Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Her snap into reality caught him unprepared. He could give her lots of reasons. But he said, “Yes.” He didn’t want to think how Rese would react if anything happened between him and Star. That would be wrong when Rese had finally let down her guard.

  He walked Star to the door. “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  She sniffed. “ ‘O, it is excellent to have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant.’ ”

  “Well, tyranny or not, you’ll be better off inside.” And no one had ever mistaken him for a giant.

  Lance hadn’t cooked breakfast for a while, but when Rese got up, he was there in the kitchen. She’d slept only three grudging hours in the middle of the night, and when she met his eyes, she was sure he could tell. Thankfully he didn’t comment. She did not want to repeat yesterday’s meltdown. She’d wrestled enough with that humiliation.

  She had two days to get through, open her business, play her part. Doubt gnawed. Last night’s thoughts and memories had left her weak, but she couldn’t show it. If she knew how to play any part, that was it. Tough, secure, dauntless. She should see herself through Star’s eyes.

  Lance’s baked eggs with salami and parmigiano went down like silk. Not something she would ever have chosen, but it tasted better than she’d expected. “What are you making for our guests tomorrow?” She had actually said that without sounding terrified.

  “Almond focaccia and sausage frittata.”

  She nodded. “Sounds good. Not that this isn’t good. It’s delicious, Lance.”

  He sat down and took her hands between his. “You can stop pretending.”

  “I’m not. I like it. It’s a little weird, but…”

  He stroked her thumbs with his, sending shock waves up her arms. “That’s not what I meant.”

  She couldn’t acknowledge what he meant. She seriously regretted yesterday’s collapse. If she let down again, she’d never get through today.

  “How much sleep did you get?”

  “A few hours.”

  His gaze was so soft she could wrap up in it.

  “Lance, I…”

  “How are your ears?”

  “Fine.” She’d had to lie on her back all night.

  He shook his head with a smile. “Nails.”

  She frowned. “I need to talk to you.”

  He leaned back and cocked his head. “Am I fired?”

  A flush burned her cheeks. “It wasn’t your fault.” Even now she wanted him to hold her.

  “Well, you’ll have to, if you want things to go back the way they were.”

  She met his eyes staunchly. “I don’t. I just don’t know what else to do.”

  “I like the sound of partners.”

  “Partners?” As she and Dad had been? The thought soured. Partners trusted each other. Partners didn’t keep secrets, dark terrible secrets.

  He stood up, walked around and massaged her shoulders. After a long night of lying stiff as a corpse and blaming herself for everything from her mother’s situation to the day with Lance, his fingers were heaven. But she could not give in to it.

  “Rese, your heart’s not in running this place.”

  “Well, I…” But he was right. She dreaded the guests coming that afternoon. Renovating the villa had been painfully cathartic, a chance to face the trauma and regain her confidence. Doing it for Dad. Now it just magnified the betrayal.

  Lance’s thumbs pressed and circled. She closed her eyes. “I can’t think when you do that.”

  “Then listen.” His fingers working into the knots. “You did a great job bringing the house back. Now let me run it.”

  She huffed. “And what would I do?”

  “Well, I’m no expert, but that carving you did for the dining room is great.”

  Why did every praise he spoke warm like down? “So?”

  “So why not focus on that?”

  “Just carve?”

  He came around in front of her. “You could incorporate it into decorative pieces or even furnishings. Market them on a spiffy Web site.”

  She had no idea if there was a market for that, but to focus on the parts she loved best—carpentry and her signature carving. In your face, Brad. She chewed her lip. “You’d take care of reservations and everything else in addition to food and entertainment?”

  “For a split, once the money’s there.”

  “If the money’s there.” She could not expect the insurance anymore. They might not make enough to support two of them.

  “You wouldn’t have to greet the guests or make small talk.”

  She frowned. “So I pierced my ears for nothing?”

  He tucked her chin up with his finger. “Not nothing.”

  An electrical charge started at the base of her spine and crawled up her back, a sensation she’d battled all night. “Lance.”

  “I’ve got it under control.”

  “Right. Mr. Emotional.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  “You have a lot on your mind. I’m offering to ease the load.”

  She pinched her brows. “Why? What is it to you?”

  He squatted down beside her. “Well, for one thing you asked for my help. Or did you block that completely?”

  “I wish I could.”

  He laughed softly. “I’m sure you do.”

  “I know what I’m doing. At least I did. Before. When my crew listened and followed instructions.” She had seen the rebellion in Lance at the first glimpse. It was there still, disguised by the warmth of his touch, the playful glow in his eyes.

  “So make me your managing partner, and we’ll forget all that hierarchy malarkey.” He took hold of her hand.

  “I knew you’d be trouble.”

  “I’m the best thing that’s happened to you.”

  She huffed. But it was so true it hurt. “I’ll think about it.” She would not be swayed by emotion. She knew better. And it was time she acted like it. She pushed up from the table. “I have a bed to finish.”

  Star came in, yawning and stretching in an oversized NYPD sweatshirt and nothing else that Rese could tell. NYPD? She looked from Star to Lance.

