Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Rese sat down and crunched a chip, then moved on to the sandwich. Lance took a bite of his—as bland as it looked. A meal could go quickly with no conversation, and he was determined not to be the one making it happen. Halfway through the sandwich, he wished he had made a better effort. Smoked turkey on rosemary focaccia with roasted pine nuts….

  He set the remainder of his sandwich on the plate and stared at Rese. “What is it with you and food? I know you got thrown into making meals, but what’s with the no conversation rule?”

  “I talk.”

  “Not over food, you don’t.” He laid his palms on the table. “Rese, sharing a meal is a ritual found in every culture on earth. The breaking of bread signifies connection, acceptance, relationship.”

  She shot him a glance.

  “I don’t mean relationship that way. Just relating, interacting, sharing a moment of time on the journey.”

  She wiped the napkin over her lips. “Meals were stressful.”

  “Because you had to cook?”

  “Before that.” Her eyes were dark and mysterious when she looked up. Was she actually opening up? “It was unwise to comment on what Mom made, so we stayed quiet and got through it.”

  Lance studied her, trying to grasp the dynamic. Sure there were things Momma cooked that they didn’t like as kids. Calamari for one, lamb’s head for another. But nothing could have made his clan sit around the table in silence. “A meal is not something to get through. A meal is life.”

  She looked down at the sandwich.

  He expelled his breath. “Not this particular meal. I should have done better.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. That’s the problem. You have no discrimination.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He leaned forward. “You don’t express it.”

  “What am I supposed to say? This is a plain, icky sandwich?”

  “Yes!” He gripped the table edge and shook it. “You’re supposed to show disappointment.”

  She searched his face, startled. “That would make you happy?”

  “Yes, Rese. When I serve you something a shade above dog food, I’d like to see disappointment.”

  “I am disappointed.”

  Lance crowded the table. “Then when I ask what you’d like, don’t say ‘Anything.’ ”

  “What should I say?”

  “Say ‘Something with chicken’ or ‘How about a salad’ or, even, ‘Surprise me.’ ”

  She looked as though he’d just suggested stand-up comedy in a trucker bar. He collapsed back in his chair, growling.

  She rolled her lip in, fighting a smile.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “No, I…” She dropped her face, biting hard on the grin.

  He stood up and hauled their plates to the sink. She was laughing at him? Rese Barrett with all her peculiarities?

  “Don’t get mad.”

  He spun to face her. “Get mad? You’re enough to…”

  She raised her chin. “Go on. You’ve been wanting to say it.”

  He yanked the faucet on hot and squirted in the soap. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

  “It would keep you from stewing.”

  “I don’t stew.” He wadded a washrag and tossed it into the water.

  “And you mumble.”

  He swashed the soapy cloth over the plate and ran it under the steaming faucet. “You’d drive anyone to mumbling.” He shoved the plate into the drainer.

  “I’m not in the habit of stroking male egos.”

  Fury surged. He stormed over and leaned his wet arms on the table. “Stroking my ego? Is that what you think I want?”

  “I don’t know what you want.”

  “Well, you’re just a peach to work for. I’ll bet your crew—”

  She looked up with stark pain that froze him. Energy surged between them through two long breaths. Then he straightened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

  “Have said what you thought?” She gripped her hands together. “You’re right. It wasn’t easy maintaining control of men who thought I had no business telling them their work was not good enough, that the fit wasn’t tight, the edge wasn’t smooth. How dare I dock them for coming late, for not finishing on time, for showing up with beer on their breath.”

  She pressed her chair away from the table and stood up. “I was only the boss’s daughter with no right to take over the second crew—even though I could do every piece of work as well or better than any man there.”

  She started to shake, and Lance wished he hadn’t provoked it.

  “Rese…”

  “I heard their comments. Endured their pranks. I learned to open my lunch box away from me, so the mice and snakes wouldn’t jump into my lap. I kept quiet when—” Pain and fury washed her face.

  “When what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He gripped her shoulder. “What?”

  “Two of them got mad that I’d caught some shortcuts in their work.” She looked aside.

  “You were their boss. It was your job.”

  “I was fourteen. Dad was the boss.”

  He felt her tension and his instinct kicked in. “They hurt you?”

  She shrugged. “They waited until Dad left for something. One groped

  while the other introduced me to the joys of French kissing.”

  Imagining her trapped that way, his anger flared. She’d only been a girl, annoying maybe, but that was no excuse. “You told your dad?”

  Her eyes burned. “And give them the satisfaction?”

  They’d known she wouldn’t. Why else take the risk? His fury surged.

  “They got away with it?” It was Cici all over again, and he felt as helpless as he had then.

  “They said they’d gotten into a fight. How else to explain a swollen tongue and black eye?”

  So she’d handled it herself. And what about now? Would she deck him? Lance raised her chin, wanting to undo the ugly memories. “It’s not supposed to be that way.” She read his intent, he was sure, and he braced himself for a blow or a shove as he lowered his lips to hers. Her mouth was completely unschooled, yet the contact sent shock waves through him. What was he doing?

