He’d made a special note to cook it over medium-low heat, and she recalled the burnt oatmeal she’d served him. She was not going to burn these crepes after all that work. She had almost scorched the sauce but caught it just in time.
Not too much, he’d written, just a little batter went a long way. She poured, then swirled, let it set a moment, then slipped the spatula underneath and flipped. It was a pretty golden color, and as light and flimsy as his had been. Her heart raced. Taking it from the heat, she slid the crepe onto a plate, filled and rolled it, and spooned the sauce over. Then she handed Star a fork, and they started on opposite ends.
The sauce did have a bit of a burnt taste, but Star stared into her face. “You did it.”
Rese nodded, hardly daring to believe it. “One, at least.” It would be different with a room full of paying guests, but they had staggered their arrivals this morning within the hour allotted for breakfast. That would help. She got up to make another, and another until all the batter and filling was used. Star went to find Chaz and Rico, and they made a late lunch of crepes and lots and lots of fruit garnishes.
She managed to sleep five hours that night, then prepared to face her doom. Could she repeat it under pressure? It was just a meal. “A ritual found in every culture on earth. The breaking of bread signifying connection, acceptance, relationship.” She shook her head. Not anymore.
The effort wasn’t flawless, especially in the timing, but the guests were pleased and gracious. Chaz and Rico carried out the plates that Rese filled and Star decorated. It irked that it took four of them to replace Lance, but they were doing it.
That day another blank envelope was in the mailbox. She tore it open and took out the card. Frittata di carciofi—artichoke omelets. These are easy, but you have to watch them, Rese, so they don’t dry out. You know what theylook like. You can do it. She slammed the card onto the counter. She didn’t want his encouragement.
But she did remember how they looked and tasted. Fewer ingredients than the crepes, and clear directions. They had omelets for lunch, a little burnt at the edges and dry as Lance had warned, but she served them nicely golden the next morning. Star added yogurt to her garnishes.
Another morning down. No complaints. Each time she completed a meal, Rese felt as though she were putting pieces back inside herself. She just wished it didn’t seem so futile.
Lance was not surprised the small church was filled for Evvy’s funeral, nor that the tone of the service was so joyous. The testimonies reflected a life filled with wisdom and service, seasoned with humor and spark. Standing at the back, he listened to the stories of Evvy’s life from those who knew her best and longest. His few interactions could hardly be compared, but he had still developed a tenderness.
What did surprise him was seeing Rese in the middle of the church. Even surrounded by people, she looked alone, and he ached to be at her side. That wasn’t possible, he knew. But it had to be positive that she could come and honor Evvy’s passing. In spite of the grief that filled the church, it was a celebration of a life well lived, of someone who’d gotten it right.
Once he’d seen Rese, he had kept to the back so his presence wouldn’t distract or irritate her, or worse, make her leave. Even under sad circumstances, this body of believers demonstrated the life-changing power of God’s love, and he desperately wanted Rese to experience that, especially after he’d fallen so short. He prayed she wouldn’t equate his failing with God’s.
When the service ended, he caught a glimpse of her speaking to a woman in a brown ponytail, and that was his cue to slip out. But once outside the doors, it hit him how much he’d lost. Evvy was in heaven, but he and Rese still had to struggle on. He’d made her life worse, and at the moment trying to fix it seemed a monumental task.
He wanted to go to her, talk to her, lay it all out. Make his case, make her see the intentions behind the poor judgment. But even that was selfish. He’d be defending himself by trying to make her understand. He knew what he had to do; he just didn’t want to do it. Lord, I don’t want to do it. And he had no confidence he’d be able to. Why should this time be any different?
He could not begin to think what stories would be told after his death, but he imagined Rese there enumerating his sins. They might be forgiven, but their effects were everlasting. He got on the bike and drove off just as people were emerging from the church. There’d be a banquet in Evvy’s honor—besides the one in heaven.
