Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Rese came out of her hallway looking sleepy and disheveled and adorable. She yawned and stretched like a gangly kitten, then plunked herself down at the table.

  He said, “Come here.”

  She looked at him as though he’d ordered her down for twenty pushups. He had already been to church and purchased and prepared the breakfast ingredients, but she dragged herself up and padded over, barefooted and cranky. He poured a dab of batter into the too-large copper skillet. Then he closed her hand around the handle and helped her rotate it to spread the batter into a thin layer over the bottom.

  “It’ll be more uniform when we get the crepe pan. But you get the idea.” He caught a hint of interest in her face, which was more than he’d expected. He handed her the spatula. “It only takes a moment for a crepe this thin. You don’t want to crisp it or it won’t roll nicely.” He motioned for her to flip it. “Loosen the edges, then just slide under it gently.”

  She flipped it and glanced up.

  He smiled. “Good. Now grab a plate.”

  She took two from the cabinet and set them next to the stove. He slid her crepe onto the plate, then quickly spooned a strip of ricotta filling and rolled it. He ladled the berry sauce atop and handed it to her. “Enjoy.” And he meant it.

  He whipped up his own in moments and sat down with her. She looked up. “Lance, this is delicious.”

  His mouth pulled sideways. She had repeated it like a child reciting math facts. “You like the texture of the filling, the sweet but tangy sauce, and the light, buttery crepe?”

  “Sure.” She put her face down and finished the crepe. “Let’s make another. I’m starved.”

  “You shouldn’t skip meals.” He walked her back to the stove.

  “I wouldn’t have if you’d been cooking.”

  That was the truest compliment yet. He poured the batter and again closed her hand inside his on the handle. The motion of the pan was almost sensual, and with her arm along his, her hand warm, and the back of her neck so accessible, he had to force himself to concentrate on the task. They set the pan down, but he didn’t let go. She glanced up, and her sleepy face was so tempting.

  “Should I flip it now?”

  He glanced at the crepe. “Let it go a tad longer.”

  “A tad?”

  He jabbed her ribs lightly, but she jumped. “Ah. Ticklish.”

  She warded him off with the spatula and a look that would have stopped Attila the Hun.

  He nodded at the pan. “It’s ready.”

  She went all around the crepe with the spatula, then tried to slide it under.

  “Careful. Loosen it there.” He guided her hand.

  The front door opened and Star’s voice sang out, “Ah, glorious perfume that taunts the palate.”

  Rese stepped away as the zany dame interrupted them. “It’s Lance’s crepes.”

  “What peril must I face, what deadly deed commit to win that rare prize?”

  Lance looked at Rese who said, “Sit down. You can have this one.”

  He slid it from the pan onto a fresh plate, filled and rolled it and spooned on the sauce, then set it before Star who had taken his seat. “Rese made this one.”

  “All I did was fry it. You made the batter and filling and all.”

  “Next time I’ll wake you up, and you can start from scratch.”

  She glared. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “You might enjoy it.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been cooking since I was nine. I will not enjoy

  it.”

  Star sighed over her first bite with drama even Lance found excessive. How on earth were these two women friends?

  He said, “No offense, Rese, but you haven’t been cooking.” She opened her mouth to object, but he pointed his finger. “If I handed you particle board and said make me a cedar chest, could you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s the same with food. You might have prepared meals, even ‘cooked’ them. But that’s not the art of it.”

  “This”—Star dangled a bite of crepe from her fork—“is art.” She wore the same outfit as yesterday, and her hair was even crazier. “But then art requires the eye of the beholder, as manna begs a discerning palate.” Surprisingly astute, and his point precisely. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be on the same page with her.

  “Did you know the Benziger vineyard commissions artwork for their labels? The only stipulation is to incorporate the Parthenon.” Star took the bite. “I spent the night there.”

  “In the Parthenon?” Lance and Rese said together.

  “The little one on the Benziger estate where the old doctor smoked weed.”

  Lance was getting the picture now. Only a chemically modified brain could function like Star’s.

  “I thought you were looking for a job,” Rese said.

  “I was. But I met someone and he offered me a private tour and one thing led to another and…” She waved her hand. “ … here I am for crepes.”

  Lance turned to the stove and poured a crepe for Rese, assuming she still wanted another. Star had certainly broken the mood.

  But as soon as she finished eating, Star stood up. “I have to change. A certain young vintner is waiting for me.”

  “For an interview, I suppose,” Rese said.

  “Of course.” Star flitted out.

  Too many questions he could ask about that one. How did they meet; what did they talk about? He held Rese’s chair, then set down the fresh steaming crepe and said, “Art.”

  She looked down at her plate. “Maybe if I’d done something like this, Dad would have noticed.”

  Ah. “He didn’t appreciate you?”

  She picked up her fork. “He appreciated my carpentry.” She cut into the crepe.

  Lance took his seat. “So that’s where you excelled.”

  “I excelled, so he complimented.”

  “You don’t think it works the other way around?”

  She looked puzzled. “Excellence is praised.”

