She went into her room and showered, dressed in jeans and a knit shirt, but not her usual oversized style. She was going to see her mother and the people involved with her, and she didn’t want to look sloppy. Back in the kitchen, she paused as Lance openly appraised her. Admit it. She’d wanted him to notice.
“Hungry?”
Her stomach squeezed. “What do you think?”
“Have a seat. I’ll make your omelet.”
“Aren’t you going to ask how I slept?”
His mouth pulled sideways. “I don’t need to. You never stirred when I tucked you in, and you hadn’t moved when I looked in this morning.” He took down the pan, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “I was afraid you’d wake up if I carried you farther, so you got the privilege of the hammock.”
She had no memory of him carrying her. “Where did you sleep?”
“The love seat is definitely worse.” He broke and whisked two eggs in a bowl.
She joined him by the stove. “You could have used a room.”
“I didn’t want you to wake up disoriented.”
He’d slept on the awful love seat in case she woke up scared? “Your mattress set comes today. If I don’t get the bed done—”
“I’ll use the mattress anyway.” He poured the eggs into the greased pan and sprinkled on spinach, diced artichokes and cheese. Then he turned and took her hand. “Don’t worry about the bed. You have enough to think about.”
“It’s a miracle I slept.”
He smiled. “Whatever it takes.”
“Lance…”
Star came in, and Rese started to pull away, but he drew her to his side and circled her waist with his arm.
Star took them in. “Convergence at last.”
Rese glowered. “More like collision.”
Lance released her to fold and remove her omelet. He set her plate onto the table, the golden eggs still steaming next to a sliced grape and raspberry garnish on a dollop of yogurt. “Let me refresh our guests’ coffee, then I’ll get your omelet going, Star.”
She picked up the pot. “I’ll do the coffee.”
Rese caught her slanted look, but she was not going to pick up where they’d left off. She’d been about to tell him…
“You were saying?”
How did he do that? He took her hand again and drew her close.
She swallowed. “I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
Too much. Her throat thickened. “It could have been really bad last night. I doubt I would have slept at all. But the things you told me…” She shook her head. “It really helped.”
He raised her chin and studied her face. “Good.”
“Lance, I…” Rese fought herself. Star’s voice carried from the dining room, laughing with their guests. She had the moment, but she couldn’t say how much he mattered to her. “Appreciate it.”
The corners of his smile deepened. Amusement found his eyes. He would kiss her and she’d be more confused than ever. But he said, “Your food’s getting cold.”
She sat down and ate an omelet as wonderful as everything else. He was way too good for her little operation. Star came back and Lance served her, then made one for himself and joined them at the table. Sitting there with Lance and Star, she felt bolstered to face the day.
Where was the panic? The rage? Trepidation, yes. Uncertainty. Questions. But it didn’t seem overwhelming anymore. Because God was in control?
“I’m off to paint.” Star gathered her supplies from the counter by the door.
Rese watched her. “What are you painting, Star?”
“Lance’s garden.” Star slipped through the door.
Lance’s garden. It was his garden. His inn. Rese carried her plate to the sink, and he met her there. Taking the plate from her hands, he lowered his mouth to kiss her. She drew back only far enough to whisper, “Lance, I meant to say …”
“I know what you meant.” He kissed her again.
A profound need settled inside him, so raw and perilous it rivaled his faith, something tender and real between them. She couldn’t say so, but he knew she cared. He was going to screw it up; he knew that too. Somehow he would take this chance and blow it. But not even that could make him run away now.
Lance closed his eyes against her hair. Until she’d fallen asleep in his arms last night, he’d had a pretty good handle on things. He’d been midsentence when she had drifted off, peace settling over her features like a soft blanket. Recalling it still left him nearly breathless with yearning. He stroked her back, caressed her face, found her mouth again and lost himself. He groaned. This was not in the plan.
Rese drew back. “I have to go. My appointment is at eleven.”
“I know.” But he couldn’t let go. She had to get to San Francisco, find the mental health facility and deal with her own crisis. And there he was clinging to her like a lost boy to Wendy’s nightgown.
She smiled, a devious one she’d birthed at this moment. Where had that feminine trait hidden? She knew exactly where she had him, and she liked it.
That thought started a fire he could not afford to stoke. “Want me to go with you?”
She shook her head. “I have to do it alone.”
He’d suspected that. She wasn’t used to thinking in pairs. Neither was he. “Then you should go.” He slid his hands to her waist and held on a moment more.
A flicker of apprehension found her face.
“It will be all right. The Lord’s got his hand on you.”
“I hope so.”
He kissed her softly. “Get out of here.” At least her reluctance matched his. “I’ll check out the guests. And give me your password so I can look at reservations.”
He hadn’t expected her to argue, and she didn’t. Her mind was elsewhere, obviously. She wrote the information down, then fetched her purse and joined him once again. “I’m going.”
He stayed where he was and nodded. “Be careful.” He meant that in more ways than one. He did believe she was in God’s hands, but that didn’t make things easy. And she’d be facing a lot in the next few hours.
