Secrets (24 page)

Baxter jumped up and ran as soon as Lance approached the bike. Okay, maybe the dog did enjoy the ride. He leaped up between Lance’s arms, and for a moment she wished herself there instead. Too bad Lance was brainless about safety. The wind ruffled both his and Baxter’s fur as they pulled out, heads unprotected.

Rese started the tape with a jerk and applied it to the crack between the sheets of drywall, wishing she could seal up her thoughts as easily. So he was attractive. Amusing. Attentive. And those were only the A words. Bold, caring, and dashing.
Stop it!
He listened well. He knew when to let it go. He saw inside her.

She sliced the tape with a box cutter and moved to the next crack. He wasn’t big and tall like Dad, commanding space and attention. All right, he did command attention, but that was his eyes. And he used them. And he knew it.

Her cook thought a lot of himself, right down to the ring in his ear, which she was actually starting to like. The tape ripped from the roll down the seam with a rude noise and the smell of adhesive. A motion caught the side of her eye. Star? But it was Sybil in the doorway, Sybil looking svelt and sunny in lemon and white, like a merengue pie someone forgot to sweeten.

“Is Baxter here?”

How quaint, asking for the dog. But then she remembered Baxter nosing Sybil’s hand and felt doubly betrayed. Rese straightened from her squat. “He took a ride with Lance. I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”

“Lance put you to work, hmm?”

Rese scowled. “It’s my property.”

“Right.” Sybil smiled. “Tell Lance I came by. He’ll want to know.” The tip of her tongue touched the edge of her top teeth as she turned and sauntered away.

Rese went back to taping. That was exactly why she would not think of Lance in any terms but her own. The work gave her a focus outside of past memories and current emotions. Work gave her purpose, something Sybil obviously disdained, as though taping and pressing mud into the cracks was something to smirk about, something beneath her, something that might break a nail.

Rese knew the type and it irked her that she’d let it get under her skin. She was proud of her knowledge, her expertise. She was not inferior to some … whatever the doll was with the beach tan and bikini and a plastic male version in the next box over. Rese frowned. So why was she wasting her energy thinking about it? As she set up the applicator to blow texture, she heard Lance’s bike in the driveway.

A moment later he joined her with a bag of groceries in his arms. “How’s it coming?”

Baxter bounded in and Rese was glad she hadn’t begun to apply the sticky white substance. “You’ll have to keep him out of here.”

Lance called the dog out and made him stay. Then he stepped in and observed her work. “Very good.”

Tape and mud were hardly challenging. She rested her hands on her hips. “I’m going to texture it now.”

He nodded. “I picked up some things for dinner.”

“Then go do what you do and let me finish.” Way sharper than she’d intended to sound.

He shot her a glance.

“Oh, Sybil was here. She said you’d want to know.”

He cocked his head. “Thanks.” Then he sauntered out in much the same way his slinky admirer had.

Interesting that Sybil’s visit had annoyed Rese. With nothing but employment between them, what should she care who came visiting her cook? But maybe he wasn’t the only one fighting the attraction.

He had not intended to care. She was his means to the truth, and it wasn’t fair to engender feelings she obviously didn’t want either. She was right not to mix personal and professional, but how could they spend time together and not grow close? That was the part he never could get. He was wired to connect, especially with women … especially women with issues.

“Do you have to fall for every troubled chick you find?”
Tony’s frown was only half mocking the second time Lance landed in the precinct. His throat tightened. What had he been trying to prove anyway?

He wouldn’t consider Rese troubled. But issues? Oh yeah. He’d sensed it even before she dropped the clues. But that wasn’t his problem. As Tony said, he didn’t have to fall for anyone. Just how he kept it from happening, he’d have to figure out.

He strode toward the villa with Baxter at his side. Sybil was another story. He’d told her right out he didn’t want to get involved. That was probably all the more intriguing to a woman of her sort. He’d known them too. But since he’d requested her assistance, and she had come through for him before, he’d have to find out if her call was more than social—whether he wanted to or not.

