Would Rico push again to get Lance back in the band? The subway thing didn’t sound like Lance’s music, but …
“Rico’s going to record us in the tunnel. He told the agent we’ve got that Enya sound and thinks the guy might go for it.”
“What about your painting?”
“Are you kidding? This is New York. I can do anything.” She was even starting to sound like them. It was the most positive she’d seemed in a long time.
Rese leaned back. From what she’d seen out the window, they were a long way from Lincoln Center, but if the agent liked their new sound … Star had loved to play Rock Star as a kid, but Rese hadn’t realized she really could sing until that time in the attic when she took Lance’s mic. “That’s great.” She smiled.
Why could Star float so easily from one thing to the next? Because she wasn’t a rock. She didn’t have to be strong and solid for someone else to cling to. Rese got up and walked to the front window that looked out over the urban street. Lance had seemed so cosmopolitan with the diamond in his ear and European chef credentials.
Star came over and stroked her arm. “‘How like a winter hath my absence been from thee.’ ”
Right. Next thing, Star would be on Broadway. Why not? This was New York. Star could do anything.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” she said. Though right now it seemed like a lifetime since Star had left the villa with Chaz and Rico for the Bronx in the maroon van that held their sound equipment. And it had been only hours since Rese boarded the plane with Lance, but already she wished for the villa, the garden between it and the carriage house, the fragrant herb beds and flowering pots, almond and olive trees where Baxter loved to sniff or toss himself down in the shade and loll on his side, tail wagging. She missed the bright open rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows and warm, gleaming woodwork, her own carvings adorning it.
The inn was her business, her project, but also her home. Strangers slept and ate and left. They didn’t kiss her cheeks and pepper her with questions. Besides, it was Lance’s job to answer their questions— if she could ever get him back to work.
Rese frowned. Lance had said he wanted to discuss the inn with his grandmother, to show the old woman what he’d found and tell her what they planned. But it was obvious he had other intentions as well. He wanted his family to accept her.
He didn’t know what he was asking. He hadn’t lived with a woman whose behavior was unpredictable and destructive, whose disease genetically predisposed future generations. Lance thought he wanted a future with her. He didn’t realize she might have no future. As bad as Star’s past was, she could make what she liked of the rest of her life. Rese had been lied to and almost killed, but what happened next might be worse than that.
Lance wanted his family to accept what they didn’t know. Of course, she didn’t know it, either, wouldn’t know until she started having psychotic episodes. Why did she automatically assume she would? That her unemotional self-control, her lack of social skills were symptomatic?
Lance and Rico came in, pearled with sweat and laughing. Lance caught her looking. “All settled in?”
“I guess so.” She had unpacked her things into the dresser that was mostly empty since Star didn’t bother using it. Several of the drawers held the clothes Lance had left behind when he went to Sonoma on his Harley with only his backpack. Would he bring the rest back with him? Or had Rico convinced him to stay?
He said, “I’ll just shower. Then we’ll have an hour or so to walk around before the vultures descend.”
Rese imagined the scene all too vividly. Ever since her mother made them the focal point of the neighborhood, taking her up to the roof to dance, igniting the neighbor’s rosebush, and other things Rese didn’t want to remember, she’d controlled the sort of attention she received. “Wouldn’t you rather hop a plane back to Sonoma?”
He smiled. “I’ll be just a minute.”
When Lance came out smelling fresh and a little musky from his aftershave, she badly wished them at the inn, where she could wield a chisel, or better yet a saw and sander. She needed to get physical with a piece of hardwood.
Lance slipped his keys into his jeans pocket. “Ready?”
“Do I need Mace?”
“Not if you’re with me.”
She’d expected him to scoff.
“If we were touring Rico’s street, I’d arm us both, but this is Little Italy. You’ll be fine as long as you can say ciao and eat fish on Friday.”
She shook her head. “No way I’m passing for Italian.”
He grinned. “You don’t have to.”
