Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  The thing weighed a ton and, even with the new sling, would be no picnic to sleep on for long. They moved it into his bedroom where it looked strange. No breeze to sway it or branches overhead to dapple it with shade. But he could move out there now, and that was what mattered.

  Rese stood a moment measuring the space with her eyes. “I ought to build a queen size.”

  Thinking in terms of renting it, no doubt. He certainly didn’t need that size. “Whatever you want.”

  She walked the room. “I have maple left from the shelves. I could frame in a closet.”

  “Great. I’ll move my skeletons.”

  She smiled. That had to be a first these last few days. They’d had very little interaction, with him tiling his roof and her doing whatever she had been up to in the house. He hadn’t made meals, and she hadn’t asked. He would resume when their guests came, but not before. Strictly business. But planning the woodworking seemed to have lifted her spirits. Maybe Brad was right. She couldn’t leave it behind.

  Star was crouched at the pictures and looked from the portrait to Lance. It was dim with the single lamp, but her artist’s eye was not missing what he’d caught as well. A definite family resemblance. She stood up. “Too bad it’s so drab. You need color in here. I’ll paint you something.”

  Beside him, Rese caught her breath. He said, “Sure,” thankful her thoughts had gone that way instead of making the portrait an issue.

  “What would you like?”

  “Anything.” There he was sounding like Rese. He amended it. “Nature. A landscape or still life.” Not that he could see Star painting a bowl of apples. But it didn’t matter. He’d offered an opinion at least. Shown an interest.

  He ushered them out before more could be made of the portrait. But as soon as they were gone, he took it out and studied the face that had caught both his and Star’s attention. He couldn’t say it was an exact likeness. But he was definitely looking into the eyes of his past.

  It was what she had wanted, what she’d stipulated from the start. But moving Lance out only widened the gap between them. He’d become a model employee. He did his work and showed respect: cooperative and appropriate, no more simmering hurt, but no exuberance either. It was as though his excitement for the project had evaporated.

  She had fed on his ideas, drawn strength from his encouragement. Now that was gone, and the closer they came to opening, the more she dreaded it. To be honest it wasn’t only his professional excitement she missed. It was all the interaction.

  She wanted him to ask for equipment, to hand her frothy chai tea and smile at her grumpiness. She wanted him to try out a dish on her and get frustrated when she didn’t praise it. She wanted him to sing and play and soak her with his gaze. But she had stopped all that to be in charge. Her throat squeezed.

  Star circled an arm around her waist as they walked to the house. “Poor Rese.”

  She stiffened automatically. “I’m fine.”

  “Of course, you are. Nothing daunts the dauntless; no shaking the unshakable.”

  Rese laughed, but it felt bitter. They went into the kitchen. She could have asked Lance to fix her a steamer. But he was in the carriage house now, not upstairs between her and the ghosts in the attic. Now he stood watch over the tomb. Only he didn’t believe the dead threatened them. They went to spend eternity with Jesus or without.

  Maybe if she had someone invisible telling her what to do, she would do better. Her temples ached. She was not going to sleep.

  Star yawned hugely. “The frogs are singing.” She blew a kiss and went up to her room.

  Rese stood in the empty kitchen, listening to the creaks of Star moving about, then the silence of the huge old place. She almost wished for creepy moans, so she wouldn’t feel so alone. What was she doing?

  Nothing. And it would drive her crazy. Clenching her hands, she went into her room. Instead of climbing into her bed, she measured it and recorded the dimensions, then went out to the shed and set up a workspace. She had leftover cherry from the banister that she could use for posts, and boards from the stairs for the headboard. It was good wood, and she had no intention of slapping something together, as Lance had put it. His bed would be her first piece of freestanding furniture, and she didn’t want to look at it with regret.

