the family.”

“What talent are you pursuing with my father?” A slight shifting of his eyes kindles my suspicions.

He says, “Business.”

“Then why don’t you see him at the bank?”

Nonno clicks his tongue to scold me, but Mr. Michelli holds me firmly now in his gaze, and I wonder if I imagined that earlier blink. “The entity I represent prefers anonymity.”

I scowl. “An underworld figure?”

“Antonia,” Nonno chides.

“Would your father be the one to see for that?”

I spring to my feet. “If you need to ask that, you have no business with him. Finish your drink and scram.”

He raises his eyebrows but makes no move to either drain the glass or leave the porch. “It was your assumption, Miss Shepard, that I represent an underworld figure. Naturally I would be concerned as to why you assumed that.”

I rub my hands on my skirt, thinking lately I’ve seen Papa with questionable people. And that he’s gone into the private world of someone I deeply distrust. But I show none of that to this stranger. “Someone who wants to have legitimate business with my father would see him at the bank.” I draw myself up as tall as I can.

“And where would someone who wants to have illegitimate business see your father?”

I expel a hard breath and fist my hands. “You may leave now.”

He raises the glass and drains it, then holds it out to me. “That was fine, thank you.”

I take it with just the feeling of subservience he intends, I am sure. “Find someone else to do your dirty work. My papa can’t be bought.”

————

As Lance tapped the door with his knuckle, Rese geared herself to meet the woman whose secrets first sent him to the villa. Nonna Antonia, his grandmother. Since he didn’t have with him the box containing the things he’d found for her, he would probably not go into all of that now, but meeting her would be tense enough.

Lance gently pushed open the door. “Nonna?”

The woman in the chair had once been striking; Rese could see that, despite the disfigurement of the stroke. Her hands looked frail, but seemingly not arthritic, as the pale fingers were thin and soft. Her hair was pulled back into a twist that displayed the length of her nose, defined cheekbones, and a tapered jaw—features Lance shared, though age and infirmity had sharpened hers.

Her soft blue eyes saw nothing but Lance as he moved close and kissed her, holding on moments too long, as though the feel of his grandmother’s arms made him want to crawl into her lap and stay there. Somehow it wasn’t unmanly at all. Rese held back, aware that this moment was for them alone, but as soon as he released her, the old woman turned.

“Wh … o?”

“Nonna, this is Rese.” Lance reached out and drew her over.

“Com
bella.”

Rese took the hand that jerked toward her with skin that felt like fallen leaves. She didn’t know how to answer because she hadn’t understood the greeting but didn’t want to make her repeat it.

“That means ‘how lovely’,” Lance said.

No wonder she hadn’t understood. It wasn’t English.

The woman reached up her other hand to hold both of Rese’s. “L … et me s … ee you.”

Rese tried not to flinch as the pale eyes scrutinized her. Maybe they were weak, because the woman pulled her close, then closer. She brushed her cheeks with her papery lips, then made a cross on her forehead with her thumb and followed that with a kiss too.

Rese drew back slowly, strangely moved by this demonstration and not nearly as awkward as she had been with the others. Maybe she was getting used to it, or else the age and dignity of this shrunken woman imbued a certain relevance to the gesture.

Lance turned. “This is my Nonna Antonia, Rese. It was her grandfather I buried.”

Rese nodded. “I’m happy to meet you.” This woman had apparently grown up in the villa Rese had just renovated. The woman Lance was willing to lie and cheat for. She shook that thought away. Seeing them together, she glimpsed the bond that had driven him. Glimpsed, but didn’t understand.

Or did she? Visions filled her mind of her own mother and the fierce love she’d felt for her. Hadn’t she done everything to protect her, even lying to her father? She didn’t want to think about any of that. There were decisions to be made about her mother’s care, but not now, not here.

The door opened and a young woman came in, slighter and fairer than Monica, but similar enough to guess a family connection. “Non—” She stopped. “Lance!” She set down her briefcase, came over and hugged him tightly, an honest hug with no cheek kissing. They looked close in age, but there was life and intelligence in her face that Rese hadn’t seen in Monica.

Lance held her back and studied her. “How you doin’?” There was tenderness in his tone that hadn’t been there with his older sister.

She tipped her head and shrugged.

“Sofie, this is Rese.”

And suddenly the sister realized she was there. She turned. “Hi. Sorry. I was surprised to see Lance.” She held out her hand to shake.

Rese took it firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nurse or therapist?”

Rese blinked, but Lance said, “She’s with me.”

Up went the eyebrows. “Oh.” Then came the kisses, one for each cheek. Rese stifled her laugh. So far, Lance was the only one who hadn’t. It might have been easier getting it all over with at once. But then, it was kind of nice too.

Sofie bent and kissed Antonia.
“Com
stai?”