I have lost my home, my family, my peace. Why not my mind? Is that any more unbelievable than Papa … No. I still can’t think of it. And my Nonno, my dear, dear Nonno. It isn’t right. It isn’t just. God … isn’t just.
And yet there is Marco. I tell my heart to make an end of grief and accept what good has come. Another thing I would write is that my heart does not listen very well.
————
Rese opened when Lance tapped her door, but it was morning and he’d recovered—mostly. He pulled a side smile. “I’ve got bread and cheese and peppers and sausage.”
She bunched her fingers into her hair and met his gaze with her sleepy face. “Are you bribing me?”
“Bribing would be sfogliatelli and trota al vino rosso.”
“Oh.” She yawned and stretched, adorably kittenish and totally unaware of her impact.
“Help yourself, okay? I’ve got to get Rico before the hospital charges another day.”
“That was major surgery. They’re discharging him already?”
“He’s discharging himself.” Rico had called at the crack of dawn, half-coherent but determined. Lance shrugged. “None of us is flush right now.”
“But—”
He bent in and kissed her sleep-soft mouth. “I won’t be long.”
He borrowed Momma’s Fiat and got to the hospital as the doctor was declining liability if Rico left her care prematurely.
“I absolve you, lady; now get me out of here.” Rico sank weakly back against the pillows until the nurse brought the discharge papers. His left hand was as dexterous as his right had been, but his signature looked shaky as he signed the responsibility-for-payment forms, muttering curses under his breath. When all the bills were in it would be ugly, and he hadn’t had anything big or steady since Lance broke up the band.
They had a sweet setup in their living arrangements, but none of them wanted to take advantage of Pop. And as soon as things were certain in Sonoma, Lance would be out altogether. Rico would have to do something, even if it was running sound for other bands. He’d done it before, and people knew he could. But it would eat him alive to watch someone else with the sticks.
Lance doubted Rico was thinking that far ahead as he made it to the living room chair and sank like a ship. Chaz had completed his second job’s deliveries and met them at the bottom of the stairs. Now he walked around behind Rico, placing both hands on his head, eyes closed. Lance had prayed as they waited yesterday, but Rico took the laying on of hands better from Chaz. Lance could hug the man’s neck, but anything super-spiritual … fagedda-bout-it. Rico knew all too well his warts and blemishes.
He sat down beside Rese on the couch, trying not to recall last night’s electricity—easier done in the daytime with Chaz and Rico than alone with her in the night. They needed to get a handle on things, where they stood with each other and the rest of the world. But right now the rest of the world was pressing so close he could hardly breathe.
He wasn’t sure yet that he was through with Nonna, and Rico would need help for the next few days at least. He looked across to Rico’s bruised gaze. “Chopper needs some work.”
Rico sank back and grinned. “Yeah.”
Rese looked from one to the other and shook her head. She might never understand, but that was okay.
————
So what if she’d never heard of Bloomingdale’s? Rese did not consider that a crisis, but Monica gaped. She had come down with brownies for Rico—some with finger holes where Nicky had tested their texture and durability—and one thing led to another until Rese had revealed her ignorance and Monica pounced.
Lance said not one word of protest when his sister recruited Lucy, left Doria with their cumulative kids, and shanghaied her onto the train. Maybe he wanted time with Rico—who was not in a good way—but she suspected he thought this beneficial to her general development.
Flanking her, the sisters talked over everyone else including the automated voice at each stop informing riders, This is a Manhattanbound two train. Stand clear of the closing doors.
“So Monica says you do construction?”
Rese jumped.
Lucy flipped her coarse ponytail over her shoulder and caught Rese squarely in her myopic gaze. They must have exhausted the rundown of each kid, every lousy teacher, and all their husbands’ gripes that she had successfully tuned out.
“Renovation. I tear it down first.”
Lucy shared a glance with Monica. “And your pop got you into it?”
Obviously Monica had filled her in on the relevant details, so why did she need to hear it again? “I don’t do it anymore. I sold the company.” She paused while the commuters exited and took their seats. “The crew’s not happy about that, but it’s not my problem.”
“You ran the business?” Lucy shifted on the slick blue plastic bench to make room for a pierced and braided man who outweighed her twice over. He plopped down and jived to the beat on his headphones.
“Technically, I was in charge of the crew, and Brad was in charge of the sites.” It should have been the other way around. She had the technical expertise and gut instincts; Brad owned the guys. “He did answer to me, but he could act autonomously.” The source of much friction.
“And you liked that work?”
Rese nodded. “I liked the work; I didn’t always like the crew. They could be really obnoxious.” Why was she telling them this? But the rapt looks on their faces led her on as she described the pranks, the insolence, Brad’s competitive attitude. She told them more than even Star knew, but not what she’d told Lance, not the incident with Sam and Charlie.
Monica’s face had taken on frank admiration, but Lucy said, “Why did you sell it?”
Rese looked away. “It was too hard after Dad died.”