Maybe Rese would go, make some friends, people to help her walk in faith—and he found a new area to relinquish. Did each loss have to hurt so much? He needed the road. He wanted to ride long and far before more wrongs came to light. That was the problem with possibilities. But it was God’s way: total freedom, no decision forced upon an unwilling servant. No walls and traps set out to entangle the disobedient, only the sad consequences of their own wrong choices.
Rese left the funeral in Michelle’s cramped car. The woman had insisted she join them for the “feast” and claimed driving her to the house was easier than giving directions. Rese had intended to slip into the funeral and out, but they had engulfed her like white blood cells on a germ.
The only one dressed in black—a skirt and top she had bought for the occasion—Rese squeezed into the house, teaming with exuberant people. It was more like a birth than a death, everyone talking about their “sister’s” joy. Or maybe it was a wedding because there was a lot about brides and grooms too.
Rese had been sorry she missed seeing Evvy that one last time, but everyone else was looking forward to the next time they met. Michelle handed her a plate. “Just start at one end and eat your way to the other.”
The table was spread with meats and cheeses and rolls and salads and casseroles and desserts. Nothing fancy like Lance’s fare, but hearty homey food.
“Evvy was so happy to have you next door.”
Michelle’s comment startled her. Evvy had talked about her? Positively?
“It was hard for her when Ralph went away. Seeing the house empty just made her think how much she missed him.” Michelle added olives to Rese’s plate. “You have to try these. They’re stuffed with jalapenos. Anyway, she just loved watching you work. I think that’s what got her over that first bout of pneumonia. She wanted to meet the determined woman and her knavish companion. Evvy’s words, not mine.”
Michelle scooped up a wad of potato salad, oblivious to the blade she’d just sunk. “Evvy was always looking out, not stuck inside like some old people. To her everyone was an opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Rese’s plate could hold no more, but Michelle tucked a strawberry under the lettuce.
“To share the love of Jesus.” Michelle led her to the patio where all the chairs were taken, but there was standing room against the lattice. The house wasn’t that small, but it stored the food pantry, coat drive, and donations for the crisis pregnancy center in every room and the patio. Like her car, Michelle had said, it was packed ready to meet any need.
“Evvy knew what mattered most. To put her trust in the Lord.”
“There is but one thing that stands. When all else fails, He will never fail you.” Rese swallowed the tightening in her throat and fought back tears. She was so tired of holding it together. The anger inside had become a lead weight. Everyone had failed her. Mom, Dad, Lance … and now she was failing herself.
“Of course, you have to admit your need.” If she did that, she would crumble altogether. She’d been proving herself since she was nine. No one would want to kill her if she was good enough, strong enough, more capable, more talented than any other person.
But she wasn’t. Evvy had seen it. Like Lance, she’d seen through what Rese pretended to be, right through to the truth. Tears stung, and in small, broken sentences, she admitted her need.
Lance looked up at the villa as he tucked the note into the mailbox. It didn’t surprise him that he never saw Rese when he came. She probably heard the bike and stayed out of sight.
Baxt
er came bounding as usual, but after getting his due, he didn’t beg to come along. He knew where he wanted to be. At least one of them had gotten it right. Lance got back on the bike, imagining Rese’s hands on his waist as he drove to his hotel room. It could have been so different. So right. He had told her there was no place for should-haves, but he ate, drank, and slept with everything he should have done. And not done.
He got back to his room and picked up Sybil’s letter, still unopened. If it was the final piece in his search, he had wanted to do everything he could for Rese before he completed his task. But Nonna was waiting, and maybe it was time.
Given what he’d deduced from the dossiers, the letter might contain answers he didn’t like. Misdeeds and mistakes. But who was he to judge? He’d have been the first to walk away when Jesus said, “Let him among you who is without sin cast the first stone.”
But he couldn’t avoid it forever, and besides, he felt an affinity with Vito, someone else who didn’t get it right. He turned the envelope over, slit the seal with his thumb, then unfolded the letter. The greeting was blacked out, but he guessed it was addressed to Arthur Tremaine Jackson. And if this had to do with Vittorio, maybe that was what Sybil meant by a connection, her family and his.
