Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  She sat up and looked out the bedroom window. Baxter came out the carriage house door, tail wagging, head high, assessing the situation, then went back inside where Lance was working. Definitely a bonus, there. He should have said he had a dog first thing.

  She went back to work, unpacking the boxes of photographs and lamps, decorative items and books to match each room’s motif. She had not yet purchased TVs or the units to hold them. That was another sort of shopping altogether.

  Her stomach growled. Lance had not demonstrated any of the breakfasts he’d mentioned. After arriving both days, he’d gone straight to work on his project. It shouldn’t matter. She’d gone a long time without eating much of anything. Now suddenly food was important?

  Rese went down and made a piece of toast—hardly a tantalizing breakfast. She would not have noticed its bland ordinariness before Lance had arrived. Chewing the crisp but mostly tasteless offering, she wandered into the dining room and surveyed the work still to be done. The furniture’s arrival had interrupted her progress, but she studied the room with a critical eye.

  The wood floor needed sanding and a fresh treatment of polyurethane, though most of it would be covered by an area rug in muted ecru beige, and greens that would complement the soft butter-colored walls. She had stained the woodwork a natural maple, and the carved pieces to ornament the doorways would get a rubbed finish when they were ready.

  Elegance without stuffiness. It was certainly spacious, unlike modern dining rooms scarcely sufficient for a family meal. Well, families were larger and closer in the days this house was built. She’d be knocking around in it without guests.

  Turning slowly around, she wondered about the people who had eaten together in this room, cooked in the vacuous kitchen, planted the overgrown garden. Who had slept in the rooms above? This house had a story so thick she could feel it. Some structures were like old sachets with no scent left; this one emoted something powerful yet just beyond her grasp. That was why she chose it—that and the deplorable condition she had found it in.

  She wished she knew more about it. Maybe the clutter in the attic where she’d found the kitchen chairs would offer some history. With it right above the freshly finished bedrooms, she should clean it out and make certain there were no rodents and as few spiders as possible. As the day was already interrupted, she would just have a look and see what she was up against. At the walk-through, she’d been told it held junk, but there had been no access to see for herself. She doubted anyone had been up there in years, maybe decades. No doubt anything valuable had been plundered long ago.

  She stopped at the base of the attic stairs, glancing through the doors to the now-furnished bedrooms. A whisper of excitement stirred in her. It was coming together—almost too quickly. Soon the work would be done. But she didn’t want to think about that.

  Rese climbed the dark flight and stepped into the attic. Two small windows allowed weak daylight, and a single bulb dangled from the center beam. There were stacks of newspapers, several broken chairs that matched the two she had salvaged for the kitchen, some thoroughly disgusting drapes, and an electric fan plugged into the outlet that held the overhead bulb.

  The air was stuffy, which was probably the purpose of the fan. She reached down and pushed the On button. It buzzed loudly to life and stirred the dust and items near it. Everything she spied from the near end was newer than the villa by decades, at least, yet was still trash. It should all be hauled out, but her stomach clenched at that thought. What if she grabbed the drapes and something wiggled? She squeezed her fists. She had not been born with a fear of mice, spiders, and things that jumped out; it had been spitefully developed. But…

  She sensed movement behind her and shrieked, spinning around, fists clenched. Lance stepped back, hands raised in surrender as adrenaline transformed her fear to anger.

  “What are you doing! Why did you sneak up like that?”

  He reached over and turned off the fan. “I didn’t sneak.”

  Her chest heaved with indignation and passing fear. “What do you want?”

  He searched the cluttered expanse behind her. “Will this be inspected for health and safety?”

  There were probably ways around that. Only public areas had to be customer friendly. She could keep it locked, but now that she’d taken a closer look, she’d rather take care of it. “I don’t know. But it ought to be cleaned out.” She patted an upholstered chair back and sneezed.

  He waved the dust away. “I’ll do it.”

  “You will?”

  He shrugged. “I’m the maid, right?”