  By the time morning light was creeping through the shed window and dimming the overhead bulbs, she had the posts turned and shaped on the lathe, grooved to insert the headboard and side frames that were measured and cut. The headboard would include a crowning piece she intended to carve. Nothing fancy, just a scalloped crest. She would pick up the hardware later. She pulled her goggles down over her eyes and sawed the footboard.

  The shed door opened, and Lance leaned against it.

  She raised the goggles and met his stare. “I hope you like cherry.”

  He took in the boards and posts and sawdust, lost for words. At last he said, “You’re lucky no one called the police.”

  “The police?”

  “Do you have any idea how loud saws and lathes are?”

  She looked over what she’d done. “Did I keep you up?”

  His eyes trailed her head to toe. “Nah. Nothing like power tools screaming all night. Good thing Evvy’s ninety years old.”

  Evvy was the nearest neighbor, and even if she had heard the noise, Rese could hardly see her calling in a complaint. The one to their left was an airline pilot, rarely home, who had come over once to suggest she keep the construction Dumpster out of sight. The couple across the street were night shift nurses at the hospital. They’d brought wine and asked that she not allow her guests to park in front of their house.

  No one else was close enough to have been affected. But Lance probably did get an earful. She hadn’t thought of that. She brushed sawdust from her arm. “I’m sorry. I started working on your bed and just kept going.”

  “Why don’t you sleep, anyway?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Bad dreams?”

  “No. Once I get to sleep I’m fine.” And talking about it was making her wish she had.

  His eyes narrowed. “So it’s surrender you don’t like. Losing control.”

  “I haven’t analyzed it, Lance.” But his words struck a chord. She could sleep once she was past the falling part. Maybe it was being out of control, the thoughts and fears of what might happen if she wasn’t ready. She sighed. She had dealt with it so long, she’d stopped wondering why. “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

  “Not like the last time?” One corner of his mouth jerked.

  She brought up her chin. “Last time you deserved it.”

  He poked his tongue into his cheek. “But now I behave.”

  A pang seared her. Yes, he behaved. She lowered her face before he could catch her grief. What was wrong with her? It had to be delayed strain from Dad’s death, the huge changes she’d made during a point of stress, giving up all she knew to begin something she was unsuited for. Great plan.

  “You ought to get some sleep. I can stand the hammock another night or two.”

  Her eyelids gritted. Her limbs hung like wet plaster. What little energy she had left drained from her. She pulled the goggles from her head and laid them down, then walked woodenly to the house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY -ONE

  Doubt billows in like fog.

  Whispered suspicions bleed into my mind.

  I cling to what I know.

  With slippery ?ngers I cling.

  Lance headed for church, trying not to think about Rese. He hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten for her. He’d focused so hard on not noticing, that her pain this morning caught him by surprise. She probably thought she was hiding it. But he understood, now, the concern Brad had voiced. Rese wasn’t dealing with things in a healthy way.

  Not his problem. Not his place. His job was to do what he was told, and to find what he had come for. He was weary after the noisy and uncomfortable night, and he had a long day ahead. Now that he
was in the carriage house, the need to clear the hole gripped him, but Evvy had asked that he dig her flower beds. Was she in cahoots with God to rub off his impatient lumps?

  He knelt and rested his forehead on his folded hands. He was supposed to focus on the words of the Lord at the Last Supper, but instead he pondered the situation with Rese. It was wrong to hide his actions from her, but he could hardly tell her what he intended. For a while he had hoped their purposes could mesh, but he’d been fooling himself, avoiding the truth. If he found what he hoped for, he’d be pitted against her.

  He received communion with a distraction he almost never experienced. There was a sense of impending storm. Was he losing his way again? Lord. The desire was there as always. And the commission. There was no doubt the Lord’s will meant more to him than anything. He just didn’t get it.

  How can I do this without hurting her? How can I take back what was wrongfully lost without leaving Rese with nothing? How could he undo the wrong done to Nonna and her family, when Rese would be caught in the middle? Show me, Lord. I can’t see it.

