“Let’s window-shop. Maybe you’ll see some dishes you like.” Although he didn’t expect her to make any decisions about something so mundane, they cruised the plaza and other shops along the side streets. Rese got the hang of walking in her sandals and skirt, but he wasn’t sure she noticed.
He might be distracting her, but the tension in her spine betrayed her strain. At least she didn’t slip into the previous shrieking fury. Women needed to cry often enough to learn how to do it without damaging themselves and others. His sides still stung from the pinch of her fists. But he was glad he’d been there when she broke. Had Evvy seen it coming?
The sun lowered in the sky, and his stomach signaled dinnertime. He could take her home and cook, but he chose a bistro instead. Maybe Star would be at the inn, but she didn’t seem to comfort Rese. And Rese was not in a position to be strong for anyone else. She had let down her guard, and he did not take that lightly.
For once, he hardly noticed what they ate since he kept a running monologue through the whole meal. He was telling her about Tony teaching him to ride his bike, making him learn all the hand signals and street rules before he knew how to pedal, when Sybil came to the table. He hadn’t seen her come in, but the moment she was there, the air was charged with some feminine malice he could almost taste. He didn’t think it was coming from Rese.
“Hi there.” Sybil included them both in her greeting, actually looking longer at Rese than him. She rested one hand on her lower back, but for once her navel was covered. It was higher up that things got skimpy.
Her message was hard to miss, but he could ignore it. “How are you, Sybil?” He stood up.
“Manners too.” She smiled, then turned to Rese. “He’s too good to be true. Makes you wonder what he’s hiding.”
Lance took his seat, reminding himself not to do that again. Her remark sent a shiver of disquiet through him, fallout of a guilty conscience.
She said, “I came by to see you, but you didn’t call. You must not be interested in what else I have.”
Bait and spear in one shot. He’d forgotten about her visit. “I meant to. And I am interested.” Though he didn’t want to talk about it now in front of Rese. The last thing she needed was more concerns about gunshots and executions. Or him.
“I’ll hold on to it. For a little while.” With a fan of her fingers, she left them.
Rese followed Sybil with her eyes, then turned back to him. “She must WD—40 her hips.”
He laughed. “I think it comes naturally. That particular motion is inborn.”
“She walks like a woman?”
He leaned back in his chair and eyed Rese—earrings, blouse, no makeup or nail polish, but without her edge, downright pretty. “A certain type of woman.”
“What type?”
“The kind who knows she’s attractive.”
Rese ran her hand down her water glass. “She reminds me of Alanna.”
“Your mother?”
She gave him her hard stare. “Alanna was not my mother.”
He studied her a long moment. “You’re talking about some serious stuff here.”
“I know.”
He hadn’t wanted to get back to her mother until they were out of there, but Rese didn’t seem as overwhelmed as before.
She released the water glass. “I’m not pretending it wasn’t bad. I just can’t excuse…” Her voice broke.
Still at risk. He did not want to see her lose it in front of Sybil, who was no doubt watching, journalist that she was. Lance stood up, but didn’t take Rese’s hand. No sense complicating things further. “Come on.”
They walked out past the table where Sybil sat with the tall brunette and another blonde, a table that probably had the waiter thinking he’d found paradise. Lance gave Sybil a smile as they passed. He couldn’t afford to alienate her, and she couldn’t help it if she had all the seductiveness Rese lacked, even if her siren song was wasted on him.
The evening had cooled substantially, and he gave Rese the lady’s leather jacket, an interesting combination with her skirt. The earrings looked good, but the tender lobes wouldn’t feel good in the helmet. “It’s just a few miles. Want to ride without?”
“No, I do not.” She took the helmet and eased it over her head, wincing when it pressed against her ears.
“Tough as nails.” He smiled. “Galvanized.”
“How am I supposed to ride in this?” She pinched the skirt.
He stooped and swung her onto the bike. The skirt hiked up to her knees, but nothing indecent. He tucked it under her thighs so it wouldn’t fly up.
“You did that with experience.”
“I’ve had the bike a long time.”
“And have taken plenty of women along.”
He didn’t answer that. Rese would form her own opinion, especially after Sybil’s attention. Everything he’d done today could get him into trouble,considering she’d almost fired him for taking her on a picnic—for the recklessness that followed. All he was trying to do was help her over the shock of her news. Talking about his past experience was not necessary.
He climbed on and felt her hands on his waist. She could hold his shoulders, but it was nicer this way. The helmet really would be hurting her newly pierced ears, so he took her home expeditiously. She swung off the bike with a far different motion than Sybil’s, but for some reason, it grabbed him as Sybil’s had not. What was he doing?
What he always did. Trying to be somebody’s hero, and falling for her in the process. If anyone had told him Rese needed someone, he’d have scoffed. He still didn’t believe it. She’d been knocked down, but not out. He walked her inside and stopped at her door. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Somewhere between the restaurant and home, she had climbed into herself again. Her chin was up, her gaze direct, forcing a confidence she wanted him to believe.