  When they opened for business, yes. “What about getting your room done?”

  “I have it all torn down. Need to wait for the lumber and drywall to be delivered.”

  Over the past two days, he had removed the dangerous roof and cleared most of the brush and vines to get at the place. She’d seen him plugging holes in the stones with hand-mixed mortar. All of his time and effort had cost her nothing so far. But she’d have to pay him to do the attic, something she could certainly clean out herself.

  She lifted the corner of the drape with the toe of her shoe. “It could be nasty.”

  “Nasty doesn’t bother me.”

  It shouldn’t bother her. But her stomach turned at moldering, vermininfested refuse. She liked old, not foul, things. She could make herself do it. But if Lance was willing, why not turn it over? Delegation was acceptable.

  “Okay. I want to see anything interesting or important. Anything that might work in the rooms, and especially things about the house, records and stuff. I’d like to know more about this old place.” She rested her hands on her hips and gave it a final once over. Some of the details of this attic she’d rather not know.

  “Where do you want the garbage?”

  “Timbuktu?”

  One side of his mouth quirked.

  “Haul it to the driveway for now.” She had expected him to balk at the maid’s portion of the job. This wasn’t cleaning toilets yet, but he certainly seemed amenable. And that would leave her to the work she did best.

  Lance exulted. It was exactly what he’d hoped for. The door had been locked when he had his first look-through, and he couldn’t exactly ask to inspect the attic. But then here she was, needing him to clear it out. If that wasn’t God, what was?

  Grazie, Signore. The quest burned inside. So it wasn’t the Holy Grail he sought. Nor even necessarily treasure. What he hoped to find went much deeper. But she was right about one thing. There was a lot of refuse to plow through. He gathered the mildewed drapes, dragged them down the stairs, and dropped them in a heap outside.

  Next he brought out all the broken chairs and piles of Index Tribunes that dated from the eighties and were therefore of no use to him. Stained lampshades and cracked vinyl blinds he added to the pile. An assortment of stiff, warped shoes. Even an old push lawn mower, though why anyone would have hauled it to the attic was beyond him.

  A shower fixture he inspected, then set in the discard pile. A vase he found tucked into the eaves warranted more attention. He wiped it off with an old cloth and put it aside for Rese to consider. He wasn’t even sure what he hoped to find. But the sooner he cleared out the disorder, the simpler his task would be.

  Rese came up after a couple hours, smelling of wood stain. An oversized man’s shirt hung halfway down her thighs and was rolled above her wrists. She glanced over the area he’d cleared, but asked, “Were you going to make lunch?”

  He looked at his watch. Almost two. He hadn’t realized it was that late in the day. But he didn’t want to stop, and he was in no mood to cook for her again. “No.”

  She stood arms akimbo. “You are on the clock.”

  “For cleaning the attic. Even in a dual position, I can only do one job at a time.” Though the fact that she would ask was curious. He had noticed sandwich ingredients and packaged soup. She could make something for herself.

  She wiped her forehead with the back of her wris
t. “You’ll have to fluctuate between them as the situation requires.”

  She must have worked up an appetite, but he was skeptical of its effectiveness. “Are you asking me to fix you something?”

  “You should show me what else you can do.”

  He sat back on his haunches. “So you’re asking?”

  She raised her chin. “Forget it. I’ll make a sandwich.”

  Stubborn woman. Obviously preferred issuing orders to making requests. But he did need to stay on her good side. This was one job he couldn’t lose.

  “I’ll put something together.”

  “There’s not much to work with.”

  He turned off the fan he had employed in spite of its obnoxious noise. “I can run in and get stuff.”

  “I’ll give you money.”

  He cocked his head. “Why don’t you make a list?”

  She raised her hands, warding off that thought. “I have no idea what you’ll need.”

  He grinned. “Just tell me what you like.”

  “I don’t really care.”

  “What do you buy?”

  Her hands clamped her hips again. “Macaroni and cheese, ramen noodles …”

  He held up a hand. “I get the idea. But you have to do something for me.”