  He drew away. “It’s supposed to be nice.”

  She swallowed. “It’s supposed to be business.”

  He grinned. “In the kitchen I make the rules.”

  She shook her head. “No. In here, you … cook.”

  He cocked his head. “So how was it, kissing a man with an earring?”

  She glanced at the ring in his ear, but somehow it didn’t seem to be her focus. “Different.”

  “From?”

  “The other time.” Her brow pinched.

  “Good.” But it wasn’t good, because he wanted to repeat it.

  She stepped back, a wary look suggesting she’d read that thought.

  His mouth quirked. “You’re safe with me.”

  She stared into his face a long moment, then said, “I know.”

  When she walked away, the force of her trust hit him like a boulder. She did trust him. His thumb tapped against his thigh. He didn’t want to hurt her; he just … had a mission to accomplish, and then? She would not end up with less than she’d had before he came. Not less. Though how on earth he would accomplish that he couldn’t say.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  She had intended to work on the Web site, but not a single thought would penetrate her brain. Rese shut down the computer and stared at the kitchen door. Lance had wanted his kiss to be nice, but it was so much more than nice it scared her.

  Granted, the only other kiss she’d experienced was the one she had ended decisively, leaving Charlie sounding like a deaf-mute for days. And that was ten years ago. Lance churned feelings she had no defense against. Why had he kissed her?

  Maybe he collected kisses like trophies. But he hadn’t kissed Sybil, even though they’d driven home on his bike plastered together. Yes, she had wat
ched through the window. Sybil had been all hands, and Lance had pulled away. Maybe he liked a challenge. Did he think she was playing that game?

  Rese touched her lips. There was nothing predatory in his kiss. It was sweet and gentle, as though he’d felt a duty to— She jolted. If he felt sorry for her, she’d scream! She was not some victim who needed pity, and the very thought brought back the vulnerability of the original incident. So she’d been assaulted. That would be the technical term, though hardly as damaging as it sounded. She hadn’t let it hurt her.

  And the thought that he might have kissed her out of pity made her angrier than a hammered finger. She scraped back her chair and stalked out. He was not in the kitchen anymore. He must be in his room. Not the best place for a confrontation, but if she recalled that it was her room he used by permission….

  Rese took the stairs with determination. A simple question, that was all. Then she could assure him she did not need his sympathy. Why had she brought up the stupid subject at all? She rapped on the door and waited.

  A drawer closed inside, and she hoped she hadn’t caught him undressed.

  “I can come back later if—”

  The door opened. His eyes were warm and curious. Her question stuck in her throat. Whose stupid idea was this anyway?

  Mirth found the corners of his mouth. “Yes?”

  Rese swallowed. “I don’t want you to have the idea that … that…”

  He curled a hand around her waist. “That?”

  “I need your sympathy or …”

  He tucked a finger under her chin and kissed her before she could finish the idiotic sentence. His hand cupped the back of her head and the kiss deepened. This was not what she had intended. Or was it? Her heart tried to exit her rib cage as her lips melded with his. All thoughts of drawing away were mutinously denied by the passion she discovered inside.

  He eased his mouth away and spoke through hoarse breaths. “That’s not sympathy.”

  She leaned back into the doorjamb, equally hoarse. “What is it?”

  “I guess the word would be attraction.”

  “Why?”

  He searched her face. “Because in spite of everything, you’re basically adorable.”

  Adorable? No one in his right mind would ever apply “adorable” to her. She should be insulted by the thought, but his words sent liquid fire through her. “You said I’m manly and…”

  He forked a hand into his hair. “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  “This complicates things.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  It was exactly why she should have waited for a woman to take the job. She hated this weak-kneed vulnerability. She straightened her shoulders. “We can’t get involved. In a personal way. If we’re working together.”

  His eyes hooded. “The all-important professional hierarchy.”

  She backed into the hall. “That’s right.” But was it? She didn’t know anymore. It had worked before, making the guys respect her, keeping them in their place.

  “Fine.” He raised his hand to the door. “Was that all?”

  Now it was as though she’d put the nail gun to her chest. “Um, yes.”

  He closed the door. She walked woodenly across the hall. Maybe Star … But she was tumbled in her covers, breathing with a whine through her nose. Rese went down the stairs. No way was sleep coming. And reading was hopeless. It was time for physical labor. Something like buffing the new polyurethane on the wood floors, though that would be noisy. She hauled the buffer to the parlor and started the machine. Yep, noisy.

  Lance pulled the pillow over his head and held it there with both arms. He deserved it, he supposed, but how long could she keep it up? He guessed that his ears would stop noticing before she ceased and desisted. Star must be comatose. Fine. He could sleep through anything given the right mindset.

  He hummed a tune he’d written in Liguria, and thought about the things in the box. He’d barely had time to hide it, thinking Rese might come right through the door by the sound of her feet on the steps. Then she’d stood there, looking so…

  Sympathy? He was the one deserving sympathy. He plastered the pillow tighter to his ears. It was his own fault for crossing a line he hadn’t intended. He should thank her for ending it. He rolled to his side and kept the pillow pressed to his ear. Would she keep it up all night?