“Oh.” Lucy squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Rese marveled at the warmth in her tone. Had Star ever expressed honest regret for her without launching into some dramatic pathos? Yet here was Lance’s sister, whom she hardly knew, hearing her and caring. She had no idea how to answer.
“Next stop’s Penn Station.” Monica gathered her purse. “Bloomingdale’s has an entrance there.” She stood up. “You’re gonna love this.”
Rese doubted that, but she’d make the best of it. “If we stay here much longer, I’ll need a few things.”
Both women looked at her as the train lurched to a stop. “Oh, honey,” Monica said. “You don’t buy from Bloomies. You only shop.”
Rese looked from one to the other. What was the point of shopping if you didn’t get what you needed? They burst into laughter at her expression, but even in English they were speaking a foreign language.
————
There is bliss in not knowing what can happen next,
not seeing a trial until it’s there.
Then there is no chance to run.
I will suffocate in Manhattan. What were they thinking, cramming so many people into one place? How can Marco expect me to live, to breathe? His momma’s house is no house at all; it is a tunnel of rooms crammed together with other people’s rooms, too close and too flimsy. I can hear everything.
“That’s life,” Marco says and laughs when I whisper in our bedroom, four painted walls with no window and one photograph of Marco’s dog and three circus clowns with hardly any teeth.
I pull back from his embrace. “I don’t want them to hear.”
“They’ll think I’m not a good lover.”
He laughs harder when I clamp his mouth with my hand. I have learned so much, but I can’t imagine learning to live like this. We’ve been in the house two days, and I have not met his mother. Marco said she must be helping his aunt who has female trouble and was not well when he left.
We don’t know for sure because there’s no telephone in the tenement, as Marco calls it, since the original house was partitioned into separate dwellings. There is also one bathroom to each floor, and five or six families for each. His pop is l
aying brick someplace called the Bronx and only comes home on Sundays. He’s a good craftsman, Marco says, but has to go where the work is. Times are hard even for those with jobs.
I feel like a sneak coming into a home when no one knows I’m here except the man who brought me. But he will not take it seriously, and some time later I wonder if we have conceived a child in the shadows of this room with his two-legged dog and the clowns looking on… .
Antonia opened her eyes to Lance. His face held such tenderness, she thought for a moment she was still in her dreams. His likeness to Marco, not just outside but inside as well, had made him special in a way he always knew but never flaunted. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, his smile deep in his eyes. “Hey, Nonna.”
She blinked and tried for a smile, knowing her words would not be right.
With the washcloth on the bed stand, he wiped the moisture from the side of her mouth. “What can I get you?”
Not “can I,” but “what can I?” Expecting to serve.
“Macchiato and biscotti? Polenta besciamella?”
She laughed. It was a joke trying to make her needs known.
“I know. I’ll surprise you.” He squeezed her hand and started to stand.
“L … ance.” Well, that was better than before. Sleep must have helped.
He eased back down. “What, Nonna?”
She nodded toward the papers.
His gaze softened. “You need something in you first.”
“A … fter.” Madonna mia. Her words were back!
Clearly hesitant, but for once obedient, he picked up the papers and held them out. When she shook her head, he raised his brows. “You want me to read?”
“Yes.” Now there was the right word. If she’d waited just this long she could have told that banker. No matter. She had what she needed.
He looked at what he held, reluctant, it seemed, to search the secrets within. So much unsaid, but also unforgotten. He frowned. “I think you should get your strength back first.”
She waited. He would run out of arguments soon enough. Recalling what came before had prepared her for what would come next. Whatever Marco had to say would not change what had already been. She knew his heart. She knew.
Lance met and held her eyes, then sighing, flipped over the cover page. He read the beginning part that she had read in the bank, and his face mirrored her own initial reaction. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, and he continued aloud:
“My first impression of Vittorio Shepard was intelligence coupled with fundamental gullibility, too much conscience for an inner-circle man, but enough ambition to be useful in spite of it—the exact sort of fellow men like Arthur Jackson looked for.
“When I approached him secretly, Vittorio doubted neither my credentials nor my information. He’d come to suspect the operation already, and faced with the evidence, his concern was for you and for his pop. He would help me, he said, if I assured your safety. From my position, I owed him nothing; his own decisions had put you at risk. Yet I agreed, seeing an opportunity for cover.
“As a suitor, I could meet with Vittorio without raising suspicions. In return, the Bureau would assure your protection—an arrangement neither of us found ideal, but it was workable. He clearly stipulated the restrictions I tried to voice to you once, but neither of us had taken into account your spirit and fortitude. For my part, I was charmed and could only pray it would not interfere with my ability to do my job.”
Lance looked up. Could he see her shaking? Even though she knew Marco’s heart, she still could not hear his words without pain. The thought that he had deceived her from the start … And she felt so weak. “Bene,” she said. “I …’ll eat.”
“Good.” Lance set the pages aside, obviously relieved. He lifted and carried her down to the wheelchair, then rolled her into her restaurant and cooked for her. She had thought that he would take the place over, and watching him work in the big old kitchen she wished it still. But his heart was in Sonoma, at the villa she had once called home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Walking in, Rese smelled something wonderful. They’d grabbed pretzels on the street for lunch—all that Monica could stomach—but that was hardly enough to fuel their marathon of stores and bargain basements.