  He held her gaze. “It would be great to have that bed soon. The hammock’s pretty bad.”

  He hadn’t missed a beat. She swallowed. What was the thing suddenly eating her from the inside out?

  Lance turned to Star after Rese went out. In the dark he hadn’t realized the sweatshirt was the one Tony had given him. Had she worn it intentionally to provoke Rese? That didn’t seem like her, or the relationship he’d viewed so far. More likely she’d slept in it without realizing it might have significance to anyone else.

  “Some fair aroma doth call forth hunger—”

  “I’d appreciate the sweatshirt back.”

  Star looked down as though she hadn’t remembered she wore it. “Oh.” She reached down to pull it off.

  He caught the edge and tugged it back down, frustration surging. “What are you trying to do?”

  She looked up at him, blue eyes filled with concern. “Give you your sweatshirt.”

  “Do you mind getting dressed first?”

  “What difference does it make? You’re in love with Rese.”

  He stared at her. Where had that come from? He’d fostered friendship, and, yeah, there was chemistry. But attraction wasn’t love. He’d learned that long ago. He turned and nudged Star toward the hall. “Go get dressed and bring me my shirt.”

  He didn’t want anything else upsetting Rese. He was making headway on tenuous ground, especially with what he’d suggested moments ago. After Star woke him, he’d spent the remaining hours of the night rethinking his position. He hadn’t come there with the intention of staying any longer than it took to get Nonna’s answers. But upon arrival everything had shifted as though he’d sensed his roots there. Maybe this was the break he needed, no band, no living with Chaz and Rico and the rest of the family, no living under Tony’s shadow. If he ran the inn, and
Rese had something she loved— not him, her wood—maybe they could both come out of it happy.

  There was still his promise to Nonna, and he would honor that. He just needed a way to make things right for everyone.

  Star brought the shirt back with the look of a child unsure why she’d been scolded. With it tucked under his arm, Lance muttered his thanks and headed out the back door. Did Star even realize how awkward this morning’s scene had been? Rese’s look had been a power drill right through him, and it was all he could do not to blurt excuses. But that would have looked guilty for sure. Star’s “Hold me” could have meant nothing more than that, or much more.

  Rese’s body language when she entered the kitchen earlier had not been as stony as he’d expected, but he wouldn’t call it welcoming. He hadn’t been fired. That was a good thing. And she had loosened up when he rubbed her neck, listened to his proposal even if she hadn’t agreed. But Star was way off with her assessment.

  His behavior toward Rese yesterday was philanthropic; she’d asked his help. That he was attracted to her, that he cared, were side effects. He could deal with that. As he’d told Rese, he had it under control. Inside the carriage house, Lance took the boards he had removed last night and began building the flower beds. Then he opened the hatch for more.

  It still looked like giant pickup sticks down there, but soon he’d be able to descend. To what? An underground storehouse with access from the stable? He tried to make sense of that, and every scenario came up looking shady. A wine or root cellar would be accessed from the house, wouldn’t it?

  But it would have been on whatever plans Rese had used for the renovation. She would have known about a tunnel or cellar. No, the access was from the carriage house for a reason. And it was no accident that he’d ended up in there. He’d been grasping when he caught sight of the old stone structure and suggested his own renovation, but he knew now he’d been led.

  He rose to his knees and gathered the rough boards he had removed, carried them out to the garden and continued building the beds. The sound of Rese’s tools rang out from the shed, where she worked on his bed, he supposed.

  Star wandered out, climbed the tree and watched him, but didn’t speak. He hoped it had not been personal last night, that he’d just been the available shoulder. But he wasn’t sure.

  Maybe Tony was right. You give out signals, Lance. Sucker signals.

  All right, so he hadn’t always read people well. He didn’t want to be suspicious like his brother. He wanted to trust, to take people as they seemed.

  Rub a little deeper next time.

  But he didn’t want to, because he didn’t want them rubbing deeper either. He was fine on the surface, but inside? He was still trying to find himself, inside his brother’s footsteps.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

  Papa is restless in the Field.

  He cannot find the rhythm. He doesn’t know the step.

  His eye upon the horizon; his mind is in the world.

  His heart has left us already. His feet will follow.

  Rese checked her watch. After three, and the Taylors had not arrived. As Lance said, just because check-in began at three didn’t mean they’d be there on the dot. Unwilling to relinquish control, she had showered and put on her skirt and blouse. Now she was wishing she’d stayed in the shed with her tools. At least there a sort of frantic activity had possessed her mind and occupied her limbs, the sort of activity that had filled her life ever since Mom’s … she could no longer say death. Incarceration? Hospitalization.

  If she could stay physically and mentally busy enough, forcing her concentration, finding that place with the wood … but she couldn’t greet her guests all sweaty and dressed for work. According to Lance, she had to look the gracious proprietor.

  She arranged the small easel with Lance’s entertainment poster in the entry of the parlor and walked the length of the room to the filled bookshelf at the end. A book in hand would look natural. But not for her. A saw, a drill, a sledge hammer…. She expelled her breath.

  Lance came up behind her. “You’re going to wear yourself out worrying.”

