Echoes (4 page)
He shook his head. "Not the mean ones."
"No, of course not." She smiled and zoomed past.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned toward home.
I
t was after dark when Lance caught the rumble of Rese's truck outside her workshop. Anticipation rose inside until he heard another truck pull in behind and guessed whose it was. He was out the back door and heading for the shed before he thought of a reason not to. Stopping outside the shed door, he caught the scent of cigarette smoke and low male tones. Brad Plocken, her partner.
Rese said, "Just consider it before you argue."
"I am considering it. That's why I'm here."
"Okay, look." A rustle of papers. "We move this wall and have the staircase line up with the entrance here in the foyer. It draws everything together."
"Our whole budget'll be in those stairs."
"Then adjust the bid. It'll be the focal point of the lobby instead of a necessary transport to the upper level."
"You'd like being the focal point, showcasing your woodwork."
Something banged, maybe a palm on wood. "That's not what this is and you know it. You just won't admit I'm right." Rese rarely lost her cool. In fact Lance had thought the knack for getting under her skin was his alone. He opened the door and took in the two of them facing off, a half-burned cigarette dangling from Brad's lips.
Rese turned. "Can I help you, Lance?"
Her frustration was with Brad, but he hated the tone that made him sound like a child or servant who needed quick direction so she could get back to what mattered. "Sofie's here."
It was an excuse to interrupt, and Rese just nodded. "Okay. Great. I'll be in shortly."
He almost folded his arms and said, "I'll wait." But that would have been childish. As Sofie had said, he was the one who'd given up their plan and left Rese to reestablish things with Brad. Now he had to deal with it. "Need anything?"
She shook her head and put a few more inches between herself and the rugged graying guy in jeans and faded T-shirt. "No. Thanks."
He left them alone together, a slow burn in his gut. Only by grace had he come through the fires of vengeance to the peace of forgiveness. Would he stumble on jealousy now because Rese would smell like Brad's smoke and carry their argument in the tendons of her neck?
Since she worked long and drove far, he'd planned later and later dinners. Even so, he'd fed the household an hour ago, and there was no telling, tonight, how long she'd lock horns with Brad before even thinking of food. Maybe he should invite her partner in for a bite, see exactly what their dynamic looked like.
He'd only encountered the man one other time, and it had been his own neck in the noose that day, not Brad's. In fact, Brad had tried to solicit his help in convincing Rese to work with him again. Unwittingly, he'd done just that. His jaw clenched.
As Nonna made her way to the carriage house through the garden, he tried to look as though he hadn't just plotted a hundred ways to poison Brad's plate. She gripped his forearm and said,
"Tutto è permesso in guerra ed in amore."
Ah, they agreed. All was fair in war and love.
Brad came out of the workshop, shutting the door harder than necessary. He came around and paused. "If I didn't love her, I'd strangle her." He tossed his cigarette and stalked on by.
Okay, then. Lance didn't proffer the invitation he'd considered. He picked up the butt and carried it to the trash in the kitchen. The aroma of the
saltimbocca
prepared in honor of Sofie's arrival lingered. Rese's portion awaited, but his mood had soured. He left the kitchen and joined Sofie in the long front parlor.
The room had been furnished as a gathering place for guests of the inn when Rese's plans had included him. He plopped down on an ottoman and took up his guitar, thrumming the strings lightly, then striking up a stentorian melody.
Sofie glanced up from her text. "Are you okay?"
"He loves her."
Sofie sat back. "What are you going to do about it?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
"Are you doing everything you can this time to make it work?"
Valid question. She knew his history. But so many things had changed since he'd walked into this villa and talked his way into Rese's life. He'd changed, become more what he really was, more what he was meant to be.
One thing that hadn't changed was Rese's independence. What would a relationship look like with someone who didn't need him, whose resilience matched his, whose resources he couldn't equal? He ran his fingers up the neck of the guitar in a lilting melody and realized he might be the only one clinging to what they'd had.
Long after Brad had left and Sofie went to bed, he heard Rese come in to shower off a day's work and a head of steam. A song started in his head and he played along.
