Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “You’re cooking?”

  She shrugged. “You weren’t here.”

  He wasn’t that much later than usual, and some mornings he hadn’t cooked at all, but that hadn’t inspired her before. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation.

  He leaned on the counter. “Sure, I’ll have some.” He eyed the pot on the stove. At the level she had the heat, it would be interesting.

  “Lance, about last night… .”

  “I’m sure the floor is lovely.”

  She turned from the stove. “I guess it kept you awake.”

  “Only at first. Then it was kind of hypnotic.”

  She dropped her chin with a half smile. “Sorry.”

  “You worry too much. How’s Star?” At her hesitation he added, “Mind my own business?”

  She shook her head. “If she’s going to stay here, you’ll see it all for yourself.”

  “You mean there’s more?” By her frown he guessed that sort of joke unacceptable. “What’s her story?”

  Rese chewed her thumbnail, then lowered her hand. “She’s had lots of junk. All her life really. She was born addicted to amphetamines.”

  So he’d been right about the chemically altered brain. “Is she using?”

  “No way. She won’t even drink.”

  “You sure?”

  Rese nodded. “Not with what she’s lived with. Her mother checked into a country club clinic, dried up enough to keep Star, then went home to more booze and pills.”

  “Not pretty.”

  “It wasn’t.” Rese folded her arms. “But Star spent most of her time with me.”

  “I don’t think you rubbed off.”

  She smiled.

  “But she’s lucky she had you. Friends are invaluable.” Lance jutted his chin. “You’re steaming.”

  “Huh?” Rese turned. “Oh.” She lifted the pot off the burner. “I always scorch it.” She pulled off the lid.

  “I doubt it’s too bad. We caught it in time.” “

  You caught it, you mean.” She dragged the spoon through the wad.

  “You’re right. It only burned a little.”

  The seared smell wafted from the pot, and he could see the brown film on the bottom of the pan as she plopped two servings into bowls. “Using a lower heat would help.”

  “I guess they teach that at chef school.”

  He took the bowl she handed him. “Something like that.”

  They sat down and he asked, “Were you going to get Star?”

  Rese shook her head. “She needs to come out of it herself.”

  What exactly she was coming out of, he didn’t ask. He took her hand, and before she could pull away he said grace, then added a blessing for Star and let go.

  “You always say the same thing.”

  He lifted his spoon. “Well, it covers it all. Offer thanks, ask for His blessing, and give the glory to God.”

  Rese studied him pointedly again. “Why do you believe in something invisible?”

  “You don’t grow up Italian in New York without a healthy fear of the Lord.”

  “But you’re talking to something that isn’t there.”

  Lance hadn’t expected a theological discussion, but the oatmeal would be no worse for the delay. “He’s there. And my part is to honor and serve Him.”

  She tensed, like Baxter hearing something human ears could not detect.

  “You do whatever God wants?” Definite strain in her voice.

  He dug out a chunk of oatmeal. “I try.”

  “So this … being says go here and do that, and you up and go?” Her eyes pierced him.

  “It’s not quite that clear, unfortunately.”

  “You don’t actually hear or see him?”

  He considered her a moment, trying to catch the thrust of her question. “You mean an apparition?”

  She looked away. “I don’t know what you call it. But Mom had a … friend too.”

  He paused with the spoon half way to his mouth. “Friend?”

  “Walter. He usually came when Dad wasn’t home, when it was just Mom and me.” She stood her spoon in the oatmeal. “It took me a while to realize I was the only one who couldn’t see him.”

  Lance took his bite, uncertain what to say. “What happened to her?”

  Rese looked out the window. “Our furnace malfunctioned; she died of carbon monoxide poisoning.” Her fist closed on the napkin. “Now if I could just get that through to the insurance company.”

  He frowned. “They thought it was suicide?”

  She blinked and turned to him. “I mean Dad’s life insurance. He forgot to change the beneficiary. His will gave me his other assets, but the insurance supposedly goes to my mother. They can’t find a death certificate to transfer it to me—or so they claim.”

