Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  He could hear laughter in the background. Anxiety drained like sand from a sieve. “Not Rome, Genoa.” Chaz hadn’t been there when he’d flown back home, gathered his bike and his dog, and headed for Sonoma. Lance had been purposely vague with those who were there, and they’d probably put Chaz up to this call. He didn’t like keeping things from them, but Nonna’s wish was clear. This was for him and no one else.

  “What are you doing on the wrong side of the country?”

  “I’m working.” Lance reached the attic and surveyed the challenge before him.

  “There’s no work in all the Islands of New York?” It comforted Chaz to think of the burroughs as islands.

  Lance smiled. “Not like this.” Mostly without pay and for undisclosed reasons.

  “You’re crazy, mon. You should come home.”

  “You sound like Momma. She standing behind you?”

  Chaz laughed his slow, rolling laugh. “Giving me the evil eye. You know—the one that means no food until I find out what you are up to.” There was a commotion, and he heard Momma in the background, then Chaz laughing again.

  Lance had a pang of homesickness. He’d been pretty scattered the last few years, and it would have been nice to stay put for a while. But he was doing something important, more important than Momma or anyone else knew. “How’s Nonna?”

  “Not good.”

  His heart lurched.

  “She tried to slap a nurse.”

  He tipped his head back with a grin. Desperation and fury, no doubt. But if she was strong enough to have a temper … Thank you, Lord. “Keep an eye on her for me, Chaz.”

  “Two eyes. I see better that way, mon.”

  Lance laughed. “Yeah. Me too.” He’d need both eyes and all his wits to handle this situation. But the call had reaffirmed his intentions. No irritations would weaken his resolve. Not with Nonna still so debilitated. Her words from the letter written to Conchessa years ago came back to mind. I cannot give you names or details but I feel it in my heart, a storm worse than nature. I fear we will lose everything.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Watching the young people next door made her feel strangely insubstantial, as though seeing the world she would leave, a play progressing without the players from the previous scene. It was an unusual thought. The pneumonia in her lungs had eroded her strength and left her bored and reflective—vaporish. Not her accustomed mode at all.

  But to have Ralph’s house occupied by strangers—young people making it something different, something new—gave her pause. Even if hours in bed hadn’t driven her nearly batty, her condition certainly provided an excuse to take an interest in the goings-on next door. A nosy old busybody? No, a sick old woman with a view. Evvy chuckled, coughed, then hacked.

  Oh, for a good deep breath without coughing, and a doctor who didn’t look at her as though she might wither up and sail off on the next breeze. X-rays, antibiotics, this and that top-notch treatment. Her adverse reactions to all the drugs so far brought it down to her own constitution and whether it cared to carry on.

  Just now the little drama next door gave her something to ponder, and that was good. Once she lost interest in life, she would take the chariot ride and welcome it. She might just nudge the driver over and take the reins herself. Here comes Evvy Potter, Lord, ready or not.

  She was not morose. Her friends called regularly, and the more mobile of them came to visit, but risk of contagion, since she couldn’t tolerate the antibiotics, had put a damper on her social life. No, she was glad for the distraction of the dark-haired woman working like a hired man with her tools in her belt and brogans on her feet. Evvy was itching to see what had been done inside, but … if it was too different, would it be painful?

  Stuff and nonsense. Change was a fact of life; to let it cause pain was a weakness she didn’t possess. A momentary, mellow pining after better days couldn’t be helped. Beyond that? No Pitiful Pearl, she. Each day had something, some small moment to gather in like a bubble on her wet palm.

  And the little vignette played out in the next door garden had given her that moment. She chuckled, stepping back from the window. It didn’t drain her to stand there as it had before. She was improving, despite dire warnings from the doctor when she refused another antibiotic that would inflate her like a blowfish or spread a rash over parts better left unmentioned. She almost felt well enough for some fresh air. But she’d promised to rest a few more days, and she could ponder the tension that had been almost palpable in the scene she’d just witnessed.