  When he returned to the villa, he focused on digging Evvy’s flower beds and put his concerns aside. Rese was smart, determined, capable. She’d be okay. She knew how she wanted things. His concern this morning was way overblown, the shadows in her face probably exhaustion. He hadn’t meant to get her so excited that she worked all night. But that was just another example of her resilience. Rese Barrett was anything but frail.

  “Have you told her yet?”

  He jumped. For an old woman, Evvy could maneuver with stealth. Or else his thoughts had been more consuming than he’d realized. “Told her what?”

  “That she needs Jesus.”

  Oh sure. Rese didn’t want or need his advice in any area of her life. He sat back on his heels. “Not my place, Evvy. I’m just the hired help.”

  “Working for whom? The King or the counterfeit.”

  “I don’t really …”

  “Because if you’ve got the truth and you don’t share it, you’ve buried your talents in the sand.”

  But some truths had to stay buried. At least for now. “She might take it better from you.” He’d be a hypocrite to spout faith when he might become her adversary.

  “You’d let a feeble old woman do your job?”

  He rested the spade against his knee. “Feeble! I haven’t been bullied like this since…” Nonna’s stroke rendered her incapable.

  “Well, I didn’t take you for a coward.”

  That stung. He’d been overshadowed by a hero and still never thought himself that.

  She hooked a hand his way. “The trouble is you won’t let yourself be what you’re supposed to be.”

  “And how exactly would you know that?” Disrespectful maybe, but she could be sharp enough to draw blood … while he was on his knees at her flower beds no less.

  “I know wasted promise when I see it.”

  He swallowed. “Then why do you think I’m the one for the job?”

  “Because she trusts you.”

  He started to protest, but she held up her hand. “I have it from the Lord, young man. He put a finger to my lips until you’ve done your part. But in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have all the time in the world.”

  He sighed. “Evvy, I’m telling the truth. Rese does not want anything but cooking and digging from me.”

  “Since when does anyone know what they want?”

  “Since God made Rese.”

  Evvy leaned on her cane. “You miss your chance, and you’ll regret it. God can choose another vessel, but who wants to sit on the shelf?” She turned and headed for the house.

  His head ached. He had put the storm aside until Evvy blew it into a tempest. What did she think he could do? Just sit her down and say, “Rese, what you need is Jesus. Why don’t you commit your life to this invisible being, so I can stop wasting my promise?” He shook his head with a jerk, then grabbed the spade.

  His concern was Nonna, and that was the Lord’s business just now. But it was as though Evvy’s claw had a grip on his brain. Maybe he’d been wrong to shut Rese out after their altercation. She wasn’t the enemy, just the obstacle.

  When he went back over to the villa, he threw together an antipasti and a creamy spinach soup, ate his at the counter with no sign of Rese. The phone rang, and he snagged it in the kitchen before the extension in the office woke her. “Wayfaring Inn.”

  “Rese Barrett, please.”

  Lance glanced toward the door to her hallway. No sound. “She’s not available right now. Can I take a message?”

  “I need to speak with her directly. It’s very important.”

  “Let me take your number. She’ll get back to you.”

  The woman on the line gave her name and repeated the message of urgency. She sounded very official. Lance jotted down the number. “I’ll tell her.” Maybe he should have gotten Rese up. But this way he could feed her first … in case it wasn’t good news.

  Hair still damp, Rese went into the kitchen. She had heard activity and wasn’t completely surprised to see a plate of meats and cheeses, peppers and olives, and a bowl of creamy soup on the table. She was surprised by the poignant stab to her heart.

  The soup in the bowl was hot, but Lance wasn’t around. She realized with a jolt it might not be for her. “Lance?”

  Then she noticed the note, a phone message with Eat first jotted beneath.

  She looked out and saw him crossing the garden with Baxter at his side. He’d left her food but had not stayed to share it with her. He must think she wanted that. She’d made him think it. Sharing a meal was personal to him. “The breaking of bread signifies connection, acceptance, relationship.” She sat down, feeling heavy again.

