“I’d like a word with you, young man.”
He looked up from his crouch, but not very far. The woman was a wizened bird, not an inch taller than Conchessa, only Conchessa had the shape of a small barrel and this one had to work to hold up her clothes. “Ma’am?”
“Since when do you let that poor girl work so hard when you’re as ablebodied as any I’ve seen?”
He glanced toward the carriage house just behind him. “I’ve found the best thing to do with Rese is stay out of her way.”
The woman eyed him like a severe headmistress on a recalcitrant youth.
He shrugged. “She’s a better builder than I am. Ask her yourself.”
Then she smiled. “I like a man who isn’t threatened by a woman’s abilities.”
No, he wasn’t threatened by Rese. Annoyed. Intrigued. Attracted. He picked up the wood chunks and stood. “You must be Eve.”
The woman made a painful noise. “Not Eve. Evvy. Evvy Potter.”
“Well, Miss Potter, I’m cooking lasagna. Would you like to join us for dinner?”
She gave him a slow-lidded blink. “This I have to see.”
He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that. “It won’t be ready for a while.”
“Lead on, my boy. I want to watch.”
Watch him make it? He started toward the house, keeping his pace short so she could keep up. Baxter nosed her when she reached the door. When she pulled her skirt away, Lance called him off and gave the dog a head rub as Evvy Potter passed through the doorway.
“You will wash your hands, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He made a good show of it at the sink and decided not to plug the mousehole just yet. The less Evvy knew about that, the better. He left the wood chunks on the counter, then turned the drying noodles as Evvy chattered about her nephew who fixed every kind of moving vehicle, but couldn’t operate the coffee maker. “He thinks it’s beneath him.”
Lance sautéed the sausage in butter in place of the usual ham and bacon, then added the ground veal. In their time he put in the diced vegetables and mushrooms, garlic and nutmeg. Tomato paste, wine and chicken stock— since he couldn’t find veal—cream and parsley. That completed the Bolognese sauce, and he prepared to make the Béchamel sauce.
“How did you learn to cook?” Evvy asked, seemingly convinced, now, that he could.
“My grandmother and my cousin Conchessa.” He was glad Rese hadn’t asked specifically. She assumed his credentials to be a little more authentic. He melted more butter over low heat and built the Béchamel with milk, flour, salt, and nutmeg.
He wanted to ask Evvy what she knew about the villa, but she kept on other subjects, mainly her relatives, and he could only nod and reply as expected, while grating the Parmesan and layering the lasagna in the pan.
“Did you tell me your name, son?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s Lance. Lance Michelli.”
“Lancelot?”
He laughed. “No, just Lance.” He’d always been glad he didn’t end up Guido or Dodi. He slid the lasagna into the oven and closed the door, and since he didn’t want to veer into another long subject, he asked, “So, Evvy, have you lived next door for long?”
Her answer included what he already knew from Rese, the romance she’d had with Ralph and his subsequent decline that precipitated his move into the assisted-care facility. Lance sat across from her at the small table and listened. Then he said, “Your house doesn’t look as old as this relic.”
She chuckled. “No. Ralph was very proud of this old house. Said it had secrets.”
Lance straightened. “Did he know the secrets?”
Her pale blue eyes sharpened on his face. “He told his tales, and every time they got better.”
“What tales?”
She waved her bat-like hand. “I could never reproduce them. He is the raconteur.”
Lance didn’t care how she told the story, just what information it contained. “Miss Potter, you’ve shown yourself a fine storyteller.”
“You are a flatterer, young man. Unless you are saying I talk too much.”
Lance raised his hands. “I never meant that at all.”
Evvy laughed then coughed, the latter shaking her whole frame. “Now see, I have talked too much.” She wheezed in a thin breath, and started to rise.
He got quickly to his feet and helped her. “You’re not leaving?”
She nodded.
“But you haven’t tried the lasagna.”
“It’s too rich and spicy for me.” She gripped her cane and hobbled toward the door. “But I dare say Theresa will love it.”
Theresa? He couldn’t stop the grin. “I could make you something else.”
Evvy waved her free hand. “Don’t trouble.” She turned at the door he opened for her. “I did enjoy watching, though.” She waved a finger. “You are an artist.”
That took him by surprise. “Thank you. Think of what you’d like to eat sometime and let me know.”
She nodded. “I’ll do that.”
Lance watched for a moment as she teetered through the garden. He hadn’t gotten the information he wanted, but he’d made an impression and had an excuse for future visits. Besides, he liked her.
Star came in, vibrant in purple. The sundress draped her girlish curves and swirled around her thighs as she spun. “What do you think?”
A Marilyn Monroe effect with the dress, and her red spirals once again bounced to life. No sign that she’d been holed up inconsolable. “Radiant.”
She laughed and caught his hands. “If I didn’t love Rese, I’d take you away.”
He didn’t correct her misconception. Star was off even his scale of troubled.
She reached out and fingered his earring. “You need something iridescent.”
“That would go over well with Rese.”
Laughing, she put up her arms and twirled. There was something heartbreakingly fragile in the motion.