  She laughed softly, thinking of Ralph and his frequent exasperation, though he was too courtly to give full vent. It was bittersweet to recall. She hadn’t seen him in so long, being too ill to risk a visit. Soon, perhaps, God willing. She sighed. All things in their time.

  Just as Rese settled in to finish staining the trim, the chandelier arrived. This was not going to be a personally productive day. But she had enough experience to roll with it. She maneuvered the ladder beneath the socket, then went and called Lance down from the attic. She could install it, of course. But this was a chance to test his boast before she turned him loose on the kitchen fuse box and the wiring of the carriage house. She’d see whether he was just blowing electrical smoke.

  When he joined her, she handed him the tool that stripped and cut wires. Maybe it was unfair to keep doubting him, but in spite of the positive references, she couldn’t help it. Something niggled inside, and Rese knew better than to ignore it. When a situation seemed too good to be true, it usually was. Lance showing up with the skills he claimed was just not quite believable.

  He took the tool. “Did you shut the breaker off?”

  She sent him a scathing look.

  He climbed up and trimmed the wires, stripping the ends free of old plastic.

  So he knew what the tool was for. “Make sure you get off any corrosion.”

  “Uh-huh.” He stuck the tool in his back pocket. “Okay, come on up.”

  “Up?”

  “Bring the fixture.”

  Two of them on the ladder? She shifted the chandelier’s weight. “I’m not sure that’s safe.”

  He looked down. “My intentions are strictly electrical.” She glared. “I mean for the stability of the ladder.”

  “Well, neither one of us can hold and attach that monster alone.”

  Valid point. She climbed up with the heavy bronze chandelier until her feet filled the left half of the rung he occupied. Thankfully he was not a big man like her father. Their combined weight was probably not much more than Dad’s alone. But there were still two of them, and she was trapped between Lance and the ladder, holding the chandelier up as he connected the wires and twisted the wing nuts.

  She would have preferred to let him hold, but she hadn’t set it up that way. Rethink her strategy? No, she still wanted proof. Trapped like that, she smelled the attic in his shirt. How many times had she smelled like old musty rooms? Maybe she did right now. That, or sweat and wood stain. She’d take that scent over—

  “Screwdriver.” He said it like a surgeon, and she had never liked to play nurse.

  But she pulled the tool from her belt and handed it over. As he attached and tightened the anchoring bolts, she held the chandelier steady until he lowered his arms slowly with a hint of amusement. “Bulbs?”

  She looked down. “I’ll have to get them.”

  He held her elbow as she stepped down a rung. She pulled it away. Couldn’t he tell she’d been on ladders all her life? She just didn’t care to share them. It was tempting fate to use equipment as it wasn’t intended. She reached the floor and called up, “I can do the bulbs myself.”

  “Fine.” He came down and handed over the screwdriver. “I need to know about some items in the attic.”

  She slid the tool into its slot in her belt and said, “Show me.” Curious to see what he’d found and how much progress he’d made, she followed him up.

  He led her to the wall and pointed to a half dozen rolled w
oolen rugs. One was spread out across the others. “They’re in decent condition if you want to clean them up. They were wrapped in mothballs.”

  She could smell that, an odor she adored in spite of its toxicity. The floral colors would work for several of the rooms. “Great.”

  “Where would you like them?”

  “The second-floor landing.” She looked around. “What else have you found?”

  “Not much. A vase.” He handed it to her. “Most of the stuff is garbage. Makes you wonder why folks don’t throw it away in the first place.”

  “Maybe it was still good when they stashed it here. Or had sentimental value.” She looked at the vase, painted with wild flowers, tipped it up and studied the bottom. There was faint writing there, and she angled it to the light bulb. A signature. Probably the artist. “I wonder who Flavio was?”

  Lance snatched it. “Who?”

