“I’ll leave you two to visit.” He motioned to another woman sitting by the wall, dressed in a floral scrub. “Bonnie’s here if you need anything.”
Mom made a noise, and Rese realized she was laughing, but the emotion would have been more appropriately expressed by tears. In spite of the shaking inside, she went to her mother and sat in a chair at the table. “Hi, Mom,” she managed before her voice turned traitor.
“What have you done with my little girl?”
“I grew up.” She fought the swelling in her throat. “I didn’t know you were here. I came as soon as I knew.”
Mom tipped her head and studied her. “It’s a very good try. You look like her.”
Rese searched her mother’s eyes. She didn’t believe her? Didn’t know her own child? But would she have recognized her mom on the street? Yes, a thousand times yes. “It’s me, really.”
Her mother started to rock. “She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone…”
“Who’s gone?”
“Gone, gone, gone, gone…” It kept on like a pulse, then, “I met the president and he was very nice. But I know. Inside his teeth are little bombs, little gas bombs, poison gas. Breathe in, breathe in…”
Panic seized her. Horrible gasping breaths. How could her mother say something so cruel?
“Gone, gone, gone…”
Had Dad told her Mom was dead so she’d never have to face this? So she’d remember a Mother who played and danced and told stories? He was protecting them both: Mom, from the rage and hatred Rese might have felt knowing the truth, and her from a truth that hurt so much. But he was gone and now all they had was each other.
She fought back her tears and took her mother’s hand. “Mom.”
“Yes, Theresa?”
She knew her? Soaking gratitude. “I want to help you. I’m going to do everything I can.”
Her eyes sharpened. “It’ll be our secret. Don’t tell Dad.”
Waves of pain. Hadn’t they told her? “I won’t.”
“Why doesn’t he come? He’s gone, gone, gone.” Again her mother laughed—at Dad’s death?
Mom couldn’t help it, but chills slid down Rese’s spine, and she had to get away. “I need to talk to Doctor Jonas now.”
“Wilbur is a pig’s name. A little baby pig.”
They’d read Charlotte’s Web together, but she didn’t make the connection until she saw Dr. Jonas’s nameplate again. Dr. Wilbur A. Jonas. He welcomed her back into his space with a gentle hand. “So you’re wondering where to go with it?”
Rese nodded. No comment on what she’d just experienced, no word of comfort or explanation. Did he know she was shaking inside? Her mind was whirling, but she listened as he described the procedures already in place that had given the state temporary guardianship after Dad’s death. Since she’d sold the company and moved, they’d been unable to find her, and Elaine required a guardian. She would have to appeal for a change and there would be a personal study conducted to determine her ability to function in that role.
“Will they try to prevent me?”
Dr. Jonas looked surprised. “Believe me, the Department of Mental Health wishes everyone had someone to step forward for them. If you qualify, your petition will be expedited.”
“If I qualify?”
He shrugged. “There is the genetic nature of the disorder. Your medical history will be examined and your capacity to act in Elaine’s best interest. Have you had any psychotic episodes?”
He might have said, “Sore throat, headache?”
“Would I know?”
He smiled. “Maybe not. But it would be in your record if it has had a diagnosis.”
“I was treated for shock after Dad’s death. I was with him when he had the accident.”
Dr. Jonas nodded. “The state will determine the extent of the study and process your petition.”
No comment on her disclosure? “I was kind of out of it for three weeks. I didn’t speak much.”
He nodded. “I didn’t speak much for years after my son died.” He met her eyes. “Then I switched from internal medicine to psychiatry.”
Rese said, “I went from renovation to hospitality.”
They laughed. Then he sobered. “You’ve read the statistics. You know your risk. The best you can do is face it with appropriate attention and resist obsessing. If you’re granted guardianship, we’ll work together to determine the best avenue of care for Elaine.”
Rese nodded. She’d received another call and forms in the mail from the California Department of Mental Health. She would begin that process, but processing the rest would be much more difficult. It wasn’t Mom as she remembered her. They hadn’t embraced in tearful ecstasy, sharing words of love and heartache. Mom had laughed. She’d looked at her daughter and laughed.
Rese walked out to her truck. She had to let go of every expectation, all hope for the relationship she’d lost. It couldn’t be that way; maybe it never had.
Before she fell apart, there was something she had to do. She picked up the cell phone she kept connected in the truck and dialed Brad’s number. He’d be on a job, but she didn’t care. He picked up and she said, “Brad, it’s Rese. I need to see you.”
“Hey, great. You in town?” He gave her his location, a street she recognized.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She hung up. It took her only fifteen, and she parked on the steep incline behind Brad’s truck and got out. He was outside the tall, narrow house painted a pale blue that he would hate, discussing something with an architect they had used on occasion.
She waited near the truck, but he’d seen her and started her way as soon as they finished. He probably thought she had come to accept his offer. She didn’t even want to go there. She raised her chin. “Why didn’t you tell me my mother was alive?”
His greeting died on his lips. He closed his mouth and eyed her with a guilty expression that said all she needed to know. “Vern asked me not to. He was worried what it might do to you.”