He moved his gaze to the body of the letter and read:
Since you are reading this you must have taken me seriously enoughto pick it up from the depot. You won’t regret it. My information is accurate and valuable. How valuable, I leave to you.
First point, Marco Michelli is a fed.
Nonno was a fed? Lance stared at the letter, picturing his grandfather in his uniform. NYPD. He had told every story imaginable, but never that he’d been a federal agent.
He read on:
Second point, you got a rat. Someone who shall remain unnamed unless we reach an agreement. Since this situation could jeopardize your future, you should consider my services very valuable. To have the problem eliminated, meet me at the depot tomorrow at noon.
No signature. But the last sentence was telling. A hit man? Hired by Arthur Jackson to murder Marco? Had he killed Vittorio by mistake? Or… Lance sat down on the bed. You got a rat. Was Vito the inside man? Working with Marco?
Bad things coming back to haunt. Lance squeezed the bridge between his eyes. The letter had to be addressed to Arthur Jackson. Why else would Sybil have it? “The paper doesn’t have this, the police don’t have it. Only I do.” Some family archives maybe. Did Sybil think to atone for the past by helping him now? He swallowed. Maybe their meeting was preordained, but there was no karma about it. Once again he felt the Lord’s hand.
Maybe he wasn’t useless after all. He picked up the phone. When Lucy got Nonna on the line, he said, “Talk to me, Nonna. What was Arthur Jackson into?”
Her silence confirmed his guess.
“I found a briefcase of dossiers.” He listed some of the men in the envelopes. “Looks like a racket, and—”
“N-no.”
He stopped. “No what?”
“No m-m-more.”
Lance picked up the letter. “What do you mean? I’m getting close.”
“Bu-ry N-nonno.”
“I’m taking care of that. But—”
“L-l-l…”
He pressed his fingers to his temple as she fought for words. “Just let me tell you what I’ve found.”
“L-l-leave it.”
Lance took the phone from his ear as though he hadn’t heard right, then put it back. “Nonna…”
“No m-more.” Her voice caught on a sob.
The last thing he’d wanted was to upset her. “Nonna, listen. Don’t worry, all right?”
“Nonno Quil-lan.”
“Yeah, I know.” He was working on that. But why didn’t she want him to get the rest? “You okay?”
“O-o-kay.”
Lance turned off the phone and stared at the buttons. What now? Leave it? She had spoken her mind … adamantly. Anything else would be disobedience. Shaking his head, he tossed the letter on the table and reached for his guitar.
Tears streamed her cheeks. Shame. Anger. Confusion. Papa? Why was he going out so late? Why had he said to hide if trouble came? What trouble had he brought on them? Dossiers. Names. People she wanted to forget. No more! Antonia rocked, her arm clutched up against her. Why, Papa? Why?
The next card she got was for almond focaccia. Lance’s note suggested she get Rico’s help since he had watched the grandmother who taught him. It was a lot more complicated using yeast, and even with Rico’s help, she made three batches before serving the one that turned out. But each time her confidence grew, and Rese realized she didn’t hate to cook; she’d only hated the grim ritual it had once been.
She got a call from someone regarding the advertised position, but now she was reluctant to give it up. She couldn’t expect Chaz and Rico to stay for long, and Star’s plans were as unfathomed as always. Even so, she told the person the position was temporarily filled. She wasn’t ready to add a stranger, even if the others left today.
Chaz and Rico set up and played on Saturday night, mostly instrumentals with Chaz on the flute and sax, and Rico on the drums. They were limited without Lance’s lead guitar and vocal, but Star sang a few songs with them between serving tables. Rese made the lattés, and she had purchased biscotti.
Since she had gone around town and yanked down all the flyers, they had only their own guests and a few from the previous week. Without Evvy, the old gang had no reason to congregate there. Without Lance, the energy was diminished. Without Chaz and Rico, there would be no music at all.