The knots in her neck loosened as he took her down the streets, dated and colorful with signs and awnings printed with the names of the shops. The stores themselves were tiny, some selling only one thing, like the D’Auria Brothers pork store with sausages that were mixed and dried right there hanging from the ceiling. Sweet or hot. That was the choice. And the two brothers who ran it had taken over from their father, who opened in 1938.
Her chest clutched at the thought that she had sold her father’s renovation business, especially since Brad said the new owners were not living up to Dad’s standards, to her own. That business with her dad and hero, Vernon Barrett, had been her life until his accident. Now she had an inn—and a new partner.
She had known what to expect from Dad. No one in the world had been more predictable, more grounded in routine. But even he had surprised her. Lance was a live wire, a short waiting to happen. What should she expect from him? Nothing. She would depend on herself. That was the Rese Barrett she knew; not the stranger wearing earrings and looking too much like her mother.
She returned her focus to the neighborhood Lance wanted her to see. Addeo and Sons sold bread and biscotti. DeLillo’s had mini cheesecakes, a rolled cream-filled pastry called cannoli, little cakes and tarts. Egiddio’s Pastry was hardly more than a long glass counter of cookies, but nibbling the cookie Lance handed her, she could see why.
“Ciao, Lance.” Two gray-haired men waved from the sidewalk outside the fish market, beside a portable counter with clams and lemon wedges to buy and eat. They eyed her openly. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“The less she knows about you two the better.” But Lance turned to her. “Rese, this is Joe and Mario. Gentlemen, Rese Barrett.”
Rese shook hands.
Mario squeezed hers. “You settle on this girl, paesano. She’sa best one yet.”
For a minute she thought he would kiss her, but he let go, and she breathed her relief. Stepping back, she caught sight of something moving— a barrel crawling with she-crabs, according to the label. “They’re alive.”
“Sure,” Mario said. “Taste better that way.”
She hoped they didn’t eat them alive, but didn’t ask. She’d been time-warped and body-snatched into another country, another century.
Joe said, “There was that one with the green eyes.”
“A crab?” Mario looked puzzled.
“Not a crab. A girl. That one Lance brought up from the city, the long legs.” He motioned down his own. “Ankles like sticks.”
“Oh yeah …” Mario nodded. “What ever happened to her, Lance?”
“Moving along now.” Lance took her elbow and walked her past the laughing pair.
“So long, Rese,” Joe called. “Buona fortuna.”
“That means good luck.” Lance drew her around a man hosing down the sidewalk outside his doorway.
She glanced sideways. “Do I need it?”
“Doesn’t hurt.” A poorly muffled car passed in a cloud of dark exhaust. He drew in a slow breath through his nose. “Ah. Summer in the city.” He waved to a compact matron with a pushcart whose face broke into a sea of wrinkles as she called, “Buona sera.”
No wonder Lance had gotten along with Evvy, Rese mused. Most of the people he knew were over sixty—except the girl from the city.
She cocked her head. “Green eyes, huh? Skinny ankles?”
He smiled, looking straight ahead.
“Blonde or redhead?”
He pondered a moment. “Kind of both.”
“Reddish blonde, or a blonde and a redhead?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to keep them straight.”
She jutted her chin. “So I guess my crush on Brad doesn’t matter.”
“That depends.” He stopped walking.
“On what?”
“If it’s over.”
“Hmm.”
She took a step, but he caught her by the elbow, eased her back against the window of the cheese store, then caged her with his arms.
“He kept things from you too, remember.”
Had he taken her seriously? Her crush had ended as soon as she and Brad vied for the second crew that she’d won three years ago. But for the first time she felt the delicious power of jerking his chain. “Brad promised Dad.” Promised not to tell that her mother was alive in a mental health facility, a small detail that had now rocked her life.
Lance’s gaze deepened. “Then I guess we have a vendetta.”
“Vendetta?”
“I’ll have to add him to the skeletons in my closet.”
