His brows jerked up. “By that you’d mean neck rubs, hugs, walks handin-hand?” Because he hadn’t touched her in any way he shouldn’t, and not for lack of desire.
She drew herself up. “You’re Mr. Rules.”
He looked at her angry mouth and wished he hadn’t started it. But next time he wouldn’t be able to stop. “Fine. Get on the bike.”
She stood there, arms stiff, glaring as though she could melt him into a pile of lead.
“Yo, Nails. I said get on the bike.”
She flounced back on, planting her hands with such force on his shoulders he would have laughed, but she’d take his head off. His energy was dissipating as what he’d done sank in. “Do you want to marry me?” He was seriously thankful she hadn’t said yes, even if there was a twinge of regret. Okay, more than a twinge. It had been a crazy, impulsive urge, but the only way he could think to handle the situation. With Rese it was all or nothing. But she’d been awfully quick to choose nothing.
They stormed off the bike in opposite directions, Rese to the shed, where she would no doubt imagine a piece of wood his head, and Lance into the house, where Rico stood at the foot of the stairs with Star. Neither spoke as he stormed past, but the peripheral glimpse he got suggested symbiosis. Unlike him and Rese. Opposites might attract, but theirs was an energy equaling nuclear reaction.
Chaz was ensconced in the kitchen with a Bible expository the size of a suitcase. His legs were crossed at the ankles and the spicy fragrance of his Good Earth tea rose from the cup. The bag was wadded up on the saucer squeezed by the string, and that was just about how Lance felt. He tossed his keys on the table and barked, “Make yourself at home.”
Chaz looked up from the book. “Did you tell her?”
He opened the pantry and began to assemble ingredients for minestrone. “No.”
“Then why do you look like a palm tree in a hurricane, mon?”
“I asked her to marry me.”
Chaz studied him with a commendable aplomb. Rico would have greeted that announcement with a feigned coronary. Chaz said, “Why?”
Lance expelled his breath. “I don’t know. It made sense at the time.”
“Not much foundation for a lifetime decision.”
“Yeah, well, she said no anyway.”
Chaz nodded. “Therefore the hurricane.”
“Listen.” Lance planted his hands on his hips. “I don’t know what Nonna wants, and I don’t know what Rese wants, but I’m totally sure they both want something.”
“You might try honesty.”
“You think I don’t want to?” Lance spread his hands. “If I tell her now, she’s going to doubt everything else I’ve said and done since I got here.”
Chaz nodded. “A logical assumption, mon.”
“Fine. But the truth is I do love her, and I do care how this turns out.” He swallowed. “I made a promise to Nonna. She’s done so much for me my whole life. Now she’s weak and incapacitated. Do you expect me to just drop it?”
“It’s not what I expect. What does the Lord say?”
“The Lord’s been a little ambiguous.”
“His word is not ambiguous. He who speaks the truth from his heart shall never be shaken.”
Lance closed his eyes. “Chaz, I know. Just as soon as I’ve done what Nonna needs, I’ll tell Rese everything.”
“He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness, mon, and will expose the motives of men’s hearts.”
“I’m counting on that.” Lance planted his hands on the table. “Because my motives are pure.”
“Your methods get you in trouble.”
Lance met Chaz’s eyes, unable to produce a valid argument. He pushed back up and took out a cutting board and knife. Star and Rico came in, looking like Antony and Cleopatra. Did they even talk, or were their eyes just linked in some etheric communication?
Star ran her fingers along the counter to the vegetables he’d laid in readiness. She took a moment to arrange them in a still-life position, tipping her head and adjusting them until they pleased her eye, then scattered them again. “ ‘Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.’ ”
Lance smiled in spite of himself. “Good thing. Your scene will soon be minestrone.”
“Yet art still. The hand of a master renders nothing less.”
Hard to tell, sometimes, whether it was Shakespeare or her own poetic words. He handed her a knife. “Would you get me a branch of rosemary?”
She took the knife and went out to the herb bed. He was fairly certain she would get the right one, since they had discussed the different plants at length. He turned. “Earth to Rico.”
“No way, man. I like it out here.”
What was it with this place? Some aura of benevolence that melted sense and nurtured love’s sweet allure? “Star’s got issues. You might have noticed by the choke marks on her throat.”
“No problem. I put a contract on him.”
“That’s not funny.” Lance grabbed an onion and cut the top, peeling back the crisp layers. “I already have people accusing me of piracy and mob connections.”
“I’ll take him out myself.” Rico’s hands tightened.
Lance understood the sentiment. But there would always be more abusers, and women like Star would find them.
Chaz closed his book. “ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ ”
Lance glanced over his shoulder. “It’s just a little long in coming sometimes.”
Rico shook his head. “How could anyone hurt her? She’s…” His breath seeped out in a sigh.
Rendered speechless? Lance turned back to his onion. He pointed the knife at Rico. “Just remember our agreement. Hands off.” Rico could stay, but he was not sleeping with Star. If he could resist, Rico could too. They may as well both suffer.
Only Rico didn’t seem to be suffering. “I’m a new man. Transformed by courtly love. No brush of the fingers, no feminine gaze has had such amorous effect.”
