Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Rico had perfected the Puerto Rican stare. “So you’re just out of here.”

  Lance jammed a pair of jeans down inside the pack. He didn’t want to get into it with Rico. They’d already established irreconcilable differences, in spite of their history. It didn’t matter if he was in Italy or Ecuador or the next bedroom.

  “It’s another excuse to run away, man.”

  Lance let that go, adding socks and boxers. “Talk to her yourself, Rico. Nonna needs something, and I’m the one to find out what.” He looked around the apartment he shared with Chaz and Rico. He’d be traveling light, but he needed to cover the essentials.

  “How long?”

  Lance hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “I don’t know. But even if I stayed, the gig is over. Find someone else.”

  Rico tipped back his head with a growl. “There is no one else.”

  Lance cinched the pack and shouldered into it. He had a flight to catch. He clasped forearms with Rico. “Keep an eye on Nonna for me.”

  “You know it.” Rico’s grip was wiry, firm with years of friendship stronger than blood. They’d be okay. That friendship was based on more than one thing, and Rico would see that eventually.

  The flight was long and made longer by the harried woman and toddler who shared the bank of seats. Three quarters of the way across the Atlantic, Lance fell asleep with the child on his chest as the woman murmured heartfelt gratitude.

  Putting and gasping along the spectacular road to the convent perched at the top of the mount overlooking the Gulf of Genoa, the European scooter was a sad excuse for his Harley. Forests of pine and lemon trees, almonds and herbs scented the breeze as the road burrowed through dark tunnels and burst again into the warm sunlight along the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  As he climbed, the aquamarine water spread out below, and the city of Genoa clung between it and the rugged Ligurian Apennines. The resort-filled crescent of the Riviera di Ponente and the Riviera di Levante was a coastal playground, but Lance wasn’t there to indulge. His road climbed ever steeper to the fortress-like convent that sprung from the stone and scrub of the mountain.

  It was difficult to distinguish where the walls of the main entrance began and the mountain left off. He had booked a cumbessia in the convent and got pretty much what he expected: a cell. One barred window looking in toward the central courtyard, a door into the same. Running water—cold— and a bed.

  The whole convent seemed to be slumping back into the ground. The flat, rectangular stones of the buildings looked as if they had been stacked without mortar, but they had stood for centuries. A permeating peace engulfed him. Compared to the Bronx, it was downright otherworldly. No phone, no TV. It didn’t matter. They could have lodged him in a stable for all he cared. He just needed answers, and that meant finding his second cousin twice removed, Conchessa DiGratia, known as Sister Anna Conchessa.

  Lance’s request to speak with her upon arrival had been denied with no explanation. Not a promising start, but Nonna had been adamant when he verified her intentions before he left. She wanted him to talk to this cousin he’d never heard of for reasons locked in Nonna’s brain. The sweet-faced nun who welcomed him, along with a handful of other pilgrims, invited him to explore the grounds but was unable to tell him when he might see his cousin.

  So Lance walked the gardens and released the urgency that had dogged him all the way there. His New York pushiness would get him nowhere, and it was impossible not to experience the timelessness of eternity within the ancient stone walls. It was not forgetfulness, just a realization that even time spun by God’s word alone.

  Dinner was simple, but the nun who served them was not old enough to be Nonna’s cousin. He broke the focaccia and savored the herbs that flavored it, plants he had recognized in the gardens surrounding the buildings. Content with the simple meal, he slept deeply on the plain, narrow bed and woke with a fresh expectation of accomplishing his goal.

  After finishing breakfast, Lance asked again for his cousin. He waited at the table as the other pilgrims left for their daily activities. The nun who came to him was again too young. “I am sorry. But Sister Anna Conchessa suggests there is no grandson to her cousin Antonia.”

  He spread his hands. “She doesn’t know me. I flew in from America. Here.” He handed her the letter from Conchessa to his Nonna dated years back. “Show her that.”