She drew herself up. “That’s not funny. Especially after the last one.” Finding the bones of his great-great-grandfather in the dark tunnel under the carriage house had been one of the worst scares of her life.
“Then you have to swear a blood oath never to mention his name again.”
She snorted.
He caught her jaw and raised her face to make his claim, her mouth belonging to his, and it did, and she couldn’t help that, but he let go and started walking. “I’ll see the padrone, tell him—”
“Padrone?” She caught up to him.
“The boss. Tell him there’s a feud. My honor is at stake.”
Like anyone would feud over her. Even Lance said she was manly; bold and direct, unemotional—until she’d broken down and cried all over him. Again, not the stuff of duels.
What made it more hilarious was picturing Brad, fourteen years older and her dad’s friend and confidant. Though he’d hinted at a reciprocal crush, she didn’t believe it. He just wanted her woodwork and carvings for his renovations. He wanted her to make him look good.
Lance nudged her with his elbow. “No comment?”
“I think a blood feud works. Brad’s got some underhanded tricks of his own, believe me.”
His mouth tightened. “I’ll have Stella use the evil eye. Mal occhio.”
Rese laughed. “She could fly to Sonoma on her broom.”
“You think I’m joking. But this is serious. When the woman I love—” His voice caught, and she realized the joke had gone a direction he hadn’t intended. He walked on in silence.
They approached a tree-shaded park with a hexagonal stone restroom, two playgrounds filled with children, and some kind of playing courts. It was neither large nor elegant, but provided a nice respite from the hard streets and buildings. The ice cream truck sat still, playing its music-box ditty, the driver’s head cocked back against the seat as he snored an accompaniment.
She glanced sideways at Lance. “I was kidding.”
“I know.” But he didn’t say he was.
CHAPTER FOUR
What is shadow but darkness longing for light;
What is fear but courage looking for hope?
Papa’s face looks gray in the morning light. I wonder if he didn’t sleep well again. A finger of fear finds my spine. What is this premonition, this sense that all is not well with Papa? His job at the bank is secure, more so now with the personal work he does for Arthur Jackson. As much as I dislike the man, he is powerful, and he sees Papa’s ability, his diligence. Naturally that would be rewarded with greater responsibility and confidence.
“Do you feel all right, Papa?”
He looks up from his coffee, a demitasse of strong espresso. “Sure, fine.”
“Crostata?”
He shakes his head. “Thank you, no. I need to get in to the bank.”
“Why does he work you so hard? Who does Arthur Jackson think he is? Having you out so late last night, and early again this morning.”
After talking with Marco for the third time in as many weeks, Papa had left and not come home until long after I’d gone to bed.
“Are you in charge of my affairs, ragazza?” he says with a smile, but there’s an edge.
Maybe not, but who else will say it? Why doesn’t Nonno speak up, ask his son where he was so late? But he only nods when Papa stands to begin his day, another long one doing who knows what for Arthur Tremaine Jackson. The man thinks he’s a king, thinks he controls Papa’s life. It’s not banking they do at all hours. What right—
“Are you coming?” Nonno reaches for his cane.
“Of course.” It’s Wednesday. When have we not visited the grave? As he goes to his room for his journal, I run upstairs for my own, then pack a lunch of bread and cheese, olives and peppers. I help Nonno into the car, then crawl into the back. Papa takes the wheel. No more is said about last night, about the things that worry me, the things that matter.
We stop at the bank and he gets out, pressing the seat forward for me to take over driving. “I’ll get myself home.” He kisses my cheek, cupping my chin a moment longer than usual to show he is sorry for my concern. “Don’t worry about me. Take care of Nonno.”
I nod, but he has it wrong. Though Nonno is feeble, his soul is right with God. Is Papa’s in peril? I watch him walk away with that certain gait, that purposeful stride that reminds me now of Marco’s. I sigh. If Papa is important enough to do business with some anonymous person with “plenty of jack,” maybe my fears are ungrounded, and I put them from my mind as I drive.