Lance shared a glance with Chaz.
Rico shrugged. “Sex would spoil it.”
Star came back with the spiky branch of rosemary and laid it with care on the counter. Her fingers were elfin in shape and size, the nails cut close to the pink. “Rosemary for remembrance.” She looked up into his eyes, held it, then turned to Rico. “The bed sheets in the dryer need folding.”
Rico motioned her ahead of him, and they went out together to make the plain domestic chore a courting ritual. Lance could just imagine them bringing the edges together and joining them like steps in a dance. He could court Rese like that … if he wanted. He didn’t have to touch her. He had more self-control than Rico by far.
Some guests had returned, and he heard them in the parlor where he had set out the afternoon appetizer before waiting outside for Rese. He would ordinarily go converse with them, but he was in no mood for it now. Thankfully the swinging doors Rese had installed at both entrances to the kitchen kept her suite and his workspace private. It had created a sense of unity that now seemed implausible.
The first time he’d ever managed the word marry, and she’d turned him down flat. Of course, he’d shouted it, and they hadn’t built much foundation, as Chaz kindly pointed out. Crisis did not a perfect union build, and their whole relationship had been one continuous calamity.
He couldn’t even say long calamity, but its brief duration had not limited the intensity. Time had never been a factor for his heart. Not at the front end anyway. It was more believable that he’d propose after less than a month than that he’d be around a year later to do the same.
Out on the road, the desire to keep going had been potent, but for the first time he’d imagined someone planted permanently on the bike with him. Unfortunately Rese hadn’t felt the same.
CHAPTER THIRTY - SEVEN
“I… wan-t…”
“Good! Better. Now together. I want.”
“I… wa-nt.”
“Water. I want water.”
“I… want …”
A sly sparkle. “Wi… ine.”
Evvy took the box from her shelf. She hadn’t looked through it for a long time, but the ache of Ralph’s passing made her nostalgic. She eased herself down into the chair and rested the box on her lap. He’d been like the littlest angel in the children’s story, presenting her with the things that meant the most to him, his worldly treasure. This box was the most precious thing she owned.
Tears dampened her eyes as she reached in for the ring box and snapped it open. A gold band with a vine and grapes coiled into its surface. “For the day you say yes.”
But she hadn’t. Marriage wasn’t in the plan for her life. It would have spoiled what they had, made her complacent. At least that’s what she’d told herself. Too independent to give up her autonomy, too set in her ways. Too afraid to let go and love again.
She set the ring aside and reached for the next thing. A letter. She’d read it before, but she took it out and read it again.
Dear Evvy,
This deed has been held for two generations in trust for Antonia DiGratia Shepard. My father received it from the hand of Quillan Shepard to safeguard for his granddaughter Antonia in the event of his death. She is the rightful owner of the DiGratia vineyard and the heir to all the estate. I have been a steward only, and claim no ownership for myself. Forthis reason I could not sell this house, even when it became too much for me.
Your house also lies on the property deeded herein. I don’t know how it came to be built and the property divided, the fields developed into the neighborhood where we live. But I have kept the portion entrusted to me for Antonia. It is a sacred family trust for a debt owed.
Yet my mind is failing, though you are too kind to point it out. Therefore I am placing the deed into your care against the day my decisions are no longer my own. I would leave it to my son, but he sees only the value of this property and I fear he would wrongfully sell it. Keep it for the day Antonia returns, or entrust it to someone who will do the same.
Your loving friend,
Ralph Martino
To Evvy’s knowledge, Antonia had never returned. She must be too old, or dead herself. At least Ralph had faded enough by the end that he didn’t know what happened to the house, that it was sold as he’d feared, and that now the young people next door were giving it life. Maybe she should give them the deed.
She laid the letter down and reached for the book. Antonia’s diary. She had forgotten it was in there, and who was it who’d asked about it? She was growing as forgetful as Ralph. No matter; it would come to her. She laid the book back in the box and sighed.
She had coughed all night, the burning in her chest suggesting a fresh grip of pneumonia. She’d kept it to herself this time. God could work a miracle if He meant to keep her ticking. Otherwise, she’d be joining the party.
The last things in the box were the wooden birds Ralph had carved. He knew how she liked to watch the little creatures hop and bob about her feeder. She ran her finger over the wood. That girl Rese had a gift for it herself. She might enjoy the birds. Evvy set them on the table for the next time she saw her. Then she closed her eyes and dozed. Soon, my Lord. Soon.
Abrasion could be thoroughly satisfying. The repetitive motion of stroking the sandpaper over the wood until it was softer than her own fingers relieved the tension that had bound her up as tightly as a noose. Seeing Mom had triggered all sorts of memories that crept up like shadows behind the doors and threatened to strangle her. And Lance certainly hadn’t helped.
Rese set down the sandpaper and checked the back of the drawer where the tongues fit the grooves and the glue had sealed. Inserted, it slid effortlessly along the glides. She had gotten the wardrobe plans from the Internet, then modified the crest to accommodate the carved scallop to match the bed. She had already given the wardrobe three coats of stain and a hand-rubbed finish. This final sanding was with the finest-grained paper to smooth imperfections only she would notice.