“Can I get you something, Star?”
“Color. I need color.”
That seemed to be a theme with her. “There’s color in the garden.”
She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Colors in the garden.” Then she went out, flitting from flower bed to flower bed. Lord, the broken people…
Lance washed up his work area, then went to see how Rese was coming along. Star was perched in the branches of a sprawling oak like a mythical, plumed bird. He passed her without comment, then entered the carriage house.
Rese turned. “Was that Evvy I saw leaving?”
“My lady caller.”
Rese snorted. “You’re not her type.”
He leaned in the doorway. “She was actually impressed.”
“By what?” Rese coiled the cord around the sprayer.
Surely she didn’t intend to be so insulting. He suspected it was a defensive posture. Torque him off, and he’d lose interest. It ought to work that way. It had at the start.
“By my culinary art.” Lance took the tool from her. “The walls look good.”
Rese bent and gathered the rest of her things. “It’s turning out better than I thought it would.”
Better than she’d thought he could do. “I’ll do the windows and doors tomorrow, then trim it out.”
“You’d better let me do the finish work.”
Lance cocked his head. “I can use a miter box.”
“I’ll do it anyway.”
“That wasn’t our deal.”
She started past him toward the shed. “If you leave, I’ll be renting it.”
He felt a twinge. “Why do you think I’m leaving?”
“I mean when.”
Had she been convincing herself of that while she worked? Did she want him out after last night? He followed her to the shed and set the sprayer down outside the door. Amazing how much he’d come to consider the place his. He’d never had such a clear direction as this.
It was not just a job; it was
a mission. His sense of purpose had not diminished. Yes, he wanted answers. But with growing intensity, he wanted his quest to not conflict with Rese’s dream. And with equal intensity he wanted to take her in his arms and assure her of that. Not a good idea. He worked on Baxter’s head as she hosed off her tools.
Star waved to them from the tree.
Lance said, “Is she okay up there?”
Rese shielded her eyes from the setting sun. “She’s a great climber. Made it through my window in all kinds of weather.”
There was plenty to that story, he was sure. He still could not see them friends. Even if they’d grown up together, the two girls could not have been similar in any way. What was the bond? But then, what was his bond with
Rese? They were almost as opposite as she and Star. “Dinner’s going to be a while. Want to take a ride with me?”
She shook her head. “You don’t use helmets.”
“So?”
“So I’d rather not spend my life as a vegetable.”
“I’m a safe driver.”
Rese closed the shed door. “And all the other vehicles on the road?” Even as she spoke, a furniture delivery truck backed in and almost took out his Harley. Rese sent him a look, then went to direct the action.
With the parlor and dining room filled with an eclectic assortment of small tables, benches, and chairs, and the delivery crew on their way out the door, Lance tossed a salad of crisp romaine with red wine vinegar and olive oil. Plain enough to complement the rich flavor overload of his signature dish, along with warm, crusty bread and Chianti.
Rese walked into the kitchen and stopped. She looked at the pan atop the stove and let out a sigh. “You made lasagna?”
He raised his brows. That was more of a reaction than he’d hoped for. “Take a seat. I’ll get Star.” They had salvaged a third chair that he hoped Star was ready to use. As far as he knew she hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. He filled her glass with Perrier, then went out to get her.
She swung her legs slowly as he approached the tree. “Coming up?”
He shook his head. “I have dinner ready.”
“Oh, blessed man, free me from this snare.” She reached out her arms and dropped.
Small as she was, he still crashed his shoulder into the trunk as he took her weight against his chest. Her hair tangled across his face, but he got her to her feet without falling. Mamma mia, she was crazy. “Let me know you’re coming next time.”
She smiled. “I used to fly, but my wings are gone.”
What could he even say? She started for the house, humming. Shaking his head, Lance followed. Inside, he put the salad plates and the bread basket on the table, then sat down, bowed his head and prayed the blessing.
When he finished, Rese had fixed him with the gaze of an owl on its prey. “What about the lasagna?”
He glanced at the pan. “It needs to set.” But her anticipation was tangible, and he got up soon and cut it. He put the squares on plates and carried them over in a cloud of aromatic steam. The pungent flavors of sausage, garlic and tomato, wine and cream cheese brought the expression to Rese’s face that he had wanted since he’d come. He had found her comfort food.
She swallowed her first bite, eyes closed, and said, “Don’t expect me to speak.”
“You don’t have to.” Lance leaned his head back and watched her. It had been worth the effort to finally elicit a reaction she couldn’t control. Not even Star’s scrutiny dulled his pleasure. He silently thanked Nonna Antonia for this particular dish, a marriage of Northern and Southern elements they had developed together.
Star said, “You could open a restaurant.”
“That’s sort of the idea.” He turned to Rese. “Dinner specials?”
“You mean here?” Star clasped her hands. “Marvelous. I’ll play the serving wench. I already have my costume.”
Lance raised his eyebrows at Rese.
She glanced from one to the other. “What would it look like?”
Star spiked her fingertips to her head. “Brainstorm!”