  “Praise inspires excellence.”

  She shook her head. “No. If you praise substandard work you encourage mediocrity.”

  “Even mediocrity is a step toward excellence.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “But if you receive the reward before you accomplish the goal, why push on?”

  “Because the goal is worth it.” He slid Star’s plate aside, turned his hand on its edge. “If I want to get from here, to here.” He slid it sideways across to hers. “I can’t always make it in one plunge. First I might get to here.” He set his hand a third of the distance. “Did I accomplish something?”

  She nodded. “I guess.”

  “So smile.”

  She gave him a dim version.

  He moved another third. “Have I come closer to the goal?”

  She smiled without prompting, but not overly enthusiastic.

  He slid his hand over and took hers. “Now where would I be if you had frowned at my first attempts?”

  “You’d be appropriately respectful of our differing positions.”

  That implacable hierarchy. He sat back. “You need a partner more than a cook.”

  “No, I don’t.” She stood up and carried her plate to the sink, then turned to leave.

  He said, “Wash it.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

  “I’m not on the clock. You can wash your own plate.”

  She huffed, but did it.

  “The point is, people perform according to expectations, but gratification is born of appreciation.”

  She raised her brows and sighed. “Okay.” Then she added, “Thank you for the crepes. They were marvelous.” She even sounded sincere.

  He quirked his mouth. “Not bad for a lunatic cook?”

  “Right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He stood up and washed his plate. “We might need a dishwasher if we have a full house most o
f the time.”

  “Lance.” She put her hands on her hips.

  “Just a thought.” He wiped his plate dry.

  “Your thoughts are expensive. Every time you open your mouth I’m deeper in debt.”

  He started for the kitchen door. “I’ll just feed Baxter and get to work on my quarters.” With mad Star in the house, finishing had become expedient.

  “Good. I’ll be in the parlor.”

  “Eating bread and honey?” He ducked out the door as the sponge sailed toward his head. She might be a tough nut, but oh, he enjoyed provoking her.

  Hard as she tried, Rese could not get out of her head the things Lance had said about appreciation. It seemed disrespectful to her dad’s memory to consider the argument’s validity. Encouragement for the steps along the way? She thought she had worked to master what mattered to her. Had she, in fact, needed the reward of her father’s praise? Did she work harder in the only area she stood a chance of earning his respect?

  She sighed. It had not been easy for Dad after Mom’s death. He did the best he could. And she tried to be what he needed. They had carried on in the only way they knew how. If Lance wanted appreciation, she could show it. That didn’t mean she needed it herself. Good grief.

  She climbed onto the scaffolding to sand the bookshelf. This was not the most ornate house she had worked on, but it lent itself to her talent with grace. She had never renovated a place she intended to keep, not a place of her own.

  A knock came on the door, but she was high on the scaffolding, so she called, “Come in.”

  The front door opened and a miniature woman crept inside. She wasn’t as small as her stoop made her, but even so, her hands were bird claws, one clasped over the perch of a cane. Her hair was a peculiar shade of blue. Rese assumed it was supposed to be gray.

  The woman raised her cane. “So you’re the one who took over Ralph’s place.”

  Rese wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “I’d have come sooner but the pneumonia had me down flat.” She worked her way in closer. “I’ve watched you through the window, though.”

  The face she’d seen from the garden? A wash of relief. Just a little old lady, curious about a new neighbor. Rese set down the sandpaper and climbed off the scaffolding. “I’m Rese Barrett.”

  “Honey, can’t your nice man to do that for you?” She waved her claw toward the bookshelf.

  No doubt she meant Lance, if she’d been observing them from next door.

  “No. I do it myself.”

  The woman did a slow turn. “Ralph wanted to fix this place up, but never got to it. He was my sweetheart.”

  Rese raised her brows.

  “We were very discreet. Didn’t want the others to know.”

  “The others?”

  “The gang.” She fixed both hands over the cane head. “We all met Wednesdays for euchre, right here in this room. Though…” She screwed up her face. “It’s bigger now.”

  “I took down a wall.” Eyeing the expanse, Rese imagined a “gang” of oldsters cackling over their cards.

  “Just love euchre. I almost always win.” The woman’s laugh became a cough nasty enough to send a shock of concern through Rese.

  Her own breath quickened. “Are you all right, Ms… .”

  The woman waved her off. “Good heavens, don’t do any of that Ms. stuff. I am Miss Potter. Miss Evvy Potter. That’s two v’s so people don’t say Eevy. It’s for Evelyn. But Evelyn was my mother’s name so I became Evvy.”

  Well, now that was cleared up….

  “My first beau was killed in the second great war. Served under Patton. Most of the men from around here came back, but not James.” She sniffed and shook her head. “I met Ralph when I was seventy-three. I live next door there.” She pointed out the side window to the house Rese had guessed, then leaned in conspiratorially. “He was a younger man. Sixty-nine. Scandalous.”

  She laughed. “But oh, we did get on. Sixteen years we were neighbors— and sweethearts—and no one guessed.” Her eyes sparked with humor. “We made it a game to be particularly testy with each other.”