  Not good. “Do you have one?”

  Rese shook her head. “Why would I have it? I was nine years old.”

  “In your Dad’s papers?”

  She huffed. “It’s a stall tactic. I’ve been round and round with them. They just don’t want to pay me the money.” She scraped the last of her oatmeal onto her spoon. “I bought this place with what I got selling the business and our Sausalito property, but there’s no cushion if things are slow or my cook spends more than I planned.”

  Lance smiled, then sobered. “It would have to be on file in the county where she died. Get a copy and send it.”

  She glanced up. “I tried.”

  “And?”

  “They gave me the same runaround.”

  Lance did not want to state the obvious. If there was no death certificate … “Did you go to her funeral?”

  Rese shook her head. “I stayed with Dad’s sister for a while. A few weeks, I think.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I went home.”

  “Do you remember the night she died?”

  Rese stayed quiet so long he guessed he had pushed too far. Then she said, “I … don’t know.”

  He wiped his mouth and set the napkin aside. “I’m hanging drywall today. Want to help?” He’d already rocked the bathroom with its waterresistant wallboard. But the ceilings would go better with two of them.

  “Okay.” She carried their bowls to the sink.

  “Thanks for the oatmeal.”

  She looked into the scorched pot. “I guess it’s better when you cook.”

  “I appreciate your effort.”

  Rese raised her eyes like a fawn having a first look at the world. Praise must have been scarce indeed. He did appreciate her effort, even if the result weighted his stomach like rubber cement. But what really weighed him down was concern for what she’d shared. And he’d thought his was the mystery.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The swing carries me high and back.

  A pretend sister pushing from behind.

  An older sister helping me swing.

  A younger sister who waits her turn,

  and another too little to swing.

  Maybe more.

  I pretend there is a momma still,

  to call us in for cakes and tea.

  Rese struggled against the images in her mind; her mother’s arms embracing a vision, dancing and twirling until she staggered and dropped to the floor. Then the tears and the begging. ‘Please don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.” Sobbing and dragging herself across the floor. “I don’t love them more than you. How? How can I prove it?”

  Rese pressed a hand to her face. As if she could ever forget that night.

  “Why do I have to go to bed now? I can’t sleep.”

  “You’ll sleep or the banshees will get you.”

  “The banshees aren’t real. And neither is Walter.”

  The slap. “Go to bed, Theresa. In the morning everything will be different.”

  Rese swallowed the pain in her throat. Why was she digging those memories up now? Because of Star’s reappearance and all their history together? Or was it Lance, who drew words out of her like liquid through a sieve? />
  Rese stared into the sink, remembering. She had been so afraid to fall asleep. She didn’t want everything to be different. She fought it, but the next thing she knew Dad was carrying her out of the house as paramedics strapped an oxygen mask to her face and the ambulance siren filled her ears. Why couldn’t they save her mother too?

  She pushed the thoughts away as she crossed the garden to the carriage house. Baxter bounded out and circled, herding her inside with playful leaps and licks. She returned the love with strokes to his head and ears, then joined Lance inside.

  They worked together making a ceiling and the dividing wall that really changed the appearance of the old place from an outbuilding to a home, enhanced by the stone of the perimeter walls. If Lance wasn’t going to live there, it would be an awesome unit to rent. But he was. And she’d rather have that than income—a thought that caused mild panic.

  Her heart rolled over every time his hand brushed hers or his eyes turned her way, but that was gratitude. He’d accepted the things she told him without probing or mocking. And most of all he hadn’t looked at her as though she might be crazy too.

  They stopped to eat some fruit and crackers and Sonoma Jack cheese, then went back to work. When they’d finished the drywall, she eyed the seams between the boards. “Can you tape and texture?”

  Lance wiped his hands on his jeans. “Probably not to your satisfaction.”

  “Then I’ll do it.” The moment it was out she knew how superior that had sounded.