“Put me over the edge? Make me start seeing people?”
Brad hung his thumbs in his tattered jeans. “I guess you’re angry.”
Was she? Mostly incredulous. “What about after the accident, when the hospital called you, and you told them Dad was dead? They were looking for me.”
“Rese, I wasn’t sure what to do. You weren’t … very stable.”
“Someone bleeding to death in your arms tends to have that effect.”
He nodded. “I know. It was awful.” He patted his T-shirt pocket, but for once it was empty.
“Out of cigarettes?”
“I quit. At least, I’m trying to.” He cocked his head. “Look, your Dad did what he thought he had to. I just did what he asked.”
Everyone had done what Vernon Barrett asked. He was that kind of man. She looked away.
“Are you okay?”
“Except for all the voices and little green men.”
Brad gave a short laugh. “Man, Rese. You’re hard as nails.”
Lance had told her that too. She turned back. “Any other surprises I should know about? Are you really my brother or something?”
“I sure hope not. I had a terrible crush on you.”
She stared at him.
“Hide it good, don’t I?” He grinned. “Have you given any thought to my offer?”
“The inn is doing well. I even have a band.”
He dropped his chin and shook his head. “It’s just not you.”
Her throat squeezed her voice tight. “How would you know? To you I’m just Vernon Barrett’s crazy daughter.”
He cocked his glance up. “Not hardly.”
She stepped back. “Good-bye, Brad.” She opened the door of her truck and glanced back once to see him bumming a cigarette from the man on the porch.
CHAPTER THIRTY - SIX
Rico reached Star first, but Lance was right behind. Her flashlight illuminated Quillan’s admittedly gruesome remains, and she had frozen
with a look of horror. This would require major damage repair—to her psyche and his goal.
What was she doing there? She must have seen the open cellar hatch, gone for a light and come back to see what they were up to. He hadn’t checked the door, but the guys must have left it unlocked when they came in to clean up. Star wouldn’t normally barge in, but she could have just ducked her head inside and seen the open hatch. Who wouldn’t be curious? A skeleton was obviously more than she’d anticipated. Rico had an arm around her shoulders, but Lance had her gaze.
“What … who… ?”
“Let’s go upstairs.” He couldn’t bear his great-great-grandfather being scrutinized like some attraction at a freak fair.
Star glanced back repeatedly until they climbed the stairs to the hatch where Baxter met them in an excited frenzy. Some watchdog. He hadn’t barked until Star went down and was only complaining about being left out. But Lance calmed him with his hands. He couldn’t expect the dog to consider Star an intruder, and once she’d seen the open hatch, the damage was done.
Rico seated her on the sofa while Chaz closed the hatch.
Lance crouched in front of her. “You okay?”
“What wretched being…? What is that place?”
Lance rubbed her hands. “Just a cellar.”
“That skeleton was real.” She shuddered.
He nodded. Rico sat down beside her, but neither he nor Chaz tried to explain. It wasn’t their problem.
Lance let go of Star’s hands and rested his forearms on his knees. “Listen, Star. I don’t want Rese to know about this. She has enough to deal with right now.”
Star searched his face. “She’ll want to know. You can’t just leave it there.”
Lance held her firmly in his gaze. “She will know. Just not now. Not until I figure it out.”
She looked at Rico. “What’s happening?”
He said, “Lance has it under control.”
Right. He tried to look as confident as Rico made him sound.
“Is this about the painting?”
He frowned. What could her picture…?
But she turned and stared at the portrait instead. “Who is he?”
Lance felt a slow sinking in his belly. “Vittorio Shepard.”
She turned back and fixed him with her gaze. “Who is he to you?”
Her eye was too good. He should have known. Star with all her sighs and Shakespeare had nailed him. He sat back on his heels. “My greatgrandfather.”
“That’s him in the cellar?”
Lance shook his head. “One more generation back. Quillan Shepard.”
“Why won’t you tell Rese?”
“I’m going to tell her everything. I just have to do what I came for first.”
Star gripped her hair. “So you don’t really love her?”
That must be how it seemed, that he would fake a love affair to get what he wanted. “I love her. That’s why I have to do this right.”
Star shook her head. “She will not be happy.”
An understatement for sure. “I’ll make it right.” For everyone. God only knew how.
Star seemed to accept that, or maybe he’d done enough for her that she owed him.
“Just don’t say anything, Star. Give me a few days to learn what I can.” Even if it meant going to Sybil? With things unraveling so badly it might come to that. He couldn’t hope to hold Rese off forever. But she’d been shaky earlier, and he didn’t imagine seeing her mom would improve things. The last thing she needed now was to doubt him.
Lance stood up and met Chaz’s eye. Unspoken was his misgiving. He would have done it all up front. He would have gone to the door and explained everything to Rese from the start. Maybe it should have been that way. But she’d been so hostile. What if she had said no and gave him no chance to help Nonna?
He’d done what he thought was right. But when had it ever worked that way?