Lance would have considered it done, and maybe she was obsessing. She had made cabinets and banisters and built-in desks, but they’d always been part of the whole. This freestanding piece was like an orphan wondering where it should go, and she was reluctant to be done with it. Rese frowned, refusing to see herself standing there. She was not an orphan.
Her mother might not know her from the president, but she was still her mother, and Rese felt the caretaker role settling over her as though it had never ceased. Put a little girl with a needy, unpredictable mother and a myopic dad and what do you get? An emotionally abandoned supercontroller.
So why had she lost control with Lance? Blood rushed up her neck as she tore open the hinge packaging. Didn’t everyone have the right to go a little crazy sometimes? Especially when people thought it already? She’d played Alanna… only she hadn’t been acting.
And Lance… Lance was utterly unpredictable, a knot in the wood, a short in the wire. When she thought she knew what he wanted, he changed it. She didn’t like surprises, and he was born erratic. “Do you want to marry me?” She could almost think he’d mocked her. A prank. Or else he’d been so confident she would say no…
New rules? She hadn’t made the old. She had said business. He was the one changing things, making her want, making her think he did too. She wished she’d hit him with the pavement. New rules? Fine with her.
Star pushed open the door. “Dinner is served.” That meant the guests had been served and the rest of them could gather in the kitchen for whatever marvelous thing Lance had prepared, before he and the guys played music, even though it was not Saturday and had not been advertised. So far the guests had been all too pleased with the impromptu sessions. Of course, they’d been plied all day at the wineries and came back inclined to extol everything.
“I’m not hungry.”
Star twirled a spiral of hair. “He said if you said that, he’d come out here himself.”
So if she didn’t go in, he’d think she wanted him to come out. She had a padlock and was tempted to use it. But her stomach growled, and Star bit her lip and giggled. She was all lightness and air today. Wasn’t that nice.
Rese threw down the hinges. “Fine. If he doesn’t want doors on his closet, his skeletons can just fall out.”
Star gave her a piercing look.
“It’s just an expression, Star.” She pressed past her to eat before Lance came after her.
“Aren’t you playing?” Those were the first words out of her mouth. It had been like old times, serving her a meal and watching her clam up. Rico, Chaz, and Star had conversed between serving and clearing, but until she filled the sink with steamy suds, Rese had said nothing.
Lance shook his head. “Not tonight.” They could, of course, for themselves or whatever guests were interested, even if the posters in town only advertised Saturdays. “Star’s showing the guys the Sonoma night life.”
“What Sonoma night life?”
“Whatever there is.”
Rese slid the plates into the water, but he didn’t leave. Her jaw tensed.“Don’t you have something to do?”
He took down the dish towel.
She glared. “I can do that.”
“I have never questioned your abilities.” He had half expected to drag her out of the shed and been a little disappointed when she came in with Star. But this exchange was showing him all he needed to see. They’d taken about twenty steps back; she was stiff and uncomfortable again, and the new rules kept him from changing that.
It had been the right decision, hadn’t it? His only other option would have been to sweep her into the carriage house and make history. And the carriage house had enough history already. “Rese, about before…”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Remind me.” She shoved a plate at him.
“You mean you forgot?” He toweled the plate.
“I’m trying to.”
He smiled. “Any luck?”
She sloshed the water. “I’m good at putting things out of m
y mind. Runs in the family.”
There she was. He’d thought for a minute he’d lost her altogether.
“Any chance you can put it out of mine?”
“Lance, your mind has a mind of its own.”
“Say that ten times fast.”
She almost smiled. This was reminding him too sharply just why he’d asked her to marry him. Unpremeditated, of course. Just that Achilles’ heart leaving his head behind. His hand reached out, but she shoved a plate into it. Man, she was good at rules.
He watched her hand move over the dishes, the line of suds caught halfway up her arm, the plunk and splash of the dishes moving in and out of the water. Rico was right. The brain could go just about anywhere with anything.
He dried the last fork and handed her the towel, sorry to see the suds go and the sheen disappear from her skin. She had beautiful forearms, strong and developed. How many more things would he notice now that he was yearning from afar?
She hung up the towel. “Thanks.”
She started to leave, but he grabbed the container of minestrone he’d filled earlier. “I’m going to check on Evvy. Want to come?”
For a moment their gazes held, but she said, “I’ll go over tomorrow.”
Right. No walking hand in hand.
She turned away. “I’ll be in the shed if anyone needs anything.”
“No power tools tonight.”
“I’m past that.” He didn’t know if she meant cured or at a different stage on her project. Either way, he would bet she’d find something to do out there all night. By the stiffness of her step, she’d have a very productive eight hours.
He walked over alone and knocked on Evvy’s door. It was a very long time before she opened it, looking weary and frail, her eyes underscored with shiny blue shadows, her lips pale.
“Evvy, how are you?” He couldn’t hide the concern in his voice.
She waved a hand. “Been better; been worse.” Her voice sounded hoarse and flimsy.
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