Lance said, “I could make up a weekly menu. You post it in the rooms.” He envisioned something similar to Nonna’s own operation where many people had standing reservations and ate whatever she made for the day.
Star’s fingers fluttered. “Lance cooks; I serve. What will you do, Rese?”
Rese sat back. “I guess if Lance plays music after dinner, I’ll be doing dishes.”
Lance shot her a smile. “Yeah. Too bad there’s no dishwasher.” She glared.
“What music?” Star caught his arm.
“I play a little and sing.”
“Then I’ll dance!” Star swept up and spun around the table.
Lance joined gazes with Rese, who only raised her brows with a smile. Her acceptance of Star puzzled him. It didn’t seem to fit her rigid nature. He said, “Wine list?”
“Limited, maybe. Local vineyards. A dozen choices?”
Lance considered that. He would have gone for the Italian labels he enjoyed, but this was, after all, Sonoma. “You get the license. I’ll choose the wines. We’ll need place settings.”
Star came to a stop and draped her arms over Rese’s neck. “Let me pick the dishes.”
Rese laughed. “I can’t spend a hundred dollars a plate for works of art.”
Star hung her head down, and the rosy spirals encircled Rese like an exotic fern. Lance eyed the two women together. Something intangible connected them, some feminine mystique. And he realized that even though Rese functioned in a man’s field, she was as different from him as Star. And that difference created the spark. Grazie, Signore. The world would be a dull place with nothing but men.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nonno stands taller than any man I know.
Papa keeps looking for two more inches.
The breakfast entrées Lance created the next morning looked great as Rese captured them for the Web site. Crepes, almond focaccia, and frittata di carciofi—artichoke omelets he served earlier—and, of course, the lasagna. She took the close-ups, then said, “Now stand there and hold the focaccia.”
“What for?”
“I’m including a picture of the chef.”
He folded his arms. “C’mon.”
She looked up over the camera. “Bashful?”
“I’m not wearing my diamond.”
She snorted. “Like that would matter.” She held up the camera and snapped one, then another. “Could you smile?” She snapped again. The man looked good through a lens. Okay, he’d look good through anything. “Now one with your guitar for the promo poster, and then we will get your room.”
“I cleaned it for the occasion.”
“Good.”
“Just don’t open the closet.”
“Skeletons?”
He scowled. “Sybil asked that too. Do I look like a don?”
“It’s the pirate thing.” She headed up the stairs and waited outside his door while he opened it. Why she felt so playful and energized she couldn’t say. But this morning felt truly like a new day, not just another. And it had been so long since it felt that way.
She was riding the wave of their brainstorming last night. Lance had talked and then sung, and Star had sparkled. Rese smiled. She had absorbed their excitement, caught the vision, then slept surprisingly well. No wonder it translated to this near euphoria.
Lance went into his room. He pulled a thin leather vest over his T-shirt, then opened a small box on top of the dresser. He removed the gold ring from his ear and replaced it with the diamond stud. “No more pirate, just pure Ritz.”
Rese’s heart jumped when he turned and washed her with a velvet gaze.
He knew it, too, by the amusement in the corners of his mouth. “Where do you want me?”
Her throat squeezed. “What?”
“For the picture.” He grinned.
She couldn’t say he’d done it on purpose, but her mind was misbehaving big time. “Well, not in here. They’ll
be breaking down your door.”
He cocked his head. “They?”
As if he didn’t know exactly what she meant. “Would you get out so I can shoot the room.” She pushed him aside and searched her best angle on the Seaside room, still smelling of his shower and mellow aftershave.
Lance carried his guitar into the hall. He was complying with her working relationship terms but was well aware of the effect he had. He expected her to falter, to give in to his charm. Good thing she’d mastered self-control.
She photographed the room, then directed him downstairs. “Dining room. Where you’ll be playing.”
He took his place in the corner near the parlor. His was not razzle-dazzle, just natural appeal. Why was it so easy for some people? She hadn’t mastered charm, hadn’t considered it high on her list of necessities. If Lance worked at his, it sure didn’t show, but somehow he had it and she didn’t. She caught a great smile with the camera, then a couple “action shots” as he played. No one should be so multi-talented.
“Here you are.” Star walked in wearing a turquoise scarf crisscrossing her bust and a pair of tiny Lycra shorts. Her skin was so fair, it almost glowed, but her nails were painted fuchsia and peacock feathers dangled from her ears. A waft of perfume followed her in as she announced, “I’m going shopping.”
“Do not buy more than one plate for me to see.”
“Oh, I’m not shopping for that.” She wiggled the tiny beaded purse that hung from a chain around her waist. “I’m spending my inheritance. Want to come?”
Rese shook her head. “I have work to do.”
“ ‘Blessed are the horny hands of toil.’ ” Star blew Lance a kiss and drifted out the door.
Lance leaned his guitar in the corner. “I thought she didn’t have any money.”
“She gets a quarterly check from her mother, but she doesn’t use the money to live on.”
He cocked his eyebrows.
“It makes her feel dependent.”
“How can using her own money make her more dependent than mooching off you?”
Secrets Page 18