Lance was there as she drove in, looking as though nothing mattered more than her and that, even though she had refused his company that morning, he was not deserting her. Rese parked the truck, wondering what she would say. If their roles were reversed, he would tell her everything. He kept nothing back, even the things that hurt. Everyone else in her life had hidden things, but Lance gave her truth. Could she do the same?
Looking into his face as she climbed out, she said, “Her hair is white. She’s only forty-six and her hair is white.” What a stupid way to begin, as though that was what mattered. Rese swallowed hard. “She didn’t know it was me.”
Lance closed the door behind her. “It’s been fifteen years.”
And she had changed. They both had. “Brad knew it all. I asked him.”
Lance frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s like some macabre joke.” If it didn’t hurt so much. Her mother’s words, “Poison gas. Breathe in, breathe in…” Pain tore through like the flame from an acetylene torch. And Dad and Brad thinking she’d turn out the same? Would she be sitting like that in twenty years, laughing at death and seeing the president with gas bombs in his teeth?
Lance took her in his arms. “You don’t have to handle it well.”
She snorted. “I’m Vernon Barrett’s daughter. I only do well.”
“Not here in my arms. Here you do whatever you want. You can holler and scream and call me names. You can even pinch and bite and bruise my sides.”
He meant it too. If she totally lost it, he’d be there taking the bruises without a word. But she didn’t want to hurt him. She was tired of hurting people. What had she ever done but mess things up for everyone in her life? Dad could have kept Mom home; Mom wouldn’t have needed to be rid of her. Brad could have had his crew, and the crew the boss they wanted. She had tried to be what everyone wanted, but no one had wanted her—until Lance.
The thought was both bleak and overwhelming, and with it something fractured inside. She took hold of his face and kissed him, nothing held back, no barriers. She sensed his surprise and his response. For once in her life she was wanted. It might not be much, but whatever she had she would give him. He kissed her back until the shock of her mother’s laughter, the dread of her possible future, the ache of loneliness and grief vanished in the need of him.
But he drew back. “Rese…”
“Don’t stop. We can—”
“Don’t.” He pressed her shoulders hard into the truck, a fierce expression contorting his face. A blood vessel pulsed in his neck, and he seemed to fight for words, something Lance Michelli rarely struggled with. And then it hit her—he didn’t want her either. Before she could react, he pulled her abruptly away from the truck and dug for his keys.
She knew what he intended. “No, Lance.” If he didn’t want her, he should say so, not take off on the bike using miles and motion to say it for him. “Forget it.” She tugged free, but he scooped her up and sat her down hard on the bike. She tried to get off, but the engine roared to life. She clutched onto him, hollering, “No!” until they hit the open road and accelerated so fast the wind caught her hair and trapped her breath in her throat. No helmet. No jacket. Only Lance and the road and the rage.
It was a long time before he sensed the anger leaving her. The Petaluma highway wound and dipped and flew beneath his tires, a two-lane road forcing him to concentrate, to take the focus outside himself. What did she think she was doing?
He had expected to comfort her, to drag the words out if he had to. He had even expected anger, an explosion of hurt. He had not expected ardor, but he should have. He was the one who first comforted her with a kiss. She couldn’t help it if this hurt required a passion he could barely restrain.
Lord! He would keep driving until he hit the coast, lose himself in Muir Woods and the rocky cliffs, take a sailboat into open water, into the heart of the Pacific Ocean and dissolve into the rhythm of the waves. But Rese was with him, and as far as he went, the desire for her would come too.
After Tony’s death, he vowed chastity, poverty, hum
ility, whatever it took to be what Tony would have been. He’d left the band and that lifestyle, thrown himself into serving wherever he found need, and he’d found plenty of it. Nonna’s need had brought him to Sonoma. Now there was Rese.
Don’t think about it. How could he think of anything else? It wasn’t like Sybil plotting to use him. Rese was artless, responding to what he’d started that night in her kitchen, trying to take away a bad experience. Now she thought he would do it again, only she didn’t know what he knew, that once they went there, there was no going back.
It hurt to think of it. It hurt not to. He wanted her so bad, but not like that. Yes, like that. Any way at all, and how was he going to stop it? Too much access; too much chemistry. Didn’t she realize the restraint he exercised every time he kissed her?
He wasn’t steel; he was flesh and blood, and right now his blood was running hot. Lord, help me. There were two ways around this that he could see, and she would have to choose. He ran onto the shoulder of the road, skidded to a stop, and got off.
Rese swung her leg over and erupted from the bike like a wildcat ready to spring. Well, he had some adrenaline of his own. He’d misgauged the dulling of her anger.
“Do you want to marry me?” he shouted.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Her eyes shot fire. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Answer the question.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Her hands shook as she clenched them into fists.
He gripped his hips. “A fine submissive wife you’ll make.”
She grabbed a chunk of pavement and threw it at him.
He ducked. “Yes or no.”
She threw another chunk. “No.”
“Then new rules.”
Her arms stiffened at her sides. “What rules?”
“No kissing.”
She huffed her breath. “Right.”
“I can stand it if you can.”
She glared. “Fine. No hands.”
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