“Want a steamer to help you sleep?”
She reached for her doorknob. “I’ll be fine.”
He stepped back. “Okay.” He’d give her the courtesy of belief, even though he doubted she’d sleep at all. He started for the back door, trying to grasp the day in all its strangeness.
“Lance.”
He turned.
“Thank you.”
He nodded. “Antiseptic on your ears.”
She reached up as though rediscovering the earrings there. He went out before she blamed him. The thought of piercing her ears really had come out of nowhere. But he couldn’t help smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO
Rese stood at the door after Lance went out. Maybe the damage wasn’t done. He had not pressed his advantage. Both times that he’d kissed her, she had been distraught, vulnerable. If she didn’t show that need again, he might not press it.
She went into her room, frustrated and confused, but not furious. “Anger is a secondary emotion.” Possible. Mom had only gotten mad after Walter hurt her. Rese didn’t want to think of that. She wanted to recall the good things about her mom, but the memories were all entangled.
Lance had been right about waiting, but now she had to wait through the whole weekend. With guests coming tomorrow, she couldn’t be falling apart. But how could she pretend everything was fine when it was all so wrong?
Rubbing the back of her neck, she started to undress, then turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Mom had loved anything soft and flowing. She’d been so pretty in the dresses she wore, even in jeans and silk blouses. She didn’t need Alanna to make her attractive. Dad couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
Rese looked into the mirror. The peak of her eyebrows, the tilt of her lips. What else had she inherited? Shudders ran down her spine and knotted at its base. What if … She swallowed. She was already older than Mom had been when she married and had her. No one had yet appeared that others couldn’t see. But how would she know? She closed her eyes and gripped the dresser. If what she thought was true turned out to be a lie, how would she ever know?
Odds were
against Rese sleeping. Lance looked through the French doors to the villa. Her light was on, but he doubted she would come out. She’d been decisive in her dismissal. Although, after their first kiss she had come barreling up to his room to confront him, so it was a possibility. She had more reason now to believe it sympathy—it was.
As he stood there, Star’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulled up to the side of the shed by his bike. Good. Star would keep her company, and he had a hole to clear.
He wished he had a way to cover the glass-paned doors. If he’d known about the hatch when he framed the carriage house, he’d have done things differently. Maximizing light and airiness had put him in a fishbowl.
With only the flashlight lit, he opened the hatch. Propping the light so it illuminated the space beneath the floor, he examined the timbers below. The first timber would be the worst. Once he dislodged it, the others would not be as tight.
If Nonna had done this, he should be able to undo it. But time and gravity would have worked on it too. He crouched down and wedged the crowbar in between two boards, hardly budging them at first, then managing a small amount of motion. He levered it again, this time throwing his weight into it. A small shift.
He lay down and gripped one of the boards, but it was still too tight. Again he worked the crowbar in, then took hold with his hands, scooching farther in to get a better grip. The smell that had caught him in whiffs now became a presence.
There was mystery in it, age and sorrow. Gripping the edge of the timber, he wondered. Lord? Purpose stirred, but it seemed muddled. Lance closed his eyes and waited, but no sound came, no sense of direction. He grabbed hold of the timber and nudged it back and forth.
Something shifted, and he jerked the timber up a little more than an inch. If he could just get at it better. He focused the pressure on upward motion now, and little by little the board slid free. He had it. One final jerk pulled it loose, and he hand-over-handed it onto the floor. One down, and a forest of them to go.
He could only do a few tonight and use them tomorrow. But as he reached for the next board his excitement awakened. There might be nothing down there but rubble. But why then go to all the trouble to block it? He reached in and took hold of another timber. Lord, show me what’s here. Let me do what I came for. His sense of history, of family, kicked in. This wasn’t his decision, he was certain. It had been made before him.
Rese had no idea what to tell Star. Pouring it out to Lance was one thing. He’d never known her mother, or her father for that matter. But Star had. There was all kinds of history connected to that. And frankly she didn’t have the strength to delve into it yet.
So she opened the door to Star’s soft query with a smile that would have impressed even Lance. Playing the part? Maybe she could after all. Maybe she had been all her life. Because when everyone else looked for something to be wrong with her, Star saw what she wanted to be. Star saw her strong.
Star stood in the doorway, chest heaving. “I did it.”
Rese raised her brows. “Did what?”
“Took my things and left.” Star passed into the room, opened her arms wide and leaned her head back. “I’m free.”
“What are you free from, Star?”
“Maury.”
She thought Star had left him already. Wasn’t that what they’d mourned the first time? She searched Star’s face for signs of damage. Sometimes it was a delayed reaction, but she actually looked fine.
“I took my paints, my canvases, my brushes. There is no part of my art left in his studio.”
Now she understood. Star had left part of herself behind, her least resilient part. This was a huge step. Rese smiled. “That’s great.” She had been afraid Star wouldn’t paint again, that the part of her she expressed through art would be lost because some inconsiderate bum shafted her. Now it seemed she really was going to paint something for Lance. Why else retrieve her supplies?