  Welcome to the insomniac inn. He rubbed a hand over his face and burrowed deeper, drowsiness coming in spite of the racket. As he drifted off, he wondered if there would be any finish left on the floor by morning. He dreamed Rese was sinking through the boards with the machine grinding them to sawdust. He gripped her hand, explaining it was nothing personal. It was ancestral; couldn’t she see it was ancestral?

  Lance shook the dream from his head in the dim morning light. He raised up on one elbow and noticed the silence. Good. She’d gone to sleep. He got up, washed and dressed, then went out into the crisp, rain-scented air, his morning routine too ingrained to ignore. After feeding Baxter and telling him to stay, he rolled his bike silently down the drive, then started the engine and drove into town.

  The difference this morning was that after church, he went to the graveyard. The older section held lots of interesting graves, but he was there with a purpose. He needed to find someone—or not. Half an hour later, he did. Vittorio DiGratia Shepard. March 13, 1883–1931. So it wasn’t a tomb he’d unearthed. Rese would be relieved, but then she’d get curious all over again. Better not to tell her. Not yet.

  He studied the tombstone one more time, then looked to the one beside it. Helena Glorietta Shepard. The blond woman in the photo? Year of death 1918. There’d been a number of deaths in this graveyard that year. Some epidemic? He didn’t know his history well enough to recall. The marker next to that read Carina Maria DiGratia Shepard, and she had died in 1929, two years before her son.

  Helena’s grave bore a verse from St. John: I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. But Carina’s marker had a poem. So a soul traversing life, alone until it finds, one to which it cleaves, and for eternity it binds. And the name Quillan Shepard. A last tribute to his bride? Lance looked from that marker to the next, and the others beside them. Where was Quillan’s grave? He searched the nearby stones, but Quillan was not among the family. Strange.

  He’d expected to be missing a grave for Vito, not his great-great grandfather. Maybe the marker had been there but was lost to age. But there was no gap between those stones and another family’s markers. Maybe he was famous enough to have a place of honor. Lance walked the cemetery, but found no grave marker for Quillan Shepard. No doubt he lay in some other yard with moss on his stone and grass covering the mound. Shaking his head, he returned to his bike, drove back to the inn, and went inside.

  Rese met him in the entry. “Where were you?”

  “Church.”

  “On Thursday?”

  He caught his thumbs in his jeans. “Yes.”

  Her brows crowded together. “You go every day?”

  “Unless I have reason not to.” What was with the third degree? He had no set hours, though all the other days he’d been in before she got up. Perusing the cemetery had held him up, but he’d have thought she’d sleep in today.

  She jutted her chin. “Why?”

  What did she care why he went to church? “I just do.” A habit established from his birth, one he was compelled to continue. The first time he’d served on the altar he had felt personally called by God. Swelled by the desire to do something great, he’d gone home and given Sean McMahan his Mickey Mantle card. When his pop made Sean give it back, he’d realized it was not easy to find God’s will. Try as he might, he’d been missing it ever since.

  Rese was obviously not satisfied with his answer, so he added, “I’m better for it.” God only knew how badly things might go otherwise.

  She leaned against the banister. “Better how?”

  How was he supposed to expla
in the need to start his day in the Lord’s presence, the way he left feeling commissioned to make a difference and hoping one day he’d get it right? After last night any explanation would fall limp.

  She straightened. “There’s a mouse in the pantry.”

  “Really?” Was that what had her all worked up? He followed her down the hall. A rodent in there would have slim pickings because he had yet to stock the shelves with food. He had set up an account with a specialty foods purveyor for the imported items he would need if they served dinners, but had not ordered anything yet. Rese had her own delectable choices in the cabinets with his basic ingredients, but there was nothing to entice a mouse into the pantry, only the equipment he had stored there so far.

  Rese pulled open the door. He looked inside, searching the floor, then along the shelves, stretching up on his toes to inspect the highest. He raised his brows at Rese.

  “It was in there.” She closed the door and crouched to examine the crack between the door and the floor. “No way it got out here.” She opened it again, stepped in and searched the empty space. “There must be a hole somewhere.”

  None offered itself to view. “I can set a trap.” Though he frankly didn’t see where or how a mouse would get inside unless the door was opened. Maybe one of them had failed to click it shut.

  Her hands pressed her hips. “How could it get out? I closed the door the minute I saw it.”

  He cocked his head. “I don’t know, Rese. But it’s hardly a national threat.” Though it might be to her after what she’d shared about her lunch box. He drew her out of the pantry and shut the door. “I’ll set a trap. If it’s hiding in there, we’ll get it.”

  “I just don’t see how it got out.”

  She was fixating. He looked her over. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “An hour and a half.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

  “That’s not healthy.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “That’s even worse. Maybe you imagined the mouse. I’d be seeing things on that amount of sleep.”

  “I didn’t imagine it. Do you want some oatmeal?” She motioned to a pot on the stove.