Lance said, “Rese will show you to your room,” and handed her the key from the thin cabinet above the guest book.
She took it from him. “This way.” Her voice was flat but audible. She led the Taylors up the stairs to the Redwood, unlocked the door and waited while they did a quick inspection. Then she surrendered the key to Roberta.
“If you need anything, Lance or I will be around.”
They thanked her, but she was already heading down the hall, down the stairs to the parlor and through the dining room to the kitchen where Lance had taken out his phone. He must not have dialed yet, because he lowered it when she stopped beside him. “I had it under control.”
“Oh. Those moments of dead silence were for effect?”
She frowned. “What moments?”
“The ones before I stepped in and greeted them for you?”
Had it been that way? The dull lump in her stomach suggested it had. She gripped her hands together.
He pulled her close. “We make a great team.”
He kissed her mouth with businesslike precision—what someone might call soundly, the period at the end of the sentence. He’d made his point and punctuated it?
“I thought you weren’t going to do that.”
“You wanted me to.”
“I did not.”
“Better run a check on your body language.” His mouth pulled at the corners as he leaned in close again. “You all but begged.”
“Oh! You…” Unable to come up with a word fierce enough to fit the choler, she stomped his instep, and he jerked back, wincing.
She clenched her hands. “I never beg.”
With a limp forward, he pressed her to the counter. “You are so tough, aren’t you?” The amusement was gone from his eyes, replaced by a fiery intensity. “It would be so humiliating to actually need someone.”
“I don’t—”
“Well, here’s a flash for you. You were created to know and serve God. Beyond that, you came from my rib.”
A fierce huff escaped her lips. Of all the arrogant … His rib? She had a sudden flash of a storybook with two people in a garden and a snake whispering with Alanna’s voice. She swallowed tightly. “That garden of Eden myth is a children’s story. Your God is no more real than Mom’s fantasies.”
The tension seeped from him. His grip softened. “You’re wrong. God is real.”
“You’ve seen him?”
His glance gentled. “In every firefighter’s face. In every volunteer who sifted rubble for body parts. In the tear streaks of people who hadn’t lost anyone. There is a God, Rese. And there is evil. And nobody stands alone before either.”
Lance could not put out of his mind Rese’s face as he’d laid the truth on her. It was an uneasy, humbling thing to put your trust outside yourself. To know that another ordered your days—and numbered them. As C. S. Lewis put it, “We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”
Lance knew how painful it could be. He had to trust it would all be for the best, and try like anything to make it so. In their phone conversation, his sister had told him Nonna was fighting. She could not talk yet. After nearly six weeks, she could still form little more than rudimentary sounds that only made her angrier. Momma thought if she didn’t try so hard it would come easier, but Lance understood Nonna’s panic. If he was trapped inside himself, he’d fight every second of it.
Talking to his nephew had been bittersweet. The boy had grown up too fast with Tony’s death, and Lance could feel the hole left in the party. He should have been there in his brother’s place. He’d been teaching Jake to play guitar before he left, and he told him about the plan to play tonight for their guests and anyone else who showed up. Jake feigned interest, but it was clear he’d have rather had him at his party.
The boy’s disappointment lingered as Lance tuned up in the empty room, surprised by the good acoustics. He shouldn’t have to strain too much unless people packed in. Not likely. It wasn’t as though he had a name or a following. He’d left that behind, no matter how many new agents Ricardo found. Tonight was just a lark. He might attract a few curious people from the flyers Rese had posted around town, but he didn’t expect much. And he didn’t want much either.
He warmed up with a song he’d written in Italian, back when he needed to convince Conchessa he wasn’t the imposter she suspected. Not even Nonna’s letter in his possession had convinced her at first. It was only after he’d helped her in the kitchen, and she’d seen his fingers in the dough, that she’d relented.
Then they had spoken long and in depth about Antonia and the letters written between them since they were girls, letters that had stopped after the one Conchessa put into his keeping, the one that spoke of fear and danger. Then he understood why she had doubted him. She was convinced Antonia had perished. To have someone who claimed to be her grandson appear, wanting answers…
Lance smiled faintly. He’d certainly had to prove himself lately. But he’d left the convent with Conchessa’s blessing and her prayers lifted in humble and expectant simplicity. Thoughts of her still brought the peace that had leavened him like yeast at the convent, and his song became a prayer sung in her language to a Father who knew every tongue.
Into your heart, into your hand,
All that I am, naked I stand.
Should I depart, searching in blindness
When I have known the kiss of your kindness?
Selah, O Lord, Selah. In the silence You find me.
Selah, my Lord, Selah. In the stillness refine me.
Not at all the song to open a set, unless he needed to remember tonight wasn’t about him and recall the reasons he’d left performing behind. He wasn’t even sure why he’d agreed to do it now, except that Rese had asked instead of ordering him. As he practiced, Evvy hobbled in. He looked up, surprised, but she said, “You don’t think we’d miss opening night, do you?”
We? “Great to see you, Evvy.”