  “Good. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight.” But she didn’t think so with strangers in the house. Why hadn’t she thought about how awkward that would be? Then again it hadn’t been with Lance. Maybe it would be fine. Sleep didn’t have to be her enemy.

  She had chased away the ghosts and—She glanced up at the bookshelf where she’d heard the noise in the wall. Stupid to think of that now, but … the room seemed to hold a sudden chill. “Lance, was everything all right out there last night?”

  “Well, that hammock is no picnic.”

  “But nothing … disturbed you?”

  His expression was enigmatic. “Of a supernatural sort?”

  She nodded.

  “We discussed that.”

  “No bumps in the night, no gunshots?”

  He eyed her quizzically. “Did you hear it again?”

  “No. I was just wondering.” And sounding silly.

  “You don’t want the Taylors seeing ghosts?”

  She squeezed her hands together. “I just want it to be right.”

  He smiled. “It’ll be better than right. It’ll be great.”

  He said it with complete authority. And why not? In the weeks he’d been there, he’d become the place. Actually, he’d seemed to belong the first moment she saw him. Again she felt herself the one who didn’t fit.

  What did she know about welcoming guests? She should have worked harder at public relations. She had learned to get control and keep it, but that didn’t leave much practice in the finer arts of conversation and humble service. She nodded. “Of course it will.”

  Lance started out of the room.

  “You’re leaving?”

  He turned. “I need to make a call.” He slid his cell phone from his khakis.

  “Who are you calling?” None of her business, but it had come out automatically.

  He tipped his head. “Who do you think I’m calling?”

  Now she felt really stupid. Of course he had people in his life. Friends and family. Maybe even … “A girlfriend?”

  “Rese.” His look scolded her. “I’m calling my nephew. It’s his birthday, and I’m missing the party. I’ll probably talk to my parents and a sister or two, whoever’s there.”

  “Oh.” She pictured it like a Hallmark commercial, zooming in through the window from the cold outside.

  “Let them know I’m not in jail.”

  “You are a hothead.” Rese eyed him directly.

  He came over and took hold of her hand. “I’m learning to behave.”

  “Good.” Definite misbehavior inside her chest cavity. Yesterday there had been anguish. What was it now? “Why was Star wearing your sweatshirt?”

  His gaze was direct. No evasion, no discomfort, just frank assurance. “She was distraught in the yard last night. I covered her up.”

  “Star was upset?”

  “Crying and quoting Shakespeare, or something like it.”

  “From her Renaissance festivals. She has whole scores memorized.” Star fell into that mode when she couldn’t bear to be real. Were they all just playing parts? Maybe Mom hadn’t been crazy at all. Or maybe they all were.

  Rese frowned. “Two weeping women in one day?”

  His mouth quirked. “One wailing; one assaulting.”

  “Assaulting?”

  “My sides are bruised.”

  His sides? “What are you talking about?”

  He pulled up one side of his shirt, and she could see grip marks in his flesh, but she could not remember doing it. “I don’t …I didn’t mean to…”

  He drew her close. “You needed to get it out.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Nothing I can’t take.” Closer still.

  “Lance…”

  “I’m not going to kiss you.”

  “You’re not?”

  He shook his head.
/>   Roaring disappointment.

  Again that twist of his lips. “You’d think it was sympathy.”

  True.

  “Or payback for bruising me.”

  Definitely true.

  “You’d make up all sorts of excuses.”

  She jutted her chin. “I don’t make excuses.”

  He laughed. “Then you kiss me.”

  Waves of shock. How could he totally disarm her with a thought? She took up the only weapon she could find. “I don’t kiss the cook.”

  His gaze on her mouth might as well have been a kiss. “But now we’re partners.”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  A car pulled into the drive. Rese jerked a glance over her shoulder. A charcoal Mercedes, man and woman, just the sort to be making the wine country tour and staying at her bed-and-breakfast. They sat while he closed the sunroof, then climbed out and eyed the villa.

  How different could this be from directing her crew or making a bid?

  Lance clamped his palm to her lower back. “Want me to handle it?”

  No way. She had let him take over yesterday—and had the pierced ears to prove it. She pulled herself up stiffly. “I can do it.”

  A gentle knock sounded and the couple came inside. The slight man said, “Hello. Mike and Roberta Taylor. We have a reservation.”

  Lance turned her with his hand still planted in her back. His easy smile. “Hi.” Their feet crossed the room, two couples coming together. Lance held out his hand. “Lance Michelli. And this is Rese Barrett.”

  She held out her hand and shook twice.

  Lance released her lower back. “Nice drive in?”

  “Lovely,” Roberta said. “We can’t wait to get up into the vineyards.”

  “Do you have a plan?” He was warm and engaging, the perfect host. Roberta took a guidebook from her purse.

  Lance told her, “You can call ahead for tours and tastings,” then motioned toward the small table with the guest book. “If you’ll just sign in.” He explained the setup and took their credit card.

  Rese could have done all that. Roberta sent her a smile, then looked up and around the front room. “This is lovely.”

  She could tell her everything that had gone into it, but doubted the petite redhead wanted to know.