“Lance is cooking,” Lucy said.
“How do you know it’s Lance?” Rese followed her toward the inner restaurant entrance.
Lucy shrugged. “It smells good.”
“Don’t talk about smells.” Monica clamped her hands over her mouth and hurried up the stairs.
Lucy pushed open the door for Rese, saying a little reluctantly, “I’ll have to deliver Momma from the kids.”
Rese went in and set her bags on a corner counter, then walked around the large walk-in refrigerator to find Lance assisting Antonia’s fork to her mouth.
He looked over and smiled. “Have fun?”
“Actually … yes.” Once she realized she didn’t have to buy anything in the multilevel city block of a store, she’d merely marveled at the designer outfits, jewelry, perfume, and even allowed Lucy and Monica to have their fun, holding up dresses, whisking scarves around her neck, trying on hats, purses, shoes too spiky to walk in.
“Pull up a chair.” Lance motioned toward the dining room.
She hadn’t meant to interrupt, but she brought a chair close and gave Antonia a smile, surprised to receive a version of one in return. His grandmother was recovering; Lance must be so relieved.
“Hungry?” He nodded toward the stove.
“It smells great.”
Normally he would have gotten up and served her, but his hands were full, and she was glad he didn’t. The only time she’d helped herself to Lance’s cooking before was when she’d reheated his lasagna for breakfast. That lasagna had been heaven. She went to the stove and lifted a lid.
A shrunken chicken, but the aroma delighted her. “What is it?”
“Quail braised in cognac with polenta besciamella.”
Rese found a plate and helped herself to the tiny bird and cheesy cornmeal side dish. “I’ve never had quail.”
“It’s Nonna’s favorite.” He winked. “Got to fatten her up.”
The delicate poultry didn’t seem as good a choice as his mother’s gravitational spaghetti sauce, but she took a bite and sank into the flavor. “Lance, it’s delicious.”
He smiled. “I hoped you’d be back before someone claimed the rest.”
“I hadn’t expected to take so long.”
“You don’t know my sisters.”
She did now. After seeing what they liked at Bloomingdale’s, they’d scoured other stores for knockoffs and bargains, and if that didn’t show all, Rese didn’t know what would. She had gotten some things she needed if they had to stay longer, which was possible since she didn’t have any immediate reservations in the next week either. After that it was touch and go. She’d have to get onto the site and see what days were already reserved. She could go back without Lance, but what good was that? She’d have his dog, but not his cooking.
“Have you checked with Michelle lately?”
He nodded. “Baxter’s in love.”
“The traitor.” Every golden shaggy bit of him.
“That’s what I said when he fell for you, but at least he’s got good taste.”
Rese tipped her head. “He groveled at Sybil’s feet.”
Lance winced. “Okay, he’s a pushover.”
She tried the polenta and found it a good companion to the quail. Lance did with food what she strove for in renovation, integrating and complementing each element with another. “I’m glad you got through to Michelle. I haven’t been able to do anything but leave messages. She must keep busy.” It struck her how little she knew the woman who had heard her confession of faith on the back porch after Evvy’s funeral and was now watching out for the inn and keeping Lance’s dog.
Lance said, “I also talked to Pop.”
Rese stopped chewing. “
You did?”
“Yesterday after the bank.”
And right before Rico’s accident. No wonder he hadn’t mentioned it.
He dabbed his grandmother’s mouth. “What do you think of that, Nonna? Me and Pop, man to man.”
She nodded, warmth filling her eyes.
Rese swallowed. “What did he say?”
“Basically … grow up.” He set aside the finished plate and fixed his gaze on Antonia. “I told him about Sonoma.”
Antonia stiffened.
Rese did too. “Lance …” It came out under her breath. Even she knew Antonia had kept all of that between the two of them alone. In a family that shared everything, she had kept the things Lance learned a secret—until now.
He took Antonia’s hands. “When I leave, they’ve got to know what you’re dealing with. It’s too much for you to handle alone.”
Of course. He’d said the same thing to her, “You can’t face everything alone.” His nature was communal, his first reaction to share the burden. He didn’t understand that some things could only be faced alone. And by the looks of it, Antonia didn’t want to hear it any more than Rese had. Even if it was true.
They locked eyes and sat in stubborn silence, until Lance said in a soft voice, “Forgive me?”
Two devastating words. They demolished angry walls, brought down defensive fortifications. Impossible to resist, especially when Lance said them with all his heart.
Antonia struggled to speak, and finally came out with something that had to be wrong. “J … acob.”
She didn’t know his name?
Lance didn’t realize or didn’t care. He shrugged. “Pop needed to know.”
Antonia’s eyes flared. Rese held her breath. Hadn’t he learned from the last time he upset her? How could he keep pressing people further than they wanted to go? But she saw the strain in his posture. He wasn’t as sure of himself as he sounded when he continued, “Jacob might have been a rascal and a cheat, but God loved him anyway.”
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