She nodded. “I was going to ask you to. I don’t do well with plants.”
“Really?” He picked a windblown umbrella seed out of her hair. “You’re sprouting.”
She half smiled.
“Hey, that’s better.”
“What?”
“You almost look like you’re enjoying this.”
She tucked her hands into her pockets. “I like to walk.”
“Some girls might add ‘with you’.”
Rese slanted him a glance. “You mean Sybil?”
“Oh, man.” He must have looked funny because she laughed, that great laugh that rarely happened. He was tempted to tell her he had hoped Sybil would help him dig into the past, but that might reveal too much. Then again … “How much do you know about the inn?”
She shrugged. “It’s structurally sound, much better constructed than any house along this street. Whoever built it made it to last, earthquakes and all.”
Only Rese would address that aspect. “So who did build it?”
“I don’t know.” She squeezed Baxter’s head and thanked him for the stick he once again brought to her. “I don’t have any original papers.” She heaved the stick. “I got it for a steal at the bank auction since it had been empty long enough for the lower level to be vandalized.”
“The bedrooms weren’t?”
“The stairs were out.” She clapped when Baxter caught the stick in the air. “Some idiot started a fire there. The first thing I did was rebuild them.”
He stopped and looked at her. “You rebuilt the stairs? That’s new construction?”
She smiled. “That’s renovation.”
“You’re very good.” He expected her to blush the way she had when he told her she was pretty.
Instead her face pinched a little and she said, “I learned from the best.”
They walked in silence again, Lance sensing her grief. He knew the smell of it, the way it tinged the air with the odor of sick souls. And he thought of Tony, lost in an instant, and the way his family had reeled. Two Michelli sons, and the one who had his life figured out was gone.
Rese rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. This time he took off his jacket and offered it to her.
She shook her head. “Why should I be warm and you be chilly?”
“I’ve got long sleeves.” His chambray shirt let the air through, but it was better than her T-shirt. “I wore it one way, you wear it back. Equal opportunity warmth.”
She just said, “No thanks. I’m okay.”
He wasn’t going to force it on her, even though something tugged inside as he watched her shiver. That strange connection wavered between them, but she must not realize it.
“So if you don’t take walks with guys, what do you do on dates? Go to the movies? Dinner? Dancing?”
She snorted and kept walking.
He narrowed one eye. “Arm wrestle?”
She stopped and put her hands to her hips. “None of the above.” He reached for her hand again, her palm cool and callused in his.
“Lance.”
He swung their joined hands lightly between them as they walked. “Want to know my idea of a great date?”
“No.”
“A nice walk hand in hand, a happy dog frisking along. A pretty woman with a great laugh. A chilly evening that requires I surrender my jacket—”
“You didn’t have to surrender it.”
“I tried.” He tucked both their hands into the jacket pocket, a position she tolerated for less time than the first.
She pulled away and separated their hands. “I told you I don’t date my employees.”
“Why not?”
She looked up at the sky, exasperated. “It’s bad policy.”
“I think your previous employees were thickheaded thugs.”
She actually smiled and dropped her gaze. “I don’t even know if it’ll work out having you cook. What if I don’t have enough guests to pay you?”
He winced. “You’d make breakfast yourself?”
She punched his arm.
He caught her hand and tucked it into his elbow. At her glare, he said, “Pretend I’m blind.”
“Deaf would be easier. If I knew you’d be this much trouble, I never would have hired you.”
“Haven’t seen much competition.” He covered her hand in the crook of his arm and strolled.
“I cancelled the ad and took down the sign.” She cocked her chin at him. “You’re close enough to the woman I hoped for.”
“Ouch.”
She looked away. “Sorry.”
He was not inclined to let that one go. But she looked back with her umber eyes more sincere than he’d seen them yet and repeated her apology.
“Is it the earring?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean it.”
Baxter took off into the inn’s yard as they turned into the drive. She took her hand out of his arm and hurried toward the house. “I need to finish the bookshelf.”
Jaw cocked, he watched her go inside. Rese Barrett was one interesting egg. Befriending her might be as formidable as finding Nonna’s secrets, but he sort of liked the challenge. He went up to his room and took up his guitar.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A strain of melody.
The song I can’t recall.
Drifts through my mind like a shadow searching,
Leaving the notes behind.
Rese couldn’t resist. She had hoped Star would be back by now, but there was still no sign of her. And the playful, energetic music coming down the stairs had to be Lance. If he was playing a CD, there would be other instrumentation besides the single guitar, and as she neared the door, she could tell there was nothing more. She tapped.
“It’s open.” The music didn’t stop.
She opened the door and saw him sprawled carelessly on the bed, picking the lively tune. He ended it and straightened. “Did I bother you?”
“No. I just didn’t know you could play.”
He leaned back into the pillows and strummed softly. “Jack of all trades.”
She wished she hadn’t said that. He was obviously accomplished in many areas.