  She shot him a skeptical look. “What?”

  “Sit with Baxter when I start my bike.” He headed for the stairs. “Or he’ll want to ride along.”

  “How does he do that?” She followed him down.

  “I have a sort of saddle across the front of my seat.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “I can’t believe you take your dog on a motorcycle.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t ride anything but a Harley.” Lance turned at the base of the stairs.

  “It’s still dangerous.”

  “No more than for me.”

  Hands clamped to her hips again. “He doesn’t have a choice.”

  Lance paused. “Sure he does.”

  She swung down around the newel post. “Not if you’ve trained him to do it. It’s like making him jump through fire or something. He does it to please you, not because he wants to.”

  Why was she making this an issue? “Then you shouldn’t have any trouble holding on to him.”

  She frowned. “How badly will he try?”

  “You’d better hold his collar. And remind him he doesn’t want to go.”

  She glared as he went out. Given the food items she had mentioned, he decided to give pasta a try. Maybe fettuccini tossed with shrimp and broccoli, a lemon butter sauce with capers and shallots. He started the Harley and heard Baxter bark. Not this time, buddy. You don’t really want to. You just think you do.

  Lance swung the bike out of the driveway and down the lane. Interesting that she ascribed the dog’s pleasure to obedience. Sure, he’d tucked the pup into his jacket on their earliest trips, then created the sling saddle that supported Baxter’s legs. But the truth was the dog hated to be left behind, and when that was the transportation, he took to it as easily as the back of a truck or the seat of a car. Between his arms, Baxter rode in comfort and safety.

  Lance reached the Sonoma Market and parked, wishing he’d just taken the dog along, but he was hoping Baxter would cement his position with Rese. He went inside and chose organic vegetables and the other items he would need. When he got serious, he’d make his own pasta, but for now the packaged variety would do. He paid, realizing Rese hadn’t sent money after all, but that was okay. He’d just hand over the receipt. He loaded the items into his travel bags and drove back to the villa. It was quiet inside as he passed through to the kitchen, and he was surprised to see Rese still sitting with Baxter in the backyard.

  The animal had his head in her lap. She had obviously taken his directions seriously, and Baxter had conned her into feeling truly sorry for him. They must have heard the bike when he drove in, but neither cared too much by the looks of it. Just as well—he had lunch to prepare.

  Rese sat with the dog wagging at her side. She had not intended to waste the day, but hunger and the thought of Lance’s food had interrupted her staining. Even then she would have worked while he was gone, but as soon as she cuddled his dog it was all over.

  Hiring Lance had diminished her productivity. Just having him around broke her focus. It had never been that way before. She could have a whole crew around her and hardly know it, unless she came across something that needed attention—like a dog. She smiled down, and Baxter nuzzled her with his wet nose.

  She petted his ears as she surveyed the tangled garden. Sunlight crept between the fronds and leaves. Buckled flagstone paths ran among overgrown planters of hydrangea and azaleas, beds choked with callas and peonies just starting to bloom, profuse lilacs clogged with spider’s webs and bird’s nests.

  The trees had not been pruned in years, nor the hedge trimmed. A cascade of honeysuckle scented the air with a sweet peppery smell, and to her right, honeybees droned in a patch of sweetly cloying white alyssum, then rose up, reeling in drunken pleasure. Left to the temperate sun and morning fog, the garden itself had overindulged.

  With care it could be lovely, but Rese knew almost nothing about gardening—flowers, shrubs, or trees, until the latter had been sawn into lumber. Wood she knew, not green, growing, blooming things. She sighed. Every time she thought she was getting close, she found more work, and that was both a relief and a frustration.

  She got up and crossed to the carriage house. The roof was off, the old wood stacked neatly outside one wall, and Lance had begun clearing the ground—for a cement slab, no doubt. He appeared methodical and orderly, two things she appreciated but would not have instinctively ascribed to him.