  Evvy Potter shook her head sadly. “He had to go to the home. He just wasn’t strong. And he was slipping a little.” She tapped her temple. “Not that I would tell him.”

  Rese said, “It must be hard.”

  Evvy shrugged. “When you live to be ninety, you get used to losing friends. We’ll all be storming the pearly gates soon enough.”

  Heaven. A comfort, Rese supposed, for those who believed it.

  “What did you say your name was?” Evvy’s gaze was sharp again.

  “Rese Barrett.”

  “What sort of name is Rese?”

  “Short for Theresa.” That was two people she’d told within days.

  Evvy nodded. “And that young man I’ve seen?”

  “He’s my cook. He’ll help me run the place.”

  “I thought you might be taking guests. This is too much house for one. Ralph said so constantly.” She formed an impish grin. “Mostly when he was proposing. ‘Evvy, this house is too big for me. It needs a wife inside.’ ”

  “You said no?”

  “I lived fifty-two years with my mother, and thirty-eight alone. Ralph was a wonderful diversion. But I had no mind to move in with the man.”

  Rese had to smile at that. “You can still come over if you want. I don’t know what guests I’ll have, but there may be some who know euchre.”

  Evvy’s face crinkled like crepe. “That’s nice.” She started for the door, then mentioned over her shoulder, “And don’t mind the noises at night.”

  Rese froze, hearing again the moans and howls of that one particular night.

  “I’m certain it’s not haunted. Even though someone was murdered here.” The hairs stood up on Rese’s arms. “In the attic?”

  Evvy raised her brows. “I’m not sure what room. Ralph might know. But I don’t think I ever asked.”

  Rese scrutinized the parlor after Evvy closed the door. Murder. Old houses always had history, as Lance said, but not many had the dubious honor of murder. She should have asked who and why instead of where. But she was not sure she wanted to know. She could imagine too well once the lights were out. If she had a name and a face to put to the creaks … It hadn’t been as bad since she confronted the ghosts the night Lance scared the breath from her.

  “Re—”

  She spun with a cry.

  Lance stopped, hands splayed before him. “What?”

  She closed her eyes at what a fool she’d just made of herself. All because some old woman spooked her. She jammed her hands to her hips. “Did you need something?”

  He matched her position. “Roofing nails.”

  “Oh. I’m out. You’ll have to go get them.”

  He eyed her quizzically. “Need anything else?”

  Tranquilizers. That was three times he’d sent her heart to her throat. Not counting last night in the doorway of his room. That was a different jolt altogether. “No.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Of course.” Rese turned her back and gathered the scraps of maple from the floor, laying them across her worktable. Why hadn’t she explained about her neighbor’s visit, shared the wonderful news that blood had been spilled inside these walls? Blood never went away. You could paint over it and with the right equipment, it would still show up.

  Her lungs compressed. She heard the roar of pain, saw the blood flung onto the wall. Dad! Herself in slow motion, running toward him as he fell. Warm, ruby-colored fluid, coursing through her fingers. Rese clenched her fists against her face and tried to breathe. Then she started to cry, the tears she had fought filling her palms as his blood had.

  She jerked as Lance took her shoulders and turned her. What was he doing there? Hadn’t he gone out the door?

  “What’s the matter, Rese? What happened?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He tipped her face up.

 
“It’s just…” She pulled away, putting distance between them. “Thinking about Dad. How—”she sucked in a breath—“he died.” She forced herself to look at him.

  His eyes were soft and deep. “How did he die?”

  She swallowed. “We were working. Just the two of us. An old lodge near Muir Woods.” Dad had loved those woods, the majestic redwoods reaching to the sky, a towering testimony to time and survival.

  “We were so far from everything.” If it had happened in the city, emergency services would have gotten there. Instead there’d been only her. “It had gotten dark, and I was turning on the work lights.” A blaze of white flashed behind her eyes, an electrical jolt. Her cry cut short by—She pressed her hands to her face and shook her head. “I can’t.” Saying it out loud was worse than months of silence.

  She lowered her face. “You can go. I’m fine.”

  “You’re an unreliable judge of that.”

  She frowned. “I’m fine, Lance. Go get your nails.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  She half smiled. “With the murdered person?”

  He shot her a queer glance. “Murdered person?”

  “According to my neighbor, someone was killed in this house.”

  “Which neighbor?”

  She jutted her chin toward the side window. “Miss Evvy Potter. I’ve reached an understanding with the ghost, though. I haven’t heard any moans lately.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “She was in love with a younger man. He was only sixty-nine.”

  Lance cocked his head.

  “They kept it quiet though. So the gang wouldn’t be jealous.”

  He half smiled. “She sounds like fun. I might have to get to know her.”

  “I don’t think she’d go quite that young.”

  Lance stroked his chin. “You never know.”

  “You might believe yourself the hunk no woman can resist, but Evvy is too independent for you.” She closed her arms around herself.

  “I like independent women. I even like cranky, confused, unsociable women.”