  Elbows resting on the long table, Lance held his face in his hands, waiting. He hadn’t supposed Conchessa would refuse to see him. Why would she doubt his word? Why was it impossible for her to believe Antonia had married and borne future generations? At least she could hear him out.

  The woman came back and returned the letter. “I’m sorry. She is baking the bread for the Festival of the Annunciation. Bread is given to the faithful who climb the sanctuary path.”

  Lance seized the chance. “Maybe I can help.”

  The nun’s brows raised, making wrinkles against the edge of her habit. She was obviously unused to pilgrims offering to join in the work.

  “Tell her Nonna Antonia taught me to cook. I can bake bread.” He didn’t know if it was a language barrier or pure incredulity that caused her expression as she went once again to be his mouthpiece.

  She came back a few minutes later. “If you will follow me.”

  He wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised. He felt a little like a sideshow in her eyes. She had probably joined the order at eighteen, and her innocence arose as they walked, like the faint scent of soft candles, dispelling darkness. He followed her to the kitchen, where a woman stood who was easily as old as Nonna. Though the years had not bent her, she was no taller than his shoulder, barrel-shaped and hawk-nosed. He immediately knew his place, and when she motioned to the sink without speaking, he washed well with soap and water, then threw himself into the mixing and kneading of dough.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The whir of the saw and the beat of the hammer had been a constant melody over the past months; the scent of wood stain and paint wafting up on the Sonoma Valley breezes to the window where Evvy watched. Her new neighbor was industrious; the worn tool belt a fixture on her narrow hips as she worked sometimes into the night, strong and competent for one so young. But she seemed to go about it all as though she had to keep a step ahead of something or someone, even though she worked entirely alone. There was that element of attack, of driving herself, in each action.

  Evvy knew the feeling. Every breath she drew through her sodden lungs was a challenge. If they knew how bad it really was, they’d force her into the hospital and she’d miss the resuscitation of Ralph’s house. It didn’t matter, of course. It wasn’t Ralph’s anymore. But she felt responsible anyway. Watchful.

  There were so many memories. And not just hers. Ralph’s were muddled now, but he had told stories….

  The whine grew to a pained wail that set her teeth on edge in a way it never had before. It passed with a breathy whiff of new maple, mingling brazenly with musty damp and age. Rese breathed the scent that had filled her lungs more comfortably than the purest air. She let go the trigger on the miter saw and examined the fresh cut on the section of molding, then approved it with her fingertips.

  Maple, oak, and cherry had been her companions as long as she could remember. The plane had molded her palm; the chisel had developed her eye and fingers. She knew her way around any power tool on the market, had shot nails, routered trim, sanded and carved and finished every wood worth using. She’d also laid pipe and run wires, though it didn’t compare to working the wood. Nothing did.

  Rese knew how to bid a job, how to recognize one she didn’t want to tackle, how to see past the damage to a true gem like the one she’d found here in Sonoma. The property’s value was elevated by the community alone—a rural, self-protecting city that recognized the potential for explosive growth and development around the vineyard industry, and chose instead to maintain its identity, unlike its Napa twin.

  The place practically shouted, “Keep your glitz
and glamour and big money. We’re the old guard, and we like things the way they are.” Only the decrepit condition of the villa, too historical to pull down and too unsafe to live in, had given her a wedge. Even so she’d used every argument she had to break through the no-growth moratorium on lodging—not that different from battles she had waged over permits and regulations. She wasn’t building new lodging here, just resurrecting an existing property and making it earn its keep. She hoped.

  The structure had been built to last, and once she finished the facelift, it would be as stately as at its birth. Not gaudy or ornamental, the villa had a simple grace that reflected an understanding of line and form, and she stayed true to those elements now, in her renovation. A master had to know the heart of a place to do it justice. That’s what she’d been taught, but she’d always had the eye, and since this was the very last time, she had chosen carefully.