“Want to hear something?” He drew one knee up and his bare foot nestled into the coverlet, his toes curled slightly and the tendons raised beneath the skin. Strange how vulnerable a bare foot could look.
This was not a situation she’d planned on when she specified separate spaces, but she pulled the captain’s chair out a little from the corner and sat down. “Okay.”
“What do you like? Rock, classical, bluegrass?” Even his music was scattered. “Anything.”
He started a melancholy pick, then sang a ballad about a boy finding his way. His plaintive tone rolled over the words with feeling until he launched into the chorus with a stronger voice and complicated strum.
It was something she had never heard, and as she listened, she wondered why not. She sank into the chair as his fingers worked the strings and his voice ebbed and flowed. He looked at her while he sang, one with his art, as she was when the wood took shape in her hands. The story of a boy’s search for meaning unfolded, then Lance’s voice trailed away, and his fingers slowed and stilled.
She let the tones evaporate, then said, “I don’t know that one.”
“I wrote it.”
She leaned forward. “Really? Are you the boy?”
“He’s an ‘everyman’ type, but I wrote it at a tough time.”
She settled back in the chair. “Tough how?”
He hung both arms over the waist of the instrument. “First big trouble I got into.”
Rese braced herself. “What kind of trouble?”
“Helping a friend escape her stepdad.”
“Escape?”
“He was … messing with her.” Lance rubbed the top of one forearm. “So, I took her mom’s car and got her out of there.” He glanced up at a place on the wall as though sinking back in time.
Rese leaned forward. “Where did you take her?�
��
“As far as we could get before Gil roared up behind us in his truck.”
Rese stared. “Were you arrested?” Felony car theft and kidnapping?
“The officers turned me over to Tony …” He gave a half smile. “Which was not better. My brother wore the NYPD blues like second skin, and having his kid brother dragged in with an underage girl, a stolen car, and his partners yucking it up—well, it wasn’t pretty.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
Rese folded her arms. “What happened?”
“Tony let me sweat it out on a seat at the station, where I saw firsthand the sort of people he dealt with. Finally he found time to question me. My story didn’t match Cici’s since she was spouting whatever Gil demanded.”
“I bet that made you mad.”
Lance shrugged. “I knew why she did it. And Tony knew me. He said ‘Lance, next time you try to help someone, use your head, not just your heart.’ ” Lance dropped his gaze to the bed. “I don’t know what he said to Gil, but the charges were dropped, and like everything else, it became a story Tony told to razz me.” His smile seemed sad.
Rese sensed something deeper than embarrassment, but Lance brought his hands back to the guitar. “Here’s a little flamenco.” He launched into a Spanish-style song where the fingers of both hands flew on individual strings, strumming and picking with a strong rhythm.
When he stopped she couldn’t help but stare. Now the earring fit, as did his hypersensitivity and high-strung nature. Emotions poured out on the notes.
“You want to do entertainment?”
He raised his brows. “For our guests?”
There was that ‘our’ again. “You could play in the evenings. Take requests.”
He slapped the strings with a back-of-the-finger strum and sang, “When the moon’s in the sky like a big pizza pie, it’s amorée.”
She laughed. “I’m serious.”
He set the guitar aside and wrapped his arms loosely around his knees. With his jeans pulled up, she could see the dark hair of his legs running down his bony shin to the instep of his feet. “I don’t know, Rese, you might find me indispensable.”
“You could have a tip jar.”
“Is that your way of saying you won’t pay me?” She smiled. “It’s just a thought.”
He cocked his head. “You really want this to work, don’t you.”
“Of course.” She laced her fingers. “Why go to all this work if—”
“That’s what I don’t get. I can see you fixing up the place; that’s what you do. But running it? Won’t you miss the sawing and hammering?”
Her chest tightened. She had told herself this was it, the last project, done in Dad’s honor. She could not go on as they’d been, not without him. “No.”
He studied her a moment. “Well, don’t get me wrong, but … you’ll have to work on your presentation.”
“Presentation?” What was he talking about?
“Interaction.”
Was he saying she was unfriendly? Doubts and fears crowded in, the things she knew would be a struggle. “I can show people to their rooms.”
He stood up, took hold of her hand and walked her downstairs to the front door. She stood, confused, when he went out into the dark and closed the door behind him. He knocked and she opened it, only slightly more puzzled than annoyed.
“Hi.” He smiled. “Sorry I’m late. I know check-in was at three, but I had some trouble with my bike. Were you in bed?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Lance leaned his hand on the doorjamb and grinned. “That’s what I mean.”
“If some turkey asks me a personal question … ”
“Rese, it is personal. Hospitality is about connecting. You make people feel at home.”
“If they want to feel at home they can stay home.”
He put his shoulder to the jamb. “Then where would you be?”
She studied his earnest face. “All right. Yes, I was asleep, but it’s no trouble. May I show you your room?”
His smile spread slowly. “I’d rather see yours.”
She scowled. “You have the wrong place, jerk.”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “Good. I see you know where to draw the line.”