He told Baxter to lie down on the stoop, then carried the groceries inside and took out his phone. A quick call to set something up with Sybil and…

The phone rang in his hand and he answered it. “Ay, Lance. You ready for the best news of your life?”

“Hi, Rico.” He didn’t have to speculate very hard on what Rico would consider the best news of his life.

“I got Saul Samuels.
Saul Samuels
.”

“That’s great, Rico. Hope it works out for you.” Lance pulled the ricotta and fresh herbs from the bag.

“I’m not talking me, man. It’s your lyrics that got him. I sent a CD, and he wants to hear more.”

Lance removed garlic. “I’m not doing that anymore.” How many times had they rehashed this conversation?

“He’s talking recording, and he’s sure there’d be some road jobs, like a tour, ya know? Tour, Lance?”

“Yeah, I know. How ’bout dem Yanks?”

“Are you hearing me, man?”

“I hear you, Rico. But I’m through with the band.”

“So you took a break. Got your head straight.”

Lance gave a half laugh. “Not a break, Rico. I’m not playing anymore.”

“But this is it. I feel it.”

“Then go for it.” Lance folded the empty bag and tucked it into the cabinet.

“Not possible. The magic’s in the mix, what you got, what I got; the way it’s always been.”

Maybe. But that didn’t change his decision. “You and Chaz—”

“Chaz is great, man, but he ain’t you. Whatever you had to prove, you’ve done it.”

Lance shook his head. “I’m not proving anything, Rico. I just can’t do it anymore.”

“Can’t write the songs going through your head all the time? Can’t play the guitar until it weeps? Can’t use the voice and talent God gave you?”

The trouble was he hadn’t used it for God. It was all about Lance. Leaving the band and the lifestyle and the complications and temptations wasn’t about proving anything. It was trying to find God’s will, to be … different, better. He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rico. Get another guitar.”

He didn’t need the distraction or the lure of Rico’s dreams. Even before Nonna’s stroke he had put that aside. What happened with Tony was a wakeup call that he better get his life right before it was too late. Lance rubbed his face and stuffed the phone back into his pocket, his connection to the people who mattered, the life he knew was there for him to pick up when he was ready. But there were just some things he was not going back to. Rico would have to find someone else.

With the ingredients laid out on the counter, Lance set to work. Anyone could follow package directions and make lasagna, but not his lasagna; a variation of the traditional Bolognese but including the spicy sausage he bought at home from the D’Auria brothers, though here in Sonoma he had found only a fair substitute. Cooking centered him, but still, his mind churned. Having found Vito in the cemetery, he pondered the blocks under his floor. With Rese working in the carriage house, he had worried that she might bring it up. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he did intend to pursue it.

Lance mixed up the pasta dough, rolled it out, then stretched it gently by hand until he could see the pattern of the cloth beneath it. He cut it into broad strips, then hung them over the rack to dry. He’d have used a chairback if Rese hadn’t ordered the rack, but she’d been amenable to almost everything—in spite of her “expensive cook” comments. She wouldn’t regret it.

He went to the pantry for the cheese grater, pulled open the door, and a mouse skittered across the floor and disappeared. Just as Rese had said. He got down on hands and knees and glimpsed the hole two fingers wide beneath the lowest shelf in the back. Aha. The trap he’d placed was sprung, and he tossed that mouse body into the trash. But as the second mouse had just demonstrated, there were more where it came from. The wall could be full of them.

While he didn’t share Rese’s fear, he did not want mice in his kitchen. He scooched under the shelf for a better estimation of the size and shape of the hole, then he went outside to find a wood chunk to plug it. That and some caulk…. He searched the ground, then crouched down to gather a couple chunks that might do.

“I’d like a word with you, young man.”