  But he smiled. “Knock yourself out. I need to run into town anyway.”

  Baxter jumped up and ran as soon as Lance approached the bike. Okay, maybe the dog did enjoy the ride. He leaped up between Lance’s arms, and for a moment she wished herself there instead. Too bad Lance was brainless about safety. The wind ruffled both his and Baxter’s fur as they pulled out, heads unprotected.

  Rese started the tape with a jerk and applied it to the crack between the sheets of drywall, wishing she could seal up her thoughts as easily. So he was attractive. Amusing. Attentive. And those were only the A words. Bold, caring, and dashing. Stop it! He listened well. He knew when to let it go. He saw inside her.

  She sliced the tape with a box cutter and moved to the next crack. He wasn’t big and tall like Dad, commanding space and attention. All right, he did command attention, but that was his eyes. And he used them. And he knew it.

  Her cook thought a lot of himself, right down to the ring in his ear, which she was actually starting to like. The tape ripped from the roll down the seam with a rude noise and the smell of adhesive. A motion caught the side of her eye. Star? But it was Sybil in the doorway, Sybil looking svelt and sunny in lemon and white, like a merengue pie someone forgot to sweeten.

  “Is Baxter here?”

  How quaint, asking for the dog. But then she remembered Baxter nosing Sybil’s hand and felt doubly betrayed. Rese straightened from her squat. “He took a ride with Lance. I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”

  “Lance put you to work, hmm?”

  Rese scowled. “It’s my property.”

  “Right.” Sybil smiled. “Tell Lance I came by. He’ll want to know.” The tip of her tongue touched the edge of her top teeth as she turned and sauntered away.

  Rese went back to taping. That was exactly why she would not think of Lance in any terms but her own. The work gave her a focus outside of past memories and current emotions. Work gave her purpose, something Sybil obviously disdained, as though taping and pressing mud into the cracks was something to smirk about, something beneath her, something that might break a nail.

  Rese knew the type and it irked her that she’d let it get under her skin. She was proud of her knowledge, her expertise. She was not inferior to some … whatever the doll was with the beach tan and bikini and a plastic male version in the next box over. Rese frowned. So why was she wasting her energy thinking about it? As she set up the applicator to blow texture, she heard Lance’s bike in the driveway.

  A moment later he joined her with a bag of groceries in his arms. “How’s it coming?”

  Baxter bounded in and Rese was glad she hadn’t begun to apply the sticky white substance. “You’ll have to keep him out of here.”

  Lance called the dog out and made him stay. Then he stepped in and observed her work. “Very good.”

  Tape and mud were hardly challenging. She rested her hands on her hips. “I’m going to texture it now.”

  He nodded. “I picked up some things for dinner.”

  “Then go do what you do and let me finish.” Way sharper than she’d intended to sound.

  He shot her a glance.

  “Oh, Sybil was here. She said you’d want to know.”

  He cocked his head. “Thanks.” Then he sauntered out in much the same way his slinky admirer had.

  Interesting that Sybil’s visit had annoyed Rese. With nothing but employment between them, what should she care who came visiting her cook? But maybe he wasn’t the only one fighting the attraction.

  He had not intended to care. She was his means to the truth, and it wasn’t fair to engender feelings she obviously didn’t want either. She was right not to mix personal and professional, but how could they spend time together and not grow close? That was the part he never could get. He was wired to connect, especially with women … especially women with issues.

  “Do you have to fall for every troubled chick you find?” Tony’s frown was only half mocking the second time Lance landed in the precinct. His throat tightened. What had he been trying to prove anyway?

  He wouldn’t consider Rese troubled. But issues? Oh yeah. He’d sensed it even before she dropped the clues. But that wasn’t his problem. As Tony said, he didn’t have to fall for anyone. Just how he kept it from happening, he’d have to figure out.