By the time he finished the next song, her gang had gathered at the various tables. Three gentlemen in shirt-sleeves and sweater vests, and seven women who smelled like a Wal-Mart fragrance department. He hoped he could sing with the cloying scent in his throat. But he was glad they’d come.
In her Renaissance festival barmaid costume, Star flitted between the tables, serving wine and coffee lattés and the chocolate-dipped biscotti he’d made earlier. There was no sign of last night’s tears, replaced by her alternate effervescence. If she was faking it, she was superb in her role.
The Taylors came in, followed by a few others—a young couple and three guys who seemed to recognize Star. The diverse crowd allowed him to mix in some contemporary tunes along with some of his own newer songs. It rushed in on him, what he’d loved about performing: the energy that charged a room, that buoyant feeling that lifted him out of himself.
He could almost imagine Chaz and Ricardo beside him, their voices blending in harmony with his, Rico’s drums and any of the instruments Chaz threw into the mix. Even solo, it was good to sing and play again. He didn’t care who filled the seats, what sort of music they wanted. He had so many songs in his head, and if he missed a verse or two, they filled it in for him. It was easy.
He glanced at Evvy swaying and clapping her tiny fingers. What secrets had she and Ralph shared inside these walls? Maybe they could visit the old guy. That idea caught hold. He had discovered the underground vault, but he wanted to know what happened and why. Maybe Ralph could tell him, and Evvy might know as well. He looked into her face and sang an old Sinatra tune, complete with croon. If she were the swooning sort, she’d be at his feet.
Over the older folks’ conversations, he had to sing louder than he’d intended. He hadn’t seen Rese yet, but he was sure she could hear it all from the kitchen. She probably had her hands full making their steamers and lattés. But he wished she’d come out and see the energy in the room. It wasn’t the crowd he’d expected, b
ut they were fun, counting the coins out of their purses for Star and placing their song requests.
The crowd roared and sang along when he started “That’s Amoré,” and then Rese was in the doorway. He found her with his smile. They had talked about this, laughed and imagined. Now it was real. Their eyes found a common wavelength, sharing humor and excitement and more. A sharp pain somewhere near that missing rib. Partners, he thought, and forgot everyone else.
Dressed in the snuggly comfort of her pajamas, in the sanctum of her suite, Rese bathed her pierced ears in capfuls of antiseptic, then painfully turned the studs in her ears. That’s what came from giving up control. Watching Lance sing to the room had almost put her over the edge. Near the end, when he sang to her, she toppled.
He had won. Just like Brad and the others, he had fought her every step. But unlike every other man, he had won. Terror like nothing she’d known seized her. How had she given in? Where had he found the unguarded spot to sink his spear?
She couldn’t let him see it. If he didn’t know, it might not be too late. Her only armor was control. But the thought exhausted her. Was there never an end to it?
“There is a God, and there is evil.” His words had locked in her mind like a deadbolt. Was there some striving of opposite forces, some primal conflict she was caught between? She shuddered, recalling the aching dread sucking at her the night that “presence” had striven for her. Good versus evil? Or a natural facet of her mind resisting the danger her lungs inhaled—as she now resisted the peril to her heart?
Lance talked of God and sang of love: two mysteries she could not explore. She needed Dad’s arms around her, legs pumping, rushing her out and away. Prudent. Pragmatic. Confident. He had made her what she was. But he had lied.
CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR
What little I know in my innocence.
Ideals like pebbles in the creek.
Wash away, wash away.
There is no logic in life.
Lance rocked the turns home from church the next morning to get breakfast prepared. He had baked the almond focaccia and kept it warming in the oven with a pan of water to keep it moist. Now he sliced the delicate strawberry and honeydew fans to garnish the plates. Beautiful and edible.
Last he cooked the sausage frittata and served it steaming when the Taylors came down to the dining room. There was no sign of Rese, so he greeted them and asked if they’d slept comfortably.
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Taylor beamed. “Like a dream in that down bedding.” His neck ached worse than ever.
“Enjoyed the music last night,” Mr. Taylor said.
“Thanks.”
They chatted about where they were from and where they’d been. Lance had gotten around with the Peace Corps and Habitat, but the Taylors liked fancier getaways. They lived in Ohio, but escaped whenever they could.
“Well, I’ll let you enjoy your breakfast.”
“You are a wonderful chef.” Mrs. Taylor dabbed her mouth. “It was the food pictures on the Web site that made us choose this place.”
“Thank you.” He went back to the kitchen as Rese dragged herself through the door, no doubt intending to greet her guests.
He headed her off with a hand to her elbow. “Huh-uh.”
She sent him a glare. “Huh-uh, what?”
“Don’t go out there. Not like that.”
“Like what?”
He eased her into a chair. “Like you spent the better part of the night wrestling.” A surge of concern caught him square in the chest.
She dropped her chin and pressed her elbows to the table. “I didn’t sleep until seven.”
Since it was now ten after eight, that made for a very short night. “Go back to bed. I have it under control.”
She shook her head. “I have to take care of the Taylors.”
“I already did. They’re doing just fine. Slept wonderfully.”
She dropped her face to her hands. “Something smells good.”