  Rese swallowed at tightness in her throat as she climbed the frame of the scaffolding and fitted the cornice piece against the wall along the ceiling. The fit was good, the cut sharply aligning with the last section. A wave of satisfaction buoyed her as she stepped out onto the boards and tapped in a few anchoring nails to hold the molding in place. Such a little thing to matter so much. She caressed the wood, admiring its grain, absorbing the beauty.

  Each board had its own fingerprint in the pattern of the grain formed by years growing in the sun and rain. She did not take for granted what had gone into each piece of wood she used, what made it strong, what made it supple, all the elements that made it beautiful, useful, and enduring. A California girl, she’d heard all the anti-tree-cutting arguments, but nothing compared to wood when it came down to it.

  She did keep all the scraps, however, and many became the corner-piece carvings that were her trademark. Not many people were known by the work of their hands anymore, but she had determined from the start to be more than a nameless nail driver like the rest of the crew.

  Years back, she had gathered the ends and spare pieces and practiced with the different chisels until the rounded handles felt more at home in her palm than a pen or a book or a jump rope. She could draw well enough to pencil her designs, but it was when she dug into the wood that the magic happened.

  Rese climbed back down, slid the next board into place in the miter box and found her pencil mark. She aligned the blade with the edge of the wood, checked the degree of its angle and reached for the trigger. Before she could squeeze, the image struck her mind. Thick, callused fingers with blunt, chipped nails, the silver blur of the blade.

  She pressed her eyes shut and drew long breaths through her nostrils, then seized the trigger and put the saw in motion, edging it into the wood. Another clean cut. She eased the molding out from the miter table, climbed the scaffolding and tacked it to the adjoining wall and ceiling. Focus and perform; don’t think, don’t remember, don’t imagine what-ifs. Just find the rhythm in the wood.

  The moment Lance stepped inside the neglected yard of the Sonoma villa, the very ground reached up and embraced him. Grapevines along the squat, iron fence beckoned like gnarled hands. Ancient blood stirred in his veins. It must be the place, or the ground would not cry out to him. The breeze ruffled his hair with spring-scented fingers. New sprouts and blooms awakened in the yard, but the house seemed still.

  Its creamy stucco was flawless; no gutter sagged; no shutter listed. The porch posts were freshly painted white, though the narrow porch that framed the door drew no more attention than the long paned windows of the first floor or the arch-covered windows of the second. There was a pleasing symmetry that blended it all together, and yet… that feeling of pause, as though a great sleep had settled over its walls, and now it waited … and watched.

  The construction pickup in the driveway read Barrett Renovation and explained the pristine condition of a structure more than a hundred years old. But none of that work had penetrated the silence. As his gaze traveled the plastered face before him, Lance realized how deeply the need had settled inside … the right—yes, the right.

  The slate walk was somber as he covered its length to the worn, solid stairs beneath the arched portico and climbed. Before he rapped the door, Lance laid his hand to the wood. What will you show me, old house? He closed his eyes and pressed his other hand to the inner pocket of his jacket; a second letter entrusted to him by the old woman he had come to love after three weeks in her convent kitchen, a letter with a return address matching the property he now inspected. “Use it wisely, Lance,” she had instructed.

  I will, cogino mio.

  But would he? He always started out with good intentions, even when they got him into trouble—as they had more often than he liked to think. He began with brilliance. It was seeing it through to the end that somehow eluded him.

  This would be different. This wasn’t about him. It was for Nonna. A vise squeezed his chest, releasing only when he drew a slow breath and knocked. The whine of a saw blade came from inside, and his second knock went unnoticed. He would have called ahead, but he’d only just seen his opportunity for introduction in the front window.

  Lance tried the knob and opened the front door. The sense of purpose crept through his hand and up his arm as he peered inside at the broad staircase rising up before him. He almost pictured a young, graceful Antonia descending to welcome him with open arms and a kiss to each cheek. He’d never seen her that way, only softly wrinkled, like crepe, but she was beautiful still.