  The soup was hot, but not scorching. He must have timed it by her shower, then ducked out just before she emerged. She lifted the spoon, then paused. “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts?” Lance’s prayer impressed on her mind. What if it was a gift from some unseen entity, someone like Lance who gave and went away, not even waiting to see her try it?

  He had burned at her ingratitude before; now he didn’t care. She could eat it or not, for all he knew. She took a spoonful of the creamy soup with a taste of spinach and buttery garlic. Not too heavy and strong, but not bland and boring either. The sliced salami and cheese with slightly biting peppers was great beside it. A perfect balance. Exactly what he didn’t have in his nature. But then, neither did she.

  As she ate, she wondered briefly where Star was, but since they’d staved off a plunge last night, she was probably out somewhere being sun and rainbow. Lance might know. Or not. They had stopped communicating as a threesome. Her eyes went back to the message. Peggy Blodgett. Not a name she recognized. Lance would have taken a reservation himself. Wouldn’t he? She picked up the phone, unsure of even that much. It wasn’t really his responsibility, and she’d made his position all too clear.

  He’d given her enough time to eat and call, and the sense of impending storm had not eased. Lance headed for the house. Rese had just hung up as he stepped in.

  He waited for her to turn, but she didn’t. “Rese?”

  “They found my mother.” Her voice was a rusty gate swinging grudgingly over the words.

  “You mean her death certificate?”

  “I mean my mother.” She turned, her eyes a desert. Even though he’d suspected the possibility, it still caught him off guard. Rese must be shattered, but she stood there trying to look whole. He moved closer, drawn to her trouble like a wolf ’s tongue to its wound.

  Her anger ignited. “How could he?”

  He? Her dad?

  “He locked her up in a psycho ward and left her.”

  Even with space between them Lance felt the explosion building. If what she said was true, he understood her horror, but there had to be more to it. People didn’t treat mental illness like a crime anymore. “You don’t have all the facts.”

  “Facts? No wonder he said there w
as nothing after death.” Her clenched knuckles turned white. The air felt as though they’d used up all the oxygen. “No reason to visit a grave, is there, when there’s no grave to visit!” She drew a sharp breath, then let out a sound, half wail and half shriek.

  Lance caught her upper arms as she exploded.

  “I should have known! She said he’d do it. She told me he would.”

  He held on as though he could stop the meltdown. “You don’t have the whole story, Rese. Wait until you know …”

  Sobs burst from her. “I should have known.”

  He understood that anger and guilt. He’d gone through it all with Tony’s death. No words would help. He’d pay for it later, but he pulled her to his chest. She didn’t succumb gracefully. She pinched the sides of his shirt—and a good part of his skin—in her fists and sucked shrieking breaths between her teeth.

  “He lied. Why would he lie?”

  “Probably to protect you.” It was all he could think of. Lance should have considered the possibilities and prepared for this, had something better to offer than speculation.

  “Protect me?” she ranted, clenching his sides with a death grip. “Telling me she died would protect me? How could he think…? Why would it… ?” She looked into his face, pain deep in her eyes. “Help me.”

  A sliver through his soul. How many women had said that to him, how many tearful pleas? Yet none had stabbed so deeply. He wanted to help, needed to, a need that sprang from his core and triggered a reaction too powerful to resist. He caught her face in his palms and took her mouth with his, absorbing her pain, drawing the hurt out like venom from a bite.

  She clung to his waist, and he responded more ardently, training and claiming her mouth until there was nothing hard, no steel left in her. He kissed her until the sobs stilled in her chest. “It’ll be all right.” He clutched her to him, pressing his lips to her temple. “It’ll be all right.”

  Rage and anguish gave way to a pain equally damaging. Lance’s arms around her, his lips on hers. She wanted … and the want hurt as much as the shock of her news. Her mother was alive.