Knots of steel in flesh like bone, can't let go, can't let it show,
What you feel inside, alone, don't let it show, let anyone know,
How you feel . . . all made of stone . . . alone
.
It wasn't about Brad. It was about Rese—the inroads they'd made, the ground he'd lost. It was about trust and how much he cared. She had turned to him months ago when she'd learned her mother was alive, when she'd dealt with her dad's lies and accidental death. Since then, like too many others, he'd betrayed her trust and her love. How could he expect her to try again? She could take care of herself. She always had.
Rese fumed. Why did Brad have to be so impossible? He wasn't stupid. His refusal to accept her plan was one part stubborn and two parts pigheaded. Well, she wasn't giving up. If the diagram wasn't enough, she'd create a model to help him visualize it.
Sleep would never come anyway, now that Brad had decided to be difficult. How had she thought she could work effectively with him? From the time he'd come on as Dad's site manager, they'd knocked heads. After fourteen years, he acted as though she were still twelve.
He'd claimed all the pranks the crew had played on her were out of some weird affection. Their mascot, he'd called her—the best challenge the men had. She clenched her fists. He even claimed he'd had a crush on her once, but she didn't buy it.
He acknowledged her skill but couldn't see past his ego to admit her solution to the staircase was not only feasible but perfect. And accusing her of showboating? All she wanted was to build a focal point of beauty that drew together the different elements and performed a structural purpose. She did not deserve that insult, and he knew it.
She huffed. He'd come to work in a temper and projected it on her. She never inflicted her personal problems on him or anyone. She kept them inside, where they belonged. But Brad had snapped at everyone, then rejected her idea.
Well, she was not giving up. She'd make the model, and when he saw how perfect it was he'd agree. Already picturing the model, she crept through the kitchen and reached for the door. Something moved behind her. She spun, heart thumping with memories of things in the dark, invisible things. "Lance." She pressed a hand to her chest. "You startled me."
"Sorry."
"I thought everyone was asleep."
He turned the light on over the stove. "You didn't eat."
"I'm not hungry."
He glanced at the door. "What are you doing?"
"Working."
He crossed to her. "It's eleven thirty."
"I'm not tired."
He brought his hand to the crook of her neck, thumb and fingers rubbing the taut tendons. "How about a few minutes together?"
"I need to do something."
"I could help."
"With what?"
"This knot here. And this one over here." His fingers read her tension and resolved it.
Her head lolled back. "What is it with him only seeing his way?"
"Brad?"
"He won't admit another plan might work as well or, God forbid, better."
"What's his look like?"
"His . . ."
"I imagine he has an alternative. Oak instead of maple?"
She leaned against the door. He'd made that point before. Was one way right and another wrong, or were there simply two opinions? She sighed. "I feel it when something should be a certain way. I've studied this place, mapped it in my mind. I see it. And I can do it. I know it'll work, but Brad won't agree."
"Dump him." Lance turned her to face the door and sank his fingers into the muscles of her back. As he softened the knots, she felt the animosity seeping away, and in its place came something treacherously close to pleasure. She did not want to feel that either.
"Lance."
"I love you."
"I have enough to think about already."
"So don't think."
"That's how you operate. But I actually have responsibilities. If I miss one detail, Brad will—"
"You want me to take him out?"
His godfather voice didn't amuse her. Not after the true-life vendetta he'd handled at the expense of their relationship. "Not funny, Lance."
He kissed the crook of her neck and sent shivers down her spine. "I think you should forget Brad and get some sleep."
"Like that's remotely possible."
"I'll sing to you."
The times he'd sung her to sleep sprang vividly to mind. "I just got you out of my bedroom; I'm not inviting you back."
"Yeah, but I was unconscious."
"Some people will do anything."
"Believe me, I wouldn't have planned that. I might have groveled at your feet, but I'd never faint." He turned her around.
Tension had drained from her body like rain through sand, replaced by a dangerous longing. But she wasn't ready to risk it again. "You did what you had to, Lance. Let me do the same."
"Don't close me out."