“I’ll serve yours fresh when you wake up for real.” He raised her to her feet and led her to the door off the kitchen. “Sleep, Rese.” Her fatigue was painful. He watched her into her room. The door closed softly, and he hoped she would drop right off. That was the worst he’d seen her yet. What was with that insomnia?
He checked to see if the Taylors needed anything, refreshed their coffee and inquired as to their plans for the day. Full, as he’d hoped. With them gone and Rese sleeping, he’d have time to work. Even if Star came out and watched as she had the day before, he was simply landscaping.
It was almost titillating to use the wood as he removed it, slowing his descent to a ritual pace. It imparted a ceremonial quality that eased his doubts. He was accounting to Nonna, but keeping his word to Rese as well, bringing back the garden and doing anything and everything else she needed.
The vines he had trimmed back to get at the carriage house were leafing. He hadn’t been sure if they were even alive when he decided to keep some of them. Rese had assumed he knew a lot more about landscaping than he did. He knew a little gardening from Nonna and a little herb lore from Conchessa. He could box a flower bed, and Evvy had instructed him on hedge trimming. But mostly he was working with what was there—a lot more than he’d ever had to work with before in his Belmont neighborhood in the Bronx. This small garden in Sonoma was practically Eden compared to that.
Dogwood and forsythia had already bloomed, but their scent seemed to linger with the honeysuckle hanging heavy now and the whole garden bursting with life and vitality. But as he opened the carriage house door, that smell of age wafted over him. It had to be the cellar. It was stronger than ever since he’d opened the hatch. He glanced up at the portrait he’d hung on the wall separating the bedroom from the sitting room. His ancestor’s dark eyes scrutinized him.
There was no nameplate on the portrait, but by the clothing and expression, he guessed Vittorio Shepard had sat for the artist. “Were you a gangster, old man?” But the man in the portrait wasn’t old, had never grown old, if the story was right. Only old enough, Lance thought, to produce Antonia and through her his father and him. “Who did you torque off?”
He shook his head. “You haven’t left me much to go on. Any of you.” Maybe there were things he shouldn’t learn. Vittorio had died for whatever might be down there. But these were his people, his secrets. Who had a better right to pursue it than he?
He opened the hatch and took a step down, pulling out a board as long as himself. He laid it beside the opening and went down three steep stone steps, anticipation building. He pulled another board free and the rest tumbled to a pile at the bottom.
The space was dim, even with the sun shining through the skylight, so he climbed back up and got the flashlight from his bedroom. When he reached the bottom, he was grateful to see only the neck of the passage had been blocked.
Shining the flashlight into the narrow tunnel, he sensed the lives that had passed that way before. He was about to follow when he heard knocking upstairs. His heart hammered. Rese? He had promised her breakfast, but he hadn’t expected her to wake up so soon.
He switched off the light and clambered up the stairs and through the hatch. It now seemed so evident that it was there. How could anyone miss it? The boards he’d removed lay there as well. He had taped a couple sheets up over the French doors and through the gap he saw Star, not Rese. He closed the hatch and opened the door.
“Morning, Star.”
She spread her arms wide. “I am Morning Star.”
She wore a turquoise shift that hung to her ankles but split at the bottom into broad ribbons. Her feet were bare.
He smiled. Whatever her issues, she was original. “Hungry?”
“I helped myself.”
He glanced at the villa. “Is Rese up?”
Star shook her tangerine mane, then caught his hand and pulled him out the door. “Choose your scene.”
“My scene?”
She swung her arm across the garden, and he noticed an
easel and canvas ready. She was going to paint, as she’d said. He studied the areas not plundered by his spade and chose the most colorful patch.
She clapped her hands. “The elf grove.”
She must be seeing something besides the yellow buttercups and California poppies, the feathery plumes and purple lupine. But then, maybe not. She turned her canvas and prepared her pallet.
Since he was out now, Lance headed for the villa. The sound of running water came from Rese’s suite, so he cut her some focaccia and started her frittata. She looked better than she had before, but he wouldn’t call her serene now.
She took the latté he offered but didn’t sit down. “The Taylors?”
“Off and running.”
Her face was tight. “I should have handled it.”
“Everything was fine.”
She frowned. “Nonetheless—”
“I’m seeing ‘managing partner.’ ” He arced his hands like a marquee.
She frowned.
Undaunted, he caught hold of her waist. “Repeat after me. Lance, you’re just what I need to run this place.”
She pulled away from his grasp and sat down. Where was last night’s rapport? He had sung her the most personal song he’d written, the one about losing Tony. He’d done it late after Evvy’s group was gone and only a handful of listeners remained. He could have sworn she understood.
He moved behind her and rubbed the knots from her shoulders. This would become a morning ritual if they didn’t solve her insomnia. “Why didn’t you sleep?”
“I don’t know.” She bit into her focaccia.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
She shook her head. “It’s not every night.”
“It’s often enough. What are you, twenty …”
“Four.”
“That’s way too young to have sleep issues. Are you afraid?”
“No.”
But he felt her tense. Interesting. He worked the shoulders again, then moved up her neck.
She took a bite. “I slept like the dead the last two hours.”
Secrets Page 27