  He strode toward the villa with Baxter at his side. Sybil was another story. He’d told her right out he didn’t want to get involved. That was probably all the more intriguing to a woman of her sort. He’d known them too. But since he’d requested her assistance, and she had come through for him before, he’d have to find out if her call was more than social—whether he wanted to or not.

  He told Baxter to lie down on the stoop, then carried the groceries inside and took out his phone. A quick call to set something up with Sybil and…

  The phone rang in his hand and he answered it. “Ay, Lance. You ready for the best news of your life?”

  “Hi, Rico.” He didn’t have to speculate very hard on what Rico would consider the best news of his life.

  “I got Saul Samuels. Saul Samuels.”

  “That’s great, Rico. Hope it works out for you.” Lance pulled the ricotta and fresh herbs from the bag.

  “I’m not talking me, man. It’s your lyrics that got him. I sent a CD, and he wants to hear more.”

  Lance removed garlic. “I’m not doing that anymore.” How many times had they rehashed this conversation?

  “He’s talking recording, and he’s sure there’d be some road jobs, like a tour, ya know? Tour, Lance?”

  “Yeah, I know. How ’bout dem Yanks?”

  “Are you hearing me, man?”

  “I hear you, Rico. But I’m through with the band.”

  “So you took a break. Got your head straight.”

  Lance gave a half laugh. “Not a break, Rico. I’m not playing anymore.”

  “But this is it. I feel it.”

  “Then go for it.” Lance folded the empty bag and tucked it into the cabinet.

  “Not possible. The magic’s in the mix, what you got, what I got; the way it’s always been.”

  Maybe. But that didn’t change his decision. “You and Chaz—”

  “Chaz is great, man, but he ain’t you. Whatever you had to prove, you’ve done it.”

  Lance shook his head. “I’m not proving anything, Rico. I just can’t do it anymore.”

  “Can’t write the songs going through your head all the time? Can’t play the guitar until it weeps? Ca
n’t use the voice and talent God gave you?”

  The trouble was he hadn’t used it for God. It was all about Lance. Leaving the band and the lifestyle and the complications and temptations wasn’t about proving anything. It was trying to find God’s will, to be … different, better. He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rico. Get another guitar.”

  He didn’t need the distraction or the lure of Rico’s dreams. Even before Nonna’s stroke he had put that aside. What happened with Tony was a wakeup call that he better get his life right before it was too late. Lance rubbed his face and stuffed the phone back into his pocket, his connection to the people who mattered, the life he knew was there for him to pick up when he was ready. But there were just some things he was not going back to. Rico would have to find someone else.

  With the ingredients laid out on the counter, Lance set to work. Anyone could follow package directions and make lasagna, but not his lasagna; a variation of the traditional Bolognese but including the spicy sausage he bought at home from the D’Auria brothers, though here in Sonoma he had found only a fair substitute. Cooking centered him, but still, his mind churned. Having found Vito in the cemetery, he pondered the blocks under his floor. With Rese working in the carriage house, he had worried that she might bring it up. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he did intend to pursue it.

  Lance mixed up the pasta dough, rolled it out, then stretched it gently by hand until he could see the pattern of the cloth beneath it. He cut it into broad strips, then hung them over the rack to dry. He’d have used a chairback if Rese hadn’t ordered the rack, but she’d been amenable to almost everything—in spite of her “expensive cook” comments. She wouldn’t regret it.

  He went to the pantry for the cheese grater, pulled open the door, and a mouse skittered across the floor and disappeared. Just as Rese had said. He got down on hands and knees and glimpsed the hole two fingers wide beneath the lowest shelf in the back. Aha. The trap he’d placed was sprung, and he tossed that mouse body into the trash. But as the second mouse had just demonstrated, there were more where it came from. The wall could be full of them.

  While he didn’t share Rese’s fear, he did not want mice in his kitchen. He scooched under the shelf for a better estimation of the size and shape of the hole, then he went outside to find a wood chunk to plug it. That and some caulk…. He searched the ground, then crouched down to gather a couple chunks that might do.