“You know what he did?” Star turned. “He cried.”
Rese didn’t know who this Maury was, or even if Star’s version was accurate. But it had to be healthier to have it over if there was any semblance of truth to the pieces of the situation she’d glimpsed. Star was drawn to compulsive controllers, not beefy beat-her-up sorts, but psychological abusers. His tears had probably been just that—an attempt to draw her back in.
“What did you do when he cried?”
“Well…” Star sat on the bed and drew her knees up, looking sheepish. “It was the last time. I told him that.”
“I hate when you let them do that to you.” Manipulating Star’s emotions was no different than shoving her against the wall. “He doesn’t respect you.”
Star laughed. “Why would anyone respect me?”
“Because you deserve it.”
“ ‘I shall th’effect of this good lesson keep as watchman to my heart.’ ” Star clasped her hands beneath her chin. “But I don’t want respect. I want love.”
Were the two mutually exclusive? Star found “love” with every person who took advantage of her, while Rese had fought so hard for respect people despised her. Neither seemed a worthwhile trade-off. The grudging admiration she’d gotten from the crew had not really been worth it, but then Star hardly seemed happy either. Whichever side the coin landed on left half the wager lost.
Star grabbed her shoulders. “You’re wearing earrings. You have your ears pierced!”
Rese frowned. “It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” Star caught her hands.
Rese scowled. “Lance … dared me.”
Star burst into laughter. “That is the only way you’d do it. Does it hurt?”
“No.” Only an insistent throb. She still needed to soak them in antiseptic and turn the posts.
“Red is nice with your hair and eyes.”
“Lance picked them.” At least she had changed out of the skirt into her nightshirt before Star came in. She didn’t want to answer for all the craziness she’d allowed.
Star cocked her head. “So … you’re talking again?”
Blood burned up her neck. “We’ve been talking, Star.” But not as they had today. He’d shared so much of himself, his family, his hurt. And he knew about Mom. How could things ever be as they were? She couldn’t think of him as an employee. He’d won that battle, after all.
Lance woke to an eerie, breathless wailing. Heart pounding, he sat up so suddenly he tipped off the hammock and landed on Quillan’s stone floor. Had someone, something, come up from below? What had he disturbed? He had told Rese the dead didn’t bother the living, but he had a sudden desire to pray with all his might.
Jesus, name above all names; before you every knee must bow, every tongue confess you Lord. He’d always stood on that promise when fighting forces of darkness, and the noise seeping into his room sounded like no living being. He got to his feet and peeked out to the other room.
The darkness was only faintly illuminated by heaven through the skylights, and he kept the name of Jesus on his lips as he searched the space with his eyes. The wailing came again, but this time he could tell it was coming from outside. Was the whole place haunted?
He ducked into his room, felt through a stack of clothes, and pulled a sweatshirt over his head. Then he went out into the yard and turned toward the keening. A white shape at the base of the oak almost drove his heart to his throat, but the being was affixed to the ground and a little more substantial than smoke.
Head cocked, he started toward it. The whine subsided to agonized sighs.
Jesus, he murmured just in case. But he made out her hair in the dim light. “Star?”
She pressed her hands to her face and wailed again. It wasn’t like Rese’s ferocious shrieks. This noise could be from another world, soft and plaintive as pain itself. Rese’s distress had a concrete cause; this seemed the voice of undefined agony. Jesus. He might as well be dealing with the supernatural.
“What’s the matter, Star?” He cupped her shoulder.
She t
ook her hands from her face and found him in the darkness. “Hold me.”
Her skin felt like death as she sank into him, boneless, cold flesh absorbing the night and mist. The string-strapped fragment she wore offered neither warmth nor concealment. He hadn’t hesitated to pull Rese to his chest—at personal risk. But he hesitated now. Lord.
With a swift motion, he pulled his sweatshirt off, then tugged it down over her, engulfing her little limbs and adolescent frame.
She sniffled. “I just need you to hold me.”
The tug was almost irresistible. Between Star and Sybil and Rese, he had more people needing something from him than even he could stand. The villa was dark, and he hoped that meant Rese slept. She needed it, or he’d send Star to her. Rese would know how to handle this.
He said, “What’s wrong?”
She pressed into him, crying again. “ ‘It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’ ”
He eased her back. “I’d understand better if you said it straight.”
“ ‘Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return.’ ”
Okay, she regretted something, maybe wished she could change it. Something he understood too well. But he was not the one to counsel her there, or now. “You need to go in, Star. Try to sleep.”
“ ‘Thou art all ice. Thy kindness freezes.’ ”
He was chilled, shirtless in the night, but that wasn’t what she meant. Maybe he did seem hard and cold. But she wanted something from him he couldn’t give, not after the day with Rese. Strange, when Star seemed by far the more needy.
“Come on. It’s the middle of the night. You’re going to worry people.” He walked her slowly to the house.
“ ‘She receives comfort like cold porridge.’ ”
“I can’t help that, Star.”
“Because of Rese?”
Secrets Page 25