  “It says Flavio on the bottom. The artist, I guess. It looks hand painted.” Rese glanced around the attic again. “I’m surprised it’s survived up here. I would have thought everything of value had been looted.”

  Lance’s fingers tightened on the vase, a frown creasing his forehead.

  “What’s the matter?”

  His smile looked forced. “Nothing.”

  She searched his face, not nearly gullible enough to believe that. “You’re upset about something.”

  He handed the vase back. “I hate the thought of vandals and thieves. Things of value lost to greed and stupidity.”

  “I doubt there’s anything in here that’s seriously valuable.” She turned the vase in her hands. It looked and felt old, dimmed by a black film, though Lance must have wiped it off. There were no doubt years of dust inside.

  “Where was this?”

  “Tucked in between the eaves behind the newspapers. Probably full of spiders.”

  She shot him a glare, then turned the vase upside down and shook it.

  He laughed. “I already did that much. No spider with any decent web would dislodge so easily.”

  She felt the narrow channel of the neck, considered the wide bowl beneath and imagined too clearly exactly what he described. When he reached for the vase, she handed it over.

  “I’ll clean it out for you.”

  Rese took a few steps deeper into the attic, rested her hands on her hips. A case of canning jars and an old bike might bring something at the antique store. A chewed-up vinyl chair probably housed mice. Lance might be teasing about the spiders, but she was glad he’d tackled this job. “Anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  She turned at his tone, but he smiled blandly. She did not have time for his games. “Well, call me if you find anything.”

  “Would that include wildlife?”

  She frowned. “Anything living you may consider yours.”

  He’d consider more than that his. Lance turned over the vase and read the signature there for himself. How many Flavios could there be? Only one that he’d heard of when Conchessa told him Antonia’s lineage and what she’d learned through years of letters.

  Flavio came into the story much earlier than Lance had intended to look. Was there a date on the vase? He pulled a box of magazines underneath the light bulb, climbed on it, and held up the vase. ’89. If he was right, that was 1889—and Flavio had once courted his great-great-grandmother Carina.

  Curbing his excitement, Lance worked until it grew too dim in the attic to continue. If he were simply clearing it out, he would make much quicker progress, but he had to search carefully, or he might miss something important, as he’d missed the signature on that vase.

  He carried it downstairs with him to the kitchen, carefully soaked and washed the grime, then dried it as the heirloom it was. He’d have to make sure Rese kept it in a safe place. For now he set it in a corner of the kitchen where she’d be unlikely to notice.

  A twinge stirred inside. He wasn’t keeping it from her. He was just getting answers. He’d decide what to do with them when the time was right. He stroked the globe of the vase, then he went and found Rese working in the dining room.

  He squinted up at the flame-shaped bulbs in the chandelier, then noted her progress. She was creating an ambient space, perfectly suited to his culinary ideas. “Are we serving dinner to the guests?”

  She turned from the trim she stained with smooth even strokes, then followed his gaze back over the room. “I haven’t decided.”

  He didn’t miss her switch from plural to singular. But then he was only the lackey. Whatever sense of ownership he’d gained in both the kitchen and the attic were in his own mind. “I’m leaving now. It’s too dark in the attic.” He dug in his jeans pocket for his keys. “I’ll finish tomorrow.”

  “You’re not cooking?”

  He fought to keep the resentment from his face. “I signed out.” He’d already logged more hours onto the pad in the kitchen than a normal workday, and she didn’t merit another personal effort. “There are ramen noodles in the cabinet.”

  She nodded. “Good night.”

  He walked out, and a sharp whistle brought Baxter running. Lance climbed onto the Harley, and Baxter leaped into his lap and sat. Yeah, no wanting in that dog. Lance secured the hind legs into the leather pockets and started the bike. He picked up burgers at Murphy’s for both of them and drove to the Sonoma Valley Inn.

  In his room with Baxter, Lance took up his guitar and pondered Rese Barrett’s Wayfaring Inn. The name didn’t fit. It sounded weak and transient for a place that had stood so long and known hard work and suffering. And loss. He clenched his jaw.