"I'm not." But people she loved had hurt her worse than any stranger could. Dad with his lies, Lance his half-truths. Mom had whispered her love, then disabled the furnace. She wasn't blaming them, but she didn't have to huddle in the dark anymore. She'd find her own way, in her own time. She pulled open the door and went out.
Lance let her go. He'd come back to the villa knowing there was no guarantee Rese would even let him in. Fainting at her feet had accomplished that much, but he'd upset her balance. No telling whether they could get close again. He didn't expect it to be easy. Nothing ever was. He would fight with her the rest of his life if she wanted it that way. Except just now the focus of her ire was Brad Plocken—her partner.
He ran a hand through his hair. What was he doing? He'd landed on his feet—barely, but he wasn't used to standing still. Months ago he'd burned with purpose, and it had almost consumed him. Now he'd be glad to know what he was supposed to do tomorrow, tonight, an hour from now.
Sofie's phone rang. She'd left it on the table and gone to bed in the carriage house. He glanced through the window, but the lights were out in the old stone building, so he'd see who it was before disturbing her. "Hello?"
A long pause, then a small, soft voice, "Where's Sofie?"
"Asleep. Who's this?"
The phone clicked off.
————
Carly plugged his phone back into its charger and crept into her room. Daddy lied. She never said that, never said anything to upset him if she could help it, but it was true. He lied. He lied so much maybe he didn't even know he lied. Little tiny lies and great big ones, and nobody knew but her. Nobody cared. But she cared. She wished so much he didn't tell people things that weren't true.
Kids wouldn't talk to her. They stared at her like she was a freak, and she didn't even know what they thought they knew. Even her wonderful Ms. Rodemeyer looked at her with suspicion. Daddy hadn't liked Ms. Rodemeyer's opinions, and when she'd sided with her teacher, he made sure it never happened again.
He told lies, and no one doubted him. No one would believe her if she told them. He was the handsomest daddy in the school. Coolest of the cool.
He didn't just lie
about
her; he lied
to
her. He'd told her Sofie killed herself, but it wasn't true. She dreamed about Sofie. Sometimes the dreams were like a movie. Sometimes they were so real she felt her hugs, smelled her hair and the perfume she'd worn. She hadn't been able to find that perfume, but whenever Daddy took her to the department stores she sniffed the tester bottles just in case.
It had been a shock to find Sofie's number in his cell phone. If she was dead, why would he still have her number? She had thought maybe he knew another Sofie. So she'd called the number and heard the voice. Not another; it was her Sofie. It had hurt too much to speak, and she'd hung up. She'd been afraid to try again for a long time. But then she had, just to hear her again.
She thought Sofie would get mad and tell her to stop calling. But she didn't. She had asked who it was and what was wrong. Asked it like she really wanted to know. Daddy wouldn't want her to say anything, so she hadn't. Not until the man answered. He'd surprised her into speaking when she hadn't meant to. Who was he anyway?
She had hoped Sofie was looking for her, not finding someone else to love. Not forgetting. Now when she dreamed, would there be other people making Sofie laugh? Other people getting hugged?
Tears stung her eyes. She wished she hadn't called. She needed to believe, needed to pretend. Out of the place her stomach hurt, a mad feeling started. It wasn't fair. He had no right to Sofie. Whoever he was, she hated him.
M
att had turned the Price children over to Cassinia, who'd placed them with a foster family overnight. She would assume the case and oversee visitation and efforts to reunite. Since he had witnessed the domestic violence and been the one to remove the kids, Cassinia stood a better chance of gaining the family's trust, deciding if the parents could provide a stable home, and determining what counseling would be required.
As the investigating agent, he worked on the affidavit for the ex parte custody order. He'd give it to the state's attorney, Diana Myer, and be done until he had to testify at the hearing. If asked, he'd recommend compulsory urinalysis in connection with visitation, anger management for Price, and maybe a psych eval for both. Probably Vivian didn't realize how hard she'd squeezed the toddler, with the meth wiring her as tight as a cable. But that didn't lessen the pain of a grip that bruised tender flesh.