But she could run the inn without it, at least through the summer and fall. The scarcity of lodging for those seasons assured that much. The offseason would be more of a challenge, but it pleased her that she could think ahead and see herself doing it.
In the week that followed, they added a baked sausage crepe and bowlshaped popovers to their choices. Each recipe was hand delivered, which meant Lance was still in town, but he’d made no effort to see her, and she was glad. The cleaner the break, the quicker the fix—which didn’t exactly excuse her accepting the recipes. She had made an exception there, based on necessity.
But it was no recipe in the envelope Rese opened now, just a note that caused a rush of suspicion. Rese, I’ve made arrangements for the burial of my great-great-grandfather. May I have permission tomorrow to see it done? You can give Chaz or Rico your answer, and they’ll reach me. Lance.
She stared at the note. She had forced the carriage house and the cellar and the skeleton out of her mind. She’d been too busy to deal with it, too scared from her last experience, and unwilling to open herself to the hurt of just crossing the threshold. But now, it seemed she had to.
She walked up to the attic where Star and Rico and Chaz hung out. Star had acquired a multitude of colorful beanbags and a decent, quiet fan that made the place more comfortable. Rese handed the note to Rico. “Lance wants to bury the skeleton.” She swallowed. “Will you let him know that’s fine?”
More than fine. With the corpse out of there, she could close off the cellar and—What about all that wine? Maybe Lance had plans for it too. She just wanted it over. Once he’d gotten what he came for, he’d go home to New York, and the Wayfaring Inn would be as she had first imagined.
Well, she’d never imagined cooking the breakfasts herself, and she’d still need a maid when the others left. There were visits to her mother and the Bible study invitation from Evvy’s friend Michelle. Things looked a little different, but essentially she was back on track—unless Lance planned to sue her for the property.
She should talk to her lawyer, especially since she’d made Lance a partner in the business. Written it up and everything. A nice fat ace she’d given him. And it was anyone’s bet which deed would stand up in court.
But if he wanted to take it from her, why send the recipes? Why give her success in those first days when it was all coming apart? She left the attic, starkly aware of her separ
ation from the rest of them. When the guys left, she was certain Star would go too. And she’d be alone. But she knew now who stayed by her, and she could be grateful for that. Not grateful enough to be there when Lance came tomorrow, though.
Lance picked up the phone on the first ring. Even though he’d given her the out if she didn’t want to talk to him, he was disappointed to hear Rico’s voice. “She says it’s fine, man. Put the old guy to rest.”
He released a slow breath. “Thanks, Rico.”
The police and coroner would have gone over anyway, but he had hoped to be present to give his ancestor the dignity and honor he deserved. Identification should be possible with the photograph in Nonna’s box that showed the hair and a DNA match to Lance that should be close enough to allow interment. The corpse was skeletonized to such a degree he doubted they’d identify a cause of death, but he suspected Nonna knew already.
And it would stay with her, if she had her way. Why was she being so stubborn? He hadn’t called again. He couldn’t risk upsetting her, not when any strain could bring on another stroke. But, obedience not being his long suit, he had researched the men in the dossiers through the Internet and the local history section of the library—and had come up with next to nothing. Some of them were connected to San Francisco mobsters, but no mention of Arthur Jackson’s involvement. Whatever they’d been up to in Sonoma must have stayed quiet, with the murder of Vittorio Shepard not even recorded in the cold-cases file.
He couldn’t change that. Nonna only wanted Quillan buried, so his mission was drawing to a close. He felt hollowed out, as though his bones had been rinsed and hung to dry. But he was no longer consumed with guilt. Regret, yes, and hurt. But even though he’d started with dishonesty and selfish pride, he’d done his best to give Rese what she needed to be free of him.
He knew from the guys that she was making it. He wished he was there to see her all steamy-faced in the kitchen. But soon he’d pick up Baxter and hit the road. He’d head home for a while, make sure Nonna was satisfied, then see where the next road led.
Secrets Page 47