The roar of her big truck engine calmed him, and he was suddenly glad she drove a tank. If only the rest of her was really so tough. He drew a slow breath and released it.
Two things he had to do while she was gone: talk to Sybil and try the key. The second burned most desperately, but he made himself call Sybil first. It was only fair he let her know where things stood. He didn’t need any more complication than he’d caused himself.
Her silky voice came on, and he asked when they could meet. Lunch didn’t surprise him, but he wished she hadn’t suggested it. Well, he owed her.
“Where?”
“Your place. You’re cooking.”
He silently groaned. “It will have to be early. Elevenish.” He didn’t want to think how it would look to Rese, his cooking for Sybil. They had to be done before she got back. But there was still Star. That was it. He’d include Star. But not for the discussion. He’d have to manage that separately.
He kicked himself for not getting what he needed from Sybil before things had gotten personal with Rese. He’d forget it altogether if not for Nonna and the promise he’d made. Something, though, was not right with the whole picture. But what else was new?
He planned the meal, checked out the guests, stripped their beds, started the laundry, then found Star in the garden. She’d forbidden him to see the work in progress, so he stepped to the back of her easel, blocking her view of the elf grove. Whatever she painted he would hang, but he hoped it was something halfway decent.
“Star, can you plan on lunch today?”
“Getting it?”
“Having it.” He stuck his fingers in his pockets. “Sybil’s coming by, and I’d rather not eat alone with her.”
Star pressed the handle of her brush to her lower lip. “Where’s Rese?”
He started to answer, then caught it back. How much did Star know? “She had
a meeting in San Francisco.”
Star’s smile teased her lips, then spread. “You need Star power.”
“Right. We might visit awhile first. Then I’d appreciate your presence.”
“I’ll shine.”
Lance grinned. “I’m sure you will.”
He went into the carriage house and met Vito’s eyes. The man had lived precariously, and now that seemed a little too close to home. Lance might not get shot, but he certainly had a lot to lose.
He went to the hatch and opened it. Rese had been in the room last night for hours and not noticed. Of course, she wasn’t looking. When Parcheesi was over he’d kept her occupied. It wasn’t intentional distraction, just effective.
And then she’d fallen asleep, and slept more soundly than anyone he’d ever seen. He supposed once her mind succumbed, her body took over with due diligence. It warmed him that he’d helped, even if all he did was trigger the memory of a faith she’d long ago embraced.
Her childhood encounter didn’t surprise him. He was too well acquainted with Scripture to doubt supernatural intervention. And Rese was just the kind of unsuspecting person the Lord would choose.
He climbed down. The smell had grown familiar, and he wondered if he would carry it on himself as Evvy carried hers. A valid consideration that only heightened his feelings of deception. He intended to tell Rese. He would. He just needed the right time.
The air was cool and still. In the glow of the flashlight, he made his way through the narrow passage to the gate, then stood there and fingered the key. If it didn’t work, what then? He breathed a prayer and tried it in the lock. It turned. His breath escaped in a rush. Grazie Dio. It must have been hidden in the carriage house corner for this purpose. To let him inside to find what he was meant to.
The iron creaked badly, but there was no one to hear. He must be halfway between the carriage house and the villa with nothing but stone and earth above and around. He left it open behind him, though it would be no big deal if it closed. As long as he held the key he could reach through and unlock it again.
He flashed his light on the space before him. The tunnel continued without branching, a single passage as wide as a big man’s shoulders. He caught a noise and jerked the light up. A mouse skittered along a tiny ledge of uneven blocks near the ceiling.
Lance returned the beam to his path and pressed forward several steps, then stopped still. Bones and white hair and teeth. Indisputably human. Their position of repose, intentional. His heart hammered. The tunnel was a tomb.
He approached slowly, his mouth suddenly dry. It was not Vito, since he was buried in the graveyard. Who then? By the length of the bones, the tatters of clothing and the shoes, a man, in spite of the long hair. His arms had been crossed over his waist. Either he’d been left to die in that position or placed that way after death. He hoped the latter.
Reverently, he dropped to his knee beside the skeleton. Why would it be lying there in the passage? Had he fallen? But again the position suggested intent. Fallen, maybe, but then arranged?
Lance touched the hair, long and silvery white, and his mind flashed to the picture of Quillan Shepard, who’d worn his hair long in spite of fashion. Lance felt his chest close in. Was it his great-great-grandfather lying there unmarked, unmourned?
This stalwart man of doughty countenance is the stuff of today’s hero. Was this what it came to in the end? Lance sagged. All his hopes of honor and great deeds. His driving need to measure up. This man had done all that and more, yet … he lay there in the dark, his bones dried and forgotten.
It must be Nonno Quillan, who else? There was no grave for him in the graveyard. Still, wouldn’t it raise questions if a man was simply gone? Unless … unless it was assumed he left with whoever had arranged him there.
Could this be what Nonna wanted him to find? His heart rushed. Had she left her grandfather in the tunnel and fled? Had she blocked the tunnel and covered the floor with dirt, the only burial she could give him? A surge of thanks washed over him. Nonno Quillan had at least that much.