Nonno’s unsteady yet stately gait takes him in among the graves. Nonna’s stone stands elegantly in the fenced DiGratia family plot. To its left is Momma’s grave, but I don’t remember much about her. It was to Nonna’s knee I clung in the storms of life. Nonno eases himself onto the stone bench where he rests his cane and sighs. Maybe he worries, too, after all.
“Nonno …” I don’t want to voice my concerns, to give them substance. I don’t want to speak bad luck onto our heads.
Nonna Carina would have understood. She knew about bad luck, but her luck had changed when she found Nonno. I wish I could talk to her. She would not have kept silent when she saw her son going the wrong way. My throat tightens. Is Papa going the wrong way?
“Did I tell you about the day your papa was born?” Nonno’s voice is sonorous.
I settle down beside him. “Tell me.” In my mind I see Nonna Carina as he first knew her, rippling black hair and dark eyes, with the Northern cheekbones and striking features that made her a true beauty even into the older years that I recall.
“I knew something was wrong. Carina had fussed all morning. Unusual for such a sweet temper, a sweet tongue.”
I laugh. Nonna Carina had a fiery spirit that was most often directed at Nonno Quillan. I loved to watch them spar, loved it as much as Nonno, who provoked his wife with just the gentle prods to spark her temper.
“I knew before the pain started. I tried to tell her to rest, to stop scrubbing. But she was afraid. She was afraid because the first one died.”
I stare. “The first one?”
Nonno nods. “In Crystal, Colorado. I hadn’t known she was pregnant. I was away.” He says it with such grief in his voice, I can’t press for details. He has never told me there was a child before Papa. Nonna never told me, either, and that kindles a dread curiosity. I thought I knew everything Nonna had to tell.
“I was a freighter. I hauled goods and dynamite between the camps. Long trips away. Doing my job, but mostly running away. I was afraid to stay in one place. I was afraid to love my wife.” Waves of grief spill from him.
I take his hand.
“I didn’t know the trouble she had caused with the miners. I didn’t know another man, Alex Makepeace, my mining engineer, ha
d allowed her to get involved. I didn’t know my child was inside her.” He closes his eyes. “They beat her, and the baby was lost.”
I scarcely breathe.
Nonno opens his eyes and stares at the grave. “I swore nothing would hurt her again. But when the pains started I was helpless. I would have chopped off my good leg to stop it. But she labored on and on. The doctor had said she might never bear children because of the injury. But neither of us had thought of that in the joy of making life again, watching it grow inside her.”
His gaunt throat works, the skin jerking up and dropping. “Hearing her screams, I wished I had never touched her. I wanted to undo it, but there was no going back.” His breath escapes on a low sigh. “You know her father was a surgeon, that he saved my leg and my life.”
I nod.
“When Carina had no strength left, he took the baby out with a knife. He took his daughter’s womb as well. It had hemorrhaged and would not bear another pregnancy. The miracle was that she lived, and my son with her.”
So that’s why Papa has no siblings. I’ve wondered, when my grandparents’ love was as thick and sweet as honey in a comb.
Nonno stays a long time in that memory, then says, “Knowing he was all we would ever have made him too precious. If I was stern with him, Carina soothed. If she got exasperated, I slipped him a butterscotch. He never knew the sting of my hand, though he deserved it. I could only think that we might have lost him. I might have lost it all.” Nonno shakes his head. “It’s not good to raise children in fear. He sensed the weakness and fought the bit.”
Is that why he won’t question Papa? Is he still afraid to lose him?
“We should not have chosen Flavio for his godfather. He filled his head with discontent.”
“I thought that was Momma.” The beautiful woman Papa married, hair like spun gold, eyes as green-blue as the changing sea, and as unpredictable.
He nods. “Yes, her too. But like finds like. There was a hole inside him, as though he knew there should have been another child to share the weight of our love.”
“How can a child be loved too much, Nonno?”
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