  She had little reason to doubt his ability or thoroughness, judging only by his appearance. He was proving himself as good a cook as he’d claimed. Why shouldn’t his other claims be true as well? His varied experience might not mean he wasn’t proficient. She was reading that in because her own ambition had been so specific.

  She glanced up at the window of the house across the hedge. A face peering out? She couldn’t be sure with the light as it was. And she didn’t want to stare. She turned back toward her own house. Had Lance finished making lunch? She recalled his thunderous brow the last time he cooked.

  Trouble. She had thought it in those first moments. Well, she had said a trial period, and that gave her an out if he proved unreasonable. She started for the house and stubbed her foot on an uneven stone all but hidden by trailing ivy. “Ouch.” Baxter nosed her sympathetically, and she sat down again beside him. The garden would have to be tended. Maybe Lance could handle that as well. She certainly didn’t want to be sued for personal injury.

  Rese stroked the dog. She could sit for days petting him. He was so gentle and responsive. And yes, he had cried when Lance drove away without him. But her attention had eased his distress. She had comforted him even as he had filled a void she’d carried too long. “Why can’t we have a dog, Dad?”

  Because it was too much work. Their hours were too long. Their business took them both away for extended periods, and one did not have an animal underfoot when concentration was needed. She drew a sobering breath. Rese knew only too well what happened with distractions.

  Lance had softened the saffron threads with wine and crushed the fennel seeds, sauteéd the garlic and shrimp with a touch of cognac, then prepared the pasta and broccoli. It wasn’t complicated. As Conchessa had taught, the quality of the outcome lay in timing and seasoning and prayer. “You don’t have to be fancy to be striking. Do it simply. Do it well. Do it with love and adoration. That makes it an offering.”

  He loved having her words in his head. Though she had no chef ’s credentials and imparted none, in three short weeks she had tempered the epicurean excesses he’d learned from Nonna Antonia. Conchessa didn’t use any ingredient not readily available or grown in the convent’s garden. He appreciated her simplicity, but also Nonna’s New
York extravagance. He could incorporate both. If he were staying, he’d start an herb garden of his own and create masterpieces both simple and fancy.

  For now, he dished the meal onto two plates, gave each dish a fork and napkin, and carried them outside. Rese looked up, a bemused expression on her face. Baxter wore the same. Good grief, they’d fallen for each other. Lance lowered one of the plates to Rese with the napkin caught underneath.

  She took it, surprised. “I didn’t expect delivery.”

  He settled onto the ground and gave Baxter a nudge with his knee, getting a reciprocal tail wag. “I didn’t expect nursing care for the con dog.”

  Rese laughed, and Lance couldn’t help watching her. If someone had told him the first day she was capable of that sound he would not have wagered money on it. Maybe it had been a really bad day, and that accounted for her lack of culinary enthusiasm. Even he had a slump now and then. But he’d put extra care into this effort.

  She took a bite, chewed and swallowed, then proceeded with the next. He waited, but she didn’t say anything, bite after bite. What was her problem? She’d even requested this meal!

  Well, he was certainly not going to ask how she liked it. He ate his, satisfied that it was both balanced and delicious. Maybe she’d killed her taste buds eating all that packaged junk. Maybe she didn’t know food was supposed to taste good. She finished it without a single comment. He couldn’t help sending her a puzzled gaze.

  “What?”

  “Did you like it?” He ought to bite his tongue out.

  She said, “Both meals could work for specials—if I decide to do that.”

  Lance swallowed the desire to shake her, took her plate with his, and strode into the kitchen. He washed them at the sink, then toweled his hands dry.

  As he climbed the stairs, his phone rang. The jolt of anxiety made his fingers clumsy as he dug it from his pocket and saw his parents’ number. Bad news? He’d just gotten started. Surely God would give him time…

  “Lance here.”

  “Hey, mon?” The greeting rolled off with the musical intonation of Chaz’s Jamaican accent. “You went to Rome and they didn’t make you pope?”