Lance sighed. He did not find it morbid to rest his hand on the skeleton’s chest. The flesh had been eaten away, and the bones and remnants of clothing were dusty and dry. If this was his great-great-grandfather’s skeleton, he felt only sadness and reverence.
He swallowed the sudden thickening in his throat. Quillan Shepard deserved better than this. But if he exposed the skeleton now, he’d have to reveal it all. He wasn’t ready yet. He hadn’t found what he needed. Surely Nonna sent him for more than this—too many questions surrounded her sudden disappearance from her home, Vito’s death, and the other inferences in the article.
Lance shined the flashlight on his watch. No time for more. He had to wash up and prepare lunch. Regretfully, he left the bones as they lay and went back through the tunnel to the opening. Climbing out, he realized he was more shaken than he’d realized. Emotion built inside like a tide.
Quillan Shepard left to die in a dark tunnel. His family deprived of their home, their property. Had Nonna intended to come back? Was she prevented? What ugliness lay as buried and forgotten as Quillan’s skeleton? He had to find the truth.
Meeting Sybil suddenly took preeminence. He wished he hadn’t alerted Star. But his actions with Rese required integrity. He’d learn what Sybil had and explain his position. He only hoped what she had was enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN
Gunshots through stone and earth.
Papa!
Nonno falling. Falling, falling.
Cannot catch him; cannot hold them.
Useless arms. Useless hands.
Need. Anger. Pounding sorrow.
Rese cruised over the Golden Gate Bridge past the tollbooths into the city. Before buying the property in Sonoma, she had lived in Sausalito with her dad. An easy drive across the bay would have brought them in to see her mother. She didn’t understand.
Even if her hospitalization was warranted for a time, why cut her off completely? And why lie? Rese shook her head. That was what she couldn’t forgive. The deception of it all.
And then she recalled her mother’s fear. At first she had thought the whispered threats were part of the game. “He’ll lock us up if he knows, Theresa. It has to be our secret.” In the same way, she’d built the suspense in her spooky stories when the lights were low and the house still and silent.
Dad didn’t know how to play. She knew that at a very young age. He came home serious and suspicious. But she loved the way he smelled of sawdust and varnish, his callused hands and strong muscular arms. She loved the size and breadth of him, the look in his eyes when he approved. She didn’t believe he would ever do something to hurt them. The hurting part, that was the game … Walter’s game.
Rese shuddered. Sometimes she’d begged Mom not to invite Walter. “Let’s play without him, Mommy.” But Walter always came. Sometimes she imagined him in her room, long after he should have gone away, lurking in the shadows of her closet. That fear was unequivocal, but had she missed the other one she should have feared?
She gripped the steering wheel. Dad took her mother away. He locked her up. All these years, she could have known her, seen her, talked to her. All these years she had missed her. And he never said one word.
Even as he lay dying in her arms he had not spoken of it. As his life drained away, could he not have told her? The memory poured in, Dad gripping her arm, his last words, “Be strong.” Was that it? Mom had not been strong? No one could ever believe her strong. Just soft and beautiful and tingling with mystery.
Everything Rese was not. She’d become the woman Dad expected her to be. Nothing like her mother. She drew a long painful breath. Day by day, moment by moment, he’d annihilated every aspect of Mom from her. How he must have hated her, hated them both.
Sybil wore a simple suit with a clingy silk shell and heels. Very professional, chic, and savvy. Lance hated that it affected him. It was how she moved inside the wrapping, how she caught him with he
r smile and that hint of wickedness in the eyes. This was the last time. As soon as he knew what she had found, he’d tell her where he stood.
“Something smells good.” She slid him a smile.
“Risotto with shrimp and fresh bay scallops.”
As he led her back to the kitchen, she said, “I was hoping to see you in action.”
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” He eyed the envelope she held. “Is that for me?”
“Maybe.”
“What is it?”
“Something that corroborates the first article.”
His chest clenched. So it was true. Vito had been shot down. “From the archives?”
“Not the paper’s.”
He raised his brows. “The police files?”
Smiling, she stroked the envelope with her perfect oval nails. “I was thorough the first time. The police don’t have this; the paper doesn’t have it. Only I do.” She stepped in close, the shell falling loosely enough to demonstrate her intentions. “You should have told me it was personal.”
His heart jumped. “What do you mean?”
“Michelli.” Her gray eyes darkened. “Marco Michelli.”
He swallowed. Nonno Marco? Before he could speak, she reached behind his neck, pulled him forward and kissed him.
Head spinning, Lance pulled back. “What are you doing?”
She smirked. “I know you’re an altar boy, but I don’t believe for a minute you’re as innocent as you pretend.”
A purely destructive fire coursed his veins. “I never said I was.”
She slid the envelope to the counter. “Then show me.” She slipped off her jacket and tossed it atop.
His heart pounded. “What does Marco Michelli have to do with Vittorio Shepard?”
She pressed into him. “It’s all in the letter.”
“A letter to whom? And who’s it from?”
Secrets Page 30