He looked up from his crouch, but not very far. The woman was a wizened bird, not an inch taller than Conchessa, only Conchessa had the shape of a small barrel and this one had to work to hold up her clothes. “Ma’am?”

“Since when do you let that poor girl work so hard when you’re as ablebodied as any I’ve seen?”

He glanced toward the carriage house just behind him. “I’ve found the best thing to do with Rese is stay out of her way.”

The woman eyed him like a severe headmistress on a recalcitrant youth.

He shrugged. “She’s a better builder than I am. Ask her yourself.”

Then she smiled. “I like a man who isn’t threatened by a woman’s abilities.”

No, he wasn’t threatened by Rese. Annoyed. Intrigued. Attracted. He picked up the wood chunks and stood. “You must be Eve.”

The woman made a painful noise. “Not Eve. Evvy. Evvy Potter.”

“Well, Miss Potter, I’m cooking lasagna. Would you like to join us for dinner?”

She gave him a slow-lidded blink. “This I have to see.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that. “It won’t be ready for a while.”

“Lead on, my boy. I want to watch.”

Watch him make it? He started toward the house, keeping his pace short so she could keep up. Baxter nosed her when she reached the door. When she pulled her skirt away, Lance called him off and gave the dog a head rub as Evvy Potter passed through the doorway.

“You will wash your hands, won’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He made a good show of it at the sink and decided not to plug the mousehole just yet. The less Evvy knew about that, the better. He left the wood chunks on the counter, then turned the drying noodles as Evvy chattered about her nephew who fixed every kind of moving vehicle, but couldn’t operate the coffee maker. “He thinks it’s beneath him.”

Lance sautéed the sausage in butter in place of the usual ham and bacon, then added the ground veal. In their time he put in the diced vegetables and mushrooms, garlic and nutmeg. Tomato paste, wine and chicken stock— since he couldn’t find veal—cream and parsley. That completed the Bolognese sauce, and he prepared to make the Béchamel sauce.

“How did you learn to cook?” Evvy asked, seemingly convinced, now, that he could.

“My grandmother and my cousin Conchessa.” He was glad Rese hadn’t asked specifically. She assumed his credentials to be a little more authentic. He melted more butter over low heat and built the Béchamel with milk, flour, salt, and nutmeg.

He wanted to ask Evvy what she knew about the villa, but she kept on other subjects, mainly her relatives, and he could only nod and reply as expected, while grating the Parmesan and layering the lasagna in the pan.

“Did you tell me your name, son?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s Lance. Lance Michelli.”

“Lancelot?”

He laughed. “No, just Lance.” He’d always been glad he didn’t end up Guido or Dodi. He slid the lasagna into the oven and closed the door, and since he didn’t want to veer into another long subject, he asked, “So, Evvy, have you lived next door for long?”

Her answer included what he already knew from Rese, the romance she’d had with Ralph and his subsequent decline that precipitated his move into the assisted-care facility. Lance sat across from her at the small table and listened. Then he said, “Your house doesn’t look as old as this relic.”

She chuckled. “No. Ralph was very proud of this old house. Said it had secrets.”

Lance straightened. “Did he know the secrets?”

Her pale blue eyes sharpened on his face. “He told his tales, and every time they got better.”

“What tales?”

She waved her bat-like hand. “I could never reproduce them. He is the raconteur.”

Lance didn’t care how she told the story, just what information it contained. “Miss Potter, you’ve shown yourself a fine storyteller.”

“You are a flatterer, young man. Unless you are saying I talk too much.”

Lance raised his hands. “I never meant that at all.”

Evvy laughed then coughed, the latter shaking her whole frame. “Now see, I have talked too much.” She wheezed in a thin breath, and started to rise.

He got quickly to his feet and helped her. “You’re not leaving?”

She nodded.

“But you haven’t tried the lasagna.”

“It’s too rich and spicy for me.” She gripped her cane and hobbled toward the door. “But I dare say Theresa will love it.”