  His gaze slid over the spacious front room; walls patched and awaiting paint, but seemingly sound and promising elegance. Muted gray and beige stone in the entry floor, wood for the rest. Tall ceilings and long narrow windows. The place was old, though not the hoary age of the Italian structures he’d seen in Italy. Age without infirmity; wisdom, not senility. Watchful, expectant maturity. He swallowed. He hadn’t expected to react so powerfully to the house.

  Drawing himself up, Lance called, “Hello.” Or maybe he thought it only. “I’m home,” he breathed, though he’d never set foot in the place. He shook his head. Way too quixotic. He stepped inside and sought the sound of industry.

  A noise from behind brought Rese sharply around to the figure standing in the doorway with a look of belonging on his face, as though she had walked in on him. For a moment, under his dark-eyed scrutiny, she felt herself the trespasser. No way. She had spent too many years as the odd man out to accept it in her own dining room. “Did you want something?”

  He hung his hands in his jeans pockets. “I’m looking for Rese Barrett.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re Rese?”

  “No doubt you expected a burly man with a crew.” He didn’t deny it, nor did he appear chagrinned at falling into the stereotypical mindset. He was probably another neighbor concerned about an inn, eager to instruct her on his personal expectations, as if she didn’t know to provide enough offstreet parking for guests and curtail late-night noise. On this fringe-of-town street only one house was close enough to be affected by what happened on her property, and that closest neighbor had yet to appear. Until now?

  But the guy looked up to the cornice she held and said, “You need help.”

  “No, I don’t.” She sent a last nail nearly through the cornice and let go. Help and need were not in her vocabulary. Even now.

  “You said so.”

  “Said so?”

  He motioned through the wide doorway to the sign in the front-parlor window. The sun-backed, reversed letters did form a Help Wanted sign, and along with her name and phone number she had written in bold black the position available: maid/cook.

  He came forward and reached up. “I’m Lance. Lance Michelli.”

  Sighing, Rese climbed down the scaffolding, hung the hammer in her belt and gave his hand a decisive grip. “You’re a maid?” She did not make assumptions according to gender.

  He said, “Cook,” and before she could set him straight, added, “I’ve trained with two of the best chefs in Italy and New York.” He glan
ced at the freshly hung cornice. “I can also do some carpentry.”

  She took in his spare frame, the stylish cut of his dark hair, and especially the diamond in his ear and tried not to snort. “I do the carpentry. And if your other claim is true, you’re overqualified for my opening. Why don’t you apply at the fancy restaurants on the plaza?”

  He looked around the dining room’s long, multi-paned windows and his tone deepened. Again she sensed his belonging as he said, “This place is just what I’m looking for.”

  She clamped down on her concern. “This place is a bed-and-breakfast— muffins, fruit. I don’t need a chef.”

  “Why not espresso and pastries? Frittatas and crepes, almond focaccia and tarts?”

  The idea sprang up with a life of its own. She tried to slap it down, but it slid into her mind as though it belonged there, much the same way he’d slid into her dining room. She frowned. She had not intended anything that fancy. Good breakfasts, yes, but…

  “Or a nightly special,” he went on. “Saltimbocca or pollo marengo or lasagna. What other bed-and-breakfast offers that?”

  Her stomach growled. How long since she had stopped to eat? She didn’t know half of what he was saying, but lasagna—she imagined the aroma seeping from the kitchen. She had not planned to serve full meals, though the kitchen was certainly sufficient for it. The family who built the villa must have considered that room the social hub of their lives. Personally, the less time she spent in any kitchen the better.

  She looked him over again. She hadn’t expected a response to the sign so soon after putting it in the window, had only just called in the ad. It was crazy to choose the first person through the door just because he talked a good line and appealed to her hollow stomach. But his idea did intrigue her.

  Sonoma had its share of bed-and-breakfast establishments, and her competition was stiff. Most were within walking distance of the historic plaza; hers was nearer the outskirts of town. It wasn’t a long drive in, but people would need incentive to choose hers over a closer inn. She hadn’t opened yet, but she had put enough work into the place to form a protective attitude. Even when she renovated other people’s property, she felt as though it was a little bit hers when she’d finished.