  What had Nonna been trying to say? He pictured her tortured efforts to give him the message, something she wanted him to do for her, something it might be too late to do. No. He slapped his hand on the guitar, giving Baxter a start.

  Nonna Antonia would recover. She was a fighter. And as she fought to regain her faculties, he would pursue a cause he didn’t yet understand. He might be tilting at windmills, but the faded envelope she’d pressed into his hand had sent him to Conchessa, and what he’d learned there had brought him to Sonoma.

  Without speaking, Nonna Antonia had sent him on this errand as she had so many others through his boyhood years. She couldn’t explain it with half her face hanging and half her brain uncooperative. But she’d sent him off to do something important, and he meant to do it. The brightness in her eyes when he’d kissed her papery cheek had told him she knew he would do whatever it took.

  Rese lay in the dark. Why did nighttime have to be a battle? Sleep her enemy? She had spent most of her life in old houses, and she knew the sounds they made. She knew the dark held no monsters, the shadows no ghosts. Why couldn’t she fend off the emptiness as thoroughly as the real-life taunts and teases?

  The engineer’s report had been thorough, and she’d addressed the structural issues, fortifying the villa with sound construction and new seals on the old windows. It should be tight as a drum and strong as an ox and … all that kind of thing. But lying there now as wind bullied the house, shouldering the walls with monstrous heaves, she heard another moan. It sounded like a person in pain, a pain that spoke of sorrow and anger and wrongdoing.

  Nonsense. Nothing but wind. Unless …

  Had Lance stirred up something in the attic? Even as she thought it, a howl tightened the tendons of her neck. What terrible thing had happened in the house? She didn’t want to know! She pulled the comforter up with a jerk. Don’t be stupid. What if someone saw her like this?

  Oh, wouldn’t the guys just love to learn she was spooked. Scared to be alone? Scared of a little noise? No way. But what was it? She jammed a fist into her eye and rubbed. It didn’t matter. She needed to sleep.

  Her shoulder ached; her arm didn’t seem to have a place to go, and she’d have a stiff neck before it was over. She forced her muscles to relax. It was quiet for long enough that she almost succumbed, then a sharp thump jolted her, and she listened hard. All the bad movies of deranged people locked in at
tics and all Mom’s ghost stories converged in her mind.

  She should never have told Lance to clean it. That caught her up short, and anger stirred. What was she thinking? She was not afraid. She just wanted to sleep, and the noise distracted her, made her wonder. Had she missed something—but what? She’d been methodical, thorough. Except for the attic.

  She’d done no work up there, marshaling her resources and energy into the areas requiring it. Once Lance had it cleaned out she would inspect and correct whatever weakness the wind had found. There was a logical explanation for the moans. No ghosts or … people in pain.

  But what if he had come? A frisson of real fear climbed her spine. If Walter … Stop it! She had not thought of him for years. He wasn’t real. Had never been real. She knew that. But … Stop. She had enough trouble sleeping without adding irrational thoughts. Irrational? She’d spent more nights than she wanted to recall watching for Walter in the shadows.

  That didn’t make him real, and she refused to waste another minute on it. She rolled to her side and punched the pillow into shape. Temperature, moisture, age, some flaw the wind exposed. Those were the things that made houses noisy in the night. Sound carried when everything was still.

  A low howl sounded above her. She gritted her teeth. If there were critters in the attic, Lance would find them. Anything else, she would correct. As soon as he had it cleaned out she would do a thorough inspection. She pressed her eyes closed and made them stay that way. She would not tolerate irrational fears. If she could face down the unruly men in her father’s work crew, she could face an empty old house.

  And sleep in it. She would sleep. She would.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Knees crusted with dirt.

  Sharp snick of the knife.

  The warm weight of the fruit in my palms.

  How easy my feet, how light. My basket over?ows.

  Other hands. Many hands. Hands joined together.