She huffed. “Would you come in already? It’s cold outside.” The night mist had spread over the yard.
Lance stepped into the entry between her and the wall, and she closed the door just past his shoulder. He placed a hand on her waist. “What will you do with unruly guests?” His hand burned warm as he glanced down at her mouth.
She should have grabbed something hard to wield. “I can take care of myself.” She stepped back, furious that her pulse had decided to rush.
“So have you had this place long?” He motioned toward the stairs and she started up.
“We just opened in June.”
“We?”
A Freudian slip for sure. “My lunatic cook and I. His food is marvelous, but—”
“What?” Lance stopped on the stair beneath her.
She half turned. “I said his food is marvelous, but he—”
“Say it again.”
Standing just slightly above him, she stared into his face. “Say what?”
“That my food is marvelous.” He joined her on the same stair without breaking eye contact.
She moistened her lips. What was he getting at? Why did he have that molten look in his eyes? She was making a joke about the lunatic, but that didn’t seem to be the issue. “Your food is marvelous.”
“Do you mean it?”
She spread her hands. “You’re the chef. Don’t you know what you can do?”
He caught her waist in both hands. “Repeat after me: Lance, that was delicious.”
He was a lunatic. “I just—”
“Say it, Rese.”
The hold he had was sending warmth up her ribs, and she couldn’t recall his words. “What am I supposed to say?”
“That was delicious.”
She repeated it.
A triumphant smile found his mouth. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Something clicked in her mind. She had offended him. But how was she supposed to know? Dad had never once commented on her meals, a pattern instilled in both of them while her mother was alive. They didn’t criticize the stuff served up as supper; they bore it. After it was just the two of them, Dad had eaten in exhausted silence, then lumbered off to watch TV. That was how it was done.
But weren’t there times when she had put special effort into their dinner, that she hoped he might say something? She had reveled in his quiet praise of her carpentry, and yes, wished he would notice her other efforts.
It was uncomfortable to recall. She stared at Lance. “Are you finished now?”
He let go of her waist. “You haven’t shown me my room.”
“It’s at the top of the stairs.”
He motioned, and she reluctantly led him to the top and stopped in the open doorway. “This is your room. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’m sure I will.” He stepped into the doorway with her. “I hear you have music after dinner.”
Her heart jumped. Was he saying he would do it? “Yes, a guitar soloist.”
“Is he any good?”
He was certainly fishing tonight. She looked into his face less than a foot from hers. “What I heard was very good. Just don’t request It’s Amorée.”
Lance laughed, then slowly sobered. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
A rush of panic made squid tentacles of her legs. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” His voice was latté smooth.
“Like you want to kiss me.”
“I do.” His hand found her side again, warm and firm.
Her lungs were sucking something thicker than air. “Well, don’t.”
He met her eyes. “Don’t you wonder what it’d be like?”
“Kissing a man with an earring?”
“Kissing me.”
She did not wonder and she wouldn’t. This had gotten out of hand. “I don’t kiss the cook.”
He cocked his head with a half smile. “Okay.”
“So … I hope you like your accommodations. The chef will have something … delicious for breakfast.”
He drew a breath and released it. “Good night, Rese.”
“Good night.”
He closed the door behind her. She should not have gone up there. He was obviously the sort to stake his flag on any ground she surrendered. He had caught her off guard from that first glance—the look that made her feel like a stranger in her own home. A shiver crawled her spine, and she glanced quickly behind her at the empty hall. But it was just that. Empty.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nonna Carina
Cherished, a little spoiled, even with her hair more white
than black and her skin no longer blooming petal soft.
A jut of her chin, a swish of the skirts.
Nonno Quillan’s eyes dance. Unperturbed.
Her foot stomps.
Deep laughter.
Indignation.
He catches her into his arms. They have always been so.
Such is life. Such is love.
Lance spent most of the night trying to forget he had almost kissed Rese. And worse, that he’d shared something personal and painful as well. Memories of Tony were hard enough. Memories of Tony cleaning up his messes, harder still.
Tony was the guy every kid wanted to be. When he went into the schools wearing his NYPD uniform, he drew people like iron to a magnet. While cops were not always popular, Tony’s mystique made him larger than life. As his kid brother, Lance had basked in the afterglow—until he got old enough to make decisions that cost him even that.
A pang of regret. Why had he chosen that song? And told her that story? Guilt? Maybe he wanted her to doubt him, to guess he was misleading her. He wouldn’t, if there was any other way. Until he found what he came for, he had to keep his business to himself. And nearly kissing her? Well, that fell into his innate weakness. Momma said he had an Achilles’ heel where his heart ought to be.
Lance couldn’t even pretend she needed him. Without that excuse, what was it? Because standing on the stairs, when she had looked into his face and said his food was marvelous, he had exulted. Now, with the morning sun spilling into the kitchen, he began to cook for the toughest critic he’d ever faced. As quietly as possible, he whipped up a crepe batter, then the ricotta filling and the berry sauce.
Secrets Page 12
