Secrets
D
IAMOND OF THE
R
OCKIES
The Rose Legacy
Sweet Boundless
The Tender Vine
Twilight
A Rush of Wings
The Still of Night
Halos
Freefall
The Edge of Recall
Secrets
Unforgotten
Echoes
Secrets
Copyright © 2004
Kristen Heitzmann
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Scripture quotations are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®.
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-2827-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Heitzmann, Kristen.
Secrets / by Kristen Heitzmann.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-7642-2827-7 (pbk.)
1. Secrecy—Fiction. 2. Older women—Fiction. 3. Grandmothers—Fiction. 4. Home ownership—Fiction. 5. Sonoma (Calif.)—Fiction. 6. Grandparent and adult child—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3558.E468S43 2004
813'.54—dc22 2004011996
To Barb Lilland
For the pleasure of once again blending words with you
May the Lord make you increase,
both you and your children.
May you be blessed by the Lord,
the maker of heaven and earth.
Psalm 115:14,15
My deep and heartfelt thanks to Kelly McMullen
for hours of brainstorming, reading and feedback,
for legal information and lots of other tidbits.
To Theresa, for sharing my tears
Liz, Theresa, and Kelly, for feeding my family
Judy, for your prayers
CONTENTS
P
R O L O G U E
1931
A
ntonia gripped her grandfather’s hand and tugged him into the darkness. “Come, Nonno. Don’t resist me.” His limp was more pronounced than ever, but haste was necessary. His shock of white hair glowed in the candlelight. There was no gas or electricity in the cellar, and no light in the passageway but the brass lantern that swung from her hand.
“Come—” Her words froze at the noise overhead. Through the wood and stone and earth it sounded like marbles spilled on a tile floor. But it wasn’t. She had prayed Papa was wrong, that they had nothing to fear. But he was right.
Signore!
A desperate urge to rush back, to fly up the stairs, seized her. They had found Papa! What else could it be? But Nonno’s grip tightened on her hand. He said nothing, but the look of pain in his eyes galvanized her will. Nonno needed her. Gently she led him deeper into the silent stone throat that swallowed their presence as dread seeped behind.
Her heart cried,
Papa
. But her tears were silent. They must make no sound that might carry up and out. Suddenly the clasp of her grandfather’s hand became a claw, and he stumbled to his knees.
“Nonno?” She dropped beside him as he crumpled, a shriek building inside her as he gripped her hand to his chest.
Nonno!
She must run for help! She must—
He clung to her and rasped, “No, Antonia. You must not be found.”
Not be found? What did her safety matter if she lost the ones she loved most in the world? Tears dripped from her chin. Frantic thoughts scurried like mice in the tunnel even as great wells of grief drained from her eyes. She could not leave his side. She could only cling to his hand and echo each of his ragged breaths until they ceased. She closed her eyes in silent keening.
Nonno …
Sunshine.
Dew upon the grapes.
A blue heron in the sky, legs trailing like ribbon.
Nonno’s hand in mine. He stoops, plucks a grape,
the globe gorged on black earth and prayer.
Small, in his long knobby fingers.
A thick, tannic skin, but inside, the glut of
fog-swept mornings and lazy sun-drenched hours.
“Is it time?”
He curls it into my palm, closes my fingers over it. “Soon.”
And he smiles.
T
he nurses at St. Barnabas hospital had given up trying to chase them out. As long as the family left a path for the medical professionals, they could keep vigil around the bed, and prayers filled the air like the oxygen tubed into Nonna Antonia’s nostrils. Lance breathed in the faith of his family and exhaled his own.
Though bent and crinkled, Nonna had been the heart of their home his whole life, and they were not letting her go without a fight. He leaned close and squeezed the bony hand in his. Others might have taken that spot, like Nonna’s own son—his pop—or Momma or his sisters, but in truth it was his place. Lance wouldn’t say that out loud, but he didn’t have to.
Nonna knew he was there. Even sedated, she knew, and his grip told her he’d be there as long as she needed. These last couple years he’d wandered, trying to find reasons for questions without answers. But he was there now, and they both needed the connection of that handclasp.
I’m here, Nonna
. If he could pass her his strength he would. Comfort and courage and a little of what he’d learned on the streets.
Fight back. Don’t let them take you down
.
But he didn’t have to tell her that; he’d learned it from her. His throat squeezed tight, recalling the compresses she’d held to one bruise or another.
“Don’t tell Pop, Nonna.”
“The man’s got eyes,
ragazzo picolo.
He might notice.”
But when it came to it, she had always backed him up.
“Don’t be hard on him. He’s doing the best he can.”
Best was relative though, and that’s where he came up short, unlike Tony whose best was the stuff of comic-book heroes. Another pang. Don’t pile on, he told his mind, but when had he ever taken his own advice? He looked around the room. Momma’s lips moved in prayer; Pop just held his head in his hands. He’d be exhausted after working